Chapter Text
"So you’re telling me that if we don’t stop the various little goonies bothering my team, these gods will be too powerful for us to face?” From the twitch of his brows, Rook thinks Solas does not miss the derisive emphasis she adds to the gods . She’s still trying to figure out if that brow twitch is one of amusement, offense, or some uncontrollable ancient elf face spasm. Each of their talks leaves her less certain of the man across the fade prison’s gaping chasm.
Normally by this point in an acquaintance, Rook can usually put her finger on what makes a person tick—it’s why she’s the leader of their merry band of god killers—but Solas is proving a tough nut to crack. Just when she thinks maybe she’s starting to charm him, just a little, the Dread Wolf pulls back in some unknowable affront, ripping her confidence to shreds.
“Yes, you will need to keep your team focused. In the war you’ve entered, you will not be afforded the luxury of second chances.” And then sometimes Solas decides to surprise her by keeping things respectful. Rook would love to bask in that small win, just a few weeks ago he would have added a ‘foolishly entered’ to that sentence, but every time Solas releases the barest glint of approval, Rook is all the more convinced she’s nothing but a tiny insect caught in a larger, smarter spider’s web.
Doesn’t stop that whoosh of pleasure at not losing points in their conversations though. Ought to bite that off before it can distract her. Rook may be caught in a smarter opponents metaphorical web, but it is Solas who is trapped in this space. If Rook has learned anything in the Mourn Watch, a little vivisection is sometimes the best way to increase your understanding. Blade of choice? Her words.
“Well if the old rebel thinks I have enough time to make sure everyone’s laces are tied, and their rooms are clean, then it must be a good idea. Tell me Solas, when you were leading your rebellion, did you take time out of your busy schedule to have big feelings conversations with your people?”
The lighting is so poor and grey in this prison, Rook can’t be sure if the shadow at the corner of his mouth is from Solas pressing his lips together in displeasure, or the crease of a suppressed smile. Not for the first time she wishes she were a mage so she could replay these memories over and over until she figures out the puzzle of a man across from her.
How long until he attempts to betray her? Will he?
“Has my advice steered you wrong in the past, Rook? If I share anything, know that it’s because I believe it is the only way you can achieve success.” He does not answer her question, she notes. Another deflection, trying to keep her focused and on task. There is no universe where Solas doesn’t already suspect her of trying to analyze him back, she has no doubt. He’s played this game an awful lot longer than she ever has.
Unlike him though, Rook has the luxury of being surrounded by very talkative friends, and doesn’t need to suffer in lonely silences for endless hours, until he’s graced with her presence once again. Experiences has shown her that Solas will fill silences if she lets one hang for a beat too long. Especially if she hasn’t pissed him off yet.
Rook stares at him expectantly.
Expression making it clear he knows what she’s doing, and cannot believe she has the audacity—or that it’s working—Solas’ ramrod straight posture somehow straightens further. “I am surprised you would find my advice to help your friends so disagreeable, Rook. I can feel the reverberations in the fade from the changes your relationships have wrought on the Lighthouse, even here.”
Rook blinks, entirely forgetting that she’s supposed to be analyzing him under a microscope. “You can feel the changes we’ve made to the Lighthouse?”
That is absolutely satisfaction that radiates off of him at having successfully diverted her. “It was my home for many years, of course I would be attuned to the changes, no matter how small.”
She could feel him luring her down this path of conversation, and Rook was helpless but to follow. She just had so many questions! All changes? Did he know about the little pond in Harding’s room? The Nug sculpture she’d picked up from the Veil Jumpers that she liked to pat on her way in and out of her room? Did he know about how she’d gotten rid of another one of his stupid wolf sculptures the second she was able to and replaced it with the Nevarran Crypt Lovers statue?
Did he know about the copious amounts of smut Rook and Bellara had uncovered in his extensive libraries and exchanged between each other? Did he only know about objects, or could he sense the movements of people in the space? Maker preserve her if he knew about how much time she spent mooning at Professor Emmrich.
“You needn’t be so concerned, Rook.” Something in her expression must have amused him greatly, because he’s wearing that mean little smile of his that could mean prickly teasing, or that he was going to rip her heart out through her throat. “The Lighthouse is a place of safety for those who need it, of course it would bend and shape around the will of those it harbors.”
Rook doesn’t know how to ask how much he knows without making herself look extremely guilty, and giving him another thread to pull on. She’s supposed to be the one with the fancy lyrium knife, she needs to be careful about giving him anything he could cut her with.
“I’m not worried at all about your feelings of us changing the Lighthouse, we are the ones using it after all, while it’s owner is otherwise occupied.” She gestures widely at the fractured nothingness of his prison. “Though I am ever so grateful for the extensive library you left for us.”
Solas’ mouth twitches, something not quite amusement or irritation, and Rook allows herself to unclench just a little. When it comes to dealing with the Dread Wolf, she’s most comfortable walking the tightrope between irritation and amusement. That way she can prod him in either direction, depending on her needs. It’s the best way not to lose at conversations with Solas.
“I am glad someone can make use of it.” Solas is not so annoyed that he’s imagining beating her to death with the stick shoved up his ass, so that’s basically a win for her.
She’s about to needle him about the proportion of bodice rippers in his collection—far higher than any of them would have ever guessed, including volumes written by Varric—when a familiar tugging sensation has Rook turning to look over her shoulder. Like a wisp tugging her to alertness when she was oversleeping in her cell, back at the Necropolis. Odd. “Huh?”
“What is it?” Solas’ tone is sharp, causing Rook to look back at him. He looks unnerved, like he felt it too.
“I’m not sure. It felt like something pulling on me? But I don’t know how that’s possible, because I’m not physically here.” Rooks says, frowning as the tug happens again, this time from the side. It sets something inside of herself fizzling, reminding her almost of the last time she’d been struck by the electric whip of a Pride demon. “Are you feeling this?”
Across from her, Solas glowers ferociously into the middle distance, looking almost as disturbed as he’d been when she, Varric and the others disrupted his ritual. “That cannot be possible.” Solas says, more to himself. He raises a hand, and were they not in the fade, Rook would swear he was summon magic. It’s something she’s been grateful for, Solas not having access to his magic when she comes for his visits.
He could absolutely exert control on the space to freak her out periodically, but as they’ve gotten to know each other that has happened slightly less frequently.
“Do you know what it is?” Rook asks, watching with no small amount of horror as chunks of ruins floating in the sky begin to collide, never making a sound. However, each knock reverberates in the ground beneath her. “Okay, you know what, I would really like to wake up now.”
Solas ignores her, his focus instead on his outstretched hand, brows creased together.
“Solas, did you hear me? I want to go back.” Rook has never once been able to get herself out of this dreaming hell on her own, she’d always needed a dismissive nudge from Solas. One he doesn’t seem interested in granting her this time, his focus intent on his own fingers. How does he not notice the massive rock collisions happening above their heads?
The floating chunks of rock and mortar suddenly still, but the vibrations under her feet continue to grow worse, and Solas looks like he’s on the verge of of bursting a blood vessel. “Could you at least tell me what is happening?” It’s no louder in this space than before, but the fray in her nerves has Rook shouting across the gap at Solas.
Solas does not look at her, but her gives a grimacing smile. “Something that should not be possible, but would be foolish not to seize the opportunity.”
“What opportunity?” Rook asks, and before he can deign to ignore her, there is a sound almost like fabric being ripped with a dull knife. Veilfire blazes in Solas’ open palm. She knows it to be Veilfire because color has leached back into this place, the golden gleam of Solas’ armor glinting in the wavering light of green fire in his palm.
Oh shit. “I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to be able to do magic in here.”
Solas looks up at her like the smug bastard he is. “You know so little, Rook. It bears little use in explaining to you.”
Rook doesn’t have enough time to process the insult, let alone think of a retort. She’s distracted as the expanse of the fade prison behind Solas curls in on itself, almost like a snail shell, rolling itself up and up and up, towards them. “Oh fuck.”
She registers a small satisfaction in watching Solas’ smug smile melt away into horror as he follows her gaze. The Dread Wolf is thwarted once again, with Rook involved somehow no less. Solas turns, moving as if to leap across the crevasse towards her, his eyes wide with fear. “No!”
The world rolls in on itself towards them, tossing Solas into her, and they tumble endlessly upwards and inwards, pinwheeling into nothingness. The most terrifying part is how silent and endless it feels, the only sounds her and Solas’ screams as they are ripped through the fade. She clings to the leather and gold of his armor, needing to hold something, if she is to survive this. She keeps telling herself that Solas can probably get himself out, he’s basically a god, and there is no world where she is letting him rescue himself without her.
Part of being raised in the Mourn Watch is coming to terms with your own mortality from a young age. Rook has had some thoughts about what would be the most appealing way to die. The idea of dying of dehydration while pinwheeling into the void somewhere in the fade, clutching an enemy is down near the bottom of her list. Close second only to slowly boiling to death.
She tries to suck in a lungful of air to tell Solas to do something, anything, blood magic or whatever he needs to save them, only for her to realize she cannot suck in air. Asphyxiation will at least be quick relatively. There is another one of those rusty knife fabric ripping sounds, followed by the fizzing pop of a wet log on a roaring fire, and suddenly her world is all color and sound again.
Rook’s shoulder smashes into dirt, and in a tumble of limbs she finds herself and Solas rolling down a slope. She has never been more grateful for a bruise. They come to a stop after three ass over teakettles, both lying flat on their backs the ground blessedly solid and real. She can hear Solas’ breaths coming in pants over the sound of her own heaving lungs. The sky above them is muted cloudy blues, Rook is pretty sure she recognizes from the Crossroads. Oh dear sweet Crossroads, how she loves thee.
Rook wipes a hand down her face, taking a steadying breath. “Okay, let’s never do that again.” At her side, Solas is already rolling to a stand, head turning every which way. Rook grunts, getting back to her feet much less gracefully, dusting her ass off.
Solas stands tall, his arms outstretched, as he turns in place, taking in the Crossroads around him. No longer bathed in the greys of the prison, or the twisted green light of the veil tearing itself apart at night, Solas looks more real than Rook has ever seen him. The leather of his armor glossy and shiny, despite their tumble. The glint of light off gold plate. Smooth skin. Rather on the nose, he looks like a mystical figure out of legend stepped out into reality.
And he’s smiling. His face is stretched into a wide smile that creases lines at his eyes as he takes in the Crossroads around him.
It’s the first time Rook has ever seen that before, and she’s pretty sure if Solas is smiling, that is probably very bad news for her.
Shifting to a crouch, Rook’s hand instinctively slides to where she tucks the dagger, only to realize she isn’t in her armor. She’s wearing her day clothes, the comfortable leggings and shirt she lazes about the Lighthouse in. Because that was what she was wearing when she visited the prison. But how did she end up here? How did Solas for that matter? How far away are they from the Lighthouse now?
If she runs now, how far will she get before Solas turns her to stone?
She flicks a glance at their surroundings. She’s poked her way around most of the accessible paths in this place, so usually she has a pretty good eye for orienting herself in the Crossroads. However, for the first time since the Caretaker introduced her to the concept of the Crossroads, Rook cannot for the life of her figure out what it is she’s seeing.
Rook tilts her head. That statue is definitely from one of the cold Mountain sections of the Crossroads, and she is very certain she’s standing in a clearing closer to the mirrors that take her to Rivain. What’s a Dwarven figure doing on a beach? The incongruity is blowing her mind. Does this have something to do with their tumble? And how she has absolutely no clue how she got here, or how Solas freed himself.
“Hey, the Crossroads seem kind of funny.” Rook says absently, taking a step towards the statue. Is it real? Or as real as things get in the Crossroads?
“Rook.” She looks up to see Solas standing straight, the smile vanished from his face, all stern seriousness once more. His hand out stretched. “Give me the knife.”
Rook turns to look at him, a little appalled at how one track his mind is. “Sorry, before we get back to enemies thing, can you explain to me what just happened? We were in your prison, and now we are in the Crossroads, which by the way, seem weirder than normal.” For emphasis, she gestures at the palm tree blowing in a spectral wind behind the big Dwarf statue.
“We do not have time for this, Rook. Give me the knife.”
Rook has never taken well to being ordered about. It’s the one thing Myrna had always schooled her to work on, back in the Watch. Rook cocks her hip and crosses her arms, nonplussed. “Not until you tell me how you broke out of your prison.” And maybe explained how she was here in the Crossroads, when she last left her body in the safety of her room back at the Lighthouse. Had she been cloned? Or teleported? Or something else?
Solas’ expression only becomes more severe. “What just happened will have sent ripples throughout the Fade, we cannot waste time when Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain could be on their way at this very moment.”
“How could they possibly get into the crossroads?” Aside from the darkspawn and those particularly vicious revenants, her team hadn’t really come across anything that divined the coming of Ghilan’nain and her awful tentacles. Aside from the current Crossroads blight tentacles. But there hadn’t been any new ones since Rook had arrived to the Lighthouse, of that she was certain.
Solas scoffs at her, like she’s a child asking a stupid question. “The explanation is so beyond what you could fathom, there is little point in starting. Now, the knife.”
Rooks scowls at him. “You don’t actually know, do you? You seem just as surprised that you’re here.” It dawns on her that some of his irritation might not only stem from fear of the gods, and his lack of control on this situation. The meaner he was during their previous conversations was usually a result of her telling him about something he hadn’t anticipated. And that smile before had been full of wonder, hadn’t it? “You didn’t think your little prison was penetrable, did you?”
Solas looks absolutely affronted, meaning Rook is right on the money. “It doesn’t matter. Time is fleeting, Rook. Give me the knife before I am forced to take it from you.” His voice low and laced with threat.
Rook has yet to meet a threat who’s eye she hasn’t felt a driving need to spit in. “No it very much matters, Dread Wolf .” She holds up her hands, gesturing at herself. “As you can see, I’m not in my armor, I don’t have any gear. Therefore I don’t have the knife. So it’s probably important that I’m here, when I’m supposed to be at the Lighthouse, with said desired knife.”
Solas’ face slackens, before he turns, saying something that Rook is pretty sure is an elven curse. He brings a hand to his brow, eyes shut. Is that his thinking pose? Or is that his ‘I’m about to blow up the entire world, I’m so frustrated in my inert machismo’, pose?
His shoulders slump, and for a moment he’s like a picture of defeat. Rook chooses to extend an olive branch. “How about we take a moment and you can explain to me what you think is going on, and then we can talk about how to get you the knife from there?” Not that she will ever give him the knife. She personally really likes her world and the fade cordoned of from each other. But that will be a problem for future Rook and all her friends to deal with.
He breathes heavily through his nose. “As I said, there is no time.” When he looks up, his eyes are lyrium blue, and Rook feels her stomach sink. “I will need to do it myself, for I cannot have you get in my way again. Farewell Rook.”
His hand raises, and Rook reflexively lifts her own hands to protect herself, becoming stone is also probably a very terrible way to die, when there is another fabric ripping sound and the ground beneath her feet tilts. Rook finds herself sliding against falling sand, before landing heavily on the carved Dwarven statue, now laying on it’s back, instead of upright on it’s feet.
No, not laying down. The whole island had tilted at a 90 degree.
Solas on the other hand deservedly lands on his side, smashed into one of the rock walls now turned ground. He looks a little stunned. So that probably wasn’t intentional.
“Okay, new question, what in the world was that? And don’t turn me to stone, you bastard!” She adds for good measure.
Solas stares at her blankly as he picks himself back to his feet, his fancy black and gold armor finally tarnished by sand. He turns his head to look out at the expanse of the Crossroad islands littering the sky around them. Rook follows his gaze, and finds her mouth falling open of it’s own accord.
The Crossroads have fractured into what looks like a thousand pieces. Rook is used to three central islands, with swooping paths and structures littered about. The occasional stone or structure suspended unreachable in the sky, but what she’s used to has nothing on what she sees now. This looks as if someone tossed the Crossroads into a jaw and shook it violently for a few hours, before freeing the mess and sprinkling the sky with it.
Were those islands upside down? With Waterfalls trickling upwards?
Throughout the mess, thread wide tentacles of blight, far more than she’s ever seen before, including her time at Weisshaupt.
“What—“ Rook swallows, trying to make sense of the jumbled mess before her. The Crossroads had always operated under it’s own logic, mirroring but now quite, the real world. This however, this was pure chaos. What had happened here? Where were all the spirits? “Why is it like this?”
Solas calls out a word in Elven that Rook is sure Bellara would know, and she feels a shift in the air, the familiar whoosh of the Caretaker occupying space. There is an unexpected crackling frisson of energy in the air. It’s almost as if the Caretaker flickers like a candle, instead of their usual steady presence.
Rook hops down to join the pair of them. Solas says something else in Elven that sounds like a question, and the Caretaker flickers again before answering. “D-dweller, I c-cannot—“ The Caretaker flicks in and out of view. Solas watches, looking stricken.
On instinct, remembering every disrupted wisp she’d needed to sooth over the years, Rook lifts her hands to give part of herself to let the Caretaker anchor itself within space. Solas looks at her, infuriated, but relaxes when The Caretaker solidifies near the point of contact. The expression on Solas’ face melts into something more like bafflement at the result, because apparently he looked up Rook’s past enough to know how she fucked up in a politically inexpedient way, but not that she’s very experienced at dealing with spirits.
Pointedly ignoring him, Rook looks at the Caretaker to answer her question. Though vague it was always willing to answer her questions. “Are you okay, Caretaker?”
“No. The destabilization has thrown this place into chaos, we cannot last.”
Solas jumps in before Rook can say anything, “What destabilization? What has occurred here?”
The Caretaker flickers once, before answering. “A massive incursion of blight, all at once. The surge in energy caused disruption to the islands, leading to further chaos and fracturing.”
“Do you know how we got here?” Rooks asks as Solas frowns to himself at it’s answer.
The Caretaker turns one of it’s many faces to look at her, it’s eyes dimmer than Rook has ever seen it. “When the chaos began, I found a hook to pull you here dweller.”
“But why?” Rook asks. The Caretaker dims further, and she can feel it’s cool energy waver over the connection point at her hand, as if it wants to answer, but doesn’t know how.
“Because it needs someone to clean up the mess.” Solas says in the Caretaker’s place.
Rook looks at him. “Then how did you get out of your prison.”
“A fortunate accident. Had you not been visiting me when the event emerged, I’d likely have remained trapped in the prison, even after it’s collapse.”
Trapped after it’s collapse? Solas would have been stuck in that horrifying twisting void? Where it felt like they were falling up endlessly? So her plan to clutch onto him had actually resulted in her saving him, in a manner of speaking. Which was a good thing too—despite his recent attempts to turn her to stone—because even if he was an insufferable asshole, his information was their best tool against Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain.
A thought occurs to her. “Wait, wait. If the Caretaker could pull you out of the prison, why didn’t it do that before?”
“Because the Caretaker is only as powerful as it needs to be, to look after the Crossroads. In a time of dire need, it has dire abilities.” Solas says, his eyes fixed to the flickering form of the Caretaker.
“And you are the Dweller bearing the Wolf’s fang.” The Caretaker tells her.
Rook does her best not to let her glee show at that information. It does not help that Solas looks particularly sour at the reminder. She’ll keep herself ‘polite’ until she has a little more information. “And do you know why Solas is struggling to use his magic?”
She does allow herself to give him a feral grin at his glower.
“Magic is currently disrupted within the Crossroads while the disturbance still exists. Effects may resemble that of wild magic.” The Caretaker explains, before flickering in and out of view several times.
Solas looks so completely and utterly vexed, that Rook has the disturbing urge to reach forward and poke the crease between his eyebrows. She realizes, with some glee, that if he can’t use his magic, that might be something she can actually do without being turned into a Rook-cicle. “Is this permanent?” Rook asks.
The Caretaker solidified momentarily. “No, once restored, the use of magic will be predictable within the Crossroads once more.”
The Caretaker has only barely finished speaking before Solas jumps in with his question. “What must be done to restore the Crossroads?”
The Caretaker wavers in and out of view for a moment, before it solidifies. “The source of the blight, near the center of the Crossroads must be eradicated.”
“What’s the source?” Rook asks.
“Likely a dragon.” Solas informs her when the Caretaker dims once more.
‘Likely a dragon’ he says. It was always a fucking dragon. What was it with the shitty ancient elves and their absolute hard on for big, mean, blighted dragons? Rook had gone nearly 30 years of her life never having seen a dragon. And then in less than a year she’d encountered several. If Varric had told her that her path would be littered with dragons, she might have hesitated before agreeing to come with him.
The Caretaker’s image fluxes a moment. “Action must be taken, the blight strengthens for so long as the source exists within the Crossroads.”
“That would only be possible if parts of the crossroads have crossed the veil.” Solas murmurs, gaze elsewhere as he thinks out loud.
The Caretaker flickers as it turns it’s attention to Solas. Rook can feel it flutter like the wings of a hummingbird against her hand. “Yes, barriers have been ripped open in places in the wake of the devastation.”
Solas once again swears in Elven under his breath. “Then we have even less time than we thought, it is only a matter of time before Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain find this place, and with it the knife.”
“What does that mean though, that the Crossroads have split through the veil?” Rook asks.
Solas looks down his nose at her, like he can’t believe the insect is talking. The ever helpful Caretaker takes her question in earnest. “Sections of the crossroads are now accessible to the world without the Eluvians.”
“We can only hope they’re in uninhabited corners of the world, so that no poor fools wander into this place, and to hopefully slow down the Evanuris’ access. I do not have the time to map the damage.” Solas shakes his head, turning to gaze out at the mess of islands, expression already exhausted at the task before them.
At the mention of people unwittingly wandering into the Crossroads, Rook recalls something troubling. “What about everyone else?”
The Caretaker pauses a long moment, as if needing a moment to order words together. “The dwellers you travel with are all locked within the Lighthouse.”
“The Lighthouse has protections that far exceed those of the Crossroads, your people will be fine.” Solas adds, that old familiar bite of irritation lacing his words.
Rook waves her free hand between them, brushing his words aside. “I’m not worried about my team, they have Bellara, they’ll be fine.” Bellara, Emmrich, and Neve are all incredible mages in their own rights, and Harding and Davrin will make sure everyone keeps a cool head. She’s not worried about her team in the slightest. Some of them might be a little worried about her disappearance, she knows they’ll be pragmatic in a dire situation. She turns her attention back to the Caretaker. “What about the spirits in the Crossroads? We had many refugees taking shelter along the central corridors, do you know what’s become of them?”
The Caretaker pauses even longer, flickering in and out of view, even with the anchor of her hand. “Spirits of the crossroads have scattered to the wind. It is once more an untamed, dangerous place, one that many will struggle to survive.”
The air punches from Rook’s lungs. All those playful wisps, the warm greetings from dozens of spirits anytime she and her team cut through that central square. The little helpful shops with interesting trinkets. All gone. She can feel Solas’ eyes boring into her, and Rook cannot bear to look at whatever condescending expression he must be wearing at the inanity of her question. Fuck him, she’s not going to stop caring just because he has.
“Is there anything I can do to help them?”
A beat of silence too long, the question too open ended for what has become of the Caretaker. Reluctantly, Rook looks to Solas hoping he might have something in the way of helpful answer. She finds him watching her, like she’s grown another head. It tweaks her overextended nerves, and Rook speaks to him through gritted teeth. “I suppose you don’t have anything actually useful to suggest, hmm?”
Solas looks momentarily taken aback by her ire, but the expression is gone after a single blink. “I merely wonder what your motivation is for helping spirits.”
“To help them, obviously.”
For the first time since their verbal duels started, she watches Solas rock back on his heels, before shifting his weight, his head titled to the side.
“Why?”
Rook frowns at him, unable to believe the level of callousness from this man, knowing what she knows about his history. “Because when someone needs help, you help them.”
“And you believe a spirit is someone?”
“Yes?” Obviously. Was that not obvious? Sure she was even more sympathetic to spirits than the average Mourn Watcher, but she was raised on treating them with kindness and respect. By spirits themselves no less, more than any other Watcher. For someone who assumed they knew her better than she herself did, Solas had some surprising blind spots. Arrogant asshole that he is.
Tired of the lack of utility in this conversation, Rook turns back to look at the Caretaker, who is turning translucent and dimming on the edges. “So if we cut out the source of the Blight, the Crossroads can be repaired?”
The Caretaker droops further, and Rook would almost swear it’s voice sounded tired. “If done so, yes.” It lifts an arm, disappearing in and out of view, and points at an island far off in the distance. “The source rests at the center of the chaos.”
Rook and Solas both turn their heads to gaze at the point indicated. High, high up in the fractured islands sits the area Rook had become most familiar with, the one attached to the Vi’Revas. Rook had been thinking of it as a harbor of sorts, leading to every other area of the Crossroads. It was one of the few areas of the Crossroads, where she hadn’t yet fully plundered it’s secrets. And now it apparently houses the source of whatever broke the Crossroads in the first place.
The Caretaker draws away from Rook’s hand, pulling her attention once more. “I wish you luck dwellers. I will be unable to assist further.” And with that the Caretaker fades fully, barely a shift in the air to indicate it’s disappearance. Unable to assist huh? Guess that meant they couldn’t rely on the Caretaker appearing with a boat to draw them between fractured islands for now.
Rook and Solas stand in the aftermath of the Caretaker’s disappearance, eying each other like they think stabbing is about to happen. Lucky for Solas, Rook is weaponless. She had not forgotten that attempted stone murder earlier.
Unluckiest day in her string of unlucky days, Rook now needed to rely on this bastard to help her get to the center of the Crossroads and clear this Blight. And giving him a deserved black eye would not start them off on the right foot, as tempting as it was. There are few people she could imagine being paired with worse than Solas in this place. But, if Rook is anything, it is someone who overcomes adversity.
Solas is just standing there, waiting for her to make the first move. Probably waiting to see what she’ll do in retaliation for that attempt at turning her into stone. Fucker.
Unable to act on the impulse to antagonize him or punch him in the face, Rook moves into problem solving mode.
She claps her hands together, causing Solas to jerk and glower at her. “Right, so I guess that means we need to arm up, huh?” Rook rubs her thumb and forefinger over the tip of her ear, thinking. Where could she get a good walloping axe or maul? Maybe from a Sentinel? Hopefully malfunctioning, she is absolutely not equipped for fighting ancient elven tinker monstrosities right now. And she’d need armor. Wherever the hell she’d get that. It’s not like Antaam plate would fit her, if they could even find any hostile Qunari still alive. And what ought they get for Solas?
She squints at him. “So you’ve been an all powerful mage for thousands of years.”
Solas gives her that ‘you’re very simple and I am embarrassed for you’ look. “Yes.”
“But you can’t use your magic right now, until we fix the imbalance in the fade?”
Solas frowns, like she’s purposefully insulting him by reminding him of that fact. “Correct.”
“And I’m guessing Mr. All powerful god mage never bothered learning to use a real weapon, because they aren’t elegant or some such nonsense?” Rook has dealt with fussy necromancers her whole life, she would be shocked if Solas had deigned to break that mould.
His frown deepens into a scowl. “I am fully capable of protecting myself.”
Unable to pass up the chance to needle him, Rook nods patronizingly at him. “Oh yes, I’m sure you’re very confident of that.” Reminded of the fact that he can’t turn her into stone for the forseeable future, Rook makes the bold decision to step forward and slap him on the shoulder, taking no small amount of pleasure in watching catch himself. “Lucky for you it was my business to protect fussy mages nearly my whole life.” She gives his shoulder a hearty, too painful squeeze. “Those little mage noodles you call arms won’t have to bear the indignity of holding anything as undignified as a dagger. Not while I’m around.”
Making sure the Dread Wolf can see the shit eating grin greasing over her face, Rook turns on her heel, skip in her step, and starts picking her way over the rocks, trying to figure out how to jump over to the next island.
From behind her, Solas calls. “It might bear you to remember what our circumstances are outside of this situation, Rook.”
Taking a few preparatory steps backwards, Rook shifts her weight forward and takes a running leap over the gap between their upturned island, and the next, landing in a crouch on the other side. Looking behind her, recognizing it was probably about the distance between their respective cliffs back in Solas’ prison. “Yeah, yeah, evil Elven gods and everything else. I haven’t forgotten.”
By his expression, Solas clearly knows she’s being purposefully obtuse. He picks his way towards the gap she’d leapt, eying it with some distaste.
Rook holds out a hand to him, not bothering to cover her shit eating grin. “Don’t worry Dread Wolf, I’ll catch you.” She purses her lips at his glower. “Unless your noodley mage legs can’t leap this gap.”
Solas actually, honest to the Maker rolls his eyes at her, which Rook personally feels is some kind of achievement. He too takes a few steps back, before taking a running leap and landing beside her, far more gracefully than she had. It is only then that Rook notices how much taller he is than her, and she was already a freakishly tall elf. Stupid ancient god elves.
Solas stares down his nose at her. “My mage noodles , as you say, will be fine. Focus on getting back to the Lighthouse, and retrieving the dagger, before we’re all killed.” He steps around her, his posture freakishly perfect, and starts walking in the direction the Caretaker had suggested. He apparently can’t abide walking away without a parting jab over his shoulder. “Try to recall that when we exit this place, with whom the balance of power sits, Rook.”
“Ooooh, big bad scawwy dwead wolf.” She coos after him.
Rook takes a moment to scrub a hand through her hair, trying not to focus on the danger they are in, what’s happening to her team, and how the spirits of the Crossroads will survive this mess. Instead she focuses on what she can do right now. So she trots after the God of lies, treachery, and rebellion, depending on who you ask. “Before that happens are you going to try and bludgeon me to death with the stick you have shoved up your ass?”
The absolute vitriol in his glare makes whatever friction she’s adding to their temporary partnership worth it.
Chapter Text
In all the ways he envisioned breaking out of the prison of his own making, Solas never could have predicted blight driven destabilization in the Crossroads empowering the Caretaker enough to an unbelievable feat, to pull Rook and Solas both from his prison. There is no way he could have planned for it, the outcome too unpredictable, a symphony of implausible factors working together.
A blight eruption in his Crossroads, at the moment of Rook’s visit, causing enough disruption in the fade to loosen the bonds shackling him to the prison. As Rook had been made corporeal in that place, what may have only been possible thanks to the blood link Solas had fostered, if Solas had not leapt across the chasm between them to hold onto her as she was ripped out of the prison by the Caretaker… It doesn’t bear thinking about. He was not flung into nothingness, all hope for stopping the Evanuris dead with him.
Solas had lived to survive another day, freed, and with many more options before him.
If only he could access his magic safely. It is torture to feel power under the surface of his skin, and knowing that using it could end up killing him. But only while the Crossroads steeps in chaos. He needs only find a safe escape from this place, after retrieving the knife, and then he will have full access to his power once more. He will make the decision of what to do with the Crossroads, save them or leave them as another casualty of his endless war, when he needs to. Not before.
Immune to his inner turmoil, Solas’ tool turned temporary companion seems to have had the opposite reaction to Solas’ lack of magic.
Aside from her near constant and gleeful antagonization, Rook has taken to her role as his ‘protector’ with a little too much cheer for his liking. She marches in front of him, free arm swinging with her steps, occasionally whistling off tune as if she has not a single care in the world. Her stolen over-sized battle axe resting on her other shoulder. She reminds him of a particularly unkind caricature of the original children of stone at the height of Elvhenan before his rebellion, off to be little mindless underground worker bees.
It is convenient, he thinks, that he doesn’t need to discard her in his place within the prison. Rook is a constant thorn in his side, a blatant reminder of his most recent failings, and petty enough to be rude about it. But she may yet prove to have some value he has not seen. Solas has not forgotten who exactly disrupted his ritual, setting off the chain of events that freed Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain. She is his enemy, and their ultimate goals in opposition. But for now she can be pointed in whichever direction as needed, acting as a bulwark against his enemies.
Solas can only be grateful that Rook is no longer his only interface with the world, trapped in the prison, with only the barest hints of change felt through the fade, and the occasional strong emotion from Rook herself for entertainment. It had been limiting and suffocating in a way Solas had not experienced since he awoke in the hell of a world he’d created, powerless and devastated.
The small entertainments Rook had offered upon her visits, Solas had to caution himself against indulging. She was a distraction at best, and far more dangerous than he could ever dream. It had not been lost on Solas early on that his only connection into the world was a person almost tailor made to appeal to him.
A pretty elven woman, Mythal’s vallaslin on her face, asking question after question, with open curiosity and nothing but a drive to make the world a little better. A woman with a pathological need to challenge authority. An acerbic wit she enjoyed using against him. Stubborn, brave, true. Were it not for Varric’s complete and utter disdain for all things magic, Solas would almost wonder if Varric had somehow fabricated this woman to suit Solas’ tastes perfectly. A shame Solas will never get to ask his old friend now.
It had been during Rook’s clumsy early attempts at extracting truths out of Solas, that he realized how truly dangerous she was. Early on in their reluctant conversations within the prison, she’d caught him off guard with a particularly cutting remark after he’d attempted to grant her an unearned compliment, figuring she would enjoy his approval. To be met with her blatant hostility in his attempt at kindness, Rook had elicited pointed sarcasm out of him. In that moment, Solas could not believe this foolish girl was his only tool to affect the world, and he had to suffer the indignity of gaining her trust.
And then he’d seen that mischievous self satisfaction glittering in her eyes. She’d been patient, lulling him into thinking he was leading the conversation. Instead Rook had laid a trap for him, responding in a way to cause offense on purpose, and then watched his reaction with the careful attention of a researcher, turned hunter.
Yes, Rook was dangerous to him, and he needed to be careful. She observed far more than she let on. And she was patient enough to wait for him to make a mistake.
Pity for the girl. Solas had been at this game for thousands of years. He would win, because he must, damn the consequences to her. He is not ungrateful for the power access to her blood has granted him—still in effect, he had confirmed, at her casual mention of Varric twice already since they fell into the Crossroads—even if that tenuous link cannot be reinforced until they repair this place, he will use it still.
“Do you think we can manage a climb?” Rooks voice breaks through his thoughts, drawing his attention to to the warped vine of Blight snaking between fractured islands.
Solas tamps down his knee jerk revulsion at the thought of putting his hands on the profane wrongness in front of them, and slides a look at Rook. “Do you think you can manage in your borrowed armor, or while wielding that axe?”
Her only response is to sheath the axe on her back and begin climbing.
The sentinel Rook had managed to pilfer the axe from had been caught in an unending behavioral loop, unable to enter a restive state to await a call to action. Solas imagines all the remaining sentinels are likewise caught with the Crossroads as they are, sensing the imminent danger and unable to properly stop themselves from reacting.
Rook had perched on a rocky overhang, eyes following the circular path of the sentinel on it’s fourth, fifth, and sixth loop. She’d tossed a rock to asses it’s reactivity, grinning when the sentinel didn’t deviate from it’s path. Solas could have told her, the spell powering the sentinels were designed to focus their energy on the largest threat. The Crossroads crumbling around them signified far more danger to a sentinel than any rock she could throw.
“Surely there is easier quarry.” Solas told her, envisioning her bludgeoned to death before they’d managed to get very far in what was sure to be a long and arduous journey. He hadn’t tried particularly hard to be convincing. His path would be easier if she lived for now, but if the Crossroads did away with her, it was less blood on his hands in the end.
Rook had her back to him, sifting through rocks. “It’ll be fine.” She looked over her shoulder at him, giving him a cocksure smile. “Besides, I’ve always wanted to swing around one of those axes those things carry.”
Solas knew she preferred overlarge two handed weapons, swinging her body as a counter balance to the weight. She made holding heavy mauls look easy, even as the power behind her swings were brutish. “Those axes are heavier than they look, you will struggle to wield it effectively. We will find something less dangerous.”
Defiance flashed in her eyes, and Solas remembered an early lesson he took in conversing with her. Rook did not take well to being ordered directly, opting more often than not to take the opposite course of action when possible. He had since compensated for this, using reverse psychology on her like one might with a difficult child. Before Solas could suggest otherwise, Rook picked up one of her rocks, seeking to fight a sentinel, once the height of June’s automaton creations.
It’s as if she sets out on purpose to be as barbarous a caricature as possible.
Were it not for the fact that doing so would likely lead to some manner of unpredictable implosion, Solas might’ve waited until the last moment before Rook became a smear on the sentinel’s axe, and used his magic to overwrite the commands baked into the magic running the sentinel. This would serve the dual purpose of reminding Rook who had the power between them, and perhaps spark some trust based on her need to rely on him. Solas imagined afterwards he could order the sentinel to follow him, and act as his protector. In which case Solas wouldn’t even need Rook at all.
Alas, without magic he was simply made to watch as Rook got herself killed.
Her stubbornness won through however, and Solas got to watch stunned by her success. She moseyed up towards the sentinel, it’s focus turned to her and brandished it’s long golden axe, ready to end Rook for her transgressions. Only for the woman to take an assertive step forward as the sentinel swung it’s axe down in a chop, well into the automaton’s guard. Her arm cocked back before swinging forward and brought her pointed rock down sharply at the neck hinge on the sentinel. Once, twice, rock met ancient elven craft metal, and proved itself more resilient, fracturing the connection between the sentinel’s body and it’s head. It stood one moment longer, before collapsing to it’s knees, and then the ground.
Rook meanwhile plucked the overlarge golden axe from it’s loosened fingers, and beamed up at Solas, as if she’d caught the largest fish of the day.
With an ease belying the strength that must sit in those arms, Rook passed the axe between her hands, before twirling it above her head, and setting the base down with a heavy thunk. “This, I think will do nicely.”
Solas would need to rethink his policy on allowing Rook to get herself killed. His original in the event of her inevitable death, would leave him to skirt around dangers as he headed to the Lighthouse on his own, need not be so. Rook was more competent a warrior than he had thought. Surely, to have survived so long against Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain signified such, but Solas could admit that he had merely thought that like him, the remainders of the Evanuris had awoken to this world, cut off from the Fade, with a fraction of their power. Or perhaps that was not the case, and Rook simply had an uncommon talent at taking on enemies who far outclassed her.
It would explain why she had a hand in successfully besting him, in his moment of greatest triumph.
The armor she obtained was a grimmer sight to behold. They found the bodies of what must be two Orlesian Chevaliers, the helmets caved in from what could have been a demon, or another sentinel. While Rook performed whatever inane ceremony for the dead, before getting to work at prying the armor off the slighter of the two human men, Solas went poking around, trying to find the tear in the veil that surely must be close by. He did not know whether to be relieved that the tear sat solidly outside what might be a tower in Emprise du Lion, spring thaw apparent in the thin snow hundreds of feet below him. Perhaps as the blight eruption occured the fade tear had started inside the tower where the unlucky Chevaliers had once stood, before the fade tear had shifted.
No matter, at least this way the tear would be difficult to find, resulting in fewer unlucky souls like the Chevaliers falling into the Crossroads.
He is relieved to find his test of sticking his hand through the tear is enough separation from the Crossroad’s chaos to summon veilfire into his hand. Good, he may be unable to use his magic in the confines of the Fade here and now, but across the veil he will once again have access. If he can find an exit into the world, should obstacles appear too fierce on the path, Solas can always leave and try and find another way into the Lighthouse.
He has dozens of means for doing so, so long as the Lighthouse still stands.
He returned to Rook, now donning the ill fitting Chevalier armor, the once proud chestplate lion looking tarnished and bruised. Rook had looked ready to say something snide before her face scrunched, visibly gagging, hand moving to cover her nose. “Why does it smell like rose water and patchouli had an ogre baby and died?” She had quickly shucked the armor, and proceeded to rub the most offensive smells in the armor vigorously with sand. A futile attempt to lessen the stench.
Solas had done an admirable job not snorting at her disgust. He had spent long enough in the company of Orlesian soldiers a decade ago, to be familiar with that off putting, overwhelming scent. It had been one of the greatest boons in his chosen path, not needing to interact with the unwashed humans of the world. Especially as his plans had moved him north, keeping him away from the oppressive smells of the Orlesian gentry.
“I believe the perfume is standard issue, along with the sword and armor for every soldier of Orlais.”
Rook paused long enough to look up at him, aghast. “Why?”
She asked that in the same manner one would ask why an unwell father might choose to butcher his family in a fit of pique. This time Solas allows one corner of his mouth to tick up, unable to contain his amusement. “To ensure as much suffering to any who oppose them, I imagine.”
Rook returned to her vigorous sand scrubbing, muttering under her breath about horrific stinky cheese eaters. Solas turned his back on her, under the guise of assessing possible paths across the fractured islands of the crossroads. In truth he only hid the small smile her mutterings had revealed on his face.
Yes, Varric had been extremely strategic in the selection of his successor, of that Solas was certain.
It was no matter. No amount of charm was going to prevent Solas from his goals. And when the time came, he would do away with Rook. She was but a tool in this war.
And Solas had long practice at discarding tools when they no longer served their purpose.
Time is even more fluid in this fractured corner of the fade. Minutes pass in drips that could be small eternities, or simply a handful of hours. They discover they don’t get hungry or thirsty, the easiest marker of time passed. Solas does find they occasionally need to rest, their feet only capable of walking so long, or climb so far, before they find themselves needing to sit down for a far shorter break than Solas would have thought possible.
Were circumstances less dire, Solas might spend some time assessing the limitations of whatever enchantment bleeds into this space that allows them to travel further than they ought to. With everything in such disarray, his original intention in this space, for it to be a safe harbor for all who seek refuge seems too far separated from their current conditions, let alone that the Crossroads remain fractured.
“I miss Lucanis’ paella.”
Solas looks up from where he’s dislodging one of his boots of sand, he cannot wait until they have moved past this corner of the Crossroads, to one hopefully devoid of sand. “Are you finding yourself hungry?” Solas asks with interest. Perhaps there were limitations to the enchantment. Odd that he wasn’t experiencing hunger pangs himself. Were he more like Ghilan’nain, he might be interested in learning the differences in his biology to that of the lesser generation of elves.
But he is not. He is much more concerned with needing to solve the problem of their survival.
Rook stays splayed on her back in the sand, idly flicking the torn strap of her armor as she stares up at the fractured sky. It wasn’t only the Chevalier helms that had taken a beating, Rook’s borrowed armor features torn buckles and straps, making the overlarge piece of metal, sit poorly on her frame. It is only by the slimmest luck that they haven’t encountered any dangers yet. Solas isn’t sure Rook’s armor will be up to the task.
But that hasn’t left Rook daunted. In fact, upon discovering that Solas found the repetitive thwap, thwap of loose leather strap on metal grating, Rook had taken to purposefully making the sound as consistently and annoyingly as any intractable child.
Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.
Shoving his boot back onto his foot, Solas sighs. “Rook.”
“Mmm?”
“If you’re beginning to feel hungry, that is a problem we will need to address.” Solas tells her evenly. The woman seems to revel in being absently irritating like the most obnoxious Spirits of Chaos Solas has met. Some of her antics were so grating, Chaos spirits could have only dreamed of achieving the level of annoyance she elicited. Perhaps it was an oversight on his part, and Rook had at some point actually been possessed by one such spirit?
Rook sighs, pausing her batting of the strap to sit up, sand cascading down her back and hair. “It’s not that I’m hungry, it’s that I miss eating, you know?” Her mouth purses. “It was supposed to be paella night, when this mess all happened.”
Solas stares at her a beat, before he turns and begins walking towards the candle flicker of light indicating the direction of the Lighthouse. “It appears you’re rested enough. We may continue.”
He hears her grumble to her feet, and Solas dare not dream that is the end of the conversation. She trots up beside him to walk in step. “You know, eating for pleasure, because it tastes good, to eat with people. Social stuff, that kind of thing?” Rook’s voice affects pity. “Unless you don’t, because you don’t have any friends.”
Solas flicks a glance at her out of the corner of his eye, trying to asses if she’s winding up to being irritating again. She’s not batting at the loose leather strap at least, small victories. “I can’t say I’ve indulged in such a way recently, no.”
“Wait, do you mean you don’t eat? Like at all? Ever?” Rook asks, horror in her eyes as she gapes up at him. She answers her own question. “Wait no, the pantry at the Lighthouse was stocked when we arrived, and I doubt the Caretaker did that.”
“Mm.” Solas agrees, levering himself over another swollen root of Blight. He would never get used to the sensation of voluntarily touching the foul things.
“So you do eat.”
“Mm.” Perhaps if he contained his responses to simple sounds, she would lose interest. He seemed to recall it working for one of Bull’s Chargers.
Freed from his prison, Solas need not rely on Rook as his only input into the world, in turn also freeing him from the need to twist her purpose to his own ends. No more placating words, no more gentle encouragements. No more convincing her to trust him in slow measure. Her only utility to him now was as a large sword between him and dangers, until he could recover the dagger and his magic.
No need to humor any connection with her.
“You are very old I suppose…” She trails off, not finishing whatever her thought is.
Solas cannot help glancing at her again, annoyed with himself at the triumph in her gaze to have earned his attention. He knows exactly the game she plays each time, and yet.
“And what pray tell, does my age have to do with the topic at hand?” Solas asks her, weary, despite their rest.
“Well I can’t imagine it would be very fun to eat soft mash day in and day out, oats and the like.” Rook muses. Solas stares at her, waiting for whatever petty blow to land. “What with you being so old, I bet it’s awfully hard to chew your food.”
“Ah, you’re under the misapprehension that I have no teeth, is it?” Solas asks dryly. At her eager nod, Solas scoffs. “Food is merely a means to an end, there is no great pleasure in it’s consumption.” Nor has there been since he woke to this hellscape of a world he created by his own hands. In fact, Solas cannot remember the last time he’d felt genuine pleasure in food. Perhaps not since the Rebellion, surrounded by his comrades in arms? Or was it longer than that? Had he felt anything, truly, after the war with the Titans?
Once again proving that her survival instincts are far more lacking than he could imagine, Rook jars him from his thoughts by slapping his back. “You only think that because you haven’t had Lucanis’ paella.”
Solas rocks forward, wishing very much that he could rip magic into the world and bodily fling her over the edge of the island into the nothingness of the broken fade. Alas. “If you could refrain from touching—”
“—Do you hear that?” Rook isn’t looking at him anymore, frowning instead at one of the jagged paths of smashed together rock and dirt, not in the direction of their goal.
“No.” Before he can return to his recriminations, Solas does in fact hear something.
“—must bind it, before it escapes you fools!.” The accent is Tevinter, and the chorus of voices in answer can only mean a hapless squadron of Venatori have skulked their way into his Crossroads.
Rook catches his eye, before jerking her chin towards the location of the voices, and then she is treading softly and lightly across the sand, noiseless. For someone so obnoxious, she could demonstrate a focused drive on occasion. Solas trails after her, already certain of what they’ll find.
A group of four bedraggled Venatori, one mage among them, have cornered a helpless spirit. Solas scowls, feeling the shift of energies in the air that can only signify the recent destruction of spirits. If Solas had to guess, he would say two or three of them, with only one survivor left. One survivor in the throes of being twisted away from it’s purpose due to it’s own terror.
It’s two against four, and Solas has not yet found a suitable weapon. Though it pains him, he’s about to suggest to Rook that they need to leave, the odds too dangerous, her weapon and arms poorly fit to her. But Rook does not catch his meaningful look, instead deciding to take matters into her own hands. She steps beyond the outcropping of rock, shoulders square, her massive sentinel axe planted in the sand. Solas grimaces, but stays hidden, so that he may flee if needs must, or help in some way, if the opportunity strikes.
“Hey assholes!”
The Venatori look to her as one, and the mage reacts first. “The rattus! Kill her!” and turns back to the spirit, magic charging between his hands in what will inevitably shred the poor spirit to bits as fuel for dangerous magics. Solas lurches forward, ready to cast the man into stone, damn the consequences, when the Venatori’s spell misfires.
In one breath the Venatori mage is standing there, in the next he is being immolated from the inside out, screaming. Fire breaches his mouth, boils out his eyes, his skin red and charring already. The fire catches on one of his guards, moving swiftly up a sleeve until they too are on fire, both screaming in agonizing death. The two Venatori guards remaining gape at the spectacle, foolish in the presence of an angry woman with a battle axe.
Rook moves swiftly across the sand, low to the ground, whirling at the last second into a spin that has her cleaving one Venatori guard in two at the waist, the other’s sword hand caught in the swing. One down, the other scrabbling to pick up a sword with their off hand, they do not have time to react to Rook leveraging her continued momentum, into bringing her axe down in a brutal chop.
Swift, efficient and deadly. Perhaps Solas underestimated what she would have been capable of against four Venatori.
As the cries of the two Venatori on fire finally cease in their deaths, Solas takes the grim reminder to avoid magic at all costs while the Crossroads are in disarray. If a binding spell can turn into violent self immolation, Solas dare not test out the boundaries of magic’s use.
But it does not bear thinking about, they have another problem on their hands.
Curled into a ball, a spirit no bigger than a small child shakes, murmuring to itself. Licks of frosty blue and burning red light emanate from it’s shoulders, on the cusp of transformation into a wretched spirit of pain and suffering.
“Unmade, it’s unmade. Everyone is unmade and I am too, and everything is gone and pointless.” Solas can make out the mumblings of the spirit as he approaches slowly, hands in the air between them. The spirit is young, formed only a handful of years ago, he is certain. It’s purpose not so solid for such a display of violence not to twist it further.
“Lethallen, you must calm yourself.” Solas soothes, stepping closer. He wishes desperately that he could access his magic for this, one that tempers and calms spirits. A simple and easy spell. One he has used thousands of times in thousands of situations. But the smell of burnt flesh is a stark reminder of the potential consequences. “Please.”
Red and blue light flicker over the small spirit’s shoulders as it continues to shudder. “Can’t make it, can’t make it right, it’s all gone, unmade I’ll be unmade. Nothing made nothing gained.”
Rook is at his shoulder, brows twisted in concern. “The poor thing, it must have watched all it’s friends…” Solas glances at her, noting that she at least had the presence of mind to drop her bloodied axe before approaching.
“If it cannot calm itself, it will be twisted.” To rage, despair or fear itself, Solas cannot say. The well of grief that sits low in his chest ripples, at what will be another inevitable, pointless loss. The spirit is so young, there is little hope for it, not without him being able to access his magic, to guide this small creature back to the peace of it’s purpose. He knows he needs to control himself, lest he tip the spirit over himself with the weight of his sadness at the unfairness of this world. But in that moment Solas finds it hard not to want to rage against at his powerlessness in this situation. What has all of this been for, if not to prevent moments like this? How can this continue to happen, over and over again?
“I want to make, I cannot make, will never make again.” The spirit whispers, it’s voice rasping at the end, red tendrils overtaking the blue.
At his side, Rook begins to shimmy out of her armor, the thwap thwap of the leather strap, causing Solas to grit his teeth. “What are you doing?” Is she a fool? The spirit is nearly beyond saving, and she will need her armor if they are to face a fresh demon.
Rook ignores him, crouching down before the spirit, placing the armor between them. “Hello there little one.” The spirit does not acknowledge her, only rocking in place, continuing to mumble. Red light sparks and sizzles over it’s body. But Rook is not afraid, hands on her knees as she leans forward. “You’re a Spirit of Craft, aren’t you?”
The little spirit stills. It’s voice losing it’s rasp, higher in pitch like that of a child’s when it speaks. “Craft?”
Solas jerks, eyes searching for some kind of sign he missed. How did she know that? Across the little creature’s back, a band wraps around it’s torso, small notions like knitting needles and pins throughout. Had that been it?
“Yes, you like to make things, help people make things, right?” Rook’s voice is warm and friendly, a smile creasing her lips.
Solas can only stare, as the little spirit slowly lifts it’s head, revealing the features of a mouse, whiskers long, eyes large, and ears the size of small dinner plates. “Yes, making. I make.”
Rook’s smile widens. “That’s wonderful, I’m so lucky to have found you.” The little spirit loosens it’s tight curl further, looking at Rook curiously. She places a hand on the armor between them. “I was hoping you might be able to help me, could you listen to my request?”
The Spirit of Craft, releases it’s knees, leaning forward to examine the armor, before looking up at Rook, it’s large black eyes shining with interest. “Yes.”
“Well you see, I found this armor, because I needed it very badly, but,” Rook turns the chestplate to show the spirit the torn leather and buckles. “You can see it has tears in the straps here, and my companion here doesn’t appreciate the sound very much.” Rook thumbs over her shoulder at Solas, never taking her eyes off the spirit, her tone teasing.
The spirit looks up at him curious, before turning it’s eyes back to the armor, nose twitching. “You wish to craft better straps?”
“Anything you can do to help so it fits better and I don’t bother him anymore would be incredibly appreciated.” Rook tells it. Solas does not believe that is actually her motivation. She’d taken great joy in bothering him with the sound ever since she discovered it. Indicating she’s sacrificing something she wants to make the project even more appealing to the spirit. But surely that could not be the case?
The spirit raises spectral hands to the armor, gaze turning inwards. “Borrowed and remade, crafted and thrifted. This is a wonderful puzzle.” It draws it’s eyes back up to Rook, it’s ears forward and it’s nose twitching, Solas would swear it looked eager. “May I help?”
Rook bows her head. “I would be honored.”
That is all the spirit needs, before it picks up the plate, fingers dancing quickly over it’s surface. It’s bare seconds before it returns the plate to the ground, looking shiny and new, the straps holding the pieces together woven with such enchantments, Solas cannot begin to imagine.
Rook places her hand on the plate, a wide smile stretching across her face. “This is wonderful, thank you so much my friend.”
The little spirit wiggles, shrinking in size down to that of a regular mouse, and scurrying over the plate to touch Rook’s fingers. She pauses, letting the spirit poke and prod her. It must say something only she can hear, because she laughs. “Yes, that is the Dread Wolf.” The little mouse looks up at Solas, before turning quickly to sniff at Rook’s fingers. “I’m sorry little one, where we’re going is very dangerous, I don’t think it would be safe for you to come.”
The spirit’s ears flatten, head drooping. No lick of red or blue light this time, but it is plainly sad. Rook pokes it’s little nose, and lowers her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “But I should tell you about the most marvelous thing we saw on the way here. It sits in the opposite direction, nice and safe.” She proceeds to go into great detail about the Dwarven statue they’d seen on the first island from which they’d begun their journey. The little spirit seems eager and interested, and doesn’t take much more convincing to scurry off in the direction they’d come.
After it’s gone, Rook picks up the armor, and marvels at it. “Wow look at this incredible craftsmanship!” She eases back into the armor, oohing and ahhing over the better fit, and comfort she feels.
Solas can only stare at her, unable to comprehend what he’d just witnessed. She’d been so gentle, so calm in the face of the little spirit’s terror. She’d helped it, reminded it of it’s purpose, gave it the gift of helping and received an object of power, as much as the little spirit could give, in return. In all his years since waking, Solas had not once seen someone treat a spirit so kindly, so precisely. All without the help of magic, to help discover the nature of a spirit.
Rook is rolling her shoulders, bending at the waist, squatting to test her range of movement in her improved armor. “It did an incredible job, this is amazing.” She finally catches him staring, and raises a sardonic brow. “What, are you jealous? I’m not sharing, this is my spirit blessed armor, thank you very much.”
“How did you know…” Solas frowns, unable to form the right question. Rook blinks at him, waiting. “How did you know what type of spirit it was?” How did she know exactly how to help?
Rook shrugs. “It was talking about making an awful lot, and then I noticed the crochet hooks on it’s little belt and figured.”
Solas hadn’t noticed the items it carried until Rook properly identified the spirit. He had been more focused on it’s transient state in the moment. Because if he’d had his magic, it was all he would have required to assess the little spirit to give it the help it needed. Rook had not needed such magics. “How did you know to guide it back to it’s purpose?”
Rook stares blankly at him. “What do you mean? It was a spirit of craft, it wants to make things. So I helped it make something.” She says it, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and he’s the one being ignorant.
Solas can’t tell if she’s being willfully obtuse. “But how did you know to do that for it? How did you know how to help?” Can she do that for other spirits too? Does she have experience with Spirits of Craft? Or all spirits? How had this not been in the reports his agents had shared about Varric’s new protégé? It seemed extraordinarily relevant.
She continues to stare at him like he’s being stupid, and then her eyebrows twitch up as if in realization. “Solas, you know you’re not the only spirit expert that exists, right?” At his answering scowl she puts up her hands between them. “I mean, I’m no old ass elf. But I grew up in the Mourn Watch. They teach us all about spirits, and I’ve interacted with them my whole life.”
“So spirits were the ones who taught you this personally?” That makes the most sense, she would learn how to help spirits under the guiding hand of spirits themselves.
“I mean, yes, a little bit. But not just them. Some necromancers too, Vorgoth, the recent dead.” Now it is her turn to frown at him. “You know I’m not the only Watcher who can do this kind of thing, right? What I just did isn’t special.”
Solas looks at her sharply, affronted. “It was special to the spirit you just helped.”
Rook throws her hands up, turning to start walking away. “You know I meant that I’m not special, you lunatic. I know what it meant to the spirit.” She pauses after she steps over the charred remains of one of the Venatori, glancing back at him. “You were going to use your magic back there for a second, weren’t you?” She points a finger down at burnt out husk. “Maybe don’t do that, I had it handled, and whatever explosion you could have caused would have only been in the way.”
It irks him that she is right.
Rook bends to scoop up the sword she’d disarmed from one of the Venatori guards, prying dead fingers away from the hilt. She holds the blade out to him. “Maybe try using something a little more applied in the future?”
Solas looks down at the short sword disdainfully, before plucking it out of her hand. He has used blades in the past, but had always preferred the use of his magic over anything else. Far more elegant. Comfortable.
But he supposes he must make do with what he has. That at least is something he has much experience with.
“C’mon old man, let’s see how much further we can get before we need to rest your decrepit old bones.” Rook calls over her shoulder, enormous battle axe cradled over her other as she begins walking the long road to the Lighthouse. Her newly refreshed spirit touch armor winks in the light, as if to goad him for his lack of use in that encounter.
Solas trails after her, grabbing the sword belt off one of the dead men, sheathing his new blade. Rook may be a tool, and an irritant in general, but perhaps he can’t fully dismiss her as a superfluous waste of air. Not least of which because she was more friend to spirit than he had been in that moment with the little Spirit of Craft.
Chapter 3: Chapter 3
Notes:
Chapter Content Warning: Cultural Appropriation
Content Warning Details:
Rook is a city elf with no relationship to Dalish culture. She had a human tattoo artist recreate Dalish vallaslin on her face in order to infiltrate Dalish camps to help her and Varric's search for Solas.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The wind blows sharp and cold, and Rook has never missed Taash more in her life. She’s known the kid all of a handful of weeks, but here in the frozen wastes of not the Anderfels, but also definitely not just the Crossroads, Taash’s fire breath would be so so handy right now. Especially given that her and Solas have little in the way of gear for the winter.
The sandy beaches of not-Rivain have morphed into still not-Rivain, only with the added awful flair of extreme bitter cold. This was colder than anything she’d experienced in her time in the Crossroads, or the waking world alike. She’d tried asking Solas about it, early on in their trek through knee high snow drifts, and he’d said something vague about energies blending that Rook is 75% certain was him attempting to get her to leave him alone.
A lot less acerbically than normal though. Ever since they’d saved the Craft Spirit, Solas had been an awful lot less mean. Not in any way she can truly put her finger on, except to say, when Rook asks him question, he answers, with no overwhelming mien of ‘you absolute stupid fool’ polluting his words. And that was even before they found themselves entrenched in snow drifts, freezing their ears off.
Maybe Solas is being less of an asshole because of her very nice, spirit touched armor. Like it’s a beacon of ‘hey other spirits like me, so maybe you can too, you utter twat’. The armor repaired by the spirit of craft fixed it’s own dents after a fight, stayed magically clean, and Rook hadn’t had to suffer the rose-patchouli death scent since Craft had helped her out. If only it could keep her warm too, she hadn’t thought to ask that, mainly because she didn’t think the Crossroads could get any colder than what she’d experienced before.
That was apparently a falsehood. And here she sits, trudging through snow, freezing her ass off.
You know who else would be amazing to have around right now—not just because Assan cuddles would warm her right up—but Davrin. Because of course they aren’t just dealing with freezing temperatures. They’re also managing hordes of darkspawn. Every time Rook needs to chop through the body of another massive hurlock, she thinks to herself ‘I wish my Grey Warden friend were here’. Not just because he and his griffon are efficient killers of darkspawn, but because there is nothing quite like Davrin’s fond exasperation at Assan’s antics to cheer her right the hell up. And boy could she use it right now.
She certainly wasn’t getting any cheer from her stick up the ass companion.
Rook might dislike the cold, Nevarra was pretty temperate year round, with only a few weeks of wet, barely able to stick snow in the colder months. And what with her being a Necropolis kid, she wasn’t really very outdoorsy. But Solas? Solas apparently despised the cold. She figured he’d be this black spot of stoic fortitude in the snow, fording through snow banks with the calm heretofore unseen in winter. That’s how Varric had always described Solas to her, from their time together in the Inquisition: the consummate wild hedge mage, noble, serene, and so full of himself he was incapable of feeling the mountain cold.
This topic largely came up because shortly after joining Varric’s mission, Rook had spent a few days complaining about winter in the Free Marches. Varric had told her that she better learn to be a lot hardier in the winter, because the Dread Wolf was great at winters, and how could she hope to hunt Solas if she couldn’t bear a little frost on her toes? Maybe Varric had been full of shit, but she had tried to put on a brave face for the remainder of their time in the snowy hills of the Northern Marches.
Turns out Varric was indeed full of shit, or was working with a lot less information than she’d thought, because Solas? Absolutely despises the cold. Gets this pinched, uncomfortable look on his face, like he can’t believe he’s being made to suffer like the rest of the common mortals.
A pity it’s so cold she can’t even take pleasure in his misery.
“This is awful.” Rook says out loud, voicing her misery for what might be the hundredth time since they entered this freezing corner of hell. They’re trudging through knee high snow in an area that almost reminds her of path that leads to the Anderfels mirrors. Only periodically they pass a frozen palm tree, just a casual reminder that things are very not good in the Crossroads right now.
The abnormally tall drifts of snow conveys that better than anything. Snow was never this tall before the Crossroads got all wonky. So deep is the snow, that Solas walks behind her, having traded places with Rook recently to take turns fording a path through the snow. She’s determined to last longer than he did leading them, for no reason other than to bask in his irritation at her continued commentary on his borderline useless ‘mage noodles’. Right now it’s her job to keep them moving forward, and she feels entitled to complain.
“Yes, you’ve expressed that already.” Is Solas’ grim reply.
She casts a look over her shoulder to see his hands tucked carefully into one of the moth eaten blankets they’d pilfered from one of the small cabins littering the area. Chin tucked in close to his chest, Solas looks as miserable she feels. The tips of his ears a pale white that could only mean frostbite. She didn’t know why he’d been so adamant about not wrapping his head in one of the heavy woolen curtains they’d found. He was only going to suffer for his stubbornness, unlike her, still cold but her scalp wasn’t freezing at least. The curtain had felt like a stroke of genius, found in that strange, not quite a grey warden’s camp village area of the Crossroads—because despite the occasional frozen palm tree, parts of the mountain section of the crossroads had merged with this area. Or at least the chunk of the not-village they managed to find, it seemed as though half the island had broken into pieces, some chunks floating in the air above them, turned upside down.
“Yes, because I’m cold.” She tells him primly, tucking her nose into her own musty blanket at another biting gust of wind.
“And complaining about it helps you feel warmer?” He must be really out of sorts, that hadn’t even been very acidic.
“No, but I’m hoping annoying you might.” She only gets a weary sigh in response. “See, I bet you’ll feel warm and toasty in no time.”
She reaches a low rise in their path, and squints at it, trying to assess how much ice is packed beneath the snow. They could go around it, but it was only a few leg lengths tall, and Rook would much prefer to take a direct route. She supposes she might help shove Solas up the little slope, and then he could act as an anchor so she could haul herself up, sneaky ice be damned.
As she waits for Solas to catch up, Rook looks up at nearest upside down chunk of island above them, a crystal blue river flowing between several broken pieces of island. The way the light shimmers off the crystal blue is very pretty.
If she remembers right, Harding had warned her once that the prettier and clearer the water when it’s icy out, usually meant the water was wicked cold. Good thing the water was up there, and not down here, otherwise they might need to figure out how to cross it. Walking through knee high snow sucks, she can only imagine how much worse it would be with wet boots.
“Do you think it’s possible to fall up to one of those islands?” Rook asks as Solas finally catches up to her.
Solas’ panting breaths fog the air, his once ruddy cheeks gone pale in the cold, which Rook is pretty sure is also a very bad sign. Once they find a suitable place to hole up, hopefully out of the wind, with a fire or something, she’d cajole him into taking a break. He looks up at the fractured bit of island.
“Yes, though we would need to be much closer for the gravitational forces to pull us in.” Solas looks to her, and catches her gawping at him. “What?”
“Yeah we need to take a warm up break, I don’t think you’ve ever answered a direct question so politely before.” Rook answers, keeping her tone as light as possible.
Solas merely closes his eyes and gives the barest of nods. “Yes, a break would be good.”
Sweet Maker, was she going to kill the Dread Wolf by freezing him to death? Reinforcing her concerns, Solas brooks no argument when Rook grabs him by the shoulders and turns him towards the slope in front of them. “I’ll help you get up there, and then you just need to help balance me when I come up and we’ll find you that cozy warm spot.”
“Very well.”
She ends up in a kind of hands on his hips, low back situation to shove him up the slope, which does in fact have a sneaky layer of ice under the snow. She’s not sure if either of them will fully recover psychologically if Rook has to take palm to Fen’Harel ass to shove him up the slope. Solas manages, nearly tipping forward onto his knees, before just barely catching himself. He doesn’t have the energy to straighten before he turns, holding a worryingly pale hand out for her to grab. Rook grabs his forearm, feeling chilled fingers nearly as cold as the frozen air press against her wrist. Oh that was definitely bad.
Rook scrabbles up the slope, mostly under her own strength. When she reaches the top, she doesn’t let go of Solas, instead gripping his hand between her own in a futile attempt to warm his fingers. They feel like ice. “I think skin isn’t supposed to be this cold, Solas.”
Solas straightens, but his shoulders remain slightly slumped, and Rook is mostly concerned that he doesn’t even attempt to tug his hand away. “No, perhaps not.”
Something in the climb must have rejuvenated her, because Rook feels momentarily weightless. Perhaps the determination not to let a companion die on her watch has successfully shoved necessary adrenaline through her system. Only Solas looks confused too, and he definitely looks a lot more exhausted after that climb. Rook’s feet are suddenly out of insulating layer of snow, and she realizes what’s happening sooner than Solas does.
With no small amount of terror, their ascent starts very slow before rapidly speeding up. Gravity pulls Rook and Solas upwards, towards the chunk of island floating above them. The pretty island with the crystal blue water. The probably extremely icy terrible crystal blue water.
Rook manages one very loud, “Fuck!” before they make impact on the shore of the twisted river. Rook can confirm, that the water is freezing cold as it splashes over her feet to knees, and up the back of her thighs and ass. Solas fares no better, landing with a heavy rush of air out of his lungs. He unfortunately ends up with more icy cold water on his back than she does.
Proving he’s not dead yet, Solas gives her a tremendously unimpressed look. If he were a little more energetic, he might make a comment about never leaving her to lead them anywhere ever again. But instead he only maintains a cranky glare for her.
The water at least is enough of a shock that it kicks Rook into motion. She leaps to her feet, hip sore and probably bruised from smacking against the haft of her axe strapped to her back. Doesn’t matter, she needs to get Solas out of the water, find shelter and make fire.
“Getting wet in this kind of cold is very bad.” Rook says out loud, mentally sorting through all the survival lessons Harding tried to drill into her skull over the last year.
“Yes.” Solas agrees, not a single sound of protest at her picking him up under his armpits, and dragging him bodily up and out of the water.
“We need to find shelter and heat.” She says, looking around desperately, clutching a freezing, wet Solas to her.
“Sooner is preferable.” Solas says, and maybe he is dying, because he makes no effort to pull out of her hold.
Rook looks at the bend of the river, and she swears that outcropping of rocks looks familiar. Not from the mountain section of the Crossroads. But closer to the central square. Where she’d first tripped into one of Solas’ memories, the assault on Ghilan’nain’s stronghold.
Requiring inertia to save their lives, Rook hauls Solas with her, keeping him on his feet as he stumbles alongside her towards the outcropping of rock. She nearly sobs with relief when she sees the depth of the cave inside, it’s the one a group of small spirits had moved into shortly after they’d saved Treviso.
The air in the cave feels several degrees warmer than the outside, and without any wind to cut into their bones it feels downright comfortable compared to the hell outside. Rook drags Solas towards the back of the cave, and does allow a sob of relief to escape her mouth when she sees a dusty bedroll, and everything she’ll need to start a fire. Next time she sees one of the little spirits she’s going to kiss it on the forehead, or whatever equivalent sign of affection demonstrates her appreciation and undying love for them.
She nearly drops Solas on the bedroll when she remembers at the very last second that he’s wet, and having a dry spot to warm up would be better. She shifts course at the last second, kind of giving him a shove that drops him on the ground next to the bedroll, smacking his back into the wall. He manages one exhausted glower, before his eyes slide shut. Oh definitely not good.
All the ‘how to survive in the wilderness’ teachings from Harding in the last year kick in, and Rook becomes a spirit of efficiency. She lights the fire and gets it crackling along happily, before she uses their wet blankets to pin up closer to the entrance to better hold heat in the cave while simultaneously drying. Were her feet not so cold, she might do a little happy dance at finding a fish drying rack, perfect for drying wet clothes on.
In the whirlwind of activity, Rook had stolen Solas’ wet blanket, wrapping him instead in the woolen curtains Rook had wrapped around her head and shoulders, thankfully dry from their splash in the water. His eyes remain shut as Rook dithers a moment, unsure of how to ask the Dread Wolf to please remove his pants, as currently his life depends on it.
A hysterical laugh threatens to bubble up her throat.
Solas must sense her frazzled nerves, because he cracks one eye open to look at her. “What are you doing?”
“Your pants are wet and you need to remove them, also probably your armor so I can dry them and you can get warm. Also I do too and we’re probably going to sit around in our underwear and I am feeling extremely uncomfortable about that fact.”
Solas slow blinks at her.
Rook stares back, frostbitten cheeks flooding with mortified warmth. For the first time in a very long time, she feels like a junior Watcher cadet, having just asked a handsome senior way out of her league on a date.
Solas sighs. “You will need to help me up.”
Rook does so, grabbing him by his forearms, and lifting him to stand. His fingers are frozen clumsy, searching for the buckles at his side to undo his armor. She watches that irritated tilt to his brows shift into place as he miss handles the clasps for the third, fourth time.
Rook reaches forward, unable to look him in the eye as she offers. “Here, let me.”
Solas pauses a moment, before hesitantly pulling his hands away, giving her access. It takes a moment for Rook to figure out how the chest plate on his armor is affixed to the gambeson. None of the clasps are in the place she thinks they should be, clearly made for someone with long, deft fingers. Something strange and ancient elven in design. She bets Bellara would have a field day pawing at his armor, if she were here.
Rook gets him out of the folded plate and the leather of his jacket, leaving him in the not quite metallic, leather leggings and a finely spun shirt. There is a cord looped around his neck, some kind of necklace tucked into his shirt. Rook takes a very quick sanity break to hang the jacket on the fish rack, the spiteful corner of her heart hoping it comes back smelling terribly spirit fishy. She turns back to find Solas eying her like she’s a feral lion, ready to pounce on him.
She stares back, mind suddenly empty of what needs doing next.
Finally, they both attempt to speak at the same time.
“I will need help—”
“Your pants—”
Rook bites her lip to contain the hysterical giggle threatening to break free. Solas sighs. He gestures down, and Rook is looking at his thighs, and she doesn’t know if that’s better. “If you could help me with the clasps, I will do the rest.” He adds, after a moment, “Please.”
Rook can’t help the snort that pulls from her, which is more respectable than a manic giggle, so she will take it. “Well if you’re going to ask me so sweetly.” She steps forward before she can catch whatever look Solas gives her, fingers clumsy and awkward as they reach for the half dozen clasps keep the legging things bound at his waist.
Once freed, Solas wastes no time in pulling his leggings and boots off. Rook isn’t swift enough to avert her gaze before she catches a flash of the layered wrap that makes up his underclothes. She holds out her hand, gaze on the shift of the blanket curtains cordoning them off from the outside. Once Solas places his leggings, that are absolutely some kind of metal, but also not in the weirdest feeling fabric she’s ever touched in her life, Rook snatches them and carefully lays them over the drying rack.
She casts a glance back, half expecting Solas to be standing their in nothing but his small clothes, but finds he’s bundled up, sitting on the bedroll, wrapped in the woolen curtains. “Well, now that the awkwardness is behind us, I can take first watch and—”
“Rook.”
Rook swallows and turns to find Solas watching her, expression hard, if weary. “You fell in the water too. You will become hypothermic if you don’t get warm and dry.”
Rook glances around the small cave, searching for another bedroll. “Uh, well yes. But you see there’s—”
Solas rolls his eyes at her. “The swiftest way for both of us to get warm is to share body heat. You will be the death of us both if you continue to waste time uselessly.”
Well, looks like Rook officially saved the life of Fen’Harel. He was back to being a prissy asshole. Curbing the urge to do the opposite of his demands, Rook grunts a, “Fine,” at him, before shucking her armor and shimmying out of her pants and hanging them to dry. Reaching around, the back of her shirt has gotten wet and she will absolutely need it to be dry otherwise die of the cold, apparently. Not looking at Solas, Rook tugs the shirt off, and hangs it. The air feels cold on all her exposed skin, even with the warmth of the fire. She casts her eyes towards the bedroll.
Solas has the decency to avert his gaze, chin turned towards the wall, but he holds an arm out to her, opening the cocoon of blankets for her to enter. Were he anyone else, Rook would almost think him gentlemanly. Were he anyone else, Rook would take a moment to admire the line of lean muscle on his thigh that she could see, and then make a comment about it and flirt recklessly. Were he anyone else but the literal god of lies, treachery, and rebellion, depending on who you ask, Rook might take a moment to bask in the feel of chilled skin against her own.
Instead she says, “You’re like a mage-cicle!” as she wraps the corner of the blanket around her. She has never felt a pliant body so cold that wasn’t dead. It was freaking her out a little.
Beside her, she can feel more than hear Solas’ annoyed exhalation, as he closes his eyes. “And is there a particular reason you’re so warm?”
Rook shrugs, trying to be subtle as she shifts her weight, pressing more firmly against his side in a bid to warm him better, flush from knee to shoulder. Only it must be painfully obvious to him at the way he stiffens. “Dunno, I’ve always run warm.”
“Mm.” Is all Solas has to say in return.
The fire crackles, warming the space until Rook can no longer see puffs of her own breath in the air. Her frenetic heart beat slows to something more normal, as the urgency of their predicament wears off. Solas does not move, merely closes his eyes, head resting on the wall. Rook eventually becomes inured to the feeling of him pressed against her side, in part because she can feel him warming enough to match her own temperature.
Rook finds herself beginning to nod off, the warmth of the fire penetrating into her skin, making her feel warm and relaxed for the first time in what feels like eons. Heavy lids blink slowly, and she’s struggling to find reasons they should stay open. She could probably fight an errant darkspawn in her underwear, if one managed to crawl through the opening of the cave. The image of which, makes her smile to herself.
“Thank you.”
Rook rolls her neck to find Solas’ eyes open, cast towards the fire. She hadn’t felt him move when he spoke, so for a moment Rook wonders is she had imagined it. She wouldn’t call the expression on his face anything close to resembling gratitude. Something in the line of his brow, like he’s annoyed that he’s been put into a position where he feels he needs to say anything at all.
The indignity of needing to be grateful to a short lived little insect.
The impulse to needle him properly fueled, Rook asks him sweetly, “For what?”
From this close, Rook can see the minute tightness at his eyes that she never would have been able to catch back in the prison. A pity she didn’t get to see any of these micro-expressions during their previous exchanges. Even the way he schools his expression into haughty indifference so quickly, she finds endlessly fascinating. Just how many masks does this man carry?
“For ensuring we did not die of exposure.” His voice clipped, still staring into the fire.
Rook really can’t help herself. “Oh? How’d I do that?”
Eyebrow flick, maybe surprise? And she finds herself looking into Solas’ eyess—how had she not noticed that his eyes were violet, she thought they were blue—his mouth clearly set in irritation. “Must you be willfully obtuse at all times?”
Rook’s answering grin is all teeth. “Only if it annoys you.”
Maybe he’s still on the cusp of dying because the breath he lets out is more huff of laughter than scoff. He returns his gaze back to the fire. “I will keep that in mind.”
The quick clash of verbal swords has restored her energy, and Rook isn’t quite ready for them to be done talking. He does seem exhausted though, so she can be somewhat nicer about it. “I figured you’d be a lot better at handling the cold.”
The corner of his mouth flicks, and Rook might say his expression was rueful. “Oh?”
“In my assembled list of all your weaknesses, I wouldn’t have thought ‘dump the Dread Wolf in a snow bank’ to be my most effective strategy.” Rook shrugs, forgetting their closeness, jostling his shoulder. “We work with what we have, I suppose.”
Another breath that is almost a laugh, but definitely isn’t a scoff. “No, in any other circumstance, I doubt it would be effective.” He must feel the weight of her curiosity, somewhat naively expecting him to divulge the secrets to defeating him, because his mouth twists. “I don’t believe I’ve ever truly experienced the severity of winter’s bite.”
At her continued stare, he offers, “I’ve always used magic to keep myself warm, even in the time before I regained my power after my sleep. I could heat the air around me so that I would not feel the cold.” His expression goes far away.
“That must be nice. Back while we were trudging through the snow, I spent my time lamenting not having Taash’s around to breath fire.” Rook wrinkles her nose, thinking about the expression on Taash’s face at needing to suffer the cold. Rivain was even warmer than Nevarra, and Taash wouldn’t outright complain, but they wouldn’t be happy. “Not that they’d appreciate me summoning them here.”
She wonders how her team is doing. Rook has long suspected, that of everyone, her expertise is actually the one least needed in their campaign against the gods. Either Harding, Davrin or Neve will step up to guide the others. With the Crossroads broken, they may be limited in where the Vi’Revas might take them, but Rook doesn’t doubt they’re still out there fighting the good fight.
“Ever the caretaker.”
“Hmm?” Broken from her thoughts, Rook looks at Solas, intrigued by the wry twist to his mouth. Why was he mentioning the spirit of the Crossroads?
Solas gives his head a small shake. “Nothing, only that you do your patron credit.”
Rook stares at the side of his face, hoping to read some meaning in his expression. She genuinely has no idea what he’s talking about. Had she not been paying attention longer than she thought? When he says nothing else, Rook nudges him with her elbow. “My patron?”
Solas glances at her, before closing his eyes, like he has any choice in getting out of this conversation when they’re stuck here shoulder to hip under the covers trying to warm up while their clothes dry. Finally he sighs. “Yes, your patron. Mythal.”
She stares at him blankly, wondering where on earth that had came from. Had they ever talked about the elven gods outside of the context of himself, or needing to kill Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain? Was he comparing himself to her? What does that have to do with caretaking? Interesting that he brought Mythal up, what with all that Rook had learned about his history recently. Unless he was hinting he knew something about her explorations of the Crossroads…
Solas has his eyes closed once more, apparently done with the conversation. Too bad for him.
“Why is Mythal my patron?”
He releases a breath through his nose, turning to look at her. His eyes flick down her face, and that is definitely the usual level of condescension in his expression. “I only mention because of your vallaslin. The branches of Mythal.”
Rook stares back at him uncomprehending for a moment. “My vallaslin?” At his ‘are you an idiot?’ glare, it finally dawns on her. “Oh! You mean the tattoos on my face!” She lifts a hand to poke at the variegated lines of texture covering his cheekbones.
“Yes, commonly referred to as vallaslin. You bear the markings of Mythal.” Solas is speaking to her like she’s a particularly dim child. All in all, the standard footing for their usual conversations, so this feels much more comfortable for her.
“It’s not vallaslin though.” She says, removing her fingers from her cheek.
Now Solas is looking at her like she’s purposefully being obtuse again. “That is what the people call their markings.”
“No, it’s what the Dalish call their markings.” Rook corrects, feeling an intense satisfaction at the confused pinch of his brows. “I’m a city elf—not even, I was raised in the crypts of the Grand Necropolis, this is just a tattoo I got done after I left the Mourn Watch.” There weren’t a whole lot of elves in the Mourn Watch, certainly not enough that they ever developed their own distinct culture, outside of sharing a look anytime one of the nobles called them ‘knife-ear’ a little too casually.
Interestingly, Solas’ face goes completely slack. “You mean to tell me that you arbitrarily went to get a tattoo done in the style of Dalish vallaslin, for no greater purpose?”
Why does he sound so appalled? “It had a purpose.” She sniffs. “I was helping Varric hunt you, and Dalish clans had no interest in talking to some shem and a pair of dwarves, but the moment I got these,” She points at her cheek, “Suddenly they were very welcoming.” It had been a stark contrast to her previous interactions with the Dalish, a contrast she found very frustrating. They were all elves, weren’t they? Most clans before the tattoos, had looked at her like she was nothing but an abused dog, begging them for scraps. She’d never been very interested in learning about Dalish culture outside of their burial practices, she had other things to occupy her in the Necropolis, but those interactions with the Dalish had left her even more disinterested. At least the elves in cities usually treated her with the kindness of the mutually oppressed. Every city elf looked at her like she might be a sister or a niece, or at least a friendly neighbor. It was lovely.
Solas is staring at Rook like she’s some kind of creature he’s never seen before, and that he thinks the end product is not a good thing. “And you chose Mythal?” He asks faintly.
“I actually didn’t know it was Mythal’s mark, I just thought it was pretty.” If she had to get a tattoo to serve her purposes, she’d rather it be something pretty and eye catching, rather than one of those terrifying designs with half the face covered in black ink. She’d found a human inker in Hunter Fell who had been excited at the prospect of tattooing traditional Dalish designs on an elf. They’d been very nice about it, even gave her a discount. Rook does find it interesting that of all the designs she could pick, she ended up with Mythal’s. Feels like a full circle moment, with everything that she’s learned these past months.
Solas continues to stare at her in some unfathomable mix of horror, awe, and confusion. “And when the Dalish clans found out you were masquerading as one of their own, how did they react?”
“Never found out, actually.” Usually because she kept her mouth shut and let Varric do most of the talking once they got into a clan camp. There had been a few times when a few of the warriors and hunters had eyed her suspiciously—she definitely did not move like someone Dalish trained—but they never stuck around long enough for someone to form an accusation.
Next to her Solas stares for a beat longer, before surprising them both by releasing a dry laugh. He shakes his head, returning to stare at the fire, but Rook does not miss the way his eyes crinkle at the corner. “I am sure they would have been appalled to learn they had a pretender of the people in their midst.”
Ohoh, that sounded bitter. “Varric always said you were never fond of the Dalish.”
Solas casts her a sidelong look. “No.”
She raises a brow. “And would you like to expound on why?”
The tilt to his mouth is absolutely a smirk. “No.”
“But we could trade notes on how insufferable most Dalish are.” The Veil Jumpers were friendly enough, a little obsessed with old things, but Rook could respect that. And Bellara and Davrin were both wonderful in different ways. Not all Dalish were rude isolationists. Just more than some.
“And is this how you engender trust with your team, petty gossip?” Solas asks, voice dry.
“It’s called finding common ground, Solas. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
“Or perhaps it’s a manipulation, trying to feed on the emotions of people around you, creating a false bond of trust.” Solas’ expression is bitter. “All relationships come to that in the end, no matter the best of intentions.”
Wow, what pessimistic little walnut.
Rook bonks the back of her head against the stonewall at the force of her eye roll. She plays it off as if that didn’t sting in the slightest. “Oh to be ancient and nihilistic about the whole world, and relationships with people.” Rook has the honor of looking Solas in the eye as she gives him a scathing look. “Could you try to be less predictable, Dread Wolf? You’re starting to sound boring.”
“Yes, and I’m sure you can solve all the worlds problems just by talking them out. Perhaps you will be able to find common ground with Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain in the course of your gossip.” Solas arches an eyebrow at her. “You could talk about your mutual hatred for me. I’m sure they will infinitely delay killing you and the world to hear your thoughts. ”
His sarcasm has her hackles up, and she’s about to tell him hotly that she also solves her problems by swinging a really big axe, thank you very much. But she frowns as his meaning finally lands. “I don’t hate you.”
His expression clearly conveys he does not believe her.
She baps him on the arm, turning to him in full, the blanket slipping down her shoulder. “No, Solas. I don’t hate you. I wouldn’t say I like you very much, you’re kind of an arrogant asshole.” His expression is flat as he looks back at her. “But you also try to do good, more or less, just like everyone else.”
It had been the thing that eventually convinced her to stay on with Varric and Harding early into their journey. She hadn’t fully understood why Varric wanted to save this man so bad, if he was looking to end the world he supposedly helped to create himself. And if Rook was just there as muscle, there were better operatives Varric could have recruited. And then they’d come across the estate of a southern Magister at the border of Tevinter. A Magister who apparently hadn’t been forthcoming with his slaves about the new edict from Minrathous on the dissolution of slavery across Tevinter. Instead, the Magister had seized the opportunity to keep chattel slavery going in his domain.
Solas had arrived some weeks before Rook and the others, freed the people from their bonds—elves, humans, and even a few qunari—and convinced them to rise against the Magister. The freed slaves had taken over the estate, armed and protective, and spoke about Solas like he was some kind of mythic hero, delivering the final blow against their former master. Rook understood why, as they learned Solas had even taken the time to heal and help people after the brief uprising, including training some magically inclined former slaves to maintain the wards he set up around the property.
Those weren’t the actions of a man who wanted to end the world, who saw no value in the lives of others. Those were the actions of a man who wanted the world to be a better place than it was. Who took the time to teach a scared little boy how to use his magic to protect his people so they might survive a little longer, a little safer.
Rook just happened to disagree with Solas on how best to ultimately achieve saving the world.
Now, Solas looks at her, like he doesn’t believe her, but is more than happy to drop the subject. Rook isn’t. “Solas, you know if I truly hated you, if I really didn’t think there was any value to your life, I could have let you freeze to death out there.” She jerks her chin towards the curtained off entrance. Solas looks like he’s gritting his teeth, biting back some kind of response.
“I could have shoved you off one of the many fractured islands, you know that right? It would be pretty easy.” It would not surprise her in the least if he was so arrogant as to not reflect on how much more power she had in their current situation, him cut off from his magic, and her a better fighter and physically stronger than him.
Outside of the Crossroads he was older, smarter, more experienced, and had so much magic he was indistinguishable from a god. Here, cut off from the thing that made him so dangerous, he was practically at her mercy. At his expression, face gone shuttered, Rook realizes she was probably being a little blunt. She uses her arm freed from the blanket to touch his blanket clad shoulder tentatively.
“I apologize, I didn’t mean to threaten you. I just meant—” She searches for the right words. “I haven’t, because I think it’s better for us to work together?”
Solas’ eyes flick over her, like he’s searching for something. Finally, he says, “Your confidence is inspiring.”
She gives him a sheepish smile.
“It is not lost on me Rook, the shift in our circumstances, and I appreciate your willingness to… Collaborate.” He eventually settles on. “We align on many goals, and we shall require each other in the coming days as we navigate the crossroads, such as they are.”
Something about the way he says that, makes Rook suspect not only does he not believe the truth in those words, but that once the Crossroads are repaired, betrayal is back on the table. Rook doesn’t know why she wants Solas to trust her so bad. It’s not like she trusts him. If anything, she’s always waiting for the other shoe to drop in all their interactions. And it’s not like he doesn’t remember who it was who disrupted his ritual. Solas knows where she stands on his plans to tear down the Veil.
And still, she finds herself wanting to find that common ground. Because he’s an arrogant asshole, but he also seems to have a lot of care for the wellbeing other people. She’s met many worse people in the world.
Rook sighs. “Okay Solas.” She looks him in the eye for a moment, wondering if there’s any right combination of words she can speak to him, that will convince him to deviate from his path. To use that ancient clever brain of his to think, just for a moment.
Solas clears his throat, breaking their eye contact and staring into the fire once more. “Rook, if you could adjust the blanket please.”
Rook blinks, looking down at herself. The blanket had slipped from her one shoulder to rest at her waist, draping the scratchy fabric across her chest, perfectly exposing collarbones, ribs, and the bindings of her stays, which were sitting looser than normal. She had been casually flashing Fen’Harel. She tugs the blanket back up and stuffing it behind her back to ensure no more slips.
“So how long were you going to stare at my tits before you said anything?” If the opportunity presents itself, Rook will always smother feelings of mortification with false bravado.
“I assure you, Rook. You have nothing I have any interest in seeing.” Solas tells her acidly. He does not look at her though, she notes.
“Yes, I believe you. Which is why you didn’t say anything for over five minutes.” Could it have been longer? Maybe. Does Rook have a sudden and intense driving need to see if she can find a way to make Solas blush? Yes, yes she does.
She doesn’t get her blush this time, but there’s always hope for the future. Solas merely sighs, closing his eyes and very clearly pretending to fall asleep.
She knows he's only pretending, because when she snickers to herself, Solas gives another aggrieved sigh, making her laugh out loud.
Notes:
Join me in imagining Rook picking up Solas by his armpits, carrying him like a long, soggy, angry cat.
Better yet! Check out Molten_Poison's phenomenal fanart of angry soggy Solas. I love them so much 🥹
Chapter Text
Out of the ice crater, and into the wet heat of what must be the Crossroads approximation of somewhere like Par Vollen. Their surroundings covered in hard, dusty dirt paths that at any moment could turn to muddy swamp. The air thick and heavy in a humid heat that Solas cannot remember ever experiencing in his long life. The only consolation of this new twisted corner of the Crossroads, is that aside from an initial confrontation with a handful of Antaam, the area seems devoid of dangers.
Solas might have suspected that the closer they drew to the Lighthouse, there would be a greater density of twisted spirits and darkspawn, but so far, it seems both have decided to avoid this area, perhaps also finding the damp heat unbearable. That may just mean that when they exit these islands, there will be greater dangers awaiting at it’s borders. No matter, Rook will handle whatever is flung their way with relative ease.
He would never admit this out loud, but it turns out that Rook may be an unstoppable force on the battlefield. They’ve come up against what seemed to Solas impossible odds: dozens of twisted spirits, legions of darkspawn, and a few encounters with better equipped Antaam and Venatori. And yet like an Arcane Warrior of old, Rook moves about the field of battle with a grace and precision Solas has not witnessed since before the Veil destroyed the world.
There is calculation in her eyes as she assesses their enemies, moving in ways that always deliberately funnel attacks away from him. When she’d mentioned she had training at protecting mages, he did not fully understand to what extent. Solas has only tried his blade a handful of times since their journey began, all because Rook is a master of controlling the flow of a battlefield.
However void of danger, Rook will still on occasion remind Solas that she is in fact mortal. Rook will occasionally catch the edge of her clothing on jagged rocks, and more often than not, impatiently yank herself free, tearing the already meager fabric of her clothing. She spends probably equal time mending these tears, as she does cleaning blood off her blade. His suggestions that might try to be more mindful of her surroundings had been met with offense, so Solas had endeavored to keep his peace on the matter.
Even if it did grate to watch her tear her leggings for the umpteenth time as she incautiously tramped through another bramble. None so grating as hearing her complain out loud about this phenomenon she couldn’t possibly predict or prevent.
They have come to something of a respectful détente since their frozen ordeal. Rook seems to be curbing her innate instinct to be as irritating as possible, and Solas has striven to be polite when he can. That hasn’t stopped them from trading insults, but it’s more akin to the ribbing between acquaintances, than it is two enemies barely tolerating each other.
All the better for Solas. He can see plainly that she reads more into his show of respect than is there in actuality. He will take the scraps of her trust and fashion them into a guard at her future interference in his plans. Trust given has always made for more tractable allies. And it would seem Rook had decided that their mutual ordeal in the snow had firmly established them as comrades of a sort.
Solas cannot say that if their positions had been reversed, if he wouldn’t have just abandoned Rook to freeze to death. If doing so could guarantee his own survival, he wouldn’t hesitate. But not yet. It had become apparent that so far in this journey, Solas had more often than not needed her, more than she had needed him.
It was humiliating, the weakness he’d displayed. All because he truly had not understood how reliant he had become upon his magic. Even in that pitiful time before he’d regained his power, he’d still had the means to insure he wouldn’t freeze to death. And then for Rook to drive it home, and remind him that while the Crossroads were in disarray, he was effectively at her mercy. She was an efficient killer, and should she so deem it, without his magic, she could get rid of him with ease.
He would go down fighting. One last explosive use of magic, even should it kill him, because he would prefer death on his own terms, than at the hand of hers.
That outcome was unlikely, given the state of their temporary collaboration. All the better, for in the event of his death, who else is there to fight against Elgar’nan? If Rook defeats Solas, even as he is now, it’s because she’s proven she has the fortitude and ruthlessness to do so. That ruthlessness may afford an infinitesimally small chance to allow her to be victorious over Elgar’nan without him.
Better that they work together. She is an unorthodox thinker if nothing else. Her ‘tattoos’ prove it.
How he had wanted to laugh when she had revealed the source of her markings. That they were not vallaslin at all. That she had appropriated the images from the Dalish in order to infiltrate their ranks. Imagine Solas’ surprise, witnessing a woman with the marks of Mythal on her face bring about his downfall. He had thought it the greatest irony. Like Felassan coming to laugh at him for all the mistakes Solas had made. Her tattoos a reminder of the world he was trying to bring back, of all that he’s lost. Of all that he’s sacrificed.
Only for Rook to say, no, they had no greater meaning than a opportunistic cultural contrivance. She just thought they looked pretty.
Solas wished to laugh, but he wasn’t certain it wouldn’t sound hysterical to his own ears.
So instead, he had focused on finding more fade tears, some smaller than the width of his hand. None larger than the breadth of his shoulders, ensuring he could not escape the Crossroads, not yet at least. A pity, because though Rook had her uses within the Crossroads, Solas was not certain she was truly safe to travel with.
In the time since abandoning that cave, and making their way to this humid hell, Solas had done everything in his power not to think nearly freezing to death in that cave. Because if he did, it was only a short journey to him remembering waking up in the warm nest Rook had built them.
This blasted heat, preferable to freezing to death, was proving a painful obstacle to surmount his goals.
At his side, Rook walks in step with him—for they walk together as peers now, she insisted—her hair pulled out of her face, sweaty strands sticking to her brow. Rook had loosened her collar entirely, exposing the long column of her neck, the flash of collarbones, which makes it all too easy to remember the slope of her shoulder, the curve of her chest, and the press of her captivating warmth to his side.
Solas had woken some hours later in the cave, the fire banked, but still warm, feeling infinitely better. Probably something having to do with the enchantment that saw them not needing to eat or drink, accelerated healing as well. For the tips of his ears no longer stung, and his fingers could curl without stiffness into the blanket and around warm smooth—
Coming fully awake, Solas had been horrified to find he’d turned in his sleep and curled around Rook’s warmth like a moth to a flame, his head resting on her shoulder, arm around her waist. She was thankfully asleep, head tipped away from his, hair covering her eyes.
As smoothly and deftly as the Dread Wolf had ever managed, Solas had slipped out from the blankets, tucking Rook back in to keep the her insulated and sleeping, and donned his armor as quickly as he could. He vowed, waiting for Rook to rouse, that he would never speak of this, not ever again.
Sadly, for all his resolutions, Rook had swiftly decided they were more or less comrades in arms now, and she was therefore allowed to speak to him as if he were anyone of her other companions.
“Hey, hey Solas.” Rook calls, during one of their more frequent breaks in the humid dome they’ve found themselves in. Solas was in the process of removing his gloves and stuffing them into his jacket, unable to believe that he’d found another biome that made him miss his temperature regulation magic more keenly. Were it not for the amount of suffering he’d already sustained, Solas would wonder if this was another sign from the universe that he had not truly experienced justice for all his sins yet.
“Yes, Rook?” In Solas’ experience, her query was inevitably going to be something crass, something ludicrous, or some deeply insightful comment on the state of the world that would have him reflecting on it for hours to come. He almost missed the steady exchange of verbal barbs. At least those had been predictable.
And perhaps even fun, on occasion.
“You know how you have temperature regulation magic?”
“Not currently, but yes.” Solas whicks sweat off his brow, desperately missing the ability to chill the air around him.
“Do you also have a spell to deal with being sweaty?” Rook asks, eyes wide and sincere. He has his suspicions on where this is going.
“There are dozens of standard magical practices that exist today to deal with bathing, and laundry.” The fallen mage circles had seen to that. Make magic as boring and mundane as possible, such that it couldn’t be used to rule over men. Pathetic and further evidence towards Solas’ goals.
Rook hums. “That’s great. But I don’t think there’s anything in particular to deal with the worst phenomenon experienced in this kind of environment.”
Feeling himself walk into her trap, Solas plays his part and asks, “What phenomenon, Rook?”
Rook crosses her arms, expression grave. “Swamp ass.”
Ah, so they were going to be crass today.
“What makes you think any of the numerous bathing and laundry spells wouldn’t be able to handle this… phenomenon?” He’s found that answering her with logic, or taking her questions seriously were usually enough to dissuade her from whatever game she was intent on playing. He just need be boring and she would go distract herself elsewhere, leaving him to the company of his own thoughts. Preferable in almost every way.
“I don’t know Solas, I think the gravity of the case of swamp ass I am currently experiencing has heretofore never been documented, by anyone across Thedas.” Rook says, with all the gravity she can manage.
Suffocating any thoughts from his memory about the curve of warm hip pressed into his own, Solas heaves a sigh, allowing Rook to gain the point that she wanted, and turns, gesturing to their path. “If you’re feeling so energetic, perhaps we could continue?”
Rook hops down from where she’d been sitting, heaving her axe onto her shoulder. “In all seriousness though, once we get out of this sweaty armpit of the Crossroads, we’re going to have to find somewhere to bathe, because I don’t think I can go on if I’m caked in 100 layers of sweat, that just keep coming even though I haven’t drank anything in forever.”
Solas only sighs his agreement. An oversight on the part of the enchantment in this place. They do not need food or drink, and yet seem to be capable of producing ungodly amounts of sweat. At the rate at which both of them have sweat, Solas would have long thought they’d die of dehydration. Not so, leaving both he and Rook caked in an ever replenishing layer of stinky dampness. It was the most disgusting he’s felt in a very long time.
They walk for what feels like eons longer than the other legs of their journey. The heat and humidity enough to stymie even Rook from her usual color commentary.
Eventually they come across an interesting looking doorway. It’s as if the sheen of a bubble has stretched across the door, leaving all the light on it’s other side desaturated in tones of sepia. Likely some kind of construct of memory. It’s fully possible for them to walk around the doorway, no need to engage with whatever this is. Solas does not recognize the masonry on the door itself—it does not look of elven make. Perhaps a memory from his more recent past, in the time since he woke up?
At his side, Rook has lit up with interest, eyes scanning the door before flitting to Solas, and back, as if she wanted to gauge his reaction. Interesting. Solas had long suspected that Rook had access to more details about his past than she ought to, and it would make sense if the Crossroads held onto some of the burden of his memories, for all the centuries he spent maintaining this garden removed from the Fade and reality both. Solas will at some point need to find out to the extent of what she’s discovered.
That Rook seems to recognize the significance of the space, tells him this isn’t her first encounter with one such memory.
The carving on the stone seems to be a motif that would not be associated with Solas’ past. Nor would it surprise him if the Crossroads had absorbed something from Rook in her travels through the space. No, Solas is quite certain this particular space does not hold one of his memories.
So when Rook all too casually, as if he wouldn’t recognize the magics of this place, says, “This is interesting, should we pass through?” Solas is only too happy to nod, gesturing for Rook to lead them. He’s careful to keep his face schooled in neutral interest as they pass through the doorway.
Solas had been curious about learning more of Rook’s past, after all. Perhaps he might learn why specifically spirits seemed to enjoy her company so much.
The ground shifts, and the doorway behind them disappears, the lights dim significantly and Solas cannot keep the corners of his mouth from turning up as he watches confusion turn to concern on Rook’s face. The air is lit in shades of muted greens from torches of veilfire and wisp light. Solas has never ventured inside, but he imagines this is what the interior of the Grand Necropolis looks like.
“Oh no, no-no. Oh. Oh bad, no.” Rook says, turning to see that the doorway has disappeared, and they will be stuck in here until the memory has run it’s course. “Fuck!”
Yes, Rook has absolutely encountered fragments of Solas’ memories in the Crossroads. Perhaps from his Rebellion? This is not her first experience of a memory within the fade, and based on her reaction, she is well aware these spaces can reveal more than the subject might want.
“Whatever is the matter, Rook?” Solas asks, serene in his joy at her discomfort.
Rook whips around to face him, and Solas watches with morbid fascination as the realization that he knows what she’s been up to in the Crossroads streaks across her face. She has an incredibly expressive face, making moments such as these all the more satisfying.
Rook’s expressive face flies through stages of grief, before landing in acceptance. Smearing hands over her face, Rook sighs. “Ugh, we might as well get this over with.”
“We should take our time.” Solas says genially, strolling after her into a memory of her past. At her severe look, he adds. “It’s quite pleasantly cool down here, don’t you think so?”
Rook’s only response is a sour grunt.
They step into what looks like a crypt, but the memory does not begin as Solas anticipates. Before he can flick his eyes around the space, Solas feels as if a massive hand grabs the back of his neck, and drives him through the waters of Rook’s past. There is a great spirit here and it is angry at his trespass.
The story is thus: Once there was a little girl, found as a baby in an ancient forgotten crypt. A gift, so it is said. She is discovered by the spirits of the Grand Necropolis who ask the necromancers of the Mourn Watch to raise her. Because the baby belongs to the spirit, but spirits do not know how to care for a mortal child.
The little girl grows, hand in hand with spirits. She explores the Grand Necropolis, meeting all who work there and call this place home. Her greatest wish? To grow into the kind of person who can protect this place, and the spirits she loved so much. None did she want to protect more so than her favorite spirit of all, the one who raised her: the name is a garbled screech in Solas’ ears, the long fingered corpse. So when she was old enough, the little girl was excited to join the trainees of the future Mourn Watch.
However, unknown to the little girl there were things that people said made her unsuitable to the Mourn Watch. Because these were the people who protected the King’s most important treasure: the Grand Necropolis. The little girl was common, she had no family name, and instead was given one from the dead family’s crypt within which she was found. INGVELLAR thunders through Solas skull. The little girl was also an elf, her pointed ears long and she’d always thought cute. But not so, her human peers told her. They made her less. Unsuitable. The little girl didn’t believe that to be true, because the spirits told her otherwise, but it did not stop the instructors and other students from being cruel.
Worst of all, the Mourn Watch was only meant to be full of necromancers, and the little girl, despite being beloved by spirits, could not wield magic. This, others said, was proof enough that she was not for the Mourn Watch. However, the Lich Kings of the Necropolis overruled that decision, allowing the little girl to become what she’d always dreamed of.
She grew older, and more crafty, more careful. LITTLE ROOK is the whispered hiss that sizzles along Solas’ nerves. The little girl avoided the worst of her peers, and she still played with the spirits every day. She learned lots, and started to learn to wield the weapons that would help her protect all that she loved. Other students were mad that the spirits liked the little, common, magicless, elf girl more than they, but what could anyone do? The spirits will do what they wish.
Until one day, the little girl found herself cornered. The noble boys in her class told her ‘you don’t belong!’ and she said, that’s not true, the Lich Kings said so, and they know more than you. This was not the right thing to say. The noble boys in her class did not like when common, magicless, elf girls spoke back to them. And so they struck her. Foolishly, because one lesson learned by many bandits and demons invading the sanctity of Necropolis: do not strike the little girl favored by the spirits. It will not end well for you.
But this story is meant to be a tragedy. So instead of one of the greater spirits who often protect the her, the first to arrive after the little girl was struck, was a small wisp, one that liked to follow in the little girl’s wake. This little wisp, burned the the boy who struck her. A sore miscalculation. For the little noble boy was a necromancer in training, and was learning to have domain over spirits.
What comes next is a grim loss of life, never properly recorded in the annals of the Necropolis, for what is the value of a small wisp? Hardly anything. No one but the little girl would miss it. But the little girl missed it so bad, and she was so mad, that she found herself terribly angry. So angry that fought all the little noble boys that had come to hurt her, and killed her friend. She hurt those boys, made them fear her, made them regret ever laying eyes on her. Made sure they would never do so again.
But she was too angry, too defiant. Too dangerous. So the wise leaders of the Grand Necropolis, decreed that the little girl had been coddled too long, and she needed to learn that her position was a privilege. One that could be taken away without a moment’s notice. The little girl was sent away to the alienage of Nevarra city to live with the elves that understood they were lesser. There she learned—
The world tilts, thrusting Solas out of the storybook narrative of Rook’s past. He leans against the wall, mind racing as he tries to collate the information he’d just seen. But, what was the means of that? That voice screaming in his ear? He had never once encountered a memory quite like that. Was that how Rook’s mind worked? No, no he knew that was not the case. He wouldn’t have been able to manipulate her with blood magic, if it was. There was something more dangerous going on, of that he was certain. Solas could still feel the press of the long fingered hand, as if burned on the back of his neck. It had felt like someone silently drowning him. A spirit, he was certain.
Had Rook been similarly affected?
Solas looks around, only to find Rook standing a little ahead of him, looking unhappy to be here. She looks no worse for wear, with the exception of her not breathing. No, it’s as if time has ceased.
A vast presence in the dark shifts and Solas stills. There are eyes watching him in the dark, a hunter deciding if he is a worthy quarry.
Solas bows his head. “My apologies for intruding. I know these memories were not meant for me.”
The hunter’s eyes pass over him, no longer interested. Solas is safe, for now. What manner of spirit was it? Aggressive, but not outright malevolent.
Time begins to move. Rook heaves a heavy sigh. “And now, for the worst part.”
This is how one of these Crossroads memories are supposed to go, emobodying a witness to the events, not violently dragged through a confusing storybook. Solas thinks he and Rook might now stand as wisps, viewing events as the past unfolds.
Solas watches as a younger Rook walks into the room, face streaked with tears. She can be no older than thirteen he imagines. All gangly limbs and not quite the height she would eventually reach. Her chest heaves with the force of her sobs, trying desperately to get herself under control.
Solas looks between the Rooks, the grief on the young one’s face, and the hardness those feelings had become in the older one. Surprising himself, Solas feels his heart twinge for her. To be so angry at a memory, Solas can sympathize. He wonders if Rook hates this specter of her past, as much as Solas hates his own. Or does she pity this sad creature collapsed on the ground?
Or perhaps it is he who pities the sad little girl, because he finds himself taking a step forward. “It was cruel what was done to you.”
Rook looks over her shoulder, giving him a grimace that he supposes she meant for a smile. “No, it’s cruel what I’m about to do.”
In the corner sits an odd skeleton. It’s limbs are too long. It’s torso oddly short. The fingers have additional phalanges and joints that are more reminiscent of a stick bug than human hands. Or perhaps, a more humanoid Envy demon. This, Solas thinks was the presence that had eyed him so closely before, that was in control of this memory space. The long fingered hand that held him by the neck, attempting to dispassionately drown him in memory.
The spirit must be speaking to the young Rook, it’s words lost to them, or maybe just to him, an interloper in this place. The girl’s shoulders stiffen, and her expression is fierce as she looks up at the spirit construct. “Be strong! I’m always strong, do you know how much I have to do, have to try, have to tolerate for the chance to be here?”
Her arms swing wide, her chest heaving. “This is all your fault! You tell me what I should be, how I should be, and all you’ve ever done is make them hate me!” Her voice cracks on the last words. She takes in a wet shuddering breath. “You’ve made me strange, and terrible and I need to be here, I don’t have anywhere else to go. I need to stay.”
She sniffles, tears streaking down her face as she wipes with her sleeve. She looks so young, and so unsure. “You need to let me go, go be normal. I don’t want to see you anymore. Never again, you need to leave me alone, because I need this place, more than I need you.”
The construct’s eyes dim and the memory abruptly ends.
A memory of regret. How apt.
Rook and Solas stand in the humid heat of the Crossroads once more, free from the memory of the Necropolis. Solas looks to his companion, and her expression is stunned, her eyes shinning with unshed tears. She blinks, and turns her back on him, wiping at her face.
“Rook.” He does not know where to begin. Perhaps with the presence of the spirit, had she known it was there, not just in memory, but the one sharing it? No, he knows. He’s familiar enough with the violation she must be feeling. “I am sorry for having to witness that.”
“Well, that was deeply embarrassing.” Rook bowls past his apology, voice falsely light, her back still to him.
This was a victory Solas tells himself. This was good information to have, to better understand the woman across from him. Her connection with spirits, her ease with them made more sense. He had questions about the long limbed spirit and it’s aggression, but that he could slowly peel away later, now that he’s been given such an efficient blade against her.
A smaller part of himself feels regret at being eager to see anything of her past, to feel her shame and embarrassment. That he planned to mine this memory for a source of weakness in Rook. Had the prison still existed, this very memory would have been the key he needed to lock Rook away in his place forever. Worse yet, was that he knew exactly how he would capitalize on what he now knows, exactly where to precisely cut to get her to bend. It would be so easy.
For the first time in their acquaintance, Solas wonders if it may also be wrong.
This sad creature before him feels as though she has little in common with the crass woman who vividly spoke about all the places she was sweating. Just as that creature seemingly had little in common with the friend of the Craft spirit. And yet, she was one person. He’d assumed her defiance, her sense of humor, her peevishness were a sign of the fortitude. She’d convinced him that it would be a cruel mercy to isolate her in the fade prison. Surely she would have survived it.
No, she simply wears different masks. Something he is abundantly familiar with.
“You had challenges to overcome, to get you here.” Solas starts, not entirely sure where he wants to end. “You need not feel shame—”
“—Welp, I do, so there.” She says, turning to flash him a manic grin. It is a slap to his wrist for the foolish mistake of attempting to reach out with comfort. Something he never should have allowed himself.
She will paper over this moment, and Solas will let her, because things will be easier this way. He should not get close. He is more than happy to allow her to create distance. “I guess now I know what it feels like to have someone see your most terrible memories, I guess I won’t be doing that ever again. It was not a good feeling.”
Solas stills, can hear his heart beating in his ear. “And what memories have you seen exactly, Rook?”
“A few things here and there, didn’t think I’d ever be the subject of one of them.” She says evasively, not looking at him. A poor liar.
“You’ve had an impact on the Crossroads during your travels, memories can form within the fade around such people.” Solas tells her, suddenly sure he needs to omit any mention of the spirit he had seen. Whatever it was, it was protective of Rook, and Solas would not give her any additional tools to use against him. Better she remain ignorant. Solas takes a step towards her, keeping his tone soothing, gentle. “But Rook, if you could tell me what exactly it is you’ve seen?”
She looks away for a moment, before she sighs, and meets his eyes, hers still red rimmed. “A memory of you attacking Ghilan’nain’s stronghold. Another of you sacrificing spirits of discord against Elgar’nan. Rescuing Slaves.”
“I see.”
All from the rebellion. A span of hundreds of years between each, most likely. Guilt slices through him, as he wonders if Felassan had been in each memory. Would she tell him, if he asked?
She shrugs her shoulders. “Yeah. But hey, you came across a lot better than I did in my memory just now, so there’s a silver lining for you.”
She’s deflecting and it’s working. It’s necessary. And yet. “Rook, you were a child—”
“Yep, anyways, I’m done talking about this, so how about we move along and maybe get out of the humidity.” She snaps her fingers together, all false cheer. “Maybe even find me a bath. With bubbles. And a rubber ducky for good measure.”
Solas trails after her, much on his mind. About that spirit within Rook’s memory that had assessed him, had dragged him through the memories, to what end he still wasn’t certain. Solas thinks about what he’s learned about Rook, her relationship with spirits, and the regret she feels. It is a truly a perfect irony that it’s almost as if she was crafted from the fade itself, perfect to help him remake the world, if only he had found her before Varric.
It makes Solas remember Cole, with no small amount of bitterness.
But most of all, despite his own omissions about the presence of that spirit and his interaction with it, Solas cannot shake the feeling that Rook had lied. The memories of battles during the rebellion are not his only memories she has seen. Of that Solas is most certain.
Chapter Text
Myrna had been Rook’s mentor in the Mourn Watch, establishing a mutual respect and friendship that would outlast Rook’s time in the Watch. A year and a bit into Rook’s apprenticeship, Myrna had pulled her aside and informed Rook that she was the most fascinating recruit Myrna had ever met.
At sixteen, Rook had been convinced that her very distinguished, very pretty senior was hitting on her. Not so.
“I’ve never met someone who will charge head first into danger, gleefully tell senior Watchers to go do unspeakable things to the restless dead, or be as pointedly obnoxious as possible, just to be annoying. And yet, you’re too afraid to talk with your mentor about your feelings about how I forgot your birthday last month.”
Myrna had been appalled when Rook’s response to that was: “It seems like a waste of time to focus on my feelings when I’m fine, and besides I don’t want to be an inconvenience.”
Thus sparked Rook and Myrna’s mentorship project for the better part of a decade: trying to get Rook to express a negative feeling that wasn’t a targeted insult at someone. Even a ‘I’m feeling kind of down today’ would have been progress to Myrna’s eyes.
They make it out of the sweaty humid hell of the previous area in the Crossroads, even finding a suspiciously clean stream to wash all the grime of sweat off of themselves. Solas had tried to explain to her, that the enchantment of this place, the one that meant she didn’t need to eat, or really sleep, didn’t compensate for all eventualities, thus the endless production of sweat when she long should have been turned into a dehydrated raisin. Rook didn’t really care about the particulars. All she cared about was needing to literally slough layers of dirt, dead skin and salt off her body. It was disgusting.
She felt marvelous.
If only she could scrape away every tumultuous feeling roiling in her chest. Then she could get back to the business of saving the day, like the hero she supposedly was. Just another day in the life of Rook, Veilguarder? Veilguardite? Veilguardian? Once she’s successfully saved the day, Rook is going to sit down with everyone and come to a consensus on team nomme de plume.
Yep, Rook is deeply committed to thinking about the important things. Saving the day, what name her team ought to go by, and how to get from point A to B in the Crossroads. Myrna might warn her that this is not a healthy coping strategy, but Myrna wasn’t here right now, Rook’s only company instead her former enemy turned reluctant companion. Comrade?
Solas has the appalling decency to give her space. Rook says she doesn’t want to talk about him witnessing one of the greatest shames of her past? Solas nods politely and keeps his distance. He’s kept conversation only relevant to the task of navigating the fractured Crossroads, and otherwise spends his time silent. He doesn’t even give her any pitying glances, none that she can see at least.
He’s just quiet.
But then again, so is she.
Solas being quiet seems like bad news though. Because if the Dread Wolf is quiet, he’s either waiting for his enemies to hang themselves with their own rope, or he’s plotting devious and dangerous things for said enemies. Only, maybe that’s not true. Because he’ll call for a pause after they’ve been walking awhile, and then just goes to quietly sit with his eyes closed. She has not had the courage to ask him what he’s thinking. Because then he might ask her what she’s thinking, and she is not touching that morass of feelings with a ten foot pole.
So instead Solas just politely leaves her to her own thoughts.
There’d been a moment there after the frozen hellscape where she almost thought they were kind of friends. Colleagues? Crossroads proximity associates who tolerate each other.
Which is clearly some kind of demon talking, because upon that path lay dragons and more importantly, wolves lying pathologically. He’s just lulling her into a false sense of security, is what he’s doing. Waiting for her attention to shift past him before he comes at her with a knife. Or comes at her for her knife.
Or maybe not, because in this time of awkward, contemplative silences that she doesn’t know how to fill anymore, they’d needed to fight off some very sad, recently twisted demons. Solas had parried a blow for her when her back was turned. It was just a lesser demon of sloth, so she would have been fine. But he’d done it. And normally one does not parry demon attacks for people who’s backs they plan on stabbing later.
She still cannot believe that the Crossroads had decided to absorb one of her memories, and of all of them it had been that one. Or that of all the people in her acquaintance, Solas had been the one to witness it. Quite literally the only silver lining in this whole situation, was that at least they’d triggered the damn thing, and now there would be no chance of her other companions seeing it. There is enough emotional instability in her team as it is, she can’t be going and adding to it.
She tries to throttle the little voice in her head that asks if it isn’t better that Solas had been the one to see. The sympathy in his face, as a younger version of herself wept and made the worst decision of her entire life. It was a rare moment for Rook to see, not the myth of the Dread Wolf made flesh, but a man. A person. Someone who could feel for the people around him.
Or how Solas had looked at her as the memory ended. For the first time he’d looked at her, not with the weight of his recriminations and judgment, but with an understanding bordering on empathy.
Turnabout is fair play, she supposes. Not that he knows the extent to which she knows about his past. Only a teeny tiny bit of it. There was some cosmic justice in Solas being the one to watch her feelings flayed open. Myrna would say this is what comes of being nosy, no matter how Rook had tried to rationalize how obsessively she’d gathered those little wolf statuettes littered around the Crossroads. For history! For understanding her enemy! Seeking clues about the past!
She imagines if he ever did find out just how much she knows, he might be a little salty. Maybe even furious. Probably a little murderous. Generally a lot less empathy and politely giving her space, and probably a lot more plotting to see Rook plummet from the edge of the Crossroads.
Rook is so caught up in her glum little spiral, that she nearly misses the opening of a familiar cavern, inexplicably out of the mountainous region of the Crossroads, instead now bracketed by two large Arlathan trees. A cavern she knows to be housing a very powerful revenant and it’s army of undead.
“Oh thank the Maker, a problem to solve.”
In the handful of months since Rook and the rest of her team had taken over the Lighthouse, and by extension the Crossroads, Rook had spent as much time as she could exploring. Call it the crypt-baby in her, but she has always found an inordinate amount of pleasure in exploring every nook and cranny off the beaten path. Most of the rest of the team thought she was nuts—with the exception of Taash, who would give a cool and understanding nod anytime Rook tried to shimmy through a narrow crevasse on the off chance there might be secret treasure ferreted away.
Apparently Rook would have been right at home in the Lords of Fortune.
All this meant was that when given the chance, and circumstances were not dire, more often than not, Rook could be found mapping each corner of the Crossroads. Including the odd locked doors the Caretaker had indicated could be opened with the correct key, found in the real world. Which very much sounded like a kind of treasure hunt to Rook.
Rook loved mysterious treasure hunts.
It was therefore no surprise, how quickly she had stumbled across every single one of Solas’ memories and statuettes, sprinkled around the crossroads like tiny, terrible little rewards. She couldn’t get enough of them.
In the search for more or her tiny terrible rewards, Rook also found the blighted monsters Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain had left to protect those awful blighted fade rifts. To say she was a little disappointed to find that not every locked door within the Crossroads held behind it another statuette that would share some earth shattering revelation about the world they lived in through the vehicle of Solas’ memories, is something Rook would never say out loud to anyone, but no less true.
In her explanations to Solas about finding and fighting the blighted fade rift monsters, she had omitted any mentions of the little statuette’s she’d coveted so much.
It was hard to put her finger on it, but Solas had been very weird about it. Like the stick up his ass had grown spikes, making him seem a lot more urgent and intense.
“You’ve faced two of them before?” Solas asks.
“Yes?”
“And what manner of beast did you face?”
Rook wrinkles her brow, trying to recall. “Two undead shielded warriors, both of them used really annoying lances. The second one was an awful lot meaner, summoned these little dwarven undead that hit hard.”
An emotion flits over Solas’ face that Rook can’t quite catch, before it disappears. “Did either revenants say anything?”
What an odd thing to ask. Rook nearly shakes her head, when she remembers. “They both did.” How did he know that? Something to do with the Crossroads in particular, or something about Solas? “The one with the Dwarven summons and the spikey rock attacks, that one kept muttering about ‘an unjust end’.” It had been creepy, every time Rook or Harding had hit it, the revenant had looked at them balefully, before saying those words again and again until they killed it.
“And the other?” Rook isn’t sure why he’s asking, when it looks as though she’d hurt him physically with her first answer.
“The first one was also weird. ‘For Freedom’ and there was something about ‘a story, unfinished’ and ‘his back, turned’.” Rook almost mentions the ‘for the wolf’ thing the first revenant had said every time it bashed her with it’s shield, but Solas really isn’t looking well, and maybe he’ll be tortured by the thought that one of his old followers was being used by the Evanuris to hurt his Crossroads.
In fact, she might even say Solas looks like he’s going to be sick.
“Are you okay?” Rook holds her hands in front of her in an an aborted gesture of comfort. She has not touched him once since they nearly froze to death, and she doubts he would appreciate it now.
Solas blinks, seems to come back to himself, and then he’s wearing his usual prissy expression once more. “I am fine. Tell me about your battles, and the one remaining.”
Rook and her team had dealt with the first two revenants protecting the blight rifts relatively easily. The third had proven a challenge, which was of great shame to her. For a Mourn Watcher to fail to quell a horde of restless dead was downright embarrassing. In the midst of battle, surprised to be overwhelmed so quickly, it had taken Davrin, bodily shoving a mass of skeletons off her, and dragging her out of the cave to live to fight another day.
She had been meaning to come back, and now was as good a time as any. The Caretaker had said they would need to destroy the source of the Blight in the Crossroads, which was almost certainly behind that triple lock door in the central hub of the Crossroads. Within this cavern lay the last of the keys, protected behind a horde of undead and an extremely powerful revenant. So what if the last time she was here with Davrin, Emmrich, and Harding at her back, they had gotten their asses kicked by this particularly vicious horde of monsters? She had a de-powered Dread Wolf with his mage noodle arms, none of her armor or weapons except those she’s looted, and the urgent need to stop thinking about her feelings to help lead her to victory.
Plus she’d come into this place already, before it had blackened her eye. That fore knowledge of what they would face had to count for something.
“There’s this kind of narrow walkway leading to an alcove that we need to make sure we avoid. Last time we nearly got pinned and if it hadn’t been for Harding’s rock magic we’d have been pushed over a cliff.” Rook explains, finger tracing out the rough shape of the room as she remembers it in the dirt.
Crouched across from her, Solas scrutinizes her drawing—she hopes he appreciates her artistic rendering of the skeleton laying indolently on his throne, and the healing blight sphere of doom, she’s quite proud of them. “A legion of undead, protecting a lazy revenant that will only attack from a distance…” He mutters, more to himself than her.
The man must really dislike Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain getting any kind of foothold in his Crossroads. This is the most distracted she’s ever seen him.
Solas’ sharp eyes flick up to meet hers, and she nearly jumps at having been caught staring. “And you say that even with the help of three more companions, you were unable to subdue the monster?”
“Monsters.” Rook corrects. “It was an extremely powerful revenant surrounded by a horde of undead.” She purses her lips, trying to remember the actual number. “I believe about 80? Emmrich handled the ones at my back, so I didn’t get my eyes on all of them.” She had counted shattered pelvises as she fought though, and 80 was as good a guess as any. “The biggest problem was getting swarmed by masses of shambling skeletons.”
“Then we are meant to face a horde of undead and a magical, ice wielding revenant, one that has previously bested you?”
Was that skepticism she was hearing in his tone? “Yes. Though I was hoping the magical recursion you’ve been suffering under would also apply here.”
Solas looks thoughtful. “You mentioned these spaces containing the revenants feature a reddened fade rift?” At her nod, his expression turns grim. “Then unlikely. If these creatures are fueled by blight, it will not matter what the imbalances of magical energies are in the rest of the Crossroads.”
Rook puts her chin in her hand, and stares down hard at her little map. “Well… shit.”
They sit in silence, Rook discarding ideas left and right without voicing them. She just had to leave this revenant for last, didn’t she? After she’d lost to the creature, Rook had promised herself that when she had a moment to breathe, and didn’t feel the overwhelming crush of her mission, just for a little bit, she would return to beat down the shitty skeleton. And then she’d have that final key to open the last door closed to her in the Crossroads.
And maybe she’d get to discover another one of her terrible little prizes behind that locked door. She only dares dream.
Had Rook dealt with everything in the Crossroads more quickly, she wonders if they wouldn’t be here in this situation now. Maybe then the Crossroads wouldn’t be the mess that it is now. And Solas would still be locked in his prison. She glances up at him, to find his brows knit with concentration as he looks at her drawing.
In this moment, it’s hard to tell which outcome would be better.
Mentally shaking herself, Rook returns to the task at hand. It’s not like she can change anything about that now. She has a revenant to kill. If only the thing couldn’t fling ice spells at her. She’d have a much better time of it. If only Solas had access to his magic once more. He could just obliterate the thing with an errant flick of his wrist.
Though Rook supposed if he had his magic, he’d probably have turned her into stone at the outset of their journey, just to get her to stop talking.
Okay maybe clearing blight from the Crossroads sooner and leaving Solas trapped in his prison would have actually been the best outcome overall.
“Rook.”
She glances up at him.
“In order to access these places, you needed to find keys. Ones found in the waking world?” At her nod, he appears to scrutinize her more closely. “I imagine these weren’t just laying around to be found. Have you faced Elgar’nan’s generals?” She nods again, and he tilts his head, like he’s trying to figure something out. “I can’t imagine those were easy fights.”
“I wouldn’t say easy ,” Rook says, because those beasts had hit hard. “But they were simple. It was just a big angry ogre. All you need do when you fight a big angry ogre is make sure you don’t get hit.” It had been lucky that each of those fights had taken place in a space with enough room for her to dodge out of the way of wide swings. Also lots of verticality. She and Davrin had a lot of fun leaping on their backs and wailing on ugly ass ogre faces.
Something comes alive in Solas’ expression that draws Rook’s full attention. He usually looks so hard and calculating with an occasional flair of derision. It’s the first time he’s ever had anything in his face that hints at the Dalish legends about their Trickster God. She might even say he looks a little mischievous.
“If one of the problems we need to overcome is how many undead will swarm you, I have to ask Rook, how fast do you think you can move in a fight?”
Rook isn’t exactly sure why, but she finds herself smiling back at him, eager to hear what his thoughts are. “Pretty fast.”
Solas’ mouth tilts further, flashing a little bit of white teeth as he looks into her eyes and says, “Of that I have no doubt.”
“You’re certain you will be able to reach—”
Rook waves him off, adjusting her grip on her pilfered sentinel axe. She cracks her neck and enjoys his grimace of disgust. “Yes, yes, you worry wart. I can outrun the restless dead.” She has had an awful lot of experience doing so.
Solas is all serious business. “Outrun the restless dead, reach the javelins, and get off a shot at the revenant before you are swarmed?”
Rook sniffs, her chin held high. “I don’t miss.”
Solas stares at her hard, ten javelins they’d scavenged from around the Crossroads held in his arms, before he releases a sigh. He nods at her once. “Sulevin ghilana hanin.”
She stares back at him blankly. “And that means?”
“Purpose guides to glory.” Solas says. “An old saying to wish your companions luck on the battle field.”
“Oh.” Rook blinks, before heaving her axe onto her shoulder. “Death is never the end, but may we not meet that next chapter yet.” She snorts at his bemused expression, and turns to walk into the cavern, game face ready to defeat a horde of undead.
Their plan is pretty simple. Rook just needs to keep moving, never letting the undead clump around her, it’s where she got into trouble last time. This should also assist her with the problem of the ranged attacks from the revenant once it joins the fight. Can’t hit what isn’t sitting still.
This plan mainly works because 1) she is extremely quick on her feet, and 2) she’s studied skeleton anatomy since she was a baby, letting her obliterate skeletons as she streaks by with precise swings of her axe.
While Rook has most of the undead occupied, Solas will place the javelins along the outer edge of the room, hopefully not drawing too much attention from the restless dead in the process. Once the revenant joins the fray, Rook’s job is to reach the strategically placed javelins, and hit it the revenant from afar.
They were lucky they found so many Antaam javelins littered around this island. Rook had no idea what took out the Antaam, nor does she hope to ever find out. She was just grateful they’d been kind enough to die and leave their weapons behind. She and Solas gathered them, along with traces of roughened rope to tie to their ends—his idea, they would make potential anchor points if they were lucky enough to be true, and she hit the revenant.
Rook had assured Solas she would have no problem tossing the javelins on target, specifically through the revenant’s chest cavity. That way the ropes would tangle in the revenants rib cage, and give Rook something to grab onto when the icy shit tried to float away.
At Rook’s continued assurances, Solas had looked skeptical.
She forgave him because she supposed she hadn’t yet demonstrated her uncanny ability to toss her very heavy axe at enemies. When fighting more than one enemy, it was stupid to disarm yourself, and Rook didn’t want to miss accidentally sending her shiny gold axe sailing over the edge into the Fade abyss. Rook was a great shot, actually. Utterly useless with a bow, but if a weapon was long and heavy? She could toss one of those on target like nobody’s business.
Solas’ job was to stay out of the fray, and warn her of movement on the battle field. Rook had been less than impressed at his suggestion that he function like a field commander. Especially when he kept starring off into space periodically.
“And you’re going to shout at me about troop movements?”
“I am going to warn you of coming dangers, so that you might react appropriately.”
“Should I get you a divan and an iced drink, maybe a servant to fan you while I do all the work? That’s what generals do at a battle, so I hear.”
“I hadn’t realized that was on offer, yes, that would be acceptable.”
Solas had not enjoyed Rook flicking the tip of his ear in response. Clutching the side of his head, and scowling at her, he had explained he would also take care of any undead attempting to cast on the fringes of the battle.
Rook had tried to explain to him how best to fight undead, if he was going to help out, and Solas looked as affronted with her as he had their first day together.
“In many thousands of years of existence, I have had occasion to fight the undead, Rook.”
“Yes, with magic and disdain, I’m sure. But when I tell you the best way to disable an undead manually, without swooshy magic is to target the cervical vertebrae between—“
Solas had not appreciated her anatomy drawings in the moment, but he had obviously paid attention. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him dismantle another undead mage, his sword slicing through the cervical vertebrae with precision.
It’s going well, all things considered, much smoother than the last time she’d been in this space, fighting these enemies. Rook has never run so much in her life, but she’s taken out what feels like an entire battalion of skeletons, expertly smashing through bones, while dodging around their reaching limbs. She imagines that part of her cardiovascular superiority today has something to do with the weird enchantment that helped them recover so quickly. That or Rook had more long lasting adrenaline in her system than she’s ever experienced before.
Which obviously can’t be true, because her body tingles with a rush of nerves as the revenant shoves itself up from it’s chair and joins the fray.
“Revenant!” Solas shouts from near the entrance of the cave, dodging out of the way of a swung staff by another undead mage.
“Yep!” Rook’s grin is feral as she darts towards the nearest javelin. The revenant shoots off dozens of freezing globs of ice in her direction. Rook can hear them spattering the ground as she weaves through the mass of undead. She reaches for a javelin on the run, plucking it out of the ground and hefting it’s weight. She spots an opening as she keeps moving, the skeletons tripping over themselves and bumping into each other as they try to follow.
Rook skids to a halt in the gap she’s created. She looks at the revenant, watching it watch her back. Rook squares up, hauls the javelin over her shoulder, her body a trebuchet of force and power. She whips the javelin forward. It sails through the air, the cord behind it flying like a banner. Her aim is true, and the revenant shrieks as the javelin smashes through it’s lower rib cage, the rope tangling with bone and rotted fabric.
Rook crows her elation, throwing Solas a smug grin, wanting so badly to tease him about the awe on his face. But she can’t, because she needs to get running again, as the undead nearly converge on her once more and the revenant picks itself back up, furious.
This fight is all about managing tempo. Rook cleaves through undead, dodges distant ice attacks, and when she has occasion to, she unleashes another javelin on the revenant. She has yet to miss after five tosses. She is never going to let Solas hear the end of it. She might just start arbitrarily throwing weapons on target during their travels, just to see if she can coax another one of those awed looks. That she can then ruthlessly tease him about.
She rips a shield away from an undead guard, before bringing her axe down in a brutal finisher. She’s made room for herself now, and Rook goes looking for the revenant. She hadn’t felt an ice attack in a suspiciously long time. Solas isn’t under attack, is he? Field Commanders are supposed to shriek for help when they’re under some kind of threat.
“Rook!” She jerks her head to see Solas racing towards a red dome forming under the blighted rift. “It’s going to heal itself, we must stop it!”
Oh she knows. And how she hates when these things do that. Rook leaps over a skeleton trying to stand from where she knocked off it’s legs, and sprints towards the red dome of power. Not today, not when this is going so well.
Solas is already there, a desperate grimace on his face, made ghoulish by the sick red light emanating from the dome. He’s trying to burst the barrier with nothing but his sword, his face a mask of frustration. Rook supposes if he’d had his magic, Solas would have been able to use kinetic energy to obliterate the thing without a moment’s thought.
Rook swings her axe, feeling a jolt of recursive energy to try force her back from the barrier. Inside the the revenant looks at her with a malice skull faces should not be able to convey. She watches as a chip of bones repairs on it’s forehead from one of Rook’s tosses. It’s then she notices the accumulation of energy getting ready to burst. She really hates when these things explode with blighted energy, it hurts like a bitch.
“There’s no time!” Rook shouts, casting about for anything they could use. She spots the rope between her feet, trailing inside the barrier, tangled around the revenants ribcage and pelvis. This barrier can only exist here under the rift, while the revenant does, it’s not fixed to the target, only a location.
Her grin is a malicious baring of teeth. She grips the rope and pulls. The revenant struggles, trying to maintain it’s place under the rift. Rook is stronger. She tows the revenant back, even as it scrabbles against the stone, trying to find purchase. The barrier flickers. She gives one last pull, using all her strength, to whip the revenant over her head, smashing it into the ground behind her.
Rook picks up her axe, as the revenant attempts to stand, getting further tangled in the ropes. That really had been a very good idea. Well done Solas. She charges, manging to smash her axe into the revenant’s knee. It hisses as Rook knocks part of it’s leg off. Rook presses the attack, deflecting the blade of ice it tries to fend her off with, catching the revenant across the face with the haft of her axe.
“Watch out!” Solas cries, he cannot say more as he’s made to block the attack of another undead mage. Rook has raised her axe to administer the final blow, when she feels the burst of ice magic coalesce. She barely manages to use her axe to absorb the worst of the blow, as she’s flung backwards.
Rook skids, keeping her balance, her stance low. They can win this. They can. The revenant is looking worse for wear as it picks itself back up to float, leg missing, it’s skull fractured. Rook dives again for one of the ropes tangled in the revenant’s ribcage. If she can haul it back to the ground, she’ll take some uncomfortable frost damage to wail on it with her axe, and hopefully finally smash it to bits. They can win this, she just needs to—
The revenant twists up and away into the air, Rook’s fingers inches from the end of the rope as it’s the end is tugged just out of her reach. She rolls with the movement, already dodging out of the way of the revenants next attack. Only it does not come. The revenant stares down at her.
Why isn’t it attacking? Lyrium red eyes trace from Rook, to a point behind her, where she can hear Solas breathing hard. The revenant does not draw it’s gaze back to her, instead staying focused on Solas. It begins to move. Unable to think of what else to do, Rook heaves her axe back, and lances it through the air.
Solas had told her the day she retrieved it that a sentinels axe would be too big and heavy for her. Rook had been determined to prove him wrong, and had been vindicated for the duration of their journey. Now, she experiences the weight of her hubris. The axe, too long and unbalanced, wings through the air in an arc Rook hadn’t anticipated. She is off target by inches, but the axe was thrown with such force that there will be no retrieving it in time.
Rook watches in horror, disarmed, as the revenant closes on Solas.
Solas for his part, isn’t standing still, sprinting back towards the entrance of the cavern where there’s more room for them to maneuver. Icicles lance through the air, hitting the ground and the wall behind him. Rook runs after them, unsure how to help but knowing that she’s the only thing standing that can hope to stop this thing. If she can just get a hold of one of the ropes trailing the revenant, she can—
An icicle lands true, smashing into Solas’ shoulder. He cries out in pain, his step faltering as he is taken to his knees. The revenant closes in, attacking from up close for the first time, arm swinging wide in what will be a devastating explosion of ice.
Solas can’t die. Not if they want to defeat the gods. Rook races forward, operating on pure instinct. As the revenant raises it’s hand, devastating magic accumulated to strike, Rook manages to reach Solas, shoving him out of the way at the last second before the revenant’s blow lands.
Everything is cold and it hurts so bad. Rook lands several feet back, cracking her head on the ground. Her ribs scream in pain, the internal pop she felt was surely ribs cracking. Her vision goes watery, but she must stand up, she needs to fight. She won’t die here. She can’t. She needs to protect him. She needs to stop him. She needs—
“Rook!”
Solas’ cry is the last thing she hears before her vision is engulfed in a golden light.
Chapter Text
Rook has faced and defeated twisted manifestations of Solas’ regrets.
The well of emotion he feels about this fact is too vast and tumultuous to bear looking at.
The only saving grace is that Rook does not seem to realize the gravity of her actions, and their impact on him. She did not understand the nature of what she fought. And now she’s too focused on her own petty feelings about her past, and the coming challenge of another of Solas’ regrets to pay him any mind. A fight necessary for it holds the final key to enter the place where the corruption poisoning the Crossroads sits.
It is unbelievable for Rook to have unwittingly stumbled into these fights, and to come out unscathed and none the wiser. Manifestations of Solas’ regrets, blighted and given a form of pure malice to carve away at the edges of the Crossroads, to wedge a breach with which the Evanuris could gain a foothold here. Twisted monsters that would torture Solas, distract him, that he may find himself unable to kill.
And there Rook had waddled by, defeated them, thereby closing the blighted rifts, ignorant of the wider implications it meant for the Crossroads, or on Solas himself.
Even at her most benevolent, Rook was unfailingly irritating about it.
Solas knew Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain would attempt to make incursions on the Crossroads, as they had once done in the past. That they would take any possible weakness Solas might have and attempt to cut him with it. As Rook had described what she’d fought, it had made perfect sense that Elgar’nan would seize on the memory of killing the titans, forcing Solas to choke on his feelings of what he’d done to the children of the stone. The great tyrant had observed Solas’ slow descent, his growing frustrations with the Evanuris, could taste Solas’ weakness in the air. How the All-father had laughed the day he saw Solas, shortly after burning Mythal’s vallaslin from his face.
But for Elgar’nan to know of Felassan... Of what Solas did to his old friend. Perhaps Solas had been so wounded after killing his friend, his most loyal companion, it had left aftershocks in the Fade for Elgar’nan to hunt and to twist to his own means.
Or perhaps it was later.
When the very thing Solas had accused Felassan of doing—of viewing the lives of this age as real, important—was something Solas would shortly go on to do from his time in the Inquisition. What had once been a grim determination, necessary for the sake of his mission, twisted into a hideous regret Solas had wished he could take back. Only to do so meant Solas would have eventually deviated.
If his slow arrow had walked this path at Solas’ side, as he had done throughout the rebellion, how long would it have taken Felassan to convince Solas to stop?
His back, turned.
It aches. All of it. An unending agony built from his own mistakes.
Rook has defeated two of his regrets, leaving another for them to face together.
“A legion of undead, protecting a lazy revenant that will only attack from a distance…”
Solas imagines there are dozens of regrets that this tableau could represent. Knowing his enemy, Solas can think of nothing but what would cause him the most amount of pain. A lazy, distant powerful mage, sending minions to do it’s bidding before joining the fray, too cowardly to fight directly. This could easily be Elgar’nan’s indictment of Solas himself during the rebellion. But he remembers rants the great tyrant would go on about the other Evanuris. Their failings, their weaknesses.
This revenant is meant to be none other than Mythal, and the hordes her supplicants and agents. In this twisted torture Elgar’nan has perfectly crafted for him, Solas is to take the mantle of the All-Father and kill her himself. It is profane.
It is exactly as Elgar’nan wills it.
It makes him so angry, he does not know how he won’t just start screaming within the cavern, and never stop. He will—
Rook flicks the tip of his ear, the pain sharp, and pulls his awareness back into the conversation.
Clutching the side of his head, Solas wheels on her, outraged. “What was the meaning of that?”
“You seem distracted, focus up, we’re talking about how to kill an awful lot of undead.”
Solas glowers at her, annoyed that she’s managed to pull him back into the moment, instead of spiraling on his regrets, as Elgar’nan had designed. “Very well. I will also kill any undead mages, if it so pleases you.”
Solas could do without her patronization in matters involving slaying the undead. He does not care that this is what she has trained her whole life for. He’s lived hundreds of lifetimes longer than Rook.
He is however surprised that the pair of them do make for somewhat compatible logistics. They debate tactics, Rook unfurling scenarios within her mind as he makes suggestions, and her nodding or shaking her head in equal turns. Her own suggestions are interesting and have their own merits. Solas knew she was a capable warrior, even sometimes calculating. He did not realize she had a head for strategy as well.
Though what they land on is sorely lacking to his mind. “It matters not how many javelins we have, you cannot hit the revenant with each spear. Therefore—”
“Yes I can.” She replies in the manner of someone confident they know how to tie their own boots.
Solas breathes a sigh out of his nose. “No, you cannot. I have witnessed soldiers under the Qun, trained at wielding these very spears, miss one in four. You cannot—”
“Yes. I can.” Rook says with more force.
“And when we die because you cannot hit the target and we’re overwhelmed?”
Rook raises a hand to pat his arm, unbelievably condescending. “Then you’ll get to die with the satisfaction of knowing that I was wrong and you were right.”
“That is not a worthy consolation prize.”
“Oh we both know you think it is.”
Solas rolls his eyes, and eventually capitulates, fully planning on abandoning Rook to her death if she misses and finds herself summarily overwhelmed.
As the battle commences, Solas reflects on how he cannot wait for the day when Rook stops surprising him.
In the course of all the wars Solas has lived through, he has witnessed feats of magic unparalleled in their force. Attacks from Sylaise capable of rendering the field of battle into ash in mere moments. He has seen Falon’din rip the life out of a battalion of enemies, and Dirthamen there to reanimate the corpses, twisted to their cause. He has watched a blight maddened Andruil cleave through enemy combatants and her own soldiers alike, turning bodies into fine blood mist to pepper the air.
Countless wonders and unbelievable terrors he has seen in battle, and yet Solas cannot fathom why watching a warrior of the Mourn Watch dissemble hordes of undead is so mesmerizing. Solas did not know that tearing through skeletons could ever be interpreted as elegant, or efficient. But Rook lives to defy expectations. She is swift and brutal, no wasted movement as she cuts through the crowd of undead. So effective is she, that no enemies turn to Solas as a threat, too occupied with the danger Rook represents in the field.
He had thought her an accomplished warrior. Solas had misunderstood. Against a horde of undead, she is magnificent.
Perhaps it is merely that Solas struggles to look at the revenant, watching the battle like a lazy queen might her useless court jester. It is not Mythal, nor a simulacrum of her. It is a showcase of Elgar’nan’s ignorance, blind to any other way a ruler might govern their people. The revenant is merely the arrogance of the Evanuris on display.
Solas is so distracted, that after setting the javelins around the perimeter of the cave, he nearly misses the rise of an undead mage. He has bare seconds to disable it before it gets an attack off at Rook. He would never hear the end of it if he allowed Rook to be hit by an errant spell, not when she was single handedly decimating legions of skeletons.
He waits with bated breath for the revenant to join the fight, dreading what magics it will have on display, surely something that will cause him to spiral at the similarity to one long dead and hopelessly, painfully missed. When it rises, Solas gives Rook a shouted warning, and feels an acute relief when it is merely a bog standard revenant. There is no soul within this creature that can harm Solas. It casts with the same clumsy movements as any other undead lacking sinew. If—
A javelin sails through the air, striking the revenant, the haft of the weapon reverberating between the creature’s ribs, rope tangling more perfectly than Solas’ best hopes could have predicted.
Rook crows her success, and Solas turns his head to find her grinning toothily at him. Smug and satisfied with herself. Even then, she doesn’t bask in her success, pivoting to sever another undead’s head from it’s neck and setting off at a sprint once more.
In the course of battle, she nails four more shots, never missing once.
Where in the world had Varric found this woman?
When they’d concocted their scheme, Solas had figured they had slim margins for success. It felt foolish now, that expectation. Rook was a terrifying force to be reckoned with, and after all they’d been through, it was only a fool who doubted what she’d be capable of.
If chafes for him to know that were he able to access even a hundredth of his power, he’d be able to easily obliterate the undead in the field. The revenant would be a simple matter, and they could get on with their travels, without needing to rely on the tedium of weapons used against single enemies one at a time.
The worst, is when the revenant drifts underneath the blighted rift, and begins to heal. Solas has never had to physically knock down a barrier, and each time his strikes are brushed away by the red dome’s surface, he finds himself one step closer to instinctively pulling magic to shatter the dome. This is by far, the most foolish manner in which he’s ever fought a magical creature. The humiliation makes his strikes more desperate as the dome charges with for a blast of magic.
Rook is having none of it either.
In a feat of monstrous strength, Solas gaped as Rook had reached down, grabbed the ropes Solas had suggested they use, and yanked the revenant free from the safety of it’s barrier. She’d then proceeded pummel the monster ruthlessly. Solas was almost surprised by his vicious delight at the act. They had been on the very cusp of victory, only for it to turn sour so quickly.
The revenant shoved Rook off and turned it’s sights on Solas, seeing him for the easier target that he was. No amount of running, would spare him, not as he is now.
On his knees, icicle melting into his shoulder, causing unbelievable agony. Even in this, Solas would have used his magic to dampen his experience of pain. Pathetic. Solas had looked up at the revenant, looming towards him. But it is not death that awaits him, for he sees Rook sprinting towards them. For a moment Solas is nearly bowled over by the crash of relief that sight gives him. Good, she would use him as a distraction, and decimate the revenant in a flurry of blows. He only need hope that her attack would be swift enough to ease his further injury.
Only, that was not what the fool had planned. Instead, Solas quite suddenly found himself flung to the side, away from the icy implosion the revenant was building in a skeletal fist. Rook had shoved him bodily out of the way, absorbing the attack in full, unguarded. Solas watches her fly through the air, her skull cracking against the stone floor, bouncing and coming to rest in a tumble of limbs.
“Rook!” Solas cries, scrambling to his feet. What in the world had she been thinking?
The revenant hangs in the air between himself, and where Rook’s arms shake as she tries and fails to pick herself off the ground. Her armor is dented from the blow she’d absorbed for him, skin and hair coated in a layer of ice. Blood drips down her nose, mingling with that of her split lip. Her eyes are unfocused, staring at nothing, even as her face screws in pain, attempting to stand.
The revenant is smart enough to go after weaker prey, and drifts towards her once more. She is disarmed, injured, and unable to stand. She does not have a chance.
Flee, his mind screams. He must flee. He must live another day, better to strategically retreat. If not him, who will stop the Evanuris? Who will make up for his past wrongs? His life is infinitely more important than Rook’s. He is necessary. She is a tool. If all Rook’s life amounts to is a sacrifice so that he may walk his path a little longer, is that not worthy? Is that not useful?
Rook grunts as she finally manages to get to her knees, her breath coming in pants as she stares up in defiance at the revenant that will kill her.
No. No, her death would not be worthy.
It would be a small candle flicker of hope, snuffed out too soon.
“Masal din'an!” Solas shouts at the revenant, holding his sword in front of him with his good arm. The blighted creature does not spare him a glance. “Na abelas, din'an sahlin!” It matters not what threats he lobs at the creature, without his magic he is a leaf in the winds of danger.
Could he grab one of the ropes dangling from it’s body? He is not as strong as Rook, but to slow it, to give her a chance to stand and maybe escape. It would almost certainly mean his death. He cannot sacrifice himself for her… but could he risk rolling the dice on summoning wild magic, damn the consequences?
Solas takes a step forward, hoping beyond hope that the resulting magic doesn’t immolate him from the inside out.
Before he can gather any spell, the cave is abruptly suffused in a blinding light that surely must be a sun made manifest, casting long shadows. Solas jerks back, shielding his eyes. The revenant hisses, guarding it’s face as it retreats. Solas squints through the glare, trying to make out the source.
Next to Rook stands a figure, radiating golden light. The glow dims by increments, allowing Solas to make out features. Tall and humanoid, clawed gauntlets, a single spiked pauldron, furred mantle, a metal gorget protecting nothing but the wearer’s heart. A streak of red across a nose that’s been broken many times. Brilliant golden eyes, lit from within. The power of a greater spirit.
Solas sucks in a breath. He cannot believe it. The man should have died at the hands of a primordial fear.
“Hawke?”
The golden spirit does not look at him, instead turning to look at Rook on her knees. Hawke reaches down a hand to grasp her forearm, helping her to stand. She stumbles as she gets to her feet, swaying. Hawke slides his hand to her shoulder to steady her. Rook’s gaze remains unseeing.
“There we go, on your feet.” And it is Hawke. Solas may have only crossed paths with the man briefly during his time with the Inquisition, before they’d been forced to abandon him in the fade to cover their retreat at Adamant—but Hawke had left an impression with his dry irreverence in the face of dire circumstances. Greater still, Hawke had left a substantial impact on the world, one who’s reverberations could still be felt within the Fade, even today.
And in the time since Solas had last seen him, he had somehow managed to survive the Fade, in a manner of speaking. It appears Hawke had joined with a greater spirit. If Solas were to guess, he might say Courage. Odd that in a decade Solas had not heard of any ripples within the Fade of such a momentous, and heroic moment.
“Oof, they really do keep making them uglier, don’t they?” Hawke asks Rook as he stares down the revenant. The monster had prepared a blade of ice, shooting through air towards where Hawke stands with Rook. Hawke flicks a hand, and the ice evaporates before it can get close. “None of that, thank you. You’re not my problem to deal with.”
Hawke turns his full attention to Rook, a friendly smile on his face, dimpling his cheek. “Mutual friend of ours called in a favor and asked me to stop in and check up on you. Good thing I did, that could have been pretty bad.”
Mutual friend to the spirit of Courage, or to Hawke? Solas wonders.
Rook says nothing in return, dazed as she looks into Hawke’s face. Hawke gives her a wink. “They must make some kind of rule that heroes have to be utterly adorable, just look at you.” He has the gall to boop her nose with his finger. Rook only sways on her feet. “Right, the reason I’m here, be a good lass and hold out your hands for me, pretty please.”
Rook’s brows pinch, but her hands lift as if attached to puppet strings, palms out. Hawke beams, and places his own hands on top of hers. When he pulls away there is a long staff left in her hands, dark metal, topped with a wicked blade. A scythe?
Solas watches as a green flame lights within the scythe, traveling up Rook’s arms until it disappears in the vicinity of her chest. A spirit? Or perhaps the fragment of one. Solas cannot see her face, hidden as it is by her hair as she looks down at the weapon in her hands.
Hawke grabs her shoulders, and shuffles her to stand between himself and the revenant. “There we are, present in hand, it’s time for you to do what you were born for.” With that, Hawke shoves Rook forward.
“Wait—” Solas reaches forward, as if he has any chance to catch her before she falls. She is too unsteady on her feet, what is Hawke thinking?
Instead of falling forward, Rook catches herself on her front foot, before taking a step, and another, and then she is sprinting forward, her head raised, expression a savage snarl. As she moves a green glow suffuses from her limbs, and emanates from her eyes. The scythe in her hands lights up with the same green glow. Necrotic energy, a horrifying amount that has the goosebumps crawling across Solas’ skin.
The revenant draws it’s arm back, readying another blade of ice. It never gets the chance.
Rook draws the scythe from down near her hip, dragging the blade through the stone of the ground, as if it were nothing but butter. Green energy whirls violently from the arc of her swing. With a shout, Rook releases the blow, unleashing a vortex of necrotic energy absorbing everything in it’s path. The revenant is pulled in, even as it tries to flee.
The air howls as winds rip the revenant to shreds. By the time the vortex dissipates, Rook is left standing before it with her scythe in hand, all that remains is the key they need. The revenant is dead, the blight rift has sealed. From behind them, Hawke claps and cheers, giving her a whistle. Rook keeps her back to them as she reaches forward and takes the key in hand.
And with that final action complete Rook collapses forward, unconscious.
Hand clutching his injured shoulder, Solas moves to check on her, unable to believe what he’d just witnessed. Rook had just used spirit magic, truly like an Arcane Warrior of old. But what manner of spirit had bound itself to Rook through that spirit forged scythe? Before Solas can reach her, he finds the golden glow of Hawke obstructing his path. Solas draws up short, waiting.
Hawke isn’t looking at him, instead scanning the room with a low whistle. “That was pretty impressive, she definitely toes the line between foolhardy and unbelievably courageous, don’t you think?” That seemed a rhetorical question, as Hawke continues speaking. “Just look at all these bones, incredible. I always heard stories about the Mourn Watch, but she has enough bones here to start her own mabari chew emporium.”
Finally, Hawke turns to Solas, cocking an eyebrow like he’s waiting for Solas to respond. Or perhaps laugh. Solas merely nods in greeting. “Hello, Hawke.”
The golden light surrounding the other man dims, a slight frown on his face. “That was my name once, wasn’t it? Hmm, strange the things you forget.” He looks Solas in the eye. “But I have not forgotten you, Fen’Harel.”
The warmth the spirit that was once the Champion of Kirwall had for Rook is entirely absent. “It is an honor to be remembered.”
“Mhmm, I’m sure it is.” Hawke says dryly, taking a few leisurely steps away to stare down at where Rook lay.
“If you would allow me to examine my companion, I fear her injuries may be dire if they are not soon dealt with.” Solas keeps his posture ramrod straight as he gestures at Rook.
Hawke flicks a glance over his shoulder, before he waves him off. “Oh, no. Time doesn’t matter.”
“I assure you in matters of internal bleeding, time is of the essence.”
Hawke stares at him, his dark eyebrows high on his forehead, before Hawke kicks his head back and laughs. “By the Maker, you’re right proper useless without your magic, aren’t you Dread Wolf?”
Solas scowls at him. “You may continue to insult me, after I have looked after Rook’s injuries.”
Hawke shakes his head, waving another dismissive hand towards Rook’s unconscious form. “She’ll be fine. I can’t believe you haven’t figured out the time dilation going on in the Crossroads.”
“Pardon?”
Hawke gives him a lopsided grin. “Time. It’s not actually flowing naturally. You mean you thought there was another reason you haven’t needed to take a shit this whole time?” Hawke slaps his knee with another laugh. “I’m going to tell everyone I know about this. This is the funniest thing I have heard in a long time. Fen’Harel, spirit guy, knows fuck all about the Fade.”
Time dilation. Of course it was time dilation. How had Solas not realized? Their bodies were in an effective stasis while inside the Crossroads, constantly resetting back to what they had started with upon entering the fractured Crossroads. It’s why they didn’t need to eat, why they didn’t really need to sleep, and can rest so quickly after what feels like an eternity of walking or climbing. It was why even now, with the ice shard out of his shoulder, the pain had morphed from something sharp into a dull ache. Perhaps given a day or so, he might feel almost back to normal. Only dirt and sweat needed to be managed, as they had recently learned. Solas had been a fool not to see it sooner.
The destabilization must have caused this. A security measure? To insure no further incursions while the original problem was being solved. Perhaps another demonstration of greater magic from the Caretaker before it vanished.
Then how did Hawke get into the Crossroads? Unless he’d been here the whole time…
“May I ask what brought you here, to save us in our time of need?” Solas asks, suspecting he might know the answer, but curious as to why a greater spirit of courage would involve himself.
“Let me make one thing clear, Solas. I did not come here for you, nor would I ever.” Hawke’s brilliant gold eyes shine brighter at the threat in his tone.
Solas nods his head. “Yes, I misspoke. I meant to ask what brought you here to help Rook.” And better yet, why?
Hawke scratches at his beard, pursing his lips. “Figured you’d already know.” He shrugs, and Solas must bite his tongue to prevent himself from asking a follow up question. Hawke is not dissimilar to Rook, in the need to fill silences with his own personality. “Truly, you’re pretty useless when you’re not using magic.”
Solas accepts the barb with grace. “It has been a challenge.”
Hawke’s smile is not kind. “No, I mean look at all the bones in here. That was all her, what did you do? Take out all of two mages?”
It had been seven, but Solas will not correct the other man.
Hawke rolls his eyes. “Ugh, ancient beings aren’t very fun at all, are you? So serious and up your own asses.” When this doesn’t elicit any kind of reaction from Solas, Hawke sighs. “If you must know, because someone will hopefully explain it to the lady hero over there, she’s under the protection of a pretty powerful spirit. One I owed a particular favor to.”
Solas’ eyes are drawn to Rook, still laying on the ground. Which spirit? Surely the one from her memory in the Grand Necropolis, who had prowled around Solas, as if he were an unwanted interloper. What manner of spirit was it? Would Rook tell him if he asked?
“I can hear the cogs of your mind working.” Hawke sounds particularly disgusted. He rolls back and forth on his toes, lips pursed. He is by far the most animated and mortal spirit Solas has ever encountered. Odd, for Hawke must have joined with the spirit of courage nearly a decade ago. “You want to know what kind of spirit it is, don’t you?”
Solas remains silent.
Hawke’s smile is that of a victorious schoolyard bully. “Of course you’re too smart to let me dangle not telling you. Ancient beings are so borrrring.”
Solas does not respond.
Though Hawke huffs a little laugh at whatever expression is on Solas’ face. “Alright, I think that’s enough of that. It’s probably about time I exited stage right.” He thumbs over his shoulder towards Rook. “Do try to take care of her, I know she’s probably absolutely terrifying to you, but if you want to keep your endlessly long life, preserving hers would probably be a good start.”
That seemed a specific kind of warning. “Did this mutual friend suggest such?”
Hawke summarily ignores him.
“It wasn’t a pleasure, let me tell you. She was great, I could do with never seeing your face again, Solas.” Hawke says, sauntering away, waving a hand over his shoulder. Before the human man turned spirit can get five steps away he pauses, turning on his heel to look at Solas.
“Though…” Hawke’s eyes burn gold, illuminated from within. “You did murder my favorite dwarf of all time.”
Solas stands tall, staring back at Hawke, knowing full well that such as he is right now he stands no chance against the Champion of Kirkwall, turned greater spirit of Courage. “Yes, I did.”
Hawke’s head tilts, the smile on his face the opposite of kind. “No apology or begging for your life, Solas?”
“Would it matter?” Solas asks, unable to tuck his hands behind his back due to his injury.
There is the barest lick of red energy, spreading from the scar over Hawke’s nose, before shifting back to golden light. “Well it might make me feel a little bad about dismembering you, if I knew you felt guilty about what you’ve done.”
The bitter laugh that escapes Solas is unrestrained. “Guilty? You think I do not carry the guilt of all that I’ve done, for millenia? I did not mean to kill Varric, of course I regret his death. Had he not gotten in my way, this wouldn’t have happened.” He sucks in a ragged breath, as Hawke stares him down. “He was my friend—”
Hawke materializes in front of him with such speed, that it knocks the wind out of Solas as he is bodily lifted by his cuirass. Golden light blazes around Hawke. Staring at him is like staring into the sun. “He was my friend first!”
Solas will not beg. There is no deterring a spirit, not one as powerful as this when it has chosen it’s course of action. Should Hawke choose to kill him, Solas can only hope that what Hawke has become now can guide Rook back to the Lighthouse. Perhaps Hawke might—
What was Solas thinking? What was wrong with him? Twice in this day, he has been willing to sacrifice himself for Rook, to absolutely no end.
He glances at where Rook lays on the ground.
Instead of a killing blow, the light around Hawke abates, and he sets Solas down, shoving him backwards. Solas lands on his backside with a pained hiss. He stares up at Hawke in surprise.
Hawke makes an incredibly familiar gesture, shifting his weight between feet as his hands move to his hips. Like Varric used to do, when he was frustrated. Solas does not know with who the gesture originated, but both men carried it in their lives. The thread of guilt in Solas’ chest winds tighter.
Hawke lets out a world weary sigh. “Well, I guess the Dread Wolf is luckier than anyone could have guessed.”
Solas moves to stand, never taking his eyes off the spirit.
“Turns out there’s nothing courageous about killing a man who’s lost all his power.” Hawke blows a raspberry to demonstrate what he thinks of that. “Stupid spirity restrictions.”
Solas allows his shoulders to relax only a fraction, no longer needing to anticipate a mortal blow. Hawke takes a few steps towards him, a mean, sarcastic smile twisting his face into something decidedly wicked. Solas does not take a step back, but he does flinch when Hawke slaps a hand too hard on his injured shoulder.
“That’s alright though,” Hawke tells him, looping his arm around Solas’ neck, squeezing tight in a way that will leave bruises. “I’m sure Varric would appreciate a little more poetic irony in his justice, don’t you think?” Hawke turns them to face where Rook lays on the ground, still blessedly unconscious.
Hawke drops his voice low, conspiratorial. “It’ll be much more satisfying to watch her do you in, once she finds out what exactly you’ve done, and how you’ve been hiding it from her, hmm?”
Solas feels his stomach turn to ice. He knew it was an eventuality, Rook would either die in this conflict, or she would discover his deceit. In his original plan, she would be locked away in a prison of her regrets, and Solas would never have to face her again. A tool of convenience to be discarded at his leisure. In the original plan, he did not understand her compassion for spirits, her fortitude against any dangers, and her willingness to laugh in the face of adversity. The deadly elegance she held while on the battlefield. The fatal blow she would not hesitate to take in his stead, foolish and so very brave.
Solas does not know if he could have gone through with that original plan, knowing what he does now. He would find a different path, if he could.
Hawke’s face is pure gleeful malice. “You know for a spirit of Wisdom, turned Pride, you’re quite the little coward, aren’t you?”
Solas says nothing in reply.
“Now, as I said, do make sure to take very good care of her, she’s the only reason you’ve made it this far, Fen’Harel.” As one last indignity, Hawke reaches up, and roughly rubs a gauntleted hand over Solas’ scalp. “For good luck!” Hawke turns and in a flare of golden light he is gone.
Solas waits for the stars to abate from his vision at Hawke’s departure, before he turns to face Rook. Battered, bruised and bloody, she looks almost peaceful, passed out as she is. She clutches her dark metal spirit forged scythe to her, like a child would a favorite toy. Her other hand holds the key they will need to finish clearing the blight from the Crossroads. Retrieved from the corpse of Solas’ regret turned taunt from Elgar’nan.
Solas has lived his life with many regrets.
He can only hope that he doesn’t make her one of them.
Notes:
You know who'd have been so mad about what
the narrativeSolas did to Varric? Hawke.And Solas got off with nothing but a gauntlet noogie 😞
Translations for the futile Solas threats:
Masal din'an: A threat, meaning unknown
Na abelas: You'll be sorry
Na din'an sahlin!: Your death is come!
sourced from the Elven language wiki
Chapter 7: Chapter 7
Notes:
So I really enjoyed combat in DATV. But I don't know if y'all noticed but some of the abilities you can unlock for Warriors and Rogues are very~ magic. When I equipped the Reaper Ult and used it the first time I went "Cool! ...That was definitely magic though"
And so spirit-scythe wielding necrotic Arcane Warrior Rook was born!
In this fandom we tweak canon to make sense AND use it to drive plot 😤
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
A long fingered skeletal hand traces through her hair and Rook cannot open her eyes. The air smells familiar, dusty and old. An ancient corner of the Necropolis, long forgotten by all but the oldest spirits. The air still but not stagnant. Whispers drift in this space that Rook cannot see, the voices of thousands of dead.
It feels like home.
When all go one way, it is strength to step in the opposite direction. You demonstrate this every day sweet one.
Rook does not deserve those words, not when she bent and broke. She wishes to live it, to embody what she is supposed to be. She had spent the better part of a decade and a half running from that truth. And she had spent the past year trying to make up for that mistake. It is in the end what drove her out of the Mourn Watch. It is what saw her hunting the Dread Wolf.
It is what saw her standing up to a pair ancient god-mages.
You have bent, little bird, but you have never broken.
Rook wants to argue, wants to open her eyes and say, no, she had, she had broken. She had shattered to pieces and was just the remains of what she managed to glue back together. Imperfect and incomplete.
Bone traces down her cheek, warm and gentle and comforting. Rook turns into the touch on the verge of tears, unworthy.
Even in sorrow you assert yourself, my sweet little rook. Never lose that spark. It will be needed in the days to come.
The words are a goodbye, but Rook isn’t ready yet. She’s never been ready. This can’t happen again. The presence draws away, and Rook sits up reaching, her eyes tearing open to the fading green light. “Def—”
Sharp stab of pain across her ribs, back and the shoulder of her raised arm. Rook wakes up in the Crossroads, not the Grand Necropolis. Her skull throbs with the reminder that she’d cracked it against stone. Her thoughts feel mushy and hard to connect. How long had she been out?
Rook drags her weight forward to shift into a sitting position, which is a mistake. Her ribs are very rude about reminding her. “Ow, fuck.”
“Ah, you’re awake.”
Rook turns to find Solas sitting across from her, his back against a pillar, legs folded elegantly in front of him, hands in his lap. Why does he look smaller? It takes her an unconscionably long time to realize it’s because he isn’t wearing his armor, instead in his finely spun shirt. The shirt’s collar is stained in rusty red, where he’d been stabbed by the icicle. Her thoughts are muzzy enough that she doesn’t feel embarrassed by her staring.
Why does he get to look none the worse for wear? Just a hole in his shirt, barely bandaged, despite being skewered by an icicle, and here she is, feeling like she’s been stomped on by a dragon.
Because you chose to take that hit, Rook. Her inner voice has no business sounding like Solas’ snide commentary. She refuses to live in the world where that happens.
“How are you feeling?” The way his brows knit together, Rook thinks he might be concerned that she’s a few candles short of a candelabra.
How is she feeling? Like shit. But from an objective point of view, how is she doing? Looking down at herself, Rook makes notes of the new bumps and bruises, the carefully wrapped bandages around her left arm, shoulder, and ribs. She is without her shirt.
Who did that? Whoever it was probably got a little eyeful.
Rook blinks, and looks back up at Solas. He looks right back at her, brows tilted like she’s supposed to say something.
Just in case, Rook takes a cursory glance around the room, spotting her dented armor, Craft’s cleaning charm not enough to repair blunt force trauma, and her shirt folded along the wall. Beside her clothes leans a very strange and very familiar length of dark metal. There isn’t another soul or spirit to be seen.
But there had been someone else, right? She hadn’t imagined it. The feel of a warm calloused hand, or the rich laugh of someone. Someone very bright and hard to look at.
“You appear confused, do you remember what happened?” Solas asks, drawing her attention back to him.
This should be embarassing, but Rook’s brain is too addled. Besides, she had been unconscious. And the Dread Wolf had apparently treated her injuries. And yes, she was very confused, but mostly about one point in particular. “Why are you still here?”
That was apparently not the answer he was expecting. There’s a crease in his brow, but not the annoyed with her kind. “I do not follow.”
“I was unconscious.”
“Yes.”
Rook looks down at herself. “And you patched me up?”
“Yes.”
Well, he didn’t sound embarrassed about it, which meant she shouldn’t either. “But why?”
“Because you were injured.” The crease in his brows is once again bordering on concerned, like her brain is a lot more scrambled than he previously thought.
Rook waves a dismissive hand, which is a mistake because it causes her ribs to twinge. She wheezes a breath. “But why didn’t you just leave me? You could have left.”
Solas now looks as if she’d pissed in his morning oats, he’s so affronted. Rook doesn’t think she’s seen that particular expression on his face since they started traipsing through the broken Crossroads. That was definitely a Solas-prison expression. The one he wore most frequently in her presence. The one he wore to greet her every time she woke for another uncomfortable, tense exchange of barbs. She kind of missed it.
“And why exactly would you assume I would abandon you when you were injured?” She isn’t quite sure why he sounds so offended.
“Because you could?” His neck straightens in further affront and Rook is quick to add. “Also me being injured would slow you down, which is not good. Because I was definitely almost made into paste back there.” She was having trouble remembering why she wasn’t turned into said paste right now. Was it the golden man? Was there a golden man?
Her eyes drift towards the long dark metal propped against the wall. Mine, her soupy brain tells her. But why does she recognize that weapon? And how does she know it’s hers?
The familiar scrape of Solas’ boot against the ground draws Rook’s attention. He’s shifting in his seat, like he’s trying to decide something. He stares at her hard for a moment, before he averts his gaze. “I suppose it speaks to your level of trust in me, that you would assume I would abandon you the first chance I had.” Cool violet eyes slide back to her. “Unless this is how you yourself would act, if our positions were reversed.”
He is attempting to guilt her, and damned if it isn’t working. Which is annoying, because he has given absolutely no indication that he feels anything approaching camaraderie with her, despite her best efforts. Since their journey together began, Rook kept waiting for one of those nuggets of wisdom moments Varric had told her so much about from about his travels with Solas. ‘Chuckles will talk your ear off about Fade blah blah’ and so on. Instead he was prone to being quiet or humoring her attempts to needle him.
So that he now dared to be offended when she credibly assumed he would leave her concussed on the ground to retrieve the knife himself? Rook called bullshit.
“Obviously not,” she says. “We talked about this already back when you almost froze to death because you don’t know how to bundle up properly in the winter. Where I did not in fact abandon you, when I absolutely could have.”
“I seem to recall it was you who made the poor decision that led us to falling into that stream.” He shoots back.
Disrobed and bandaged while she was unconscious? Fine. Being reminded that she made a whoospie because she didn’t understand how gravity works on the inverted islands of the Crossroads? Shameful apparently. Rook feels her cheeks prickle with heat. “The point is, I don’t feel the same, clearly. When push comes to shove, I will save you, you ungrateful ass.” To punctuate her words she gestures down at her injured self.
Solas is back to quietly contemplating her once more, an inscrutable expression on his face. Rook suppresses the urge to fidget. Finally he leans forward, just a little. “Perhaps you could tell me Rook, why it is you saved me this time.”
“Because you were about to be hit.” Her response is automatic, annoyed that he’s switched topics. Her brain is too mushy for his conversational leaps today.
Somehow his gaze seems to become even more intense. “But why would you put yourself in danger, in order to spare me?”
A spirit once told Rook a story about a viper starting a casual conversation with a mouse, only for the mouse to find the scrutiny of the viper intensifying throughout the conversation, until the mouse was abruptly cornered and then devoured. Rook has no interest in being a mouse.
“This might surprise you, but I was always taught that if the squishy mage is about to be hit, it’s better for the big strong warrior to take it.”
Solas, utter bastard, isn’t having it in the slightest. “Yet in that moment you had to choose between the safety of yourself, or my safety. Or better yet, use me as a distraction and finish the job of destroying the revenant yourself.”
She does not like the spice of rebuke in that statement. Like she was stupid for not letting him get blasted with ice. “Apologies, in the future I’ll make a note that you enjoy being pummeled by revenants, and make sure you get the beating you desire.”
“I am merely curious why you would choose my safety over your own, for all that you know about me now.”
Rook’s fingers dig into the callus on her palm. What does he think she knows? Does he know, what she knows? How? Her head throbs at the tangle of her thoughts. Rook suspects that if she continues to look him in the eye, he will probably get whatever it is that he wants. Not that she knows what that is. She’s already answered his stupid question, hadn’t she?
She looks down at her fingers, cutting lines into her callus. “I made a snap decision based on the information I have.”
“And what information is that?” Solas’ voice is low, soothing. He cajoles so hideously well. Rook knows that if he were sitting closer, and if he were to whisper like that in her ear, she’d be involuntarily shivering from now until forever. The mouse probably thought the same thing of the viper too.
“That you’re free from the prison now.” She glances up, and the viper’s penetrating gaze doesn’t scare her. She’ll never go down easy. “And if only one of us could make it out of that fight, it made more sense for you to survive. Because if the world is to stand a chance against Ghilan’nain and Elgar’nan and their stupid blight, you are more important than I am.”
Rook may as well have punched Solas in the stomach, for how surprised he looks. It’s regrettable that she can’t bask in it. First time she’s ever managed to successfully pull the rug out from under him, and it’s when she just plainly spoke the truth. Why is he surprised? Surely he’s thought the same thing. She’s a tool, a good one, effective. But she doesn’t have a millenia of experience fighting the Evanuris. She doesn’t have the power of a god. In a fight against people so old and powerful, she was barely more than an effective and annoying insect.
One that helped take out an Archdemon. They’d swarmed and stung and succeeded. But it had taken so many for only a small part of the victory they needed. How many Wardens had died, just so they could hope to kill Ghilan’nain in the future?
It was not lost on Rook that she had only been as largely effective as she was, because of the man sitting across from her.
As the Revenant had swung at Solas, she made a strategic decision, the one that felt right in that moment. In the balance of scales in this fight, his soul weighed an awful lot more than hers.
“Rook.” Solas says, and he looks at a loss for words.
“Solas.” She returns, mouth tilting into a smile. Her split lip stings at the motion, but may as well enjoy his bafflement after all.
Her amusement seems to snap him out of it, because his expression goes stern. “Throwing away your life needlessly when the war is still ongoing, is how your enemies insure their victory.”
Always with the condescending lectures. Her eye roll makes her skull throb. “Says the man who strategically scarified how many to help him blacken the eyes of his enemies?” Rook will give him this, he doesn’t flinch. Though his jaw tightens. “And it wasn’t needlessly. It was a strategic calculation. Besides, it doesn’t matter. It all worked out in the end. I’m alive, you’re alive, we have the key. Wham bam, thank me ma’am.”
Rook had hoped taking an irreverent tone would stop the conversation in it’s tracks. That if she was dismissive enough with her own mortality and the paltry weight she made in the balance of all things, they could move on and discuss what exactly had happened to the revenant, and if she had hallucinated the golden man.
Solas, of course, decides to die on whatever hill this is.
“Of course it matters!” Solas surges to his feet, fists clenched at his side.
Rook gapes up at him, and her expression must give him pause enough to straighten, tucking his hands behind his back, ruffled feathers smoothed. “You needn’t throw away your life. This conflict… there is no point in a needless death. Not when you are still needed in the fight. To believe otherwise is merely someone uselessly seeking their own death, for some ignoble end.”
Well, at least she got her answer about why he bothered to save her. The tool still functions, best to use her. But Solas is such a fucking hypocrite, Rook can’t stand it. There is a feeling in her chest, hot and angry, blazing harder than she’s ever felt it before. The one that says ‘no, not today, not ever’. The one that lets her look anyone more powerful than her in the eye, and tell them to go fuck themselves. Suddenly the blaze shifts and it’s like coming home, a perfectly balanced blade made just for her hands. Green and cool and everything she has always wanted to be.
Out of the corner of her eye, the dark metal scythe winks in the light.
Rook stands, her bumps and bruises and broken bones an after thought.
“Do you hear yourself? Needless death? What do you call ripping down the Veil and killing millions, Solas? Is that not needless death? Or does it only matter when it’s one of your precious tools? You selfish prick.” Rook snarls at him, his face has opened into one of surprise at her rebuke, but she isn’t finished. “Maybe you’re right, maybe it was stupid of me to choose you over myself, if you’re going to navel gaze so hard, you don’t even realize the hypocrite you are. But too fucking bad, I would make the same decision each and every time, because I am willing to do what it takes to stop my world from being blighted by a pair of asshole wannabe gods!”
Rook’s chest heaves with the force of her shout. Solas stares back at her, his expression stunned. Good. That felt good to finally say to his stupid face. In fact, Rook doesn’t think she’s ever felt better. Which is strange, because earlier it had felt like her ribs were caught in a vice, occasionally stabbing her with a sharp pain. Nor does her head feel like it’s in the beginning stages of a concussion. Her thoughts? Never clearer.
Looking down at her hands, Rook sees that the bruises and cuts that had littered her arms are gone. She experimentally rotates her shoulder, and when she feels no pain, she twists her spine. Her ribs are fine. She looks back up at Solas, hoping he might know what‘s going on. Solas, who is still staring at her like she is something he never thought he’d see again.
“This is weird, right? People don’t heal this fast.” She narrows her eyes suspiciously. “You didn’t just passive aggressively heal me, did you?”
The air that whooshes out of Solas’ lungs isn’t quite a laugh. “No. You will recall I cannot.”
“Right.” Rook rocks on her toes, suddenly feeling very awkward. The driving need to tell Solas to eat shit has abated, and now she’s just left here with the aftermath. Fully healed. Somehow. She’s also now acutely aware that all she’s wearing is her breeches and cotton cloth bandages. She casts a look at her shirt. Now seems like as a good a time as any to put that back on.
Solas closes his eyes, heaves a sigh. “I wish you would not undermine your contributions, Rook. We would not have made it this far, without you.”
Oh, so he’s going to pointedly ignore her recriminations, huh? Typical. Rook doesn’t answer until she’s back in her shirt, she’ll exchange the bandages for her stays later. She really is fully healed. Even the squat to grab her shirt had felt easier on her knees than it had in years. “Yes, I know. We’ve discussed it before, you and your mage noodles would not have survived this place without me, you’re very welcome.”
Solas shakes his head. “No, I meant against the Evanuris.”
“Didn’t you tell me that what I was doing, wasn’t enough? That I was exceedingly mediocre? That everyone I knew was going to die if I didn’t try harder.” Rook cocks an eyebrow at him.
Because he’s an asshole, Solas doesn’t look sheepish. He merely straightens. “I was attempting to inspire motivation.”
Rook stares at him.
Solas stares right back.
She scoffs. “Right. I wonder what use you have for me, that you’ve decided coddling is now a good strategy.”
“Has it ever occurred to you Rook, that a person’s opinions can change?”
She clasps her hands in front of her chest. “Really? They did? Wow, I’m so happy.” Her flat monotone more than conveys her sarcasm. “And what exactly inspired this change of heart, oh mighty Fen’Harel? Was it the power of friendship forged in the journey we had to undertake together?”
“You never try to make things easy, do you?” He asks, dry.
She tucks hair behind her ears, giving him her sweetest smile. “For you? Never.”
She decides to not be thrilled with the rasp of laughter that earns her. Solas removes his hands from behind his back, shoulders loosening. “What changed, is that I did not realize the extent of your intellect, Rook.” Solas pauses, lips pursed, carefully choosing his next words. “As we planned our attack here, you impressed me with your strategic insight.”
Of course a wisdom spirit turned prideful asshole would think she’s allowed to live if she proves herself clever enough. “Oh thank the maker, you think I have a brain now. I can die happy.”
The set of Solas’ mouth might be called wry. “It is in how you use that mind of yours Rook.”
“Solas, I don’t think I can make it clearer to you, that I don’t care what you think.”
“No, I believe you’ve made yourself abundantly clear.” Solas shakes his head. “But it does not matter. It will not change the fact that I was wrong about you.”
This is a trick, it must be. He’s trying to weave his way past her defenses while she’s supposedly concussed. His sincerity feels very out of character for who she’s interacted with so far. He doesn’t even look pissy.
But what if he is sincere? What if this is Solas trying? What if 10 years of borderline isolation from people aside from the occasional conflict and reports from his agents, made him very socially awkward? Rook scrubs a hand over her face. “In normal people relationships, this is usually where the party in the wrong apologizes for being an arrogant wad, and a judgmental sack of shit.”
“I am sorry.”
He hadn’t even said sorry when Rook had confronted him about stabbing Varric. Rook looks beyond her fingers to find Solas staring back at her. He looks… He looks uncomfortable. He’s so stiff, not in that upright, excessively confident way of his. But as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Rook imagines he hasn’t had many occasions to apologize, especially not in the last decade.
“For what, Solas?” She is unable to help herself.
His answering frown is very offended for a moment, before he schools his expression. “For judging you unfairly. For assuming the worst of you.” His eyes dart away, before they land back on her, crease in his brow. “For not giving you the respect you deserve.”
The impatient, aggressive warrior in her wants to take him by the shoulders and rattle him around, until he understands that if he misjudged her, chances were awfully good that he had misjudged the world too. It’s what her companions would demand, those that didn’t try to fight him outright. Try and make him see the forest for the trees, now that he’s admitted trees may exist at all.
When all go one way, it is strength to step in the opposite direction.
Rook heaves a sigh, releasing tension. “Thank you, Solas. I appreciate you saying so, I accept your apology.” Because when you bite the hand of an imperfect ally, you push them further towards the chance of becoming your enemy.
Rook might call Solas’ answering nod grateful.
However Rook has always been a dog with a bone, and if she doesn’t distract herself, she’s going to get into a screaming match with him about how he thinks killing millions by tearing down the Veil is a good thing actually.
“Alright, now that we’ve discovered you desperately want to be my best friend,” She flashes him a grin at his flat look. “Are you going to tell me why you were so weird before we fought the revenant?”
Solas stiffens so imperceptibly that if Rook had not spent the duration of their acquaintance religiously studying his body language and micro expressions, she might have missed it.
“I am uncertain as to what you are referring to.”
She raises a flicking finger. “Want a reminder?”
He scowls at her ferociously. “No.”
“Then how about you tell me why you seemed to lack focus for the first time since I’ve met you, right before we fought that revenant, hmm?” She had seen the way he had stared into the distance. Had needed to call for his attention several times while strategizing. She can only be grateful he stopped being so distracted in the middle of that fight, because he probably would have been a lot worse off than one icicle to the shoulder, if he hadn’t snapped out of it.
He looks very annoyed with her. “Do you not have any other questions you wish to ask?”
“Oh yes, but you not wanting to talk about this is just making me more curious.” Solas does not appear like he’ll budge. “Does this have anything to do with you asking if the revenants said anything?”
There is a minute tightness by his eyes, but he does not answer.
Knowing full well this is probably going to wound him, she asks. “Do you know why the first revenant I faced would shout ‘for the wolf’ every time it hit me?”
The way air escapes from Solas’ lungs, brings to mind the first time she needed to stab a human bandit looting a crypt in the Necropolis. A soft, breathless exhalation. Solas once again looks like he’s going to be sick. He stares through her, unseeing.
A memory of his past. “The Caretaker said that the Evanuris were using those things to gain a foothold in the Crossroads. Was it something tailor made for you? Using your memories?”
His eyes refocus on her face, his expression grim. “Yes.”
“Oh.”
“Indeed.”
The hoard of undead they just faced had probably been a rebellion thing. The revenant with the little summons was probably something to do with the titans. She has no idea what the first one was, and looking at Solas now, he looks as though he’s preparing for a blow, or like he might flee.
Rook decides to take pity. “Okay, thank you. Can you maybe answer some of my other questions?”
Solas looks at her suspiciously. “Which questions are those?”
Rook holds up her hand, enumerating off her fingers. “What happened to the revenant? Was there a golden man who suddenly appeared during the fight? Where did that scythe come from? Why are my injuries suddenly healed, but yours aren’t?”
Solas raises his brows at her, and Rook can tell after however long they’ve been traveling together, that is his mildly bemused expression, not his ‘I cannot fathom her audacity’ face.
She wiggles her thumb with her last question. “And most importantly, Solas, did you see?”
He seems confused by the question, his head tilting just so. “Did I see what?”
Rook’s grin is all teeth. She waggles her eyebrows for effect. “Did you see?”
“Rook, as a conversational gambit, repeating an unclear question, is perhaps your most useless.”
Rook straightens, tucking her hands behind her back, adopting her best Solas expression. “Did you bear witness to mine greatest triumph upon yon battlefield?”
Solas actually snorts, which is a first, and Rook can’t hold her impression because she’s so delighted. “That, is not how I speak.”
Rook wrinkles her nose at him. “No, I think it is. You just can’t hear yourself talk.”
He gives her a wry eyebrow twitch, and Rook can’t take it anymore. “Did you see me absolutely whip those javelins, and nail that revenant five times?”
Solas’ sigh is not as put upon as he would like to think. “Yes, it was very impressive.”
“And you doubted me.”
“A mistake I will not soon find myself making again.”
Which was good. So long as they didn’t become enemies again. Absolutely terrible for her and everyone else if they did. Rook likes to be underestimated. “My shots were incredible, but your suggestion to loop rope around the end of the javelins was what won us the day. So thank you, Solas.”
He looks simultaneously surprised that she would hand him credit so freely, but also pleased. He bows his head in acknowledgment. “You are welcome, Rook.”
“Though, it was not your accurate shots or rope that won us the day.” Solas adds after a moment.
“Oh?”
“It was you.”
“What do you mean?” Rook asks, confused.
“You won us the day. You killed the revenant, with that scythe, which was gifted to you by the spirit in the form of the golden man, and I suspect that the answer to your question about your healing is sourced from the same place as the answer to the others.”
Rook is so taken aback, that she doesn’t know what to say. She glances over to where the scythe lays propped against the wall. “Did you just answer all my questions freely?” At the sardonic lift of his brow, Rook adds. “Sorry, yes, you did, thank you. What do you mean sourced from the same place as the answer to what?”
Solas takes a step forward, until he’s close enough to reach her gear. He gestures at the scythe. “May I?” At Rook’s nod, he picks up the scythe in both hands. Rook can see the motif of little birds and skulls carved into the haft and blade. Familiar like other kids favored baby blankets might be.
“This is a spirit forged weapon, unlike your armor, which has been blessed by a Spirit of Craft, this scythe contained a fragment of a spirit upon it’s forging.” Solas explains, holding the scythe out to her.
Rook takes it between her hands, fingers sliding over the staff and brushing against Solas’ in her inattention. He draws away, tucking his hands behind his back. The scythe is perfectly balanced for her, it feels even in her hands, like it was made for her. It’s made of metal, but not one she’s ever felt before, it feels light, but substantial. Like it exists in some kind of interstitial state where it feels light to her, but will have tremendous weight once swung.
The carvings are smooth under her hands, the little birds are small black corvids, flapping throughout the scythe. Little rooks.
Rook blinks, looking up at Solas. “Why past tense? What do you mean ‘contained’?”
Solas looks pleased, and Rook isn’t sure why. “During the battle, when you were injured, a spirit came to deliver this gift to you. The scythe held the spirit fragment until you touched it.” He looks amused at her impatience. “You absorbed the spirit fragment, and then were capable of an impressive feat of necrotic magic.”
“But I can’t wield magic.” Rook had spent an awful lot of years crying to herself about that fact, that she would never be a true necromancer, like all in the Mourn Watch are supposed to be.
“I do not think that is strictly true anymore, Rook.” Solas tells her gently.
Rook opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it, and then settles on pursing her lips. Is this what healed her? But how? If she was using necrotic energy, that was the opposite of healing.
Necrotic energy, that was sourced out of a scythe covered in the motif’s that only one spirit had ever used.
One spirit that had been killed over a year ago.
“Rook.” She looks up to find Solas has his head ducked, as if he’d been trying to catch her eye for awhile. “I believe you know what spirit this was, would you be willing to tell me about them?”
Her eyelashes flutter, trying to disperse her thoughts. She clears her throat, and takes a step back, twisting the scythe in her hands, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. “Sure, yes, I can answer questions probably.”
Solas is watching her, like she’s a spooked horse. His voice is once more gentle and soothing. “Is it the spirit from your memory?”
The impulse to lie and say that yes, it was her little friend the wisp who died at the hands of a terrible little noble boy tangles the words on her tongue. But Solas had been honest with her. Had answered questions. Had apologized. Had taken care of her when she’d been battered and broken. When he speaks of the spirit from her memory, she knows exactly what spirit he means. “Yes.”
“What manner of spirit was it?”
Was. Was. Was. Was. Was. It reverberates in her skull, makes her remember an empty room, that would stay empty for the rest of eternity.
Rook swallows, and releases a breath. She bent, she had not broken. Solas is looking at her like he’d be willing to help her carry this burden, if she’d allow it. She shouldn’t. But she will. Trust needs to be built both ways.
Knowing full well that she’s willingly handing him a knife to cut her with later, Rook says, “Defiance.”
Solas releases a breath that almost sounds like a chuckle. He looks… Surprised isn’t the right word. It looks like he’s been pondering a question like this, and the most correct answer he hadn’t thought of yet had just revealed itself. Solas nods, not looking at her. “Yes, yes that is suitable, isn’t it?”
It doesn’t sound like an insult, the way he says it. It’s maybe the first time she’s ever felt truly seen by this man. That he sees the way she is, how she behaves, her unending need to keep standing and walking and telling people of authority to get fucked. To sneer right back at his own condescension. Solas sees her, and he understands, at least a little. She might even say he respects it.
It makes her chest feel warm. She’s tried so hard to be what Defiance wanted her to be, what she needed to be to survive the Mourn Watch as she was. And Solas could see it. He could see all that she was, and he nodded his head and said, yes, that’s suitable.
Solas looks her in the eye when he asks, “Would you be willing to tell me about it?”
The warm feeling shutters before it can be consumed by a tidal wave of grief. Rook swallows, shaking her head. “I… I can’t.”
Solas nods, unoffended. “You must have loved it very much.”
Rook remembers toddling through the halls of the Necropolis, a long limbed skeleton her constant companion. She remembers lessons upon lessons and histories and stories and crying and laughing and every fond memory of her childhood centering around Defiance.
Rooks gives Solas a tremulous smile. “Yes.”
Solas returns it, and it holds an old grief he carries in himself. One that Rook knows the source of, but cannot tell him how she knows.
Rook carefully places her scythe to lean against the wall. “You mentioned the spirit fragment would have to do with my healing?”
She successfully draws Solas out of his memories. “Yes, I had.” He nods. “It makes more sense that you healed upon shouting at me in disagreement. Invoking a spirit of defiance I imagine will come quite naturally to you.” He adds dryly.
“First, you deserved to be yelled at—”
“If that is how you wish to express your gratitude for my attempting to bandage you after your fight—”
“Solas, it is not a generous action if you’re going to bring it up to score conversation points.” She tells him archly.
“Hm.” Is his only response, but Rook can tell he’s amused himself.
“And second,” She adds, raising a warning brow to indicate he should not interrupt her. “If this means I can infinitely heal while telling high and mighty types to eat shit, I think I have found my core purpose in the world.”
“As amusing as that would be to witness, it might behoove you to practice this newfound magic, in order to better understand it’s limitations.” Solas says.
“That’s great and all in theory, but it’s not like we have time for me to train and master new spirit magics. We need to get to the Lighthouse as soon as we can.” They’d been forced to dally long enough with her injuries, and now that those were gone, they ought to get walking, so long as Solas was ready.
“Ah, yes.” If Solas were capable of the expression, Rook might say he looks chagrined. “I forgot to tell you about the time dilation.”
“The time what now?”
Solas catches her up on the things that she missed, like the time dilation, which is why she doesn’t need to eat food, or take care of any other bodily function. Solas does not share her sentiment that time dilatation is a monstrous crime against her personally.
Rook does a little practice at her newfound magic. She struggles to recreate the giant vortex of necrotic energy Solas described, but she does manage to wield necrotic magic a few times channeled through the scythe’s blade, which is mind blowing to her.
After Solas’ shoulder is healed, in way too short a time to be natural, they finally set out for the Lighthouse once more.
“It’s too bad I missed seeing a greater spirit of Courage, I bet that was quite the sight.” Rook sighs, hooking both elbows over the handle of her scythe. In all her time at the Necropolis she had heard tales of the feats accomplished by spirits of courage, but had never had the privilege herself of greeting one.
“Mmm, a pity.” Solas agrees. “This one was particularly of interest, having bound itself to the Champion of Kirkwall.”
Rook misses a step, and nearly trips. Next to her, Solas pauses, looking back at her.
She has lost the capacity to form words. She can feel her mouth moving but no sounds come out. Champion of Kirkwall? THE Chanpion of Kirkwall? Serah Garrett Hawke. Fereldan refugee of the blight, warrior who bested a Qunari Arishok. Freer of all mages of Thedas? Hawke.
“Rook?” Solas looks concerned.
Rook collapses to her knees. She’d had a lithorgraph of the man on her wall for years back in the Necropolis. Her greatest dream at the age of eighteen, was to run away and join Hawke and his friends as they went on their adventures. When rumors went around that Hawke had died during the Inquisition, Rook had genuinely and sincerely mourned the hero she worshiped. Myrna had been alarmed at how teary eyed Rook had been for weeks afterwards.
And he’d been here! In the cavern? And he’d saved her. And she hadn’t been conscious enough to realize. The horror. The unfairness. And Solas was only mentioning this now, as if this wasn’t the most earth shattering information she had ever heard… Well Rook had learned an awful lot of earth shattering things in the last few months, but on a personal level, spirit of Courage Hawke saving her life was a very big deal to her.
Rook hadn’t been very interested in joining the hunt for the Dread Wolf, until she put two and two together, and realized that the crossbow wielding Varric she met in a pub, was the same Varric Tethras, writer of The Tale of the Champion, and Hawke’s best friend. Her own copy of The Tale of the Champion was dog eared and filled with marginalia was on her nightstand back in her cell at the Grand Necropolis.
“What is wrong with you?” Not to worry, Solas isn’t concerned. Only full of disdain.
Rook looks up at Solas and the judgment on his face. “What was he like?”
Solas frowns. “Who? Hawke? Unpleasant.”
“To you maybe.” She grumbles under her breath. The Hawke she had read about was a joyfully kind hero, who fought for the people, and protected mages, and even helped the Kirkwall alienage, or so it was said. Rook finds she has no interest in standing, she will sit and wallow here until she feels good and ready.
“May I ask what it is you think you’re doing?”
“Mourning.” Rook tells him.
“Because you wished to meet Hawke?”
Rook does not appreciate the tone he’s taking. She’d once encountered an ex-templar at a bar in Nevarra City who spent the evening shit talking Hawke, and how it was a good riddance the mage loving Fereldan mongrel was dead supposedly. Rook, already drunk had promptly gotten into a fist fight with the former templar. She will not punch Solas in the face, because that will be taking a few steps back after all their progress, but he’d better watch himself.
“Yes, Solas. Obviously.”
“I’m sure Hawke would have loved to hear you’re such a fan.” Solas scoffs.
Rook squints up at him. “Why are you talking about him so familiarly, like you know him personally? Don’t you think that’s a little rude even for you—” Rooks gasps, her eyes going wide. “You were in the Inquisition too! You met him!”
Solas merely arches an eyebrow at her. “Yes, I have met Hawke previously, before our encounter. I was part of the mission where he stayed within the Fade to give us a chance to—”
Rook lunges upwards and forwards, gripping his arm. Solas looks startled, but does not pull away. “Solas I need you to tell me everything. In detail. Everything he said. Why did he stay in the Fade? How many people did he save?”
Early on in their acquaintance, Harding had warned Rook not to mention Hawke to Varric, or ask questions about him. That Varric mourned his friend every day. Even if Hawke was largely the reason she’d agreed to accompany Varric in the first place. Rook had made the mistake once, and watched Varric try to paper over the pain of losing his friend with good humour. Rook had not made the same mistake again.
But Solas! She didn’t really care about his feelings, and he seemed vaguely offended by the concept of Hawke as a whole, so she would be free to ask him as much as she wanted.
Solas stares down at her bemused. “Perhaps one question at a time.”
Rook glances down to where her hands clasp his bicep and grimaces, taking a step back to give him space. “Sorry. Yes.” Solas only raises an eyebrow at her. Rook feels her cheeks heat. “Could you please share some stories from your travels with Hawke? Please?”
Solas regards her, she might say with something approximating amusement. After a moment he gives one slow nod. Gesturing towards their path, Solas begins to walk with Rook at his side. “Very well, I can share a few things.”
Rook beams at him, and spends the next portion of their journey peppering him with questions that Solas seems more than willing to answer.
Chapter Text
Solas wakes from dreamless sleep.
Strange, he could not recall closing his eyes. Nor did he remember dreaming. Only the heavy limbed bleariness of a long and exhausted sleep.
“Oh, so the Dread Wolf does sleep, who knew.” Rook’s voice calls.
Solas blinks, struggling to keep his eyes focused. Why is he so tired if he slept? Why does it feel so strange that he—
Rook’s gold booted feet enter his vision, and Solas tries to focus on her. He blinks as she comes into stark relief amongst the smeared edges of the clearing. Rook stands tall in gold and blue heavy armor, the one she favors. Lords of Fortune, she’d told him once. She is like an ancient vision of the past, draped in gold and the colors of the powerful house she serves. A hero to raise to legend status. A story of courage and strength, letting all who know her bask in it’s warmth. Defiance incarnate.
But where is her borrowed armor—
Rook smiles at him, and it is all inviting warmth pressed into his side. It is her eager curiosity slipping past his defenses as Solas reveals too much of his hsitory with the Inquisition, of Hawke.
“Or maybe you aren’t quite awake yet, sleepyhead.”
She sounds so fond, full of affection for him—a thought tries to tug him away, that she wouldn’t, that she doesn’t—Rook takes a step forward, and crouches in front of him, at eye level. Her hair drapes off her shoulder, loose. Strands slip and beg to be caught. Even the gold of her armor feels as if it glows anew with her warmth. She has stood closer to him in their travels of late, this is not so strange.
“Rook?” Solas is breathless, and he doesn’t know why. His heart thrums in his chest, adrenaline attempting to work it’s way through his system.
Rook leans forward and her scent both mouthwatering and clean at once. It’s the scent of his favorite bread, of mulled wine, and the books in the library at Mythal’s palace. Of painted motifs in pigments that cannot be named for they do not exist anymore. Of a joy he hasn’t experienced in a millenia.
She is Dirth'ena enasalin, like a hero of old. So beloved by spirits, that a greater spirit would willingly gift her a fragment of itself. To cut away a piece of itself to make Rook something more. Something unbelievably worthy. Rare but not unique in Elvhenan. Solas thought he would never see it’s like ever again. She is of Defiance, so perfectly suited to the woman crouched in front of him, that it takes his breath away when she gifts him with another smile.
Her voice is a low, husky whisper. “Solas, is there anything that you want?” Her face tips close to his, her eyes flicking up to meet his from staring at his mouth. “Tell me, what you want.”
Rook is of Defiance. She is a creature of inconvenience and petty rebellions. She would never willingly give him anything he wants. Not with a gentle, soft voice.
Solas draws back, finding he has no ability to control his arms or legs, the spell of the spirit of Desire woven around him too closely. It is a complete and utter humiliation that he of all people was taken in by this creature. Were it not for his lack of magic, he’d have detected it long before it got close, and could have convinced it to leave if it had been foolish enough to approach.
The spirit of Desire leans forward, “I could give you back your magic, weave it with my own. All I would need is but a small gift.” It uses the hand that looks like Rook’s to trace his jaw with falsely callused fingers. Solas flinches away. The Desire spirit pouts. “Oh and here I thought I was doing such a good job too. To have entangled the Dread Wolf, I would have become legend.”
The spirit sits uncomfortably close, and Solas does not think he can bear be stared at by Rook’s face a moment longer. Shame threads through him, that his thoughts had been so out of control for a spirit of Desire to think him a likely victim. He had not taken the necessary precautions. He had indulged in too many idle fantasies. Solas had not kept the proper distance.
He had allowed Rook to ask endless questions about Hawke, then about his time in the Inquisition, and even found himself sharing small kernels of his travels through the fade since he’d woken to the hell that was her world. For once she seemed fully invested in their conversation, rather than taking any opportunity to antagonize him. Solas had found himself in turn asking questions about Rook, curious about how she viewed the world, what brought her into direct opposition with him.
She spoke of her hunt of him with Varric, of her time out of the Necropolis, and of her life within the Mourn Watch. He watched her circle around stories about Defiance, as if afraid of her own well of sadness. Now that he knew it existed, Solas could see the way her face would go from lit up and animated during one of her tales—obviously embellished with a flair she probably learned from Varric—to dim and unbearably sad at any raw reminders of Defiance.
Solas learned to toe around the edge of that grief, if only to keep the lopsided smile on her face. For if she had that smile on her face, she might have occasion to poke him with a friendly elbow, or swat at him while she laughed. It had been a startling moment the third time it had occurred, when Solas realized he was going out of his way to make her laugh deliberately.
He had allowed himself to be charmed.
In doing so, he had gifted this spirit of Desire an avenue of attack.
Solas is still too enmeshed in the Desire spirit’s enchantment, his thoughts slow and sluggish, to rationalize why Rook might be wearing her blue and gold armor, rather than anything else. Why Rook the warrior of the ridiculously named Veilguard, and not Rook of the dented chevalier armor? Or Rook vulnerable and wrapped in bandages at his own hand?
The spirit of Desire’s smile is a cat that caught the cream. “A man such as yourself will not allow desire to overcome your sense of shame.” She teases, so perfectly Rook that Solas is nearly sucked back into the thrall of the enchantment. “No, you seek something closer to an equal, don’t you?”
Kneeling resplendent in blue and gold armor, hair shiny, and cheeks flushed seeming to be lit from within. Eyes bright an intelligent and oh so pleased with itself. It is a too perfect simulacrum of Rook, shiny and gold, like something out of Elvhenan. A perverse twisting of Solas’ ache for the past, brought forth through the vision of the woman he’s had the misfortune to develop a tentative tolerance for.
“Oh, you more than tolerate me, Dread Wolf.” The spirit gives Solas that tilted smile, and it sends a clarifying rush of fury racing through him.
“Spirit, I ask that you change your face. Allow me to speak with you as you are.”
The spirit looks absolutely gleeful, with that hint of malice that could naturally be found on Rook’s true face. “Oh, but Fen’Harel, we both know you don’t want that.”
“I assure you, I would prefer—”
The spirit has the audacity to shuffle forward, and straddle his hips. Solas flinches backwards, knocking his skull on the rock wall behind him. The spirit gives him one of Rook’s beaming smiles, the ones she’d gifted him as he shared stories about Hawke, and she had shared what she read about the man in turn, curious about how and why they differed. This smile from the spirit has his stomach twinge uncomfortably. Shame and interest both.
“Yes, I think you like this form very much, don’t you?” For effect the spirit leans forward, bracing her forearms on Solas’ chest, coquettish smile on her lips, thankfully out of place on Rook’s face.
“I ask that you remove yourself, spirit.” Solas says firmly. His fingers will not clench into the fist he needs, if he could just twitch his fingers, he might gain control of his limbs and find a way to protect himself.
“I don’t understand why you’re being so difficult. I’m only trying to give you what you want.” The spirit leans back, eyes blessedly transformed into the purple sclera and iris of a spirit of Desire. “You think her pretty, clever, and suited to your tastes. But you could never have her, which makes her perfect for both our purposes.”
He is about to protest most vehemently, but the answering smirk on the spirit’s face, silences him. Had that not been the case, he would not have been vulnerable to this means of attack. If he hadn’t caught himself purposefully attempting to make Rook laugh. If he didn’t find any pleasure in Rook’s when he made his own paltry sounds of amusement. If he hadn’t allowed her to playfully tweak his ears on more than one occasion as reprimand for some mild slight.
Solas ought not to have surrendered to any ridiculous temptations, or false sense of closeness.
The spirit leans close. “Unfulfilled desire is so potent, you know this.” She tilts Rook’s head. “I know you’ve thought on more than one occasion that she has the ears once considered the height of beauty in Elvhenan.”
Solas had. Perfect, elongated and close to her skull, the points a perfect taper. They were the ears of the most gifted spirits taken to flesh, all who would go on to serve June directly. Rook had ears that hundreds of years of carefully crafted elven magic attempted to recreate. He could remember ear cuffs, meant to feign the same curve she had naturally. Sometimes Solas found himself watching her profile, wondering how this creature had been born in this era, when she so clearly was meant to have walked the world as it should be. To see her draped in the finery of Elvhenan—
Solas shakes his head, clearing the image. “Spirit, I ask that you stop.”
But the spirit’s expression is pure mischief. It writhes in his lap, hands sliding over Rook’s body provocatively, making Solas intensely uncomfortable. When she is finished she dons the pristine white woven fabric, unseen in the world since June’s decline into Blight and eventual death in Solas’ prison. It cascades like water over the imitation body of Rook. Folds and creases over curves Solas is ashamed he knows exist, he’d seen too much when he’d bandaged her after their encounter with the revenant. The spirit gives him an impish grin, once again managing to accurately depict another Rook expression. “Oh it’s so luxurious, I bet you wish to touch.”
“I do not.” Solas answers sternly. “Set me free, spirit.”
The spirit tips it’s head back with a throaty groan, expressing the wrong kind of frustration. “I just want you to use me, Solas.” Out of his control, Solas’ pulse jumps, and the spirit eyes him with interest. “Oh, yes. Yes, you love your little tools, don’t you? Wrap them around your fingers, play with them at your leisure.” The spirit picks up Solas’ limp hand and moves it to collar her throat.
Solas swallows. He doesn’t. He is not as she says. He has not thought this, not about Rook.
He has not never noticed the wiggle of her hips as she shucks her armor. Nor had he imagined her splayed out underneath him. Of her tilted smile up at him. Of breathy laughs gasped into his neck or kissing at her bitten lips, salving them with his tongue. Or—
“Stop.” Solas says wretchedly.
“Use me Solas. I know you want to.” The spirit hums, and he can feel it through his palm. “Don’t worry, we can be quick. I’ll keep it a secret. She never has to know the filthy things you’d like to do to her.” It leans forward, voice dropped to a whisper. “What you will do to me.”
Rook must still be free. Thoughts of her walking in on this tableau streak through his mind. The shame and disgust outweighs any sense of thrill that might burn hot through his blood, coaxed by this awful spirit. “I will not.”
The spirit gives a throaty chuckle. “I assure you, I know exactly what it is you desire.”
“I will not give into base impulses. Set me free.” He says sharply. Spirits of Desire do not require consent from their victims, Solas can only hope if he remains unmoved for long enough, the creature will find it’s quarry too unsatisfying and leave him be.
Before the spirit can respond, they both still at hearing the crunch of boots on stone approach the clearing.
“Oi, Solas. You were supposed to meet me.” The true Rook’s voice calls from around the bend, still hidden from sight. It is then that the brain fog fully clears and Solas remembers exactly what he was meant to do. Rook had gone ahead, wanting to rinse her hair at a nearby stream. He sat to adjust his greaves, promising he’d be along in a moment, and Rook had told him no rush, just meet her when he was done. Once alone he’d felt the pull of the Desire spirit’s enchantment.
The spirit, still straddling him, still wearing Rook’s face, pouts. “Oh, no fun. Do you hope she’ll try to join us?”
He must get out of this situation, and that need wars with Solas’ wish for Rook not to witness his humiliation starring a creature wearing her face. Rook is knowledgeable enough about spirits to know exactly why a spirit of Desire would wear her countenance to try and seduce him. Solas hesitates, unable to call out.
Proving Solas right, that Rook never does anything at the leisure of others, the sound of her boots stomp towards the clearing.
“I swear I had better not round this corner to find you with your hands down your pants, because I promise you now Solas, if we survive this ordeal I will tell every single person in Thedas about the time I caught the Dread Wolf jer—”
Rook rounds the corner, and freezes as she takes in the sight before her. Solas grimaces back at her, witnessing his humiliation play out on her face. Rook’s jaw hangs open for a moment, before clicking shut. Her eyes, wider that Solas has ever seen, dart back and forth between Solas, and the spirit of Desire currently sitting in his lap. The spirit wearing her face, draped in gauzy fabric that barely conceals anything.
For all the sins Solas has committed in his life, he does not believe he has earned this particular punishment. Truly he does not know if he has experienced a greater personal humiliation than this. Foolish as it is, in this moment he might take being thrust once more into his own prison over needing to experience the coming seconds. There at least he could mostly bear the shame by himself, without the judgment of Rook.
Utterly defeated, Solas sighs. “If you could assist me.”
The spirit places her hands on Solas’ chest, rubbing herself lasciviously, as she looks over her shoulder at Rook. “Yes, Rook, wouldn’t you please, please help me?”
Rook continues to stand frozen, until the spirit flips an imitation of Rook’s hair over it’s shoulder. Blinking hard, Rook nods. “Oh, Desire Demon, okay.”
“Yes, it has affixed itself to me.” This is obvious, Solas knows. But he cannot and will not address any elephant in the room. Across the clearing, Rook’s eyebrows remain high on her forehead. Solas can watch in real time as she connects the dots. It’s a feeling akin to watching lava slowly creep towards you, waiting for it to burn you away.
The spirit rolls it’s neck, pouting coyly at Rook. “Mm, I know what you’d like, sweet thing.”
“Duck fat potatoes with a venison roast braised in Antivan wine.” Rooks says.
Solas frowns, unable to believe that this was Rook’s chosen solution. Food? What in the world is she doing? Can she not see that the spirit has little interest in food? Clearly it would prefer something more tactile. He’d have assumed Rook would start with a threat from her scythe at the very least.
However, to Solas’ utter surprise, in his lap he feels the spirit still, gaze fixing on Rook.
“Roasted hen and mustard greens.” Rook continues, her eyes never leaving the spirit. Her cheeks flushed at his shame or the effort, Solas does not know. “Cheese fondue with the good Orlesian white wine, carrots and bread on the side.”
“Oh, oh that’s heavenly.” The spirit murmurs, leaning towards Rook. It licks it’s lips, and finally fully lifts it’s weight from Solas’ lap. It has turned in full to face Rook, as if caught in a spell.
Solas can only sit staring from his seat on the ground, still unable to use his legs or arms. How is this working? And just how much experience does Rook have with spirits of Desire?
Rook keeps listing off food, her eyes never leaving the spirit. The spirit of Desire shuffles forward to kneel at Rook’s feet, it’s skin shedding back into purple, wings and horns and tail sprouting from it’s glamor. It looks as though it’s panting. “Yes, yes, that’s perfect sweetling. Give me more.”
“That seafood stew we had at the Hall of Valor. With fresh wedges of lemon.” Rooks says, her eyes wistful. “Mushroom risotto, but the one Lucanis made with the nutmeg.”
Solas finds his own lips parting, still unable to believe what it is he’s witnessing. He has bargained with spirits of Desire in the past. He has even on occasion allowed himself to indulge one, but he has never seen a Desire spirit sustained with descriptions of food alone.
This whole experience absolutely implied that Rook found as much pleasure in food as others did sex, and Solas has no idea what to do with this information. He strangles the errant thought that he might like to watch Rook eat something, just to confirm, lest he can draw the attention of the spirit once more.
The spirit writhes in pleasure, moaning as Rook continues to list off foods. “Finish me, please, oh give me one last, one more, you can do it my good girl.”
“An almost too hot bubble bath, with the rosemary salts, and chocolate covered strawberries.” Rooks says, a forlorn tilt to her brows.
The desire spirit cries out in pure ecstasy, bursting into purple flame. It disappears from view, but not before they hear it’s voice echo, “You were marvelous my dear. Thank you.”
Solas stares at the spot the spirit of desire had immolated before disappearing. He’s having trouble believing that was actually successful. If it weren’t for the fact that he and Rook had come to an understanding, he might suspect her of colluding with the spirit to tease him. Though Solas knows now that Rook would never use a spirit in that way.
In the moment before Solas staunchly started looking at the scorch mark on the ground, Rook had looked just as embarrassed as he.
They sit in a heavy silence for what may be an eternity.
Finally Rook takes a tentative step forward. “Uh…”
Solas shoots to his feet, his limbs under his control once more, needlessly adjusting his coat, armor, and gloves. “I am fine, thank you.” He hesitates and glances up from his hands to find Rook watching him, looking as awkward as he feels. “Thank you for your assistance, Rook.”
“No problem.”
They lapse back into silence. He ought to pretend like this hadn’t happened. They ought to move on. He cannot discuss this with her. And yet, Solas’s curiosity can take it no more. “May I ask why food?”
Rook shrugs. “Because I really miss eating all those foods.”
“But you aren’t hungry?”
Rook shakes her head. “No, I’m fine. I just really want to eat all those things. Foods you’re craving are usually a good thing to feed Desire Demons to get them to back off.”
“And you desire food that strongly?” Solas was still confused on that point. That Rook’s passion for food could match anyone else’s for physical intimacy.
“I don’t know what’s so confusing to you, I’m beginning to think you’ve been deprived or something, Solas.”
“But we don’t need to eat.” It is one of the best parts of the enchantment of this place. Not needing to worry about sourcing calories to fuel them on their mission.
Rook stares at him, before her face scrunches up in disgust. “I forgot you’re one of those ‘eat only because I have to’ heathens. Ugh, Solas, stop talking about that, or you’ll make me sad.”
Solas has never failed to seize an opportunity to gain the upper hand in a conversation, and if he has a chance to deflect from any more awkwardness about the situation Rook had just witnessed, Solas will take it gladly. “Food is only fuel, Rook.” Him describing meals wouldn’t have nearly the same impact on a spirit of Desire.
“Yes, but some of us have pathetically short lives and we need to enjoy the simple pleasures available to us before we inevitably die.”
That draws Solas up short. Is that why? Solas had never considered the possibility, that the brevity of existence was one of the drivers of a love of food. He had sampled unparalleled masterpieces of cuisine before his rebellion, gifted mages who spent decades crafting a single perfect bite. The people living in the mistake of this world did not have such a luxury with their mortality.
“If you think so hard, smoke might start coming out of your ears.”
Solas jerks his gaze up to find Rook looking at him with something akin to pity. “I assure you, I have capacity to think as hard as I need.”
“Yeah, whatever you say.” She jerks her chin towards the path from which she’s come. “C’mon, I assume you’ve had enough rest?” And she starts walking.
Solas wishes to ask if she needs a break after feeding the spirit of Desire, but to do so would be to invite a conversation about the Desire spirit. And he would rather not have Rook remember the way in which she found him.
At this point in their acquaintance, Solas does not know why he dare hope that Rook will leave well enough alone.
They do not manage to walk 20 meters before Rook breaks the silence.
“So… Are we ever going to talk about that, back there?”
“No.”
“Because that desire demon looked an awful lot like me.”
Solas closes his eyes, praying to every worldly spirit to give him strength. “This is not a topic worth discussing.”
Rook ignores him. “And Desire demons tend to take on the appearance of whoever or whatever a person most desires.”
Most desired in the moment, he wishes to correct. There is no universe where he desires the presence of Rook above all else. It is why the spirit of Desire had chosen to present Rook as a vision out of Ancient Elvhenan, and not actually like herself. As someone he might’ve known before his world was ruined. But then to say so he’d need to address why he apparently desired her in that way in that moment, and he will not. “This truly is not a subject fit for conversation.”
Solas should know better by now that the more firm he is, the more obstinate Rook will become. She has unfortunately developed a skill for getting under his skin.
“Varric once told me he thought you’d think I was cute.”
Solas whirls around so hard, he nearly gives himself whiplash. “Excuse me?”
Rook’s eyes are wide in false innocence. She holds her hands up. “Just something he said.”
Repressing the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, Solas turns on his heel and continues marching forward. He can only hope if he ignores the topic long enough, Rook will get tired of chewing this bone.
Varric thought— Solas cannot take satisfaction in knowing he’d been right about Varric’s motivations recruiting Rook. He had proved today just how well the storyteller had seen Solas in their brief history together. Falling prey to a Desire spirit, all because it had taken the countenance of Rook. So many details had been wrong, the armor, the smell, the way his vision blurred.
Yet the spirit had succeeded in trapping him because it had found the core of his desire, what he wanted most: to live in a perfect world where it would be normal for Rook to smile at him, freely and of her own volition.
Pathetic and weak.
Freed from the prison, he should have done away with her the moment he was able. It was her fault he’d been thrust and locked within the prison in the first place. The only reason he had assisted her for so long while he was trapped was because she was his only input in the world. She was too dangerous. A being tailor made to lead to his destruction, the failure of his mission. A distraction in the least. He could not allow himself to be swayed. He has removed her betters anytime they proved to be complications, there is no reason not to do away with her when the opportunity presents itself.
To be perceived in such a way, for her to know the effect she has had on him, Solas cannot bear it. He cannot allow it. It makes her far more dangerous than he should have ever allowed.
Yet she is Dirth'ena enasalin, one of Defiance. In his time she’d have been revered for the warrior she is, venerated and beloved as a hero. Favored by the Evanuris. The likes of her should not exist in this time, it should not be possible, and yet there she stands. She posses her own uncommon spirit of great fortitude, one made stronger by a kindness and understanding Solas has not seen in too long. A curiosity about the world, about him, that in another time he would have loved nothing more than to nourish and guide.
But that is what makes her dangerous.
“I promise I don’t think it’s funny.” Rooks calls after him, allowing him to take as much space as he needs. Even now, Rook has the grace to give him space. She is antagonistic by her very nature and she will not be presented with a better opportunity to tease him. In anyone else, Solas might think her tact a scheme to gain his trust and break down his walls. But no, it’s merely that she does not wish him to be fully uncomfortable. In this moment she chooses to follow along at his back, humming quietly to herself, as if she hadn’t just walked in on him in a lewd position with a spirit of desire wearing her face.
It’s the same grace he gave her after they’d experienced her memory together.
He’d watched her face carefully after his apology. Watched that flare of irritation that allowed her to heal burn bright, only to then smother her first instinct. Instead of fighting she took a breath and accepted his apology. His friend, his dear, dear spirit of Wisdom, twisted at the hands of foolish human mages had told him once that one’s first response was their instinct, but the ultimate choice of response was their heart.
And Rook it seemed had a far more patient and caring heart than he could have imagined.
Easy to manipulate. It would be so easy to nudge her on the path he needs. On the path that keeps him safe from her. Keeps them distant.
And yet.
“If it’s any consolation I’ve spent a little time admiring your face too.”
Solas halts. He glances over his shoulder at her, her expression not nearly as mischievous as he’d have thought. Just smiling at him as if there isn’t a morass of awkwardness between them. He cannot help it, her guilelessness makes him deeply suspicious.
“I have thought about what a Desire demon would try to tempt me with.” She muses, taking a few casual steps towards him, but leaving more space than he’s become accustomed to in their recent travels. Like she’s giving a wild animal the respectful berth it needs to flee. Something in her generosity irritates him to no end.
“Oh?” Curious despite himself.
“Well it can change on any given day, you know.” Rook rocks back and forth on her toes. “It can be people, places, things you’ve missed terribly.”
Solas has to wonder if it was Varric who taught her to be so patient and kind and gentle with others. To talk past a moment of awkwardness and give enough of yourself to let the other people feel at ease. It’s something Solas had often admired in Varric, his unfailing charisma. And now for Rook to worm her way into the little cracks of his defenses, like she’s allowed.
And here he stands, a fool, allowing her.
“A grotesquely indulgent feast of your favorite meals?”
She rewards his participation with a beaming smile. It has it’s intended effect, Solas turns to her, his hands clasped behind his back, making her smile wider.
“I figured you of all people would have known that it’s harder for a Desire demon to get it’s claws into you if you aren’t ashamed of what you desire.” She’s all teasing levity, no rebuke in her tone. Just how many Desire spirits has she faced?
Solas cannot abide her feeling superior in this kind of conversation. He raises his eyebrow, corner of his mouth teasing upwards. “You’re saying that a spirit of Desire wouldn’t use my countenance in it’s woven fantasy for you, because you aren’t ashamed?”
“Why would I ever be ashamed for rightfully thinking someone very pretty is attractive?” Rook is so infuriatingly dismissive, that the compliment rolls off his back, acknowledgment unnecessary.
“Even if I am your enemy?”
Rook rolls her eyes at him. “First, no you’re not. And second, I can’t believe you’re as old as you are and you have never once in all your years thought that someone who you’re plotting to destroy, is also hot.”
She is so utterly naive and foolish and direct, that Solas puts in more effort to curb a smile than he has in ages. “Ah, so you’re plotting my destruction now?”
She bites at the corner of her lip, failing to suppress her smile. “Nope.”
Knowing full well that it is the opposite of what he ought to be doing, Solas takes a step forward, looking down at her. “Then perhaps you are now asking if I’ve ever been attracted to any of my enemies?”
The satisfaction he feels at Rook’s expression lighting up with interest, is something he will need to examine at a later time. “Solas, I have never wanted to learn anything more about you.”
Solas snorts. Utterly foolish. And so is he, for he finds himself charmed once again. He really ought to learn the lesson the Desire spirit should have taught him. That this woman is an exceptionally dangerous indulgence.
Instead he opens his mouth to tease her with a likely story, when the air suddenly shifts around them, and they are no longer in the disordered forest paths turned rock, of the Crossroad’s impression of ruined Arlathan. They stand in the wide, dark halls of the Grand Necropolis.
“Oh come on!” Rook cries, foot kicking at the rock wall that has enclosed them in this space. “We didn’t even see this coming, you can’t just spring this on us, stupid Crossroads!”
Solas draws his gaze from Rook, to the vaulted ceilings, and the wide caverns of the Necropolis. Strange. He had not seen the magical film in the air on their path, indicating the presence of a memory. Typically when the Fade holds onto memories such as these, they carve out the space around them, changing the environment to more closely align with the contents of the memory. It is not typical for a memory to move within the Fade. It stays fixed.
This had felt like someone dropping the memory on top of them. Perhaps it had to do with the disruption in the Crossroads, though Solas has his suspicions. He swears the scythe at Rook’s back winks at him.
Yes, this may just be a spirit controlling the space.
“Rook, I apologize, but we will need to proceed with the narrative if we are to leave this place.”
Flirtatious smiles withered, Rook’s shoulders slump, and she heaves a sigh. “Yeah, I know. Let’s just get it over with.” She grumbles to herself about how it had better not be embarrassing. As she leads Solas to a large chamber, Rook’s head is on a swivel, a frown on her face.
“Is something the matter?” Solas asks.
Rook eyes the corner of the room suspiciously. “It feels like something is watching me.”
Solas looks from Rook to the atrium around them. The space is entirely void of other people, only shallow pools of water in a pattern, and flickering veilfire light. “Do you feel another presence?”
“Yes, though it’s strange. I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s not hostile, at least I don’t think it is.”
“Hm.” He would not agree with that. The attention being paid to him feels very appraising. And very much like the focus of the spirit from her last memory. Solas scans the room once more. “I have my suspicions.”
Before Solas can explain further, the room is suddenly full of dozens of of armed mages and warriors. All these people talking over each other, voices reverberating off the ceiling. Near the center of the room, a handful of people, including what appears to be an ancient spirit stand on a dais speaking to the crowd.
“Oh, the war of banners.”
Solas turns to look at Rook. She does not appear as anxious as she had during her previous memory. “This was the conflict that resulted in you leaving the Mourn Watch?” Solas remembers the report on Varric’s new agent. A Mourn Watch knight who made the politically inexpedient choice to end the undead conflict between two noble houses with a handful of soldiers.
Rook grunts, her eyes not on the people around them, instead glaring suspiciously at the ceiling. “Yeah, it’s just as stupid and annoying now as it was back then.”
Solas follows her gaze, but cannot detect anything out of place. Once it has quieted, he can tell her about his suspicions.
“Peace, please! We must speak of the turmoil” A dark haired woman calls over the crowd. Voices are still raised in debate amongst the watchers, no one is paying attention.
Finally the ancient spirit slides forward, it’s voice resonating in the space, and within Solas’ skull. “SILENCE.” Voices die off mid sentence and a pin drop could be heard in the ensuring vacuum of noise.
The dark haired woman smiles at the spirit, taking a step forward. “I know these are trying times, Watchers, but we have been ordered to hold action until the Grand Council reaches a decision on this conflict.”
“Conflict!?” A voices rages from the crowd.
“They’re destroying whole crypts, Myrna!” Another cries.
“It is the purview of the nobles to do what they wish.” A snobby voice yells, and has equal parts boos and cheers from the crowd at their words.
“Hold, Watchers!” Myrna holds up a hand. The crowd quiets. “We have been ordered to hold actions, but that does not mean we will stay in our cells, waiting for it to be over.” There are angry voices that cry out in response, but they are shushed. “It is still our duty to protect the Grand Necropolis, and though we may not join the fighting of the undead between House Tylus, and House Harriet, we may still stand guard in places we are needed, to protect the crypts.”
There is more discussion around them, more debate, but time bleeds forward, until few people are left in the hall with Rook and Solas. “Watcher Ingellvar.” Myrna calls.
Next to Solas, Rook twitches, as if in instinct, but it is a phantom from a year past who steps forward. She wears heavy green copper stained plate, motif of skulls throughout. Skull helm is lifted off her head to reveal a Rook just over a year ago, her face painted with a black and white skull, cheeks absent of the tattoos she has yet to appropriate. “Yes, Watcher Myrna?”
The human woman smiles, rueful. “You become more polite the more upset you are.”
Skull paint tugs as her cheek creases, and the memory of Rook says. “I do not know what you mean.”
“WE NEED A SOLUTION, ONE YOU ARE SUITED TO.” The ancient spirit says.
“Vorgoth.” Rook tells Solas at his side.
Solas slides his gaze away from the ancient spirit to her. “Do you know what manner of spirit Vorgoth is?”
Rook shrugs. “One’s that older than the Necropolis. But it cares more about it than anyone else.” The scene continues to play out before them, Watcher Rook receiving her orders. His Rook is watching him. “Are there rules to how these memories go, where they stop playing out?”
Solas watches her face closely, curious at just how many of his own she has witnessed, and if he can tease that information out of her. “It would vary, depending on the strong emotion held within the memory. Or if the memory is being held by a spirit, the purpose the spirit resonates with.”
Rook cocks an eyebrow at him. “You have your suspicions?”
Solas hesitates only for a moment. “I believe what drew us here, is the same spirit who’s scythe and fragment you now hold.”
She does not look nearly as stricken as Solas would have thought, instead she is merely confused. “Solas, Defiance is dead. It died during the conflict this memory is about.”
“Depending on the age and power of the spirit, it may not have died in as complete a manner as you thought.” It is something Solas has suspected for awhile. Dirth'ena enasalin in his time would gradually lose power after their patron had perished, to reform within the fade after a long time. Solas had never heard of a Dirth'ena enasalin being granted their powers from a spirit posthumously. And Rook only seemed to grow more powerful in her newfound magic.
The discovery of her ability to heal for each strike of necrotic energy she hits her enemies with, would be a profound concern for Solas if they ever became enemies again.
Rook gapes at him. “You mean Defiance might be alive?”
“I cannot say for certain.” He does not wish to engender false hope. “But, if my suspicions have merit, there is a chance, that with the fragment you carry, as we progress in this memory, you may be able to exert some control over the space.”
Rook doesn’t seem to have heard him. Her face has flit through several emotions. Confusion, wonder, joy, grief, to settling into a thunderous scowl. “Do you mean to tell me, that Defiance has been alive this whole time?”
He had not expected her anger. “As I said, I do not—” It is then Solas notices the way in which the shadows have lengthened from the walls, reaching, as if with hands, towards Rook. “Rook! Watch—”
The last thing Solas sees, before the shadows wrap around Rooks legs and absorbs her into the darkness, is her startled expression shifting to fury. “Defiance, you asshole!”
And then Solas is left on his own. He steps to the now empty floor that Rook had previously occupied. The shadows have fully dissipated, rendering the room into the muted greens of veilfire light. All the characters from the memory have vanished, the spirit choosing to leave Solas on his own. For his benefit? Or to isolate him further?
Solas looks around the space. He had never ventured inside the Grand Necropolis, merely heard it’s echoes throughout the Fade, and from reports of spirits. Some good, some bad, as with any place. Though every Mortalitasi Solas had met had been a new kind of awful. Would this memory be a pleasant one? And would he be allowed to experience it in a more pleasant manner than he had the last one?
“Spirit, may I ask that we speak?”
In answer, a shadow pools on the ceiling above his head. Solas watches as it begins to drip into the form of a long fingered hand. Before he can react, the dripping shadows become a torrent of motion, snaking downwards Solas feels the shadow hand grab him by the wrist.
Solas has no chance to speak again, before the shadowed hand yanks him forward through Rook’s memories of the War of Banners.
Chapter Text
Rook materializes from the all too familiar feeling shadow of sloughing off her within the memory of a hallway tucked in the bowels of the Grand Necropolis, Solas nowhere to be seen and the only thing she can say is, “What the fuck.”
Today had started off fine, as well as any endless day in the Crossroads, side by side with not-a-god Solas. Not that she really tracked days per se, what with the whole timey-wimey bullshit that saw her not eating a single food in basically forever. Islands? She supposed she demarcated time by their progress through the fractured islands of the Crossroads. The start of this particular island had been fine, all things considered.
It wasn’t too hot. It wasn’t too cold. Leaves had fallen intermittently from the sky, like they were deep in the woods of Arlathan. She hadn’t needed to clean darkspawn guts off her weapon in awhile. Solas had shared a story about a spirit he’d once encountered who looked after ten generations of a family farm. They’d had a debate that for them was extremely civil and polite, about whether it was a spirit of Commitment or one of Duty—obviously Commitment, Rook didn’t care what Solas thought, Duty doesn’t love like Commitment does, and taking care of a family farm sounds a lot like love.
Then they’d found a nice little clearing, and Rook had heard a burbling brook off in the distance and went to go clean her hair, among other things. Solas had stayed back, and rolled his eyes at her wink and comment about making sure he had sufficient ‘alone time’.
Hair and unmentionables less greasy and stinky, Rook had waited for her not-a-god companion to join up with her again. She waited for what felt like an eternity, managing to sing every old Alienage song and drinking song she could remember. She had thought it strange that Solas hadn’t joined her yet, and maybe he had actually taken her suggestion to heart, but after her third rendition of Tiddlywinks the Elven cat, she figured that probably sufficed for enough time ‘to himself’. So Rook had deigned to go collect his ass.
Throughout their journey, Rook had suspected for a while that Solas liked her an awful lot more than he’d ever admit out loud. The reluctant ‘I shouldn’t, but perhaps mine ancient ass has affection for this pathetic worm of a mortal’ is absolutely something she could imagine him thinking. Sure, it might all be some kind of long and slow manipulation, making it very hard for Rook to stand in his way when push came to shove with the Veil.
But that doesn’t explain the thing she saw when she walked back into the clearing.
Desire Demon.
Wearing her face.
Draped very sexily over Solas’ lap.
Solas, looking like he’d rather tragically commit genocide one hundred more times than have Rook witnessing this moment even once.
Rook had so many questions. Like when? And how much did he think about her scantily clad? Does he prefer his women assertive like that demon was? Did this desire occur before or after her soliloquy to swamp ass? She kind of hopes after. She thinks that says something about him. Not quite sure what, but definitely something .
And then her stupid Watcher training kicked in, the one that dictated very specific ethics about helping your fellow Watcher under the thrall of a Desire Demon. The one that forbade humiliating the victim of a Desire Demon.
But the thing that Rook most needed to know was if she could make Solas magnificently blush again. Oh how she wants to embed that memory into her brain, to take it out an examine it at her leisure whenever she wants. His ears even went pink!
All she had ever needed to fulfill her from here on out, was to watch this uptight, self righteous, ancient man blush piteously for the rest of her life.
Solas had stomped away and Rook had sat there grappling with her ingrained obligation to not tease a victim of a Desire Demon and the fact that the fucking Dread Wolf apparently thought she was attractive. Too bad for Solas, the urge to badger him is practically ingrained in Rook’s bones at this point, so her ill nature won out.
And just as Rook was testing the waters to see how into her Solas was, and she’s pretty sure the answer is yes , they both got hauled into another one of her memories. Deeply unfair.
Rook had barely had all of five minutes to come to grips with the fact that maybe sleeping with an ancient, temporarily depowered not-a-god, was on the table, before she got sucked into another jaunt through her past.
Solas was absolutely right. The second he said that he suspected Defiance was alive, Rook believed him and knew deep in her soul that Defiance was behind all of this. Probably not the fractured Crossroads thing what with the blight, but Rook being on the cusp of exploring whether or not a man might be into her, only to be interrupted by improbable circumstances? Absolutely something Defiance would do. And has done.
Being interrupted and thrown into a memory just as Rook had been angling for Solas to describe her as the sexy enemy he lusted after? There was no doubt in her mind Defiance was here.
That and she can also kind of feel it, in a very weird sixth sense kind of way. Like a green light in the corner of her eye, knowing she has the attention of something vast, but also something that is her? Something that is her, and not her, had grabbed her from the antechamber, separated her from Solas and dragged her through familiar shadows and into an ancient corner of the Necropolis.
The veilfire torches here are so old, limestone has begun to spread over the metal sconces. She’s walked this path hundreds of times. If Rook comes to the end of this hallway, she will arrive in the room she spent so much of her childhood in, watched over by Defiance in it’s long fingered skeletal vessel.
The room that until moments ago, Rook had been sure was going to be empty for an eternity.
The room who’s entity she had mourned for over a year.
Apparently needlessly so.
Being here, standing in this place she thought she might never return to, Rook feels her irritation ratchet up into an incomprehensible morass of feeling. As if there’s a little humming bird in her chest, vibrating between frequencies of excitement and rage and grief. Her fingers tremble even as she clenches her fist, trying to master her nerves.
And what the fuck was Defiance going to do to Solas?
“Solas?”
Her voice echoes off the walls longer than it should —Olas, —olas, —las…
She doesn’t know if she’s grateful he’s not here to witness her potential breakdown. She feels on the verge of crying and laughing hysterically all at once. Maybe she needs to smash something? She should probably be worried Solas is gallivanting somewhere in her memories without her to supervise. But it would be better if he was, because otherwise he is facing off against Defiance without her, and without his magic.
Funny, Defiance would probably would have liked Solas if Rook hadn’t been flirting with him a few moments ago.
To her left a veilfire torch brightens, and for a moment she can see Solas sitting on the ground underneath it, with the Desire Demon wearing her face draped over his lap. The sheer panic in Solas’ eyes from the memory does make Rook start to laugh. It’s such a relief that the hummingbird in her chest finally calms down.
Rook sucks in a breath, and feels her pulse slow by increments. It will be fine. And maybe she could coax one of these torches into replaying the memory of Solas blushing, and that’s how she could spend her time down here. That wouldn’t be so bad.
Veilfire torches glow brighter down the hallway, lighting the way to the room that should hurt too much to walk into. Instead, Rook’s irritation flares again. Of course the second she wants to look at images of a pretty man blushing, she suddenly needs to be prodded along. If Defiance isn’t alive, then this is the cruelest joke something has ever played on her, and she is going to rip it apart with her bare hands.
Sighing, Rook takes a step forward and watches as little memories from her past stream by.
A toddler giggling madly, chasing after playful wisps. Followed by the long fingered corpse.
A little girl talking animatedly about becoming a Watcher with a group of spirits, Defiance at it’s center.
A teenager getting into a yelling match with Defiance, angry at another boundary crossed.
An adult showing off a new battle scar to the too tall skeleton of Defiance.
She steps into the crypt of the long fingered corpse, the sarcophagus sits pristine and untouched. In the center of the room where she expects the familiar long limbed skeleton, stands a finely dressed human woman Rook had never wanted to see again.
Lady Margaret Ellwood, ex-wife to Lord Tylus, brought to Nevarra from Starkhaven at the age of 15 to marry a much older man. Ostensibly to learn necromancy, in lieu of being forced into a Free Marcher Circle Tower. Her life was an awful, brutal thing, that saw a young girl being forced to miscarry dozens of times, until she birthed a single, sickly child. The light of her life, that would be snuffed out too soon. And in doing so, would inspire Lady Ellwood to orchestrate the events of the War of Banners.
Rook glowers around the room. “What, are you showing me Maggie, because you want to remind me that I’ve forgiven worse things?” Rook grits her teeth. “It wasn’t forgiveness or pity Defiance, it was strategy.”
LITTLE ROOK.
Rook turns, feeling those words reverberate into her very heart. Lady Ellwood disappears, in it’s place floats a massive tangle of glowing green neurons, like a nervous system from a giant. It’s back is coated spindly threads that look as though they are blades.
She has never seen Defiance’s true form, only that of it’s long limbed vessel. But she knows. She knows this spirit better than she even knows herself. Unable to hold her earlier anger, a wave of tears bubbles up Rook’s throat. Her breath hitches, because even as she was trying to paper over her feelings of grief with irritation at whatever game Defiance had decided to play, she still missed Defiance so much. She had missed it.
Rook had wanted nothing more than to see the spirit who raised her one last time. For them to speak again, because it had been so long and she had been so foolish and stubborn.
The spirit form of Defiance drifts in front of her, and the overwhelming emotion that chokes Rook this time is unbearable relief. “Defiance?” She asks, her voice so small and tremulous.
Defiance curls forward, wrapping Rook into the most comforting, strangest embrace she’s ever experienced. Endless tendrils of green neurons wrap around Rook’s body and head, holding her tight. This is what it had felt like to hug Defiance’s vessel. The warm and comforting touch of a parent. Rook can feel tears leaking down her face, sobbing like a child, unable to fathom how she can feel so grateful and so angry all at once.
She can feel a tendril move to stroke her hair, down the side of her ear, and tweak it’s tip, making her sob anew.
“I thought you were dead.” Rook sniffles, trying to pull away from the embrace. Defiance doesn’t let her get far. “I mourned you, Defiance. And you just left me. For a year, where were you?” It isn’t quite anger that drives her. Hurt. Rook is hurt, to have been left alone. To have thought she would never see Defiance again.
Defiance pulls away further, not speaking, merely traces the tendrils of what might be it’s hands down her face, wiping away tears. It tries to turn her, and Rook shakes her head. “I’m not finished, you need to tell me what happened. Why you did this, what’s going on—”
An image flashes in her mind, Rook walking out of the Grand Necropolis, a pack slung at her back. The day she had left after she’d been stripped of her Watcher status.
Rook tries to pull back further, but Defiance holds her fast. “You pretended to die, so I would leave?”
She is trembling again with a tangle of too many feelings, but it’s very quickly distilling into anger. Rook tries to tug herself out of Defiance’s hold to no success. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
None too gently, just as it hadn’t been when she was a child, Defiance grips her shoulders and turns her to face a newly lit veilfire torch, now glowing with memory. Rook grits her teeth as she tries to pull out of Defiance’s hold. They aren’t done talking yet.
WITNESS.
The word reverberates in Rook’s skull and she glowers at the memory beginning to play out before her. Despite herself, she finds her mouth falling open. It is not one of Rook’s memories. It belongs to Defiance.
Hawke leans heavily on his staff, his other arm dangling at his side, his face bloody, as a massive primordial demon of fear looms closer. The Primordial Fear looks singed and broken in many places, but whatever resistance Hawke has put up is no longer enough.
“You won’t have the best of me, not yet.” Hawke says through gritted teeth, his staff glowing with power.
The Fear demon is about to attack, when a blazing green light stands in it’s path, saving Hawke. It is Defiance, standing as it does now, a massive nervous system of green energy, to help Hawke fight off the demon.
Rook gapes, turning her head to ask Defiance if it had truly been there to save Hawke during that battle, and better yet, why the hell it hadn’t said anything to Rook before. This would have been more than ten years ago now. Only she finds that Defiance has completely disappeared. Rook twists around to search the now vacant room, ignoring the appearance of the greater spirit of courage emerging within the memory still playing. “Defiance?”
She steps away from the memory, feeling her ire start to build anew. There is no sign of Defiance anywhere. “Defiance! Are you serious right now?”
No answer.
The last time Defiance had used it’s shadows to yank Rook to it’s corner of the Necropolis, had been the time she’d vowed she wouldn’t ever speak to it again. When very similar to now, Defiance had tucked Rook away so it could go ‘deal with’ a perceived threat.
That threat last time being a traveling bard who Rook had been besotted with, begging her to come run away with him. Not that Rook would have left, she’d just been selected as Myrna’s apprentice and she had no interest in leaving the Necropolis.
Rook can only assume Solas is about to be tortured by a spirit who has a lot of trouble with the concept of boundaries. “Defiance! Stop whatever it is you’re doing!” She shouts to the ceiling. Her and Solas hadn’t even actually done anything yet either, so this hardly seemed fair.
Rook wanders close enough to another torch that a new memory triggers. She’s been put in a timeout, made to watch memories that should hold her attention, about Hawke of all people, as if she’s some kind of child. “For fuck’s sake—”
It is Defiance within the fade, in a domain not unlike the Grand Necropolis. Across from Defiance stands Hawke, lit golden from within by the greater spirit of courage he had joined with.
The two spirits do not talk with voices, and yet Rook knows what is being said.
“It is time to call in my favor, Era'harel.”
“I had wondered when that was going to happen.” Hawke crosses his arms, leaning on his back foot.
Defiance pulls Rook’s scythe from the air, holding it in front of itself. “You will deliver this to my child in her moment of greatest need.”
Rook snorts from where she’s viewing the memory. “I can think of plenty of times I was in dire need, and could have used a cool necrotic spirit forged scythe.”
“Yes, well, you had to be within the Fade for me to get it to you. And unfortunately you had too much of a handle on every situation in the Crossroads for me to intervene.”
Rook jumps, twisting around to see a golden lit man standing next to her. He looks amused. Rook gawks between the memory of Hawke, conversing with Defiance, and what doesn’t look like a memory standing next to her.
“Oh, yes. That’s because I’m not. Real deal here.” Hawke lifts a hand to wave at her. “Hello, it’s nice to actually meet you.”
Rook continues to stare at him silently. Her mind, once saturated in too many feelings to count is now a blank void as she stares at the man whose picture decorated her wall. Hawke, her personal hero. Hawke, fused with a spirit of courage who can probably read her mind a little bit.
Hawke’s eyes practically twinkle. “This is where you say ‘nice to meet you too, serah Hawke. I’ve heard so much about you.’”
Air whooshes out of Rook’s lungs—she hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath. “Are you actually here?”
Hawke gives her a charming smile. “In the flesh. Spirit flesh I suppose. More or less.”
“But how?” There’s one hundred thousand other questions Rook wants to ask, but she tries to remember that she has other pressing concerns. What were they again?
“Oh you know. I wanted to check up on how you were doing with your new spirit magic.”
“Me?” Rook asks, breathless. Hawke reaches forward and boops her nose. Rook is deeply embarrassed that she starts to giggle.
“Yes you, you utter cutie patootie. Besides, old Defy-fy here played a memory with me in it, so the rules got loosey goosey enough for me to pop in and say hello.”
Rook can feel the doofiest smile of her life greasing across her face. “This is— You know I was about to have a whole lot of feelings about Defiance abandoning me here.” Oh right, that’s one of the pressing concerns.
“Yes, I could see that.”
“But this is way better than that. I’ve always wanted to meet you.” She admits, only a little shyly.
“Aw, I love meeting fans.” Hawke winks at her, and Rook finds herself giggling again.
Rook rocks forward on her toes and wants to ask him about the Fade, and Courage, and if it’s true that he had a crush on the Arishok, and why Defiance helped him and—
Rook blinks, remembering exactly where she is and why she’s here and what the fuck Defiance might be doing. She slaps a head to her forehead, fully clearing the muddle of her thoughts, ignoring the way Hawke guffaws at her.
Trying very hard to replicate the dignity with which Solas stands about in the world, Rook straightens. “Anyways, this is terribly exciting. I’m so honored to meet you, and I absolutely can’t wait to tell Varric about this.”
He’s going to be so happy, Rook knows. She can see his face now, that shocked eyebrow lift melting into an easy smile. Maybe some of the sorrow Varric had been cloaked in could finally ease from his shoulders. Hawke looks pained, and it must be because he knows how sad Varric has been without him. But they can reunite in the Lighthouse, and… And—
Rook frowns, her thoughts feel even fuzzier than before for some reason.
“Rook, can you tell me what you think about Solas?”
Rook blinks, her brain swimming through an inexplicable fog. Hawke’s expression looks a lot more grave than she’s ever imagined it. “Solas?”
“Yes, Solas. Dread Wolf, Fen’Harel, probably too many nicknames to count. I personally prefer using ‘that uptight twat.’”
“You want to know what I think of him?”
“I’m just curious is all, you’ve been traveling with him for awhile now. Have your opinions shifted?” Hawke asks.
“From when he was in the prison, or when we were hunting him?” At Hawke’s nod, Rook purses her lips. “I mean, I don’t know. He’s…” She has no idea how to put it into words. In a short amount of time, Solas had gone from a myth Rook hunted, to reluctant enemy, to an odd kind of advisor to whatever she could label him now.
Rook shrugs. “He’s more of a person than I would have thought.”
“You’re sure he’s not just trying to gain your sympathy?”
“I mean, he could be. But he’s not doing a very good job if that’s been his intention this whole time.” Rook frowns. She wasn’t stupid. She knew from the start Solas had been angling at manipulating her from the confines of his prison. Little pokes and prods and the occasional little compliment to get her to behave in ways he wants.
But over time within the Crossroads Solas has been different. Especially from her initial impression, and not just because of what she’d witnessed earlier with the Desire Demon.
Even before she’d been given the scythe, she and Solas had found a pretty decent rhythm with each other. A lot of their initial traded barbs had gradually eased into a kind of fun verbal duel of sorts. The kind that that Rook so rarely got to engage in but she always found deeply satisfying. It was fun to antagonize him, and be antagonized back. She thinks he enjoyed it too. They worked well together in fights, and also working through strategy like with the revenant.
She and Solas were pretty similar in some ways. And very different in others.
And then there had been that time after she got the scythe, when they were having actual honest to goodness conversations. Solas had said something rude about Hawke’s ability to handle a crisis and Rook had lifted her hand threatening to flick him in the ear again if he didn’t take it back. Solas had sniffed at her that he does not bow to the will of tyrants, and it had been so funny, that Rook had momentarily forgotten to who she was speaking, and had instead reached to tweak the tip of his ear, like Defiance used to do to her. It was pure affection and teasing.
Solas had frozen for a moment, staring like he couldn’t believe that had happened. Which had just made Rook laugh harder, and he had scoffed, but she knew he was hiding his own laugh. Like he couldn’t believe someone would ever touch him just to tease. That she would. It was from that moment on where Rook had made the decision to start playfully poking at him during their travels. An elbow here, a tap of a hand there.
Rook just couldn’t shake the feeling that Solas enjoyed it. He wouldn’t allow it otherwise.
Maybe that was him manipulating her. Or maybe that was someone unbearably lonely, stiffly and awkwardly easing into an unfamiliar rhythm of friendship.
Hawke is scrutinizing her. “Then let me ask this, what do you want to do with Solas? If you could choose anything, what would you do with him?”
The first thought to strike her is get him out of his pants, and Rook is so startled, that her face goes hot and she looks at a point over Hawke’s shoulder, praying silently that her hero does not mention this fact for the love of Andraste’s tits. “What do you mean?”
“If you could redeem him, would you set him free? Do you think he deserves that?”
“I don’t think it’s up to me to decide whether or not Solas gets redemption, Hawke.”
Hawke’s laugh is self effacing. “You will be surprised what decisions might fall into your lap, once people start looking to you to make decisions for them. You know a lot about me, right?” Rook nods, feeling a little shy again. “Right, so you know that I had to choose what to do with Anders.”
Rook swallows. She remembers. Anders. The healer amongst Hawke’s friends, a mage turned Grey Warden, turned vessel for a spirit of Justice, who would one day go on to blow up the chantry, kicking off the mage rebellion. Varric had not really talked about Hawke, but he talked even less about Anders. “You let Anders live, didn’t you?”
Hawke’s smile is rueful. “Yes.”
“Did you regret it?”
Hawke’s expression is far away. “No, I don’t. I didn’t. Because I knew that even if Anders thought he was right, the man was going to do everything in his power to make up for this one terrible, violent act. Because he was my friend, and I loved him.”
“You’re asking me if I trust Solas enough to make the right decision and to strive every day to put things to right?” Rook asks, her chest suddenly feeling tight. Deeper in this well of memory Defiance controls, Rook feels a resonant anxiety elsewhere. She turns her head towards it, brows furrowed. Was that Solas?
Hawke takes a step forward, his expression serious. “I’m asking if Solas persists in trying to tear down the Veil, what you will do?”
Rook stares at him. The answer obvious. “I’ll stop him.”
Hawke makes a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. He shakes his head. “You don’t sound as certain as you need to, Rook.” Her shoulders stiffen, offended, ready to argue, but Hawke holds up a hand. “It’s alright if what you want is for him to choose life. This life.”
In one of the rare occasions Varric brought up Hawke himself, he had once said that more than anyone he’s ever met, Hawke had a unique ability to cut to the heart of an issue. Rook never thought she’d ever experience this uncanny gift. It’s kind of terrible. She feels awful. Guilty and confused, and defensive and embarrassed and also at the same time she wants to founder in her hope, as naive as it feels. It’s the little glimmers of the better person Solas has at his core, that make her want to believe he might make the right choice. That he’s too smart, too clever to be so foolish.
That Wisdom wouldn’t be so blind.
“He doesn’t think he deserves it it though.” Rook says, voice small. Because that’s easier than her saying that no one matters to him enough for him to try.
Hawke steps forward, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Because he doesn’t, Rook.”
Unbidden, Rook’s hackles raise. She can feel the fragment of Defiance within her ignite with the need to argue. “Why do you or I get to decide that? Why can’t he choose for himself? That’s part of the problem isn’t it, that he had no choice to start with?”
She will never forget the worst of Solas’ statuettes. The hideous memory of Wisdom. The one that makes her feel sick if she thinks about it too long. The one that complicated everything.
Hawke removes his hand. “And if he chooses to kill everyone because he’s too blind?”
“Then I will stop him, but not before he makes that choice.” Rook says firmly.
Hawke looks her in the eye, sucking on his teeth. She stares right back, her chin lifted. Finally Hawke clicks his tongue. “Ugh, it’s exhausting getting caught up in these machinations that are millenia in the making, I’m sure you’ll understand what I mean in due time.”
“Sorry, what? Millenia machinations?”
Hawke rubs a hand over the back of his head. “You, like me, will at some point discover that a lot of choices you thought you were making were part of an elaborate scheme by some ancient areshole.”
“Who would scheme something like that? Solas?”
This at least makes Hawke crack a grin. “The only justice in this world, is that prick is just as caught up as you or me.”
Rook squints at him. “Alright. Schemes involving Solas make sense, God of treachery and bullshit and all.” Hawke snorts at that. “But why would anyone wrap me up in some elaborate scheme as you say?”
“Aren’t you the new hero standing up to the gods with little backing or support?” Hawke cocks an eyebrow at her.
Rook snorts. “I’m just a victim of sudden and inconvenient field promotion. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Mm. And why were you in the wrong place at the wrong time?” Hawke’s eyes glitter with gold, and Rook doesn’t think it’s mirth.
She frowns. “I don’t—”
Hawke sighs loudly and stretches his arms over his head, interrupting her. “Well I suppose this question is moot anyways, seems like Defiance is taking the choice out of all of our hands.”
“What do you mean?” Rook doesn’t have a chance to wonder at his words, entirely focused on what mischief Defiance has decided to enact. That weird resonant frisson of anxiety trills in the back of her brain again.
“Defiance is going to try turning Solas back into a spirit, sounds like. Knock him off the board as it were. Less variables. Easier to predict.” Hawke waves a hand in the air, like oh well.
Rook’s mouth falls open. “Defiance is going to turn him into a spirit?” It can do that?
Hawke shrugs. “It thinks our boy Solas would be a better advisor to you as a spirit of Wisdom, or whatever wretched thing it becomes from what he is now.”
The first regret. The one that started it all. “Is this what Solas wants?” No. It couldn’t possibly. He wouldn’t want to deviate from his path. Not when he’s so close. Not when it would mean sacrificing the fragment of Mythal left in the waking world would be for naught. This is Defiance choosing for Solas, taking the choice out of his hands once again.
Rook stares hard at Hawke. “I need to stop Defiance.”
Hawke’s good humor has returned. “Lucky for us, you’re just as much an entity of Defiance, as it is now.” He reaches forward to tap her scythe. “You should be just as in charge of this space, as it is.”
Rook takes the scythe off her back, gripping it in her hands. Even more clearly than before she can feel the emotions of others in this place. As a spirit must experience the world. Hawke, full of regret and pride as he leaves the memory, giving her a wave. Defiance, so close to triumph it can taste it.
And Solas, more afraid than Rook thought he could feel.
Knowing exactly what she must do, Rook turns and heaves the scythe through the air, chopping into the space between herself and Defiance.
The scythe stops mid air, as if caught in an invisible trunk. Rook sneers, ready to pick her first, and very necessary, fight with Defiance in nearly a decade.
Chapter 10
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Solas’ free arm pinwheels in an attempt to maintain his balance as he is yanked through memory by a spirit Solas is now certain is Defiance. Memories stream by rapidly, the contents embedding into his consciousness, though his eyes have no time to discern what he’s seeing. It is not pleasant, but it is fair better than being made to drown as he had last time.
Increasing and ongoing devastation across the Necropolis, perpetrated by battalions of undead commanded by one of two noble houses. Hundreds of spirits scarified in the conflict. The Watchers are ordered to stand in the way, but never to attack the two warring houses.
Rook from a year prior leading her team on patrols in the older parts of the Necropolis. A handful of Watchers to patrol the majority of the ancient hallways, where most other Watchers are stationed to protect the crypts of powerful families. Rook uses spirits as an early warning system to aid the movement of her team. She has tremendous impact with this strategy.
Endless debates between Watchers and nobles alike—what can be done, how do we stop this, perhaps it would be better to let this ride. The cycle never ends. More spirits are hurt. Ancient crypts that have stood for 1000 years plundered like a toy box, all because the noble family who rests there are all dead and they have no one to advocate for their remains.
Rook’s increasing agitation. Her aggression spiking. Finally resulting in being screamed at by nobles and senior watchers for the transgression of preventing a wight from hurting the spirits animating the dead. Rook is ordered to stand by with her team for now while the senior Watchers work things out. Her fury so palpable, Solas can almost taste it.
The hand abruptly lets go of Solas, and all motion suddenly ceases. He takes a moment to catch his breath, slumping bonelessly onto a nearby stone bench. Those memories had been far more pleasant than last time, but he would hardly call it comfortable. His mind reels, attempting to sort the influx of information tumbling through his skull.
Solas looks up, finding himself in the chamber of the long fingered corpse, the one that had once housed the spirit of Defiance. Across the walls skulls and flying birds stain the space in speckled green light. The same motif as on Rook’s scythe. In the center of the room is a stain of what might be washed soot.
A spirit death.
“This was your death? Why do you wish to show me this?” Solas asks the empty room.
The lights on the wall grow brighter, and suddenly the world tilts once more, and it is as if that shadowed hand has grabbed him by the back of his collar, and is dragging him down a hallway of more memories. Solas kicks his feet, trying to find purchase as more memory swallows him whole.
A tattoo-less Rook walks into the room of the long fingered corpse. Swirling motifs of skulls and birds move about the room, glowing green. The corpse is gone, the spirit dead.
Rook on her hands and knees wailing, tears streaking through her skull paint, over the blackened stone of a recently departed spirit.
The hand grips tighter, nearly choking Solas as he is pulled through a memory of Rook screaming at Myrna, that she will not be made to stop. That she will no longer wait. Fuck the nobles and anyone else who tries to tell her otherwise.
Rook leading a small handful of loyal initiates and knights through the halls of the Necropolis, taking their home back, slicing through hordes of undead nobles. She takes brutal satisfaction in finally being able to act.
Finally a central chamber, deep within the bowels of the Grand Necropolis, an elevator at it’s center. A desperate fight, Rook attempting to cut a path to the center of the room, as the elevator begins to descend, carrying the masterminds of the conflict. Rook leaping over the edge into the dark—
“Elgar, dirthara lasa ghilan. Mana, ma halani.” Solas calls before he can be thrown over the edge, following the memory of Rook’s daring leap.
All motion ceases, the hand encircling his collar let’s go. Solas picks himself back up, finding himself in a green lit void. Mist swirls at his feet. Solas cannot see the spirit, but he knows it’s there. Can feel it’s immense presence watching him, waiting.
“Ma serannas.” Solas says, bowing his head. The spirit still does not wish to be seen, but it is willing to listen to him. “May I ask what it is you wish to show me?”
The heavy presence of the spirit rolls forward, changing and stiffening the mist at Solas’ feet until he is once more standing within the chamber of the long fingered corpse. This time he is not forcibly dragged through the memory, like scraping bare skin on rock, but instead, Solas realizes he is seeing the memory as a spirit would. The walls are not true walls. He can see and feel wisps from a great distance moving within the Necropolis, the candle flicker flame of mortal souls moving in the floors above. A precious one that resonates like his but not, high in the upper floors of the Necropolis.
This expansion of his senses makes his heart twinge, for it has been a very long time since Solas has known the world like this.
He watches as a human woman walks into the room, bracketed by two animated corpses, trapped within a geas. He can see the leash she holds. They move as if puppets would, their motions clumsy and slow.
The long fingered corpse holding the spirit of Defiance looks at the woman, but it does not move to stand, remaining caked in layers of dust. It has not moved in a very long time.
The foolish human woman uses Defiance as a source of power to fuel her undead army of nobles. Defiance does not fight back, thought it could do so easily. The long fingered skeleton collapses in on itself into dust on the floor. It is sickening to watch.
“You allowed yourself to be killed?” Solas asks the pile of ash on the ground, remembering the memory of sorrow as Rook wailed over that pile of dust. His jaw clenches, angry but not on his behalf. “To what purpose? Did you wish to pass?”
In answer the spirit shows him a brief glimpse of the exterior of the Grand Necropolis, the light nearly blinding after the darkness of these memories. Out the front doors walks the woman who would become Rook, a determined slant to her shoulders as she walks away from the Mourn Watch, into the destiny that would see her joining Varric, and facing Solas.
Solas breathes in a startled breath as the vision fades and he’s once more enmeshed into the dim green void of mist.
“You wished Rook to leave? Did you know she would seek me in the end?”
SOLAS.
It is not his name that reverberates through his skull, but the word itself. Pride.
“You think me arrogant?” Solas calls into the void, feeling the spirit shift around him. “Perhaps so, one does not survive for as long as I, without learning a thing or two about pride.”
Solas swears the derision the spirit casts in his direction feels so much of Rook, that he can almost see her rolling her eyes at him. It has the corner of his mouth creasing, despite himself. “So you wished for Rook to leave the Necropolis, what purpose did that serve?”
The memory the spirit shows him this time is the culmination of the memories it had forcibly dragged him through before. It is Rook discovering the ultimate plot, facing against the mastermind who helped destroy massive swathes of the Necropolis, destroyed many spirits, and killed Defiance.
All the machinations of one human woman, a cast off Free Marcher wife of one of the involved noble houses, getting petty revenge for the death of her son. The details bore Solas, like a ridiculous pulp novel Varric might have recommended him once upon a time. Petty machinations for foolish un-people. The human woman, a necromancer, controls the leaders of the false civil war, orchestrating all of the devastation.
This woman had not been in Solas’ reports about Rook or the Mourn Watch from his agents. A forgotten detail perhaps?
He watches the memory of Rook realize what’s going on, her fury. Ostensibly, the reason Solas knew nothing of this woman, was because Rook had snuffed out her life. Another footnote to history. He waits for Rook to enact her revenge.
Only…
As the memory fades, once more in the green void, Solas turns, trying to see the spirit. “What was the meaning of that?”
The spirit says nothing.
“She let the woman live? To what end?” Worse, Rook had spared the mastermind of any wrong doing, desecrating the corpses of the former heads of house Harriet and Tylus to leave no witnesses. A desecration that would see Rook banished from the Mourn Watch. And Rook had left the true culprit to walk free, all because the woman had cried over her son?
Rook was many things, but Solas had not imagined her to be needlessly sentimental.
EMMA SOLAS HIM MAR DIN’AN.
This time the voice comes from the space behind Solas. He turns to see an unreasonably tall green shadow standing in front of him. Threads of power wind around it’s body, like a densely packed nervous system. Defiance is not merely a greater spirit. It is very, very old.
“It is not arrogant to question why she might’ve made this choice.”
Defiance lifts a hand, and the mist around them surges upwards, showing Solas another memory. The world around them dissolves, before reforming into a small dormitory cell. Solas can see a painting of Hawke hung on the wall. For a moment he is distracted, hungry to take in the details of Rook’s room in the Grand Necropolis. A single wide bed with a quilted comforter on top, motifs Solas recognizes from Alienages across Thedas. A shelf overflowing with books. A folded chess board tucked under the bed frame. Wisps hang in the air, giving the space a warm blue glow.
The memory Rook sits at the small desk in the corner, writing a letter. She’s in plain clothes, not dissimilar to what his Rook wears now. A rucksack sits at the base of the chair, full of provisions for a trip. She is about to leave this place for a long time.
A hesitant knock sounds at the open door.
The memory of Rook turns, and she cocks an eyebrow. “That’s unexpected, I thought you’d be kicking your heels, skipping to Starkhaven by now.”
Lady Margaret Ellwood, mastermind behind the War of Banners, stands at the door, her mouth pinched, hands folded in front of her. “May I speak with you, Watcher Ingellvar?”
“I’m not a Watcher anymore.” She gestures that Margaret should shut the door.
“Watcher—” Lady Ellwood starts, before correcting herself. “Serah Ingellvar, I want you to know that I will stand by my promise to help rebuild this place after the chance that you’ve given me.”
Rook stares at Lady Ellwood chin in her hand, expression unreadable.
Lady Ellwood hesitates before she takes another step forward, her hands clasped in front of her. “But I must know. Why didn’t you turn me in? After everything I did, I would have assumed… Anyone else would have…” The lady wrings her hands together.
The memory Rook gives Lady Ellwood an unimpressed stare. “It wouldn’t be very just, would it?”
Solas frowns as he looks at the Rook of the past. Justice? She cared about justice?
Lady Ellwood sucks in a breath. “Then, you understand why? Why I had to do what I did, you think me just—”
“No, you weren’t.” Rook’s voice is all ice. “You did unspeakably terrible things, because some assholes did unspeakably terrible things to you.” She pushes up from her desk chair, standing to look Lady Ellwood in the eye, her fury apparent. “I’m never going to forgive you for what you did to the Necropolis, to my home. To—”
Rook takes a breath. “But if I had told anyone about you, you’d have been paraded around as this foreign interloper, the evil witch who nearly defeated the Mourn Watch. You’d be executed, and the next time a group of shit stain nobles got it into their heads to do the same thing, the people responsible for protecting this place would need to sit on their hands for months, while other shit stain nobles debated how best to handle the situation.”
Rook’s grin is more a bearing of teeth. “Nah, House Tylus and Harriet can pay to repair everything and shoulder all the blame, I frankly don’t give a shit what happens to you, so long as I never have to see your face again.”
The memory ends.
Solas is still staring at where Rook’s snarling face had disappeared, unsure of what the emotion in his chest is. That was… She had been…
“Calculating?”
Solas jerks, and Defiance stands at his back, now deigning to speak with him. Or perhaps it had needed him to see all the memories it wanted, before it could talk. If it had been killed in the waking world in the last year, it may be experiencing limitations to some of it’s power.
“I have not known her as long as you, but I did not know she could be so shrewd.” Solas tucks his hands behind his back, shoulders straightening.
“Only when needs must.” Defiance says, weight leaning backwards, to sprawl mid air, as if in a large throne. “Though she was raised to be much more straight forward. Uncomplicated.”
Solas would debate the idea that Rook is anything approaching ‘uncomplicated’, but he need tread carefully until he knows what Defiance wants.
“It was clever, to ensure no scapegoats, instead the families who did the most destruction would suffer.” Solas muses. “You must feel satisfied, knowing she can be more delicate in her acts of defiance.”
He feels the weight of Defiance’s attention. There is no malice in it’s regard this time. “You have no memory of me, do you?”
He cannot remember ever meeting a spirit of Defiance like this one, though it would have been much younger in his time.
“You survived the sundering of our world?” So many spirits had been lost, fractured or twisted by his terrible accident, his Veil. Another of his many crimes. So few of the oldest remained still, untwisted by the horrors of this new world. Solas wonders if he might’ve survived if he’d never taken flesh of his own. Perhaps. Perhaps…
“Yes, not nearly as old as you Hahren, but close enough that it need not matter.” Defiance raises a spectral neuron filled hand to the vicinity of it’s chin. “But this is not why I have brought you here.”
“Then you have reason for separating Rook and myself?” Solas had wondered.
He is under the distinct impression that Defiance is smiling at him. “Yes, this was a conversation you would prefer to have with me alone.” At his raised brow, it continues. “I can see within you, Hahren, the death of your rebellion.”
“I assure you, it still stands strong.” Solas says, shoulders straight.
“It does not, you’ve grown weary and uncertain in your path. You defy Elgar’nan as more habit, than of righteous passion. I have witnessed your fluctuating resolve with my little rook.” Solas flinches, hating how much he knows Defiance must have seen.
Defiance is not unkind. “I can feel the ooze of your jealousy, witnessing something like me, when we would have been much the same, a long time ago.”
Solas shakes his head. “That is not true. I stand firm in my resolve. You speak as though I do not still wish to stand for what I do. What I have always. I have suffered limited control to affect change recently—”
“Yes I am aware of your control .” The energy around Defiance flares and the mist thickens, cloying. An error to have even referenced the blood magic connection he has with Rook, this spirit clearly cares for her a great deal. “Were you capable of yoking her to you now, you would already be dead and we would not be speaking.”
Solas lifts his chin. “I will not apologize for exercising what limited options I had available to me.”
Defiance flicks a hand in the air, as if dismissing the thought. “I have watched you since the first memory, Hahren. You desire more than anything for a return.”
“Yes, I wish to see the world restored to what it was.”
Defiance chuckles. “No. You want a return to simplicity. I have seen you tread the paths of Wisdom once more with my little bird, debating philosophy and histories and stories.” Solas can feel his breath stall in his chest. “You have known more happiness and satisfaction in recent conversation than in the pursuit of any of your grandiose plans.”
Solas takes a step back. “That is not true.” It can’t be. It isn’t. Rook’s company is more enjoyable than Solas would have thought, but she is still nothing but a half life.
Defiance tilts its head. “You need not feel such conflict Hahren. Such doubt. I can offer simplicity. I can offer a return. I can make you what you should have remained.”
Solas takes another step back, unable to believe he is about to be offered what he is. It should not be possible with the Fade sundered from the world. “No, you needn’t offer. Please. I do not want—”
“You do, Hahren.” Defiance lifts itself to a stand, looming over him. Solas finds himself frozen to the spot, staring into the green glow of one of the most powerful spirits he has witnessed in a very long time. “You wish to return, to that which you once were. It is an act of defiance against your goals, and in doing so, makes me certain I can help you with this.”
Solas isn’t sure he’s breathing anymore. “I cannot.”
“You would be Wisdom once more, free. No longer a slave to sorrow and guilt and the horrors of all that you’ve wrought.” Defiance tells him.
It’s too sweet a promise, beautiful and terrible at once. It is all he has ever wanted, and nothing he has deserved since the moment he agreed to Mythal’s request to join her. He cannot go back, he can never be what he once was. He is forever tainted. Ruined. Whatever he is now, Solas knows it is no longer Wisdom.
Defiance leans closer. “It won’t hurt, I do not think.”
He does not want this. He cannot. It is everything he has wanted, but knows is unattainable. It is the cruelest thing ever offered to him. He cannot, he will not. To become a spirit now would dishonor all those he has wronged to come this far. He is unworthy. There is still so much that he needs do. “Please, stop this.”
His pleas falls on deaf ears. Defiance raises a hand. “All the better you should resist. You will strengthen my act.”
Before a change can take place, and before Solas can scream, there is the sudden familiar hiss of scythe slicing through the air behind him. It draws Defiance’s attention. Solas is finally able to uproot his feet, and he takes several steps back, knowing without thinking that it is far safer here, than anywhere near the greater spirit in front of him.
Solas turns, to find the tip of Rook’s scythe blade suspended in the air in front of him. It wiggles in place, the very air feeling as if it’s tearing, hissing around the wound floating before him.
“Ah, my little rook figured it out finally.” Defiance says, fond exasperation clear in it’s tone.
Solas can hear Rook’s voice, muffled as though through water. She is clearly swearing up a storm. Her voice eases the tension wound around his lungs, allowing Solas to take a breath.
The blade finally slices through the air, and Rook stumbles into the misty green void, as if tripping through cloth. Solas catches her before she can tip forward. She jerks her head up, thunderous brows lifting into a surprised smile. “There you are! I thought you’d be in here.”
Solas is nearly bowled over by how heartened he is at her smile. He grants her a small one in return, helping her straighten. “Yes, lucky am I to have finally been found.”
Her smile stretches wider, until she looks beyond him, the scowl reasserting itself on her face. “You!” Rook brushes past Solas to storm up to Defiance.
“Hello again little one.” Defiance coos at her. The spirit now holds itself very differently from what it had with Solas. He has not been able to see the flow of spirit aura in a very long time, not since he raised the Veil, but he swears if he could, he would see Defiance glowing with the pink hues of ebullient joy.
Rook on the other hand looks apoplectic. “First you drag me into a freaky long limbed too many creepy nerve endings hug, and then you ignore anything I have to say about the fact that I fucking mourned you for over a year! Because you’re not actually dead! And then you sit me in front of a bunch of memories starring Hawke, telling him to give me this scythe, as if that is comparable to a fucking explanation.”
“You’re very welcome for that by the way, I knew it would make you happy to meet the Champion of Kirkwall.” Defiance tells her, nonplussed.
“I don’t care about that! That is not what we’re talking about right now!” Rook rages.
“Well you have the scythe, and this is all that matters, sweet one.”
“Don’t you ‘it’s the thought that counts’ me!” Rook splutters, perhaps angrier than Solas has ever seen her. She whirls, pointing at Solas. “And what did you do to Solas, were you threatening him?”
“I would never.” It does not surprise Solas in the slightest that Defiance is powerful enough a spirit to lie.
“Yes you did! You lying asshole, I can feel you being threatening in here.” Rook very purposefully steps between Solas and Defiance, and Solas cannot believe he feels any amount of relief at the display. Though perhaps chances are very good Defiance will leave him alone while Rook is here. “You’re not allowed to touch him, he’s off limits. Leave him alone!”
“Whatever for? I merely wish to help you, little bird.”
Defiance threatened to rip away Solas’ physical form, plucking at a tangled deep rooted desire and fear within himself, because it believed that would help Rook? Solas grits his teeth, even more annoyed at how grateful he is towards Rook.
“Because I said so Defiance, and after you made me think you were dead for a fucking year, you’re going to leave my people alone, I’m not having this discussion with you again.” Rook does not see Solas’ raised eyebrow at ‘my people’. Their argument smacks of an old point of contention, Solas merely a new addition to an ongoing conflict between them.
“I’m not, not dead.” Defiance sniffs. “The body I partially occupied in the waking world was destroyed, leaving me stranded in the Fade.”
“What do you mean partially?” Rook grits out.
Defiance ignores her. “And what is a year in the span of a lifetime?”
“Statistically 1.3% of my lifetime.” Rook snaps back, apparently keeping that fact in her back pocket. Solas wonders if the reason why she always has a retort for him, is because she was raised by this spirit of Defiance and became very practiced at arguing. That would indeed explain a lot about Rook.
“Oh, you will long outlive your average lifespan now, I have ensured this.”
Rook responds by making a sound like a tea kettle set to boil and choking the air in front of her.
It is like watching an unstoppable force break upon an immovable object, neither moving an inch. In any other context Solas would find their conversation endlessly fascinating. A primordial spirit of Defiance, and it’s mortal elven charge, a lifetime of affection and frustration between them. And yet, Solas must wonder, why exactly Defiance summoned them here. Now that he understands the breadth of it’s power, was it merely to attempt to force him to transform into a spirit? Or was there something else?
Defiance tilts it’s head to look at Solas, and he notices then the shape of this creature’s spectral ears are awfully familiar. “It is good that you never chose to have children, Hahren.” Defiance gestures towards Rook. “The spawn of my line are all very difficult personalities.”
“Your what?” Rook squawks.
Solas looks between Defiance and Rook, mind racing. Defiance had a physical form once upon a time that it at some point eschewed back to spirit. A physical form that had children. Children in a line of descent continuous, leading to a baby being left under mysterious circumstances within the Grand Necropolis.
“Who were you?” Solas asks Defiance.
“I am Defiance.” Says the spirit, looking decidedly smug.
“Sorry, what?” Rook waves her free arm in front of Defiance, glowering over her shoulder at Solas. “I’m your spawn? Do you mean I’m related to you? You’re telling me this now!?”
Defiance reaches down and tweaks Rook’s ear, a gesture Solas is now intimately familiar with. He notes how Rook leans into the touch for a second, before jerking away, shoulders hunched. “Something like that, little rook.” It is only then that Solas can see the phantom of vallaslin etched in a pattern as a layer over the infinite neurons of Defiance’s body.
The vallaslin found only on those that served Falon’din.
Ah.
Solas did not lead the first rebellion against the Evanuris. He was merely one of many in different times. The Dread Wolf’s rebellion is only significant for it’s success, in that he eventually managed to imprison the Evanuris. If Defiance had once been a part of the resistance that sprung up out of any of Falon’din’s atrocities, then it surely must have been Ghilan'him banal'vhen, the death lord’s elite band of killers. Each shaped into long limbed warriors by Ghilan’nain, all so they could eschew more elegant forms of magic, to fight enemies physically. All of them the perfect tools to fight the Titans, resistant to the horrifying magics Titans could strike the Elvhen with.
Eventually after the defeat of the Titans, Falon’din had ordered all of Ghilan'him banal'vhen to kill themselves in their lord’s name. For no greater purpose than that their style of fighting was no longer ‘in fashion’ for the new ‘gods’ of Elvhenan. Unsaid was thate the power that made the Ghilan'him banal'vhen resistant to the Titans, also made them resistant to the Evanuris.
The Ghilan'him banal'vhen had led an effective and bloody struggle against Falon’din and Dirthamen, before finally being put down a few decades after their conflict began. Solas had often wondered if he’d started his rebellion just a little sooner, if he could saved some of them. If they could have stood shoulder to shoulder against the Evanuris.
Solas stares at the scythe grasped in Rook’s hand, and sees it for what it is. A weapon for an extremely powerful warrior, one who’s last intention had been to kill the very gods it was forged to protect. An intention carried to this era, where Rook’s mission is to stop the last of the Evanuris.
Fate does not exist. There is no predetermined path. Not one that cannot be broken. Solas knows this to be true.
And yet, for Rook to stand here raised at the hand of a spirit of Defiance, her ancestor. A spirit who once stood against the Evanuris, only to later gift Rook a weapon forged to kill those very same gods, thousands of years later. Set on her path to hunt Solas by the death of this very spirit.
It is not fate.
It is a long and slow conspiracy. By Defiance? Or by someone else? Solas cannot see.
“Ah Hahren, you were always too clever by half. I’m not allowed to give up everything, not yet.” Solas frowns, not allowed by who? Defiance turns to look down at Rook, once again tweaking her ear. “I suppose it’s time to go.”
“What! No! What? What about the spawn thing?” Rook takes a step forward, expression stricken. “Defiance, I swear by all the bones of—”
“I needn’t tell you to make me proud dear one, for I know you already will.” Defiance touches Rook’s cheek and looks up to give Solas a nod. “When it is time to slaughter the last of the Evanuris, I will be there, ready to assist.” With that threat, Defiance takes a step back, the curtain of memory it had dropped on them dissolves with it, leaving Rook and Solas once more standing in the Crossroads.
Rook gapes into air where Defiance had vanished. All because Solas had followed his reason to whatever plot Rook and Defiance are embroiled within. Solas frowns, feeling a twinge of guilt for her. That had not been a gentle goodbye. He imagines being raised by such a creature as Defiance explained quite a bit about Rook.
“Rook…” He calls, half a mind to distract her, curious to know her thoughts on the encounter. Wishing in no small part to thank her for coming to his rescue. He can even admit it, he needed to be rescued, and he is unbelievably grateful to her. He cannot tell her of the fate she rescued him from, but he will show his gratitude nonetheless.
Rook surprises him by jamming the haft of her scythe into the ground and shaking her fist into the sky. “This is exactly why I stopped talking to you for nearly a decade, you asshole!”
Solas stares at her shaking fist, the impotent rage on her face so comical, the tension of the day so absolutely absurd, that Solas surprises himself. “Pfft.”
Rook turns to him, failing to look affronted as she appears to be attempting. “Oh you think it’s funny, do you?”
“I do not.” Solas says with a shake of his head. “Merely, I wonder how often you found yourself at odds with Defiance such that did not speak to each other over the years.”
Rook fails to keep her expression flat, her eyes twinkling and the corners of her lips curved up. “Last time it interfered in my social life, I told it I wouldn’t speak to it until it apologized.” Ah, that would explain why Rook got so heated about the ‘my people’ portion of her and Defiance’s argument. “And it told me that I would break, so I out stubborned it for nearly ten years, until it died, but not really.”
Solas searches her face for any sign of that grief he’d needed to toe around so carefully, at the beginning of the day. There is none that he can see. “You are alright, that Defiance was not truly dead?”
Rook puts her hands on her hips. “I know how spirits are born, and how they reform. I knew it was powerful, so it wasn’t truly gone. I just didn’t realize it really wasn’t gone-gone.” She sighs. “I just wish it had let me know sooner. Now that you’ve met it, you can see why I might be annoyed that I mourned it when I didn’t have to.”
Solas fails to suppress his smirk, and Rook merely sighs, throwing her hands into the air.
Solas debates with himself whether he ought to mention what he learned in her memories. But without Rook, Defiance may have turned him. May have broken him even further. Solas owes her this at the very least. And perhaps she might reveal some of the conspiracy. “Did it mention why it allowed you to think it was dead?”
“To get me to leave the Mourn Watch, apparently.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“How do I feel about the spirit who raised me more or less pretending to die, forcing me to mourn them, all to convince my stubborn ass to leave the only home I had ever really known?” She asks, dry.
“Not wonderful, I imagine.” Solas replies, equally dry.
She gives him one of her titled smiles. “I don’t know Solas, if it didn’t do that, I wouldn’t have met Varric, wouldn’t have tried to stop you, and we wouldn’t be undertaking this wonderful adventure together, would we?”
Solas takes a step closer to her, the corners of his mouth turning up. “So what you are saying, is that I have Defiance to thank for all that has occurred since I had the misfortune of your acquaintance.”
Her grin widens further to flash him some teeth. “No, that was all me.”
“Just so.” Even now Solas can see the cogs turning in her mind. “You must have questions about what you learned today.”
An old inclination rises within Solas, reminded once more of what he was long ago. The one that seeks to guide others in their search for truth and meaning in the world. He’s always enjoyed learning, but to teach and guide others is a pleasure engraved into his very being. Wisdom. He will never be Wisdom again, but that doesn’t mean he cannot help others seek their own. It was once his purpose after all. His breath comes easy, decision made. When she asks, he will be there to help.
She looks him in the eye, chewing on the corner of her lip, and Solas has the sudden and wild urge to reach up and soothe her. “Defiance called me it’s spawn.”
“Yes.”
“Which means I’m descended from it?”
“That seemed to be it’s implication, yes.” Solas wishes for nothing more than to witness her logical leap, to watch her catch herself on new information, and ascend to new heights of understanding.
Rook’s brows knit together in thought. “Is it possible for elves to become spirits once more upon their deaths? Or is something special needed?”
Solas breathes in sharply, astonished at where her musings led her in such a short amount of time. She’s incredible. It has been so long since Solas felt anything approaching joy, that it takes him a moment to identify the warm sticky kernel in his chest. The joy at another person’s discoveries. That for all his attempts at finding connection with the elves of this time, all it had taken was her. All he had needed was Rook, and her insatiable curiosity, a driving need to understand the world around her. “What do you mean by ‘once more’?”
Rook isn’t looking at him, eyes distant as she sifts through her thoughts. “Well the elves were once spirits, right?”
She’s brilliant. A shinning light within the veil of darkness of this age. For her to have made that connection so confidently with nothing but an offhand comment from Defiance about it’s spawn—Rook is truly a tremendous entity. He slides into old habits, delighted at how comfortable they are. “And what causes you to believe the elves were once spirits?”
Solas wants to understand, he wants to know the logic she used, he wants to see her and know her.
Rook’s head tilts, like she doesn’t understand how he hadn’t followed. “Well, I know you were a spirit of Wisdom once upon a time, before Mythal—”
The warmth radiating out of his chest is swiftly extinguished, replaced by ice. “How do you know that?”
Rook startles, staring up at him, and he watches realization dawn in her expression, before she averts her eyes. She wasn’t supposed to reveal that she knew this fact to him. “I—”
Solas steps closer to her, hearing his own heartbeat drum in his ears, his breathing feels ragged. “Rook, what have you seen?”
The time between his question, until Rook lifts her eyes to look up at him is an eternity. Parts of himself that Solas hadn’t even realized he missed, start to once again shatter at the guilt apparent in her gaze. “During our travels in the Crossroads we came across some statuettes. Back at the Lighthouse, they revealed some of your memories.”
A thousand possibilities flash through his mind, making his tone even harsher when he asks. “What were the nature of the memories?”
She bites her lip and it is no longer charming. Where once it had thralled him to her, he now sees it for the horror she represents. For his failure she will insure.
“Regrets.” Rooks says softly, the word burning through him. More regrets, of course.
Solas lifts his gaze staring beyond her, imagining he knows exactly what regrets he would discard in the Crossroads. What would cause Rook to look at him with so much guilt, a woman with little shame, to cringe at sharing the knowledge of what she’s seen of his monstrous past. The idea that Rook and her companions had born witness to his greatest mistakes, that he’s carried for thousands of years. The parts of his past that bring him shame. That set him on this path to try and fix some of those mistakes. To assuage even a fraction of his guilt.
Mythal. The Veil. The Titans. The Blight. Ending Wisdom to become Solas.
Rook had seen, and she had known for the duration of their travels. She had known this entire time. When in their meetings within the Fade prison had she changed? She could not have known the entire time, but was it before or after Weisshaupt? It had taken her an awful long time to visit him after that mission. When she arrived did she look at him with hatred? Compassion? Disgust? He cannot remember.
Solas looks at her and sees the awful little enemy that Varric had hand picked to try and ruin him. The one set on her path by a spirit of Defiance who wanted nothing more than to spit in the face of the Evanuris. Solas sometimes lets himself forget that many once considered him part of the Evanuris.
Rook is an unholy monster, tailored to ruin him.
Solas takes a step back, turns on his heels and begins walking in the direction of the Lighthouse.
“Solas?” Rook calls, and he does not care to read a single emotion in it.
She was always meant to be nothing but a tool. It was his mistake that led him to forget that. He would allow her to steep in her guilt, all the better for her to be useful in protecting him until they reached the Lighthouse. Once he had the knife in hand, he would discard her like he did any obstacle in his path. Like he had with the Inquisition. Varric.
Like he had with Felassan.
Fen’Harel was always meant to walk his desolate path alone. Solas will tear down the Veil and he will allow nothing to stop him.
Notes:
Hawke said "Millenia Machinations" and Solas replied "Pardon me???(full offense)"
Uncommon Elven Translations:
Elgar, dirthara lasa ghilan. Mana, ma halani = "Spirit, share your knowledge. I ask only for help."
Emma Solas him mar din'an = "Arrogance will be your end"
Dirth'ena enasalin = Arcane Warrior (affectionate) how Solas refers to Rook, now that she carries a fragment of Defiance within her.
Ghilan'him banal'vhen = Technically it's the pejorative way to describe Arcane Warriors. I'm using it to apply to a special kind of fighting unit that once served Falon'din, who eventually rebelled. Much like how Solas' identity changed through his act of rebellion against the Evanuris, so too did Defiance's making the description an insult. Discrete from how Solas describes Rook.
Chapter 11: Chapter 11
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It has been seven, maybe eight islands since Solas has spoken to Rook, and she thinks she might slowly be going insane.
Rook hadn’t realized that she apparently thrived off conversations with other people. Something about being raised in the Necropolis, surrounded by spirits all day, every day, meant she was never far from someone to chat with. Varric was always a willing conversation partner during their journey and at the Lighthouse, and if he was too tired, then surely someone on the team was up and about and wanted to talk about their foibles and concerns and philosophy or teach Rook something.
She’d even inflicted conversation on the Caretaker more times than she could count at its little store front in the Lighthouse.
It was with no small amount of horror that Rook came to realize that she may in fact actually be a chatterbox. Resulting in the personal hell she’s in now, because Rook had come to rely on antagonizing, and later having conversations with Solas to keep her grounded and sane in the Crossroads.
Therefore Rook had made overtures by poking Solas with an olive branch here and there. After that initial storm off, crushed by the weight of her guilt of how she revealed what she knows, Rook had tried to give Solas some space. One and a half whole islands worth of quiet contemplation time, which had felt very generous at the time. She had kept her mouth shut, trailing after him as silently as she had ever managed.
Rook had naively assumed after helping him cut through a small pack of darkspawn, where he had very deliberately tripped and stabbed one of the small shrieky ones lunging at her, that things could then go back to normal. Or at the very least stilted.
She’d pushed hair out of her face, given him a lopsided grin and told him thanks for that. Solas had responded by giving her the most withering once over of her life, before he’d picked his way through the battle field and walked away.
That was probably the moment her seed of resentment decided to take root.
Which isn’t to say that Rook didn’t keep trying. On the next island she attempted some banal commentary on their surroundings as an opening volley into conversation. “Huh, interesting to see pine trees like this in what’s meant to mirror Rivain’s coast line.”
Nothing.
Then she tried a casual musing out loud. “I can’t wait to have a bath when this is all over.”
Ignored.
Starting to feel agitated by the fifth island. “I’m glad we haven’t encountered any weather extremes lately.”
Denied.
Even attempts at poking the bear in the room—“Maybe we could talk about what I’ve seen in your memories?”—had earned her nothing but a ‘I would kill you if I had access to my magic’ death glare before Solas had turned on his heel and marched off.
It was in that moment that Rook knew: this mother fucker is purposefully trying to make her feel guilty.
And why should she feel guilty? All she did was admit that she’s seen some of his most traumatic memories. Regrets… She’d watched the word hit him like a ton of bricks, scrape down his face leaving him momentarily raw and exposed. She’d effectively and brutally killed that little spark of joy she’d been so enthralled to see in his face.
Solas had been looking at her like she was some kind of revelation and she had never wanted that to end. She’d looked into the smile on his face causing the barest wrinkle of crows feet at the corner of his eyes and she’d wondered if maybe being what he was, Solas was able to experience that sense of completeness spirits could have by fulfilling their purpose. If guiding someone in their pursuit of understanding was what made a former spirit of Wisdom feel whole.
Rook had wondered if she had helped him feel that way. She wanted him to keep feeling like that.
So it had been at the forefront of her mind when he asked what she meant. She had forgotten how she’d been very deliberately not thinking about how much she knew about the man in front of her, and his past. And she just let it slip.
“Well, I know you were a spirit of Wisdom once upon a time, before Mythal—”
Rook is pretty sure she could joyfully stabbed him in the chest a few times, and she wouldn’t have caused as much damage as she had.
The guilt is compounded when Rook remembers the way her and her team had talked about his memories in their discussions. How much spiteful joy she had taken in ripping apart his choices. How long had the debate about whether or not Solas and Mythal had fucked lasted over dinner and drinks the evening after they saw that particular memory? Hours. Even Bellara had eventually gotten tipsy and laughed at the jokes despite her earlier protestations. How hard had Rook laughed about Taash’s assertions that Solas was probably a terrible lover?
All sparked from a memory of Solas desperately trying to stop the most important person in his life from confronting the other Evanuris. They laughed about that memory hardest, ignoring the fact that it was the last time Solas ever saw Mythal alive.
She feels a little sick when she imagines him listening in on that particular conversation. Because it would serve no other purpose but to hurt him.
And just as Rook is about to self flagellate in her remorse, she will remember the time recently when she tripped over a root because she wasn’t paying attention, scraped her knee and tore her leggings. And where a handful of islands ago, Solas would have helped her back on her feet, giving her a long suffering sigh about watching where she’s going. Instead Rook had looked up to find Solas looking at her like she was a moron, the corner of his mouth quirked up in a mean smile.
Like he found satisfaction in her suffering.
Rook had known intellectually that Solas was a petty asshole, but genuinely and sincerely, fuck him. All she’d done was watch a few memories, and not tell him about it until the worst possible moment. It’s not like she was the one who had tranquiled the fucking Titans.
The worst part of this silent treatment was that Rook had no one to talk to about Defiance. And she really, really needed to talk about Defiance, and the fact that she’s apparently related to it? Which means someone had intentionally gifted baby her to Defiance. And she had a lot of questions about that, like who? Why? She’d never really thought about her birth parents, but had they been murdered in order to bring her to the Grand Necropolis?
It was very typical of Defiance to drop cryptic mind blowing information on her and just disappear when she’s still asking questions. The chip on Rook’s shoulder just keeps growing when she thinks about how many nights she had spent trying to hide her tears in her bedroll while traveling with Varric and Harding, mourning Defiance, who wasn’t even dead. Worse, had pretended to die, or ‘left it’s partially occupied form in the waking world’, in order to convince her to leave the Necropolis.
Hawke has said something about machinations a millenia in the making, and she does not like how she can feel those words like an axe cheerfully swinging above her head. It would be so great to talk to someone about it, even if they were unbelievably rude about it.
Evil mastermind that he is, Rook knows for a fact that Solas’ strategy here is to torture her with his lack of conversation about Defiance. He knows she’s probably boiling over with the need to talk about it, and he’s withholding in order to make her suffer.
At this point she’s pretty sure their relationship is far worse off than when they’d entered the Crossroads and Solas had tried to turn her to stone. Which feels very dumb. Viewing traumatic memories does not feel like it should be on the same level as disrupting his world ending ritual and accidentally trapping him in his Fade prison, and periodically having fraught, insult laden conversations with the man.
Stupid Solas and his stupid big feelings. Stupid big mouth. Stupid Defiance. But if she’s going to castigate blame around, Rook throws a stupid Mythal in there too, because this ultimately feels like it’s probably Mythal’s fault a whole lot too. Rook isn’t certain how, but she bets there is some amount of their current situation she could throw at Mythal’s feet.
The chunks of Crossroad islands have converged in this area, slowly becoming denser as they move along the pathways, until finally Rook looks around, and realizes it feels as though they’re in massive caves, not dissimilar to the Deep Roads. The giant carved Dwarf statues littering the space seem to indicate so as well.
She cups her hands over her mouth in the hopes her voice will reach Solas, far ahead of her. “Do you think there’s a reason the Crossroads are suddenly like the Deep Roads?”
Surprising her not in the slightest, Solas does not respond. Instead, the fucker turns a corner so he’s completely out of her sight. Rook swears, and picks up the pace. Stupid squishy mage, letting his big feelings get in the way of Rook needing to protect him from the dangers of this place.
She rounds the corner to find Solas standing in a front of a large carved rock door, a scowl on his face. There’s looping sigils carved into the door that Rook thinks might be Elvhen, but she’s no Bellara and can’t tell.
“Let me guess, the door has some kind of puzzle we need to solve in order to get it open?” Rook asks, trying and failing to keep the glimmer of hope out of her voice. She would take a good tedious puzzle right now, even a Venatori crystal contraption. It would give her something to do outside the mire of her own head.
Solas glances at her out of the corner of his eye, before he does the most scathing wrist flick any person in the history of the world has ever done, gesturing towards the lever next to the door. He doesn’t move to pull it though, so Rook sighs and trudges forward to pull it herself.
“Hold.”
Rook pauses, looking at him in askance.
Solas isn’t looking at her, his scowl still fixed on the door.
Rook waits another century of seconds before she sighs. “Why can’t I pull the lever?”
“I am deciphering the ancient elven script on the door.” A mere eight islands ago he would have been pleased to explain the why of that to her. Not anymore.
“And why is there ancient elven script on a dwarven door?”
“This is the Fade.” He says, like she’s very stupid.
“Okay then.” Rook goes to sit on a nearby rock, waiting for him to be done. Scythe laid beside her, Rook tucks her hands underneath her knees and looks around the space. A massive cavern made from dozens of fractured islands. The air and the light feel so much like the Deep Roads, she feels like she’s going to see a vein of lyrium, or some lava dotting the crevasses between island chunks.
Only that is not the case. Rook leans back to look over the edge of her island to see. No lava, just unending grey blue void as far as the eye can see.
Solas is still scrutinizing the door like it is the bane of his existence. She wants to ask what’s taking so long, given he’s an ancient elf, shouldn’t he be able to read ancient elven? But to ask, would be to invite one of those venomous glares, which she just is not in the mood for. They didn’t used to bother her. It used to be Solas would look at her like she was dog shit on his shoe, and she’d bare her teeth at him and they’d be going at it in a contest of insults.
Maybe Rook had been too spoiled, getting used to his occasional smiles and dry sarcasm. Now when he looks at her like she’s scum of the earth, all she feels is guilty. Before that quickly morphs into seething resentment at being made to feel guilty.
Rook begins knocking her heels against the stone to give her something to do while she waits.
Solas twitches, but keeps resolutely staring at the door.
It’s too bad her scythe doesn’t need sharpening ever. That would kill some time. Solas had told her, in the times before when he didn’t hate her guts, that spirit forged blades tended to keep their edges permanently, unless something happens to the spirit. Which means this scythe is going to be sharp forever, Defiance was a lot older than Rook had first thought, and was probably going to stick around until the heat death of the universe. Rook picks up the scythe, the metal scraping against stone, and begins rolling it around her palms.
Rook looks around the room, and notices that Solas appears to be gritting his teeth, a muscle feathering in his jaw. Hmm, he must be concentrating oh so hard.
Rook taps her toes in time with the rhythm of her heels, and sucks on her teeth. Another weirdness about the time dilation thing, is that Rook’s teeth are as smooth and freshly brushed as they’d been right before she’d gone to visit Solas when this all happened. Which felt weird, because she needs to wash everywhere else. Why just her teeth? Maybe because her teeth are inside her mouth, which is technically inside her body?
It would be great if Rook could carry this part of the enchantment with her. She had always secretly aspired to be one of those rare skulls in the Necropolis to have all it’s teeth intact whenever she died and she’d have the honor of being added to the prestigious collection—
Solas whirls on her. “Are you incapable of being silent for five minutes!?”
Rook freezes, staring at him. Solas’ chest heaves with the force of his breaths, his brows thunderous, and the only thing Rook can think, is this is the longest he’s looked at me in an eternity.
“But I didn’t say anything.”
Solas forcibly scrunches his expression, trying to smooth it into his superior indifference, but he’s having a lot of trouble. His hands aren’t even tucked behind his back, instead fisted at his sides. “You’ve an uncommon talent, Rook, for making an obscene amount of noise, for one who says nothing at all.” He practically spits her name, there’s so much vitriol in his tone.
Rook is but a humble moth to the flame of his attention. And this moth has been oh so cold. She raises her eyebrows, scraping the leather of her boots against stone and purposefully knocking her scythe against her armor. “I do?”
She swears Solas’ eye spasms.
“Are you going to tell me why it’s taking you so long to read ancient elven writing when you’re,” she gestures at him vaguely. “You know, an ancient elf.”
Solas straightens, his emotions once again in check, hands tucked behind his back. Drats. “There is little point discussing it with you. It is beyond your comprehension.” He pointedly turns to once again asses the the door.
Rook doesn’t want the conversation to be over. It has her blood pumping. She feels alive. If he won’t accept her attempts at being nice, she’ll fall back on old trusty habits.
“I have a working theory that you only say ‘it is out of the realm of your comprehension.’” she does a poor stodgy imitation of his voice that has him arching a brow at her, sending a thrill up her spine. “When you don’t actually know what you’re talking about, and don’t have the words or knowledge to explain it.”
She watches eager for his reaction. The brief closing of his eyes, she can practically hear him telling himself not to react. For the killing blow she drums her fingers against her armor. Thack-thack-thack-thack.
Solas snaps.
“Very well, I am certain you are familiar with ancient dialects across Elvhenan, such as Aelin, Barad, and Onodrim, and how when written into a visual medium they have a tendency to move with meaning, further exacerbated by the exegesis of such words into the Fade by spirits.”
Rook stares at him, understanding about every second word.
“I take it by your slack-jawed gape, you do not in fact understand, and I was correct in my assessment that there is truly no point in speaking upon the topic with you.” Solas’ voice drips with condescension.
That old familiar warmth that builds in Rook’s stomach and makes her want to prove him wrong. “So is the door covered in characters from each dialect, or is the problem that the words are formed with a blend of each?” She will not do either of them the disservice of butchering the pronunciation of the elven words he’d spoken.
Solas seems to pause, his irritation diffusing by millimeters. His brows pinch together, glancing at the door. “A blend, making it more challenging.”
“And we shouldn’t pull the lever because you think it might be a warning?” Rook asks.
Solas looks back at her, his irritation giving way to weariness. “What are you doing, Rook?”
“Having a conversation about a weird door.” What does he think they’re doing?
“No, you’re trying to pry conversation out of me. You’ve been bored and lonely, and decided to annoy me into speaking with you.” His gaze levels on her, and Rook feels a prickle of shame at having been so obvious. “What I can’t understand, is why you’re bothering.”
Rook shifts in her seat uncomfortable. “What do you mean?”
“It is plain to me, based on your behavior, that you have spent all this time we’ve been in the Crossroads together, attempting to burrow your way past my defenses.” Solas tells her, ignoring how she tilts her head in confusion. No she hadn’t. “To what end? After all that you’ve presumably witnessed, you know it is not possible to dissuade me from my goals.”
Standing before her is the Dread Wolf, the one she’d first encountered in that prison, fresh from having his ritual spoiled. The one with the hateful eyes, who’d have crushed her on the spot if he could have, prowling his cage like an enraged animal. The severe disdain for someone so beneath him, who otherwise wouldn’t bear thinking about. Or at least, that’s the mask he’s trying to put back on. After all they’ve been through together, she can see the way this mask doesn’t lay flush over the man underneath. Little gaps, here and there where it would be easy to knock his mask askew.
“I don’t think that’s strictly true, Solas.”
She watches a storm cloud pass over his features. “And what exactly do you think you understand about me?”
“Not much.” Rook admits. “Only a small part, but what I do know is that you wouldn’t be acting like this if I hadn’t hurt you by not being more forthcoming.”
The blow glances off his outer armor, unconcerned. She doesn’t believe that for a second, he just has a great face for Wicked Grace. “And you think you are capable of wounding me?” His voice drips with contempt. “It’s good to know that you are as arrogant as you are deceitful, Rook.”
“And what would you have preferred?” Rook asks, pushing to her feet. “On that first day, should I have turned to you and said, ‘funny story, me and my friends sat around watching your most traumatic memories, isn’t that hilarious, Dread Wolf?’ Would you have preferred that?”
“Of course your little companions bore witness as well. I can only assume how much amusement you all drew from what you witnessed.” Solas is pure hostility.
It stings, and whatever expression she makes, makes him latch on harder. “Of course you did, thinking yourselves safe from my recriminations, with me locked in that prison. Have you considered that you and your petty judgments and cruelties make you no different from those you claim to stand against?”
“As if you’ve never ridiculed someone with power before!” Rook shoots back. Solas only looks more enraged.
“And am I so terrible that you feel the need the to cast me in the same villainous light as Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain? Have I not assisted you in fighting against them?”
“I don’t know Solas, they want to Blight my world, but it seems to me like you also want to destroy it. Remember how we got here?”
He sneers at her. “How could anyone forget the ignorance of your ‘intervention’ to save the world? If I recall it was you who released the Evanuris in the first place.”
“Oh no you fucking don’t get to put that on me.” Rook takes a step forward, hands strangling the haft of her scythe. “That was your ritual, I was there to save the world from being destroyed by you!”
“And it was you who insured it would fail, releasing Elgar’nan to blight everything. Excellent job saving your world.” Sarcasm drips from his words like acid.
“You know for someone so hellbent on fixing his mistakes, you have a hard time learning from them don’t you?” A wild, angry part of her wants him to hit her, so she can hit him back twice as hard.
His lip curls as he looks down at her. “And what mistake do you think I ought to have learned from?”
“Quitting while you’re ahead. Unless you really do want to be like Elgar’nan, and double down on your own myopic vision for what the world should be.”
Solas rears back like she struck him. “And you wonder why I have no interest in speaking with you any longer.”
Rook rolls her eyes. “I’m sure you’d prefer if we lived in a universe where I never got to see your greatest fuck ups—”
“I’d have preferred an apology!”
Solas’ voice rings out, reverberating and echoing through the cave. His fists are once more clenched at his sides, and he glares at her, daring her to speak back.
Rook scoffs. “Apologize? For what?”
The muscle in his jaw feathers once more, but he does not answer, merely glowering at her.
She scoffs again. As if she has anything to apologize for. It wasn’t Rook who broke the world twice and then in an insane amount of guilt at killing the Titans, unleashing the blight, and Mythal’s eventual death, created the Veil only to go whoopsies and decide to tear it down, ignoring the lives of all who would suffer in the act.
All Rook had done was view a bunch of his memories.
Without his consent.
And not apologized to him once.
Rook is suddenly reminded of a rule from the Mourn Watch so ingrained, that she never had to think about it twice. Certain explorations of the histories of the dead can only be undertaken if a person has no living relatives or friends, to preserve the person and their people’s dignity. That people are entitled to their privacy, as well as the people who loved them.
When viewing Solas’ memories Rook hadn’t considered that rule once, because nearly all of those memories were so old, they were basically ancient history. But Solas is standing right there, in front of her. And she’d violated his privacy, because those memories had such a tremendous impact on the history of her world, on their present, that she had forgotten that they belonged to someone. A person.
Solas is a person.
He’s more of a person than she thought, Rook had told Hawke.
Rook stands stunned, her rebuttal dead on the tip of her tongue.
She had— She hadn’t apologized. At no point, had Rook ever said sorry to him. Even after admitting to the handful of his rebellion memories she’d witnessed, she’d been so focused on her own feelings, she hadn’t tossed him a cursory apology. Nothing.
And she had allowed herself to ignore that fact. Instead, she’d reasoned that she needed to understand Solas more. Understand her enemy.
But Solas hadn’t forgotten that the subject of these Fade stored memories were about a person. About her. He knew. He understood. He’d apologized to her after witnessing her first memory. Or tried to, and she’d brushed him off. In her second memory, as they were enclosed within it, Solas had apologized that the only way they could get through this space, was by going through the memory.
Solas had treated her like a person, one who was deserving of holding her dignity. She had not given him the same courtesy.
Solas continues to stare at her, the hateful glowering mask, cracking just enough to show the hurt underneath.
Rook licks her lips. “I—”
The lever next to the door shifts and pulls downwards with a loud thunk, drawing both their attentions. As the vast stone doors begin to swing open, a terrible and ferocious scream blasts in their cavern, reverberating through Rook’s skull and into her bones.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.”
A terribly long limbed demon pushes through the door, standing nearly two body lengths taller than her. At her side, Solas swears in elven.
Rook really fucking hates fighting these guys. She picks up her scythe, and waits for the demon to charge.
“It is an Envy demon!” Solas shouts at her as he dives away.
Rook side steps at the last second as a hideously long arms take a swing at her. “I know what an Envy demon is!” She brings up her scythe to block the next swipe, parrying, and manging to shove the demon back a few steps as it leans out of her reach.
Stupid long legged stick bug demon motherfuckers.
Instead of pressing the attack, the demon looks between her and Solas before it dives towards the ground, the air creaking with the sudden shift in energy. Rook swears, and begins jogging in zig zag patterns. She really hates when they do that. Especially when the timing varies so dramatically between each sudden burst from the ground, it was hard to predict, and hurt like a bitch if you failed to do so.
She scans the cavern, seeing if she can see the telltale glow of the Envy demon under ground, when she spots Solas. Standing still. With an Envy demon in the ground. Rook turns on her heel and pelts towards Solas as fast as she can. “Why aren’t you running!?”
“Do not distract me.” Solas calls back.
Rook manages to reach him as the ground starts to creak, she tackles Solas away just as the Envy demon bursts through stone. It shrieks enraged at her for foiling it’s plan. No time to scold Solas, she gets up off him, her scythe raised to absorb the next blow from the demon. She shoves it away as hard as she can.
“Have you never fought one of these things before?” She shouts at Solas, not taking her eyes off the demon in front of her.
“Of course I have.”
“Are you sure, because rule number one when fighting an Envy demon, is if you suddenly don’t see the Envy demon, you start running.” Rook catches two of the demon’s claws with the edge of her blade, and manages to slice them off cleanly. The demon shrieks, hopping backwards.
“It is simple enough to dodge, so long as you focus your timing right.” Solas shouts at her, rounding behind where she and the demon face off so that he might come in for a pincer attack.
“Yeah, if you can fade step maybe. I have yet—” Rook ducks down before the Envy demon can knock her head off. “Yet to see you dodge roll once.” At Solas’ answering silence, she figures she was right on the money, and he was being pouty.
“Just stand back and I’ll handle it.” She swears as the demon once again dives into the ground.
“Yes you have an excellent handle on it, I can see.”
Rook scowls at him, as she strafes along the outer edge of the cavern, keeping her eyes peeled for any sign of the demon. “I would like to see you do better.”
“I am no Dirth'ena enasalin, as I understand it this is what you were made for, is it not?” Solas calls, snidely. Wisely keeping himself moving this time.
Rook looks over at him as she continues jogging. “Wait, were the dirt-somethings—”
“Dirth'ena enasalin.”
“Yes, those. Were they demon hunters?” Rook jerks hher gaze back to the cavern, remembering she’s supposed to be looking for a demon ready to burst from the ground, and not asking Solas questions about ancient history.
“Not as such, though it would not be uncommon for their patron spirit to request services that may lead to the hunt of another dangerous spirit.” Solas explains, and she watches him catch himself, frowning like he wasn’t supposed to actually answer her question.
Rook is about to ask more, when she sees a faint light, and the flick of a tail near the center of the room, closer to Solas’ direction. She pauses. “Solas! It’s there—”
Just as she shouts, the demon disappears once more. That was weird. Envy demons usually weren’t smart enough to taunt their prey. Frowning, Rook scans the space. Completely forgetting her number one Envy demon rule.
The Envy demon is suddenly beneath her feet, and before Rook can react, it emerges from the ground, knocking her into the air. This wouldn’t be a problem, if she weren’t already at the edge of the platform. Scythe knocked from her hand, spinning in the opposite direction, Rook falls backwards over the edge of the island.
Her arm reaches out at the last second, fingers scrambling on roughened tiles. She digs her fingertips in the crease between tiles, and tries desperately to hold on. Her legs kick behind her into nothingness, there is no purchase to be gained. Taash had told her she would regret not increasing her finger strength, because one never knew when they’d need to climb.
Her fingers are damp with sweat, and she can feel herself slipping, and she really doesn’t want to die falling in the Fade. She didn’t even get to apologize to Solas properly yet.
The Envy demon shrieks in what sounds like pain, and just as Rook thinks her grip is going to falter, Solas is there, sliding across the ground, flat on his stomach to grip her hands. “Hold on!” he shouts at her, face all grim determination.
Rook emits a sob laugh as she grabs the firmer hold of his forearms, hard enough to leave bruises. “That’s the plan!” Solas begins to tow her backwards onto the island, teeth gritted. “I’m never going to say anything about your mage noodles ever again.” She vows. Solas meets her eye then, and she has never been more grateful for a sardonic expression in her life.
Solas has never looked more beautiful to her than in that moment. She could kiss him. Despite everything, he still doesn’t want her to die. Even without her apology. Even if she’s only a tool. Even though she revealed she knows something of his worst secrets. Maybe that juvenile, stupid hope she’d revealed to Hawke isn’t so stupid after all.
Solas tugs her far enough back, that Rook is able to catch one foot into the rocky side of the platform. She can now help him in earnest, much to his apparent relief, because his arms are visibly shaking at the exertion.
Only in her relief at not plummeting endlessly into a void while staring at Solas’ objectively nice face, Rook had forgotten about the Envy demon. Solas had injured it for a distraction, but it was coming back to them, enraged. With a screech, it swings it’s long arms, slashing at the back of Solas’ left leg.
Solas cries out in pain, but he thankfully does not let her go. “Solas!” She shouts, hooking her leg over the edge of the platform, and hauling herself back up. She stands, putting herself between Solas bleeding on the ground and the demon.
The Envy demon stands between her and her scythe. It’s fingers are like knives, and it is going to hurt like a motherfucker, but if she can tackle this thing hard enough, she should be able to reach her scythe and hopefully knock it’s head off. She just needs her scythe. In her hands. She can practically feel the heft in her grip.
The demon screams, arm swinging wide to slash at her. Rook dives forward, ready to tackle it to the ground when the scream abruptly cuts off in a wet gurgle.
Rook stares blankly down at her closed fist, finding her scythe once again in her hand, having wheeled through the air to chop cleanly through the now dissolving body of the dead Envy demon. Had she just— Had she just summoned her scythe into her hand? She could do that?
Behind her, Solas makes a pained sound.
Rook drops her scythe despite the revelation of it’s recall ability, and wheels around to crouch at his side, her hands fluttering uselessly in front of her. “Oh no, oh Solas. You’re not okay.”
He attempts to roll himself over, but hisses in pain, easing back down onto the ground. “What are the extent of my injuries?”
It’s not good, Rook will say that. His ankle and heel are bloody messes. The Envy demon had pierced through the fabric of his leggings and boot to stab Solas’ calf. It kind of reminds her of the aftermath of one of the crypt grim mastiffs being given a roast bone.
“You’re bleeding copiously from your left ankle, I’m worried your achilles tendon may have been punctured, there is slashed trauma to your talus and cuboid, enough that I can see traces of bone, leaving your tendons torn, and from the puncture wound through your soleus, there is a non-zero chance your tibia was nicked, depending on the depth.”
Solas raises his head, still sweaty with pain, but he gives her a funny look.
“What, I’m a Mourn Watcher. I’ve done a lot of autopsies before, Solas.”
“And with this experience, have you learned to treat injuries, or just examined the bodies of those who succumbed?” Solas asks, surprisingly arch for someone who must be in a tremendous amount of pain.
“I know how to do field dressings.” She tells him primly. Omitting the fact that she didn’t really learn how to do that until she was traveling with Harding and Varric in the last year.
Solas apparently has lengths of bandages squirreled away within the folded metal of his chest plate. She moves him as gently as she’s able, and does her best to sterilize and wrap his injuries.
Once done, Solas sits along one of the low walls, looking sweaty and like he’s really not comfortable at all. She wishes she had a healing draught or poultice to give him. Rook can’t imagine how painful that had been. She sits across from him, twiddling her fingers, unsure if she’s allowed to break the silence.
“Thank you, for…” Solas flicks a hand at his ravaged ankle before his eyes slide back closed.
Rook blinks, the words tumbling out of her mouth. “Thank you, for saving me from falling off the edge of the island.”
Solas cracks one eye open, and regards her. “You are welcome.”
“I’m sorry you got injured because you were saving me.”
“Hmm, it seemed worth it at the time.” He says lightly, mirroring her words to him when she’d been injured on his behalf. She gives him a rueful smile.
“At least the door is open now.” Rook jerks her chin towards the now open door. “I bet your sneaky elven dialects were warning about a mean ass Envy demon lying in wait.”
Solas’ only answer is to hum in response.
The tension between them has not broken, but it feels somewhat eased now. Enough that she doesn’t think she’ll snap it fully with her next words.
“Solas?” She waits for him to open his eyes once more and look at her. He already looks tired, knowing what she’s about to say, and powerless to stop her. “I don’t think there’s any words to express how sorry I am that I went through the Crossroads digging around for your most horrific memories. That I intentionally set out to find them, all of them as many as I could.” She licks her lips when he does not stop her. “I can’t imagine the violation you feel, and that I didn’t tell you what I knew. It didn’t reflect…”
She frowns, unsure of how to put this. “After everything we’ve been through together, you deserved more respect than that. And I’m sorry.”
Solas is quiet for a long time. Rook does not expect him to forgive her. She doesn’t think she could forgive someone doing the same to her. The excuse that she wanted to understand her enemy a little bit more doesn’t really feel like it holds much water anymore, not when she hasn’t thought of him as her enemy in a long time.
Eventually he releases a breath, his eyes distant. “Can you tell me what it is you have seen of my past?”
So Rook tells him. Tries to be clinical and remote about it. But she can’t. She can’t because of the Titans, and she imagines Harding’s face as she speaks. She can’t, because she thinks of all the Grey Wardens dead by Ghilan’nain’s hand and her terrifying control over the blight. She can’t because she knows each and every one of the stories she shares, are some of the most traumatic memories of the man she’s telling them to, and she can see each one land on him like a blow.
When she’s done, Solas is looking at her, and it’s like he’s aged centuries in the time she was speaking. “Then you know it all.”
“Not all, just the low notes. Absent of context.”
Solas scoffs. “And is there any context in the world that could make those atrocities acceptable?”
“Probably not.” Rook tells him, honestly.
Solas gets a faraway look in his eye. “Probably not.” He agrees.
They sit in a swollen silence, one that Rook doesn’t know how to fill. How does one talk to a person who thousands of years ago perpetuated such a scale of genocide, he unmade the world, basically twice, first with the Titans, and then with the Veil. She used to be able to, when he didn’t know what she knew.
It is Solas who breaks first. “I suppose this makes it official then, doesn’t it?” Solas is looking at her once more, a bitter expression on his face. “I am your enemy once again when all this is done.”
Rook cocks her head. “No you’re not.”
Solas looks at her as though she’s being juvenile. But before he can speak, she shuffles forward, and puts her hand on the knee of his uninjured leg. Solas freezes, staring at her.
“Solas there is a world of difference between an enemy and an imperfect ally.” Rook tells him, looking him in the eye as she says it, trying to make him see. “You’re not perfect, far from it, but neither am I.”
“Rook…” Solas says, shaking his head. “There is no atonement possible that can make up for what I’ve done.”
“I’m not asking you to atone. I agree, I don’t think that’s possible.” How can one life, one penance make up for killing the Titans, let alone the destruction of the ancient elves? But Rook remembers what she said to Hawke, that she wanted him to choose. She wanted to hope that he would choose the right thing.
Rook squeezes his knee. “All I’m asking is that you try. That’s all. You just need to try, a little every day to make the world a little less terrible. You’ll be surprised to learn you do that more often than not.”
Solas’ expression has gone completely slack. He stares at her, his lips parted. And then she can see his mind working as fast as lightning, maybe trying to come up with an argument to refute her. Maybe trying to find out what her angle is. There is no angle. Not really. Aside from her seeing a very sad, very lonely man, who took the weight of all the mistakes he’s made and let himself be crushed by them until the only thing that was left was his anger at himself and the world. Anger can fuel you, and push you, and make the world change. But more often than not, it can also hurt people.
But Solas is not actually made for anger, is he? Not truly. He was once Wisdom after all.
Finally, Solas swallows. “I’m surprised you have so much faith in me.”
Rook wrinkles her nose. “Mmm, call it faith, or call it my wonderful observation skills.”
Solas shakes his head, corner of his mouth creased. “Very well, I suppose I will need to have faith in you and your observational skills.”
Rook grins, patting his knee. “Damn right. Now what are we going to do about your mangled ankle?”
Solas deflates. “Wait for it to heal, unfortunately. It will likely take days. At least my healing will be accelerated.”
Rook sucks on her teeth. That was probably a little overconfident. He had torn ligaments and wounds deep enough to reveal bone. She didn’t know if he could succumb to infection with the Crossroads fuckery they’d been dealing with, and she really doesn’t want to find out. If they wanted to keep moving, in hopes of finding healing potions she could probably carry him. He might be taller than her, but not by much.
She’s about to suggest as much, when a familiar child’s voice calls. “There is a place of healing not far.”
Rook turns and is delighted to find perched on a nearby rock an adorable little transparent mouse, bandoleer strapped across it’s chest covered in sewing needles and crochet hooks. “Craft!”
The spirit of Craft cleans it’s whiskers in a move that Rook would swear is bashful. It hops down from the rock, and scurries forward, coming to a stop just beside Rook’s knee. Rook lowers a hand, asking if the mouse spirit would like to be lifted.
“How have you been doing, Craft?” Rook asks once it looks situated in her raised palm.
The mouse looks up at her with shining eyes. “Oh very well, thank you. The dwarven statue you mentioned was marvelous. I have found many in my journey. It’s what led me here.” It uses one of it’s tiny paws to gesture at the wall where several large statues stand.
She’s about to ask more about the differences between the statues, when Solas, probably sensing her losing the plot, cuts in. “You mentioned a place of healing?”
Craft ducks behind Rook’s fingers, as if that could shield it from Solas’ gaze. Solas doesn’t look offended, merely patient. Finally, adorably, Craft raises it’s head and peaks over Rook’s ring finger at Solas, nose tilting towards the mess of his ankle.
“Yes, a place of healing. It will help.” Craft turns to look up at Rook. “It is not far for long legs such as yours.”
“Would you be able to guide us?” Rook asks.
The little’s spirits ears flatten, and Rook has never seen a mouse look forlorn before, but Craft manages it, staring at the towering dwarven structures around them. Then it’s ears perk up. “I shall make a path!” Indicating it wants to be placed back on the ground.
Once on the ground, Craft pulls out one of it’s crochet hooks. She watches in awe as Craft weaves it through the air, as if chaining loops. The air is suddenly full of a lengthening chain of orange gold light, glimmering with its own light. After a moment, Craft releases it, and they watch the narrow length of chained light unfurl through the now open doorway, and further down the pathways of the tunnel.
Rook claps her hands, delighted. “Craft, that was incredible!” Craft rubs it’s whiskers again, and that move is definitely bashful.
Solas nods. “Yes, that should suffice. Thank you, Craft.” Solas turns to Rook. “If you could help me to my feet, we can find this place of healing.”
“Solas, you can’t walk.”
His chin tilts up defiantly. “I will need your help to maintain my balance, but I shall.”
Rook looks from his face, down to the mess of his ankle, and back. “Solas, don’t be an idiot. You can’t put weight on that thing, sped up healing or not.”
Solas sniffs. “Then what exactly do you propose?”
Rook grins wickedly, earning herself a suspicious narrowing of eyes from Solas.
After saying their goodbyes to Craft, left to its own devices—admiring fine dwarven crafts direct from Orzammar apparently—Rook and Solas depart. As they’ve progressed, Rook has felt a shift in the fractured Crossroads, as if they were coming into a safe harbor, or were on the edge of it. It meant zero enemies at least so far.
Which was a good thing, given she didn’t exactly have a hand free in her ‘Solas can’t walk’ solution.
“Surely this is too much of a burden for you.” Solas protests for what feels like the dozenth time.
“Not in the slightest, you’re light as a feather.” She basks in his momentary galled silence.
“This is hardly a practical solution. What if we are attacked?” Solas asks.
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem, whatever is protecting this place of healing has scared everything off.” Or based on the smear of leftover Venatori they’d found recently, whatever protected this place was strong enough to defend it.
Solas shifts, as if trying to lean away, like he has any ability to make space between them. It’s throwing off her balance though, so Rook does what comes natural: she hitches his weight on her back, settling it higher. Behind her, Solas makes an undignified grunt, and she can feel him tense through the loose loop of his arms over her shoulders, and his thighs she’s gripping in her hands. Her scythe strapped to Solas’ back for this little arrangement.
If she survives this, Rook is going to tell every single person she knows about the time she gave the Dread Wolf a piggyback ride through the Fade.
Varric is going to howl with laughter at this story, she knows for a fact.
“If you could relent in jostling me…” Solas’ voice drips with acid.
“Then stop trying to lean away like I’m covered in disease, and just settle in.” She taps her fingers on the knee of his uninjured leg, and Rook can feel Solas’ entire body twitch. “I promise not to drop you.”
Solas thankfully stops trying to lean away, but he never fully relaxes into her hold. Rook rolls her eyes and keeps following Craft’s golden thread. They sit in silence, the only sound her footsteps echoing off the walls, and the occasional creak of leather or metal armor scraping. But they’re on speaking terms again now, and there is no way Rook is going to let Solas enjoy this piggyback ride in silence.
“Solas, can I ask you something?”
“I cannot imagine there is anything I can say that will dissuade you otherwise.” Which is Solas for ‘I am curious about what you’re going to ask but I would rather die than admit that out loud’.
“Well, now that the cat is out of the bag about how many of your memories I have seen…” She can feel Solas stiffen, so she plows through the awkwardness. “Can you tell me more about the general I saw in some of your rebellion memories?”
Solas does not answer for a long time. Rook wonders if maybe he had a lot of generals, and she needs to disambiguate. “He was a man, dark brown hair he wore tied back, the tree vallaslin on his face. Extremely handsome? What was his name…” Young Solas with the hair had said it a handful of times, but it had been so long. Felan? Fella?
“Felassan.”
Rook tips her head back, trying to catch a glimpse of Solas’ face, to no avail. That had sounded grim and fatalistic even for Solas. Which probably meant Felassan was dead.
“Yes, him. General Felassan.”
“Why do you wish to know about Felassan?”
The desire to ease tension by making a joke about how she thought he was hot, and wanted to know if he was single and ready to mingle, dies before it can reach Rook’s lips. Solas sounded as wearied and guarded as he had when he’d asked what memories of his she’d witnessed. So Rook decides to be a little more honest.
“In the memories I saw, you seemed close to him. Like he was your friend.” She does not miss the way the arms looped over her shoulder tense. “I was curious what happened to him.”
“Friends.” Solas says, more to himself than to her. He sounds so bitter. Rook tilts her head, still failing to get a look at the expression on Solas’ face. “He… passed.”
That was a loaded word if Rook had ever heard one. “But you were friends?”
“In so far as the strictures of leadership would allow, yes.”
He truly had a fascinating way of distancing himself from people and feelings. She was curious why that was. But whatever Felassan meant to him, talking about him was obviously causing Solas pain. Rookwas happy to pivot if it meant they got to keep talking. “You don’t think a leader can be friends with those they lead?”
She can feel as well as hear the derisive sound he makes. “Of course they can, but friendship will always be overshadowed by the dictates of leadership.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
There is a lengthy pause, but Rook lets the thread dangle. Voice threaded with annoyance, Solas takes her bait and asks, “And what in your limited experience drives you to think so?”
The thrill that tone of voice zings through her. She had apparently missed their debates quite a bit. “I think being an effective leader means having close relationships with the people around you. You need to trust the people reporting to you, and be trusted in turn.” She tips her head back, trying to flash him a teasing smile. “Weren’t you the one who told me I needed to build trust with the team to succeed?”
“Build trust to ensure loyalty. Which you will need in order to make the hard decisions required of leadership.” She can practically feel his raised eyebrow. “You cannot be so naive to think that you ought to build trust for friendship’s sake.”
Her snide rebuttal dies on her lips. What a sad way to think about relationships with other people. “Solas, have you ever had a friend who you didn’t think of as a means to an end?”
She might call the ensuing silence offended.
“Of course I have.”
“Mhmm. And were all these true friends spirits?”
Her question is met with a stony silence, and Rook definitely just scored a point. Many of Rook’s friends were spirits. Many. She was raised by Defiance. But she also had a lot of respect and value for the lives of other people. “Why do you think it is you value your relationships with spirits more than other people, Solas?”
She can feel his unimpressed squint attempting to singe the back of her head, making Rook grin. “That is not strictly true.” Solas answers in the manner of someone having teeth extracted forcibly. “Spirits are more honest and forthright. Befriending a spirit is a more simple and truthful act than with anyone else.”
Rook has so much she wants to say to that, and wonders how he’d respond if she asked him if he developed those opinions before or after dealing with the Evanuris. Because if the first people with bodies she ever interacted with were a bunch of megalomaniacal, violent slavers, she might also have less than stellar opinions about the concept of people in bodies. Spirits are a lot less likely to betray you, or emotionally torture you too. But they are different from people.
“I am curious about what leg you feel you have to stand on.” Solas says evenly.
Rook cocks her head to indicate she’s listening.
“Did you not recruit every single person on your team to fulfill a specific purpose? Do you think yourself so different from me in how you choose your friends?”
She snorts, because she can’t help herself. “You know I have friends and a community outside of the Veilguard, right?” Rook bites her lip to keep from laughing as a thought occurs to her. “Solas, have you never had friends outside of your comrades in arms?”
His unimpressed silence is the only answer she needs, making her snicker.
“I am more concerned with the status of your team, and whether you feel you’ve adequately earned their trust for what is to come.”
Rook knows a deflection tactic when she hears one. She decides to let it happen. She should be a little more careful in her teasing, not just because he’s injured, but because they’re on the tenuous road to maybe repairing their relationship, such as it is.
“I mean, I’ve been with you since we last discussed the topic, so it’s not like things have markedly gotten better. But yes, I think I’m doing an adequate job building trust with the team.”
Solas latches onto the topic like his life depends on it. “Even with your challenges with Neve Gallus post Minrathous?”
Oh he really does like coming at her with a knife. Rook sighs, keeping her eyes on Craft’s golden thread. “It’s gotten better. We’re not back to where we were, but Neve and I have more of an understanding. I’m going to help her with a special investigation.”
“And your Grey Warden, Davrin?”
“Is that your way of asking how he’s doing after losing 90% of his order, and us failing to kill Ghilan’nain?”
“No, it is my way of asking if you’ve been checking on your team when they’re at their lowest and may need intervention.” Solas shifts, causing Rook to reflexively hitch him up higher on her back.
He really has a magnificently fascinating way of talking about people. “Yes, Solas. I checked in with Davrin and Assan often after Weisshaupt. Because he’s my friend and I’m worried about him.”
Solas catches her tone. “Good.”
They sit in a somewhat stilted silence as Rook continues to carry Solas through the not-Deep Roads. Could they get to this place of healing soon? She couldn’t do anymore awkward silences.
“And how do you believe the team is handling your absence?” Solas surprises her, by restarting the conversation. It’s his version of making nice she supposes.
“Oh probably fine, for the most part. Cooler heads will prevail and what not.” Rook shrugs, causing Solas to bump forward a little with a grunt. “Sorry.”
“You are not concerned for your team at all?” Solas sounds positively perplexed by the idea.
“I miss them, I would like to see them. But no, I’m not worried about how they’re doing. Probably fine without me.” Rook snorts. “In the long run it doesn’t really matter what happens to me, so long as the others survive.”
That flippant response is met with a silence that stretches far longer than Rook thought it would. She can feel Solas drilling holes into the back of her skull with his eyes.
“You believe you have less value to your mission than the rest of your companions?” Rook can feel him leaning forward, and the urge to hide her face has Rook resolutely staring at the golden thread.
“I didn’t say that .”
“What was it? And I quote ‘It doesn’t really matter what happens to me, so long as the others survive.’ Or did I mishear you?”
“Did you just mimic me?” Rook is so flabbergasted at the treacly falsetto he adopted to do so, that she entirely forgets she’s supposed to be hiding her face from him. “Is that what you think I sound like?”
Solas leans his head to the side so that she might look him in the eye. “It is. Perhaps you just have not had occasion to hear yourself speak.”
Rook’s mouth hangs open. “Are you throwing mine own words back in mine face?”
That is absolutely amusement glinting in his eyes. To her increasing shock, Solas reaches forward to cup a long fingered hand around her jaw, turning her head to face forward once more. His fingertips leave a brand on her skin as he draws away. Her whole face on fire.
She can feel Solas lean forward, and he pitches his voice low as he murmurs in her ear. “Do watch where you’re going, Rook. You’re walking for both of us.”
Rook nearly trips anyways, her face and neck a hot stove of heat. She had been absolutely correct. Soft low voice? Devastating. She’s never going to recover. She’s going to be covered in goosebumps from now until she dies. She is too deeply embarrassed by her own reaction to feel anything but mortified.
“Now, what were we discussing?” Solas sounds so smug she worries his massive egg head may grow too big for her to carry. “Ah, yes. How you believe you have less value than your companions. Perhaps you might explain yourself.”
Her face still feeling uncomfortably hot, Rook keeps her gaze doggedly forward. “Did you just— Was that a disarming tactic? Did you just try to disarm me in this conversation?”
Solas huffs a laugh. “It plainly did not succeed as intended…” She can practically hear him consider what else he might do to harass her into answering his question.
“Solas I swear, I will drop you as viciously as— Nngh!” To her complete and utter horror, a pathetic whimper tumbles past her lips as Solas reaches forward to tweak her left ear. Not in a teasing tweak of the tip way like she has done to him previously, but in a slow, hideously erotic stroke of finger.
Rook unfortunately, has always had very sensitive ears.
Solas is frozen on her back, apparently not expecting that reaction.
Rook stops walking, and briefly fantasizes about flinging Solas over the edge of the next largest gap in the walls of the Deep Roads Island. She should drop him. It will hurt like a motherfucker. But he will deserve it. But he had saved her life…
Rook closes her eyes and heaves a heavy sigh. “Could you please not?”
At her back Solas shifts. “Yes, I shall refrain.”
She begins walking, starting to feel like they’re entering another post Desire Demon awkward silence. Which means it’s up to her to fix it, the fucker.
“Alright, fine. Yes. I think I have less value to contribute than the others.” She can practically hear Solas raise his brows at her. “Not because I think I’m incompetent, but Taash and Davrin are more accomplished fighters than I am. Harding has more experience adapting to dangerous situations on the fly, and I’m not even the best Mourn Watcher in the group now.”
For a very brief period there, she had been the one who knew how to deal with undead and spirits. And then they recruited Emmrich, who was a complete and utter joy to be around, and she wouldn’t trade him for anything, but he knew infinitely more than Rook had ever learned. She was a Necromancer in theory, rather than praxis. A Mourn Watcher by virtue of her upbringing rather than true passion.
She expects some kind of cutting remark. Or something dismissive of the accomplishments of the others. Solas chooses to surprise her.
“That simply isn’t true, Rook.” Solas says, sounding utterly baffled. “You’ve the foolhardy courage to stand up to foes several times more powerful than yourself, ignoring all sense reason or odds.”
“Thanks?” Rook tips her head trying to catch his expression to see if he’s making fun of her.
“Which more than anything can be attributed to your indomitable spirit.” Solas says, and he sounds very serious. “You would not have achieved the victories you have without it. Nor would you have bested me. Your team must see it, or they would not follow you as they do into battles of such low odds. You do not gamble with their lives, convinced of your own success, somehow instead changing reality in ways that are hard for your enemies to predict.”
“You only think that now because of Defiance.” Rook says lightly, deeply uncomfortable with the weight of his stare and the generosity of his words.
“No, I have thought you far more calculating and adaptable since our first meeting in the Fade.” He does not lean forward to murmur in her ear this time, but the way his voice softens still has goosebumps crawling up her spine. “It is during our journey that I have become confident that your successes so far can entirely be attributed to you, and your fortitude of spirit.”
Rook desperately wants a timeout. She needs to set him down for a moment and go find a corner to sort her thoughts. Why did she think carrying him on her back was a good idea? This is way more intimate than what their relationship calls for, and the comedy and story potential of the Dread Wolf piggyback ride is not worth it.
“Careful Solas, keep talking like that and you might start making me think that you actually like me or something.” Rook fails to get the proper level of teasing into her tone, and grimaces.
She feels Solas’ weight shift forward and he is once again leaned close to her ear. “And why wouldn’t I want to give you that impression?”
At this point he’s flirting with her, right? This is absolutely definitely flirting. And now she’s trapped feeling flustered, carrying him and there’s no way he doesn’t see how red her face and ears probably are. She’s not allowed to drop him because he saved her life and he’s too injured. This is what she gets for trying to repair her relationship with him. Should have let a sleeping wolf lie.
“How’s your ankle doing anyways?” She says, her voice too loud, clumsily changing the subject. “We can take a break if you want.”
“There’s no need.” Solas says, perfectly even and pleasant, the malicious motherfucker. “I believe we have arrived.”
The air shifts, suddenly feeling warm and inviting. Craft’s golden thread dwindles, fading as it has served it’s purpose. There is green growth of verdant plants all over the cavern before them, almost reminding her of Harding’s greenhouse back at the Lighthouse. Were it not for the fact that they’re still sandwiched between the fragments of dozens of broken islands to form a cave, Rook would almost think this was a new, healthy corner of the Crossroads.
“Wow.” Is all she can think to say.
“Indeed.” Solas sounds a lot more suspicious than awed. “Be cautious, Rook.” He says low, only for her ears.
Rook nods to try and shake off the goosebumps his voice keeps giving her. She takes a step forward. “Hello? We were told this is a place of healing?”
She cannot take another step forward, before a man suddenly materializes a few meters ahead of them. Not a man. A spirit? A man shaped spirit glowing in a twisting pattern between purple, and baby blue. At her back, she feels Solas suck in a sharp breath.
“Who trespasses within this sanctum of safety?” Three voices overlay each other as the man speaks.
“An Era’Harel.” Solas says into her ear.
“I don’t know what that is.” She answers out of the corner of her mouth. She smiles at the man shaped spirit, his aura twinging purple. “Hello, hi, sorry. My name is Rook, this is Solas, and we are seeking help.”
“I cannot let anyone pass who would do harm in such a place.” The three voices bark at them.
“Peace, spirit. We mean no harm. I am injured and require aid, this is why we have come.” Solas calls from over her shoulder, he slides his good leg down, pushing on Rook’s shoulders. She sets him down, but keeps an arm looped at his waist to help him balance. Solas keeps his eyes on the spirit as he curves his arm over Rook’s shoulders for support. “As you can plainly see. We were attacked by an Envy demon.”
The aura around the spirit fluxes, purple and blue twisting and overtaking one another. The spirit man speaks, but it is not as one unified voice. “We cannot let this happen again.”
“We will not allow another Kirkwall, not in this place.”
Finally, a single man’s voice says, “He’s injured and he needs my help.”
Rook straightens, gaping at the man across from them as realization dawns on her. Solas looks down at her, puzzled. A disbelieving grin stretches across Rook’s face.
“Andraste’s knickerweasels, you’re Anders!”
Notes:
Fun fact! I started writing this whole ass story because I imagined Dreadrook piggyback ride and then needed to contrive how to make that happen. Isn't fanfic magical?
Shout out to the lovely @loominousfish for letting me bounce ideas off 'em and helping me shape the piggyback leadership conversation.
Uncommon Elven Translations:
Era'Harel = Demon Mage
Chapter 12: Chapter 12
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Within the cavern protected by what has become of Anders, Solas sits at the edge of a warm spring, his legs submerged in the steaming waters from mid calf to his toes. His wounds are entirely healed, and he’s been ordered to soak his ankles until told otherwise. Solas suspects that he might not be told otherwise until it is time for himself and Rook to leave this place.
Condensed water vapor drips from the ceiling in a slow, consistent rhythm. In the distance, Solas can hear the excited chatter of dozens of spirits. This place, it’s very peaceful. It is far beyond the intention he’d made for the Crossroads so many years ago. He wonders how much the spirit once known as Anders had to do with those changes.
It is interesting, what it must say about Anders, that an Era’harel of Justice warped into Vengeance to have sublimated the disruption in the Crossroads and carve out a wondrous space of sanctuary for any and all who need it. Solas has never before encountered something quite like it.
Lucky is he that they managed to convince Anders to heal him, as their host had been as confounded as Solas at Rook’s outburst.
“Andraste’s knickerweasels, you’re Anders!”
Solas turned his head slowly to regard Rook with a look of incredulity he had not used since she revealed the origins of her tattoos. He could feel her weight rock forward, like she wanted to take a step forward, damned if she wouldn’t drag him bodily along with her. Solas pointedly dug his fingers into her shoulder, to remind her to please not do that.
She didn’t have the decency to even look chagrined, just looking up at Solas, to see if he was as excited as her. He was not.
Solas was familiar with the story of Anders. A Grey Warden, turned vessel for a spirit of Justice. Anders was the spark that ignited the tinder of the mage rebellion, in vaporizing the chantry of Kirkwall, starting a war that would kill thousands and change the balance of power in the south forever. The destabilization was an opportunity Solas had gladly seized to try and restore his orb to power—not that Solas’ original plan had come to fruition in the end.
Before finding Corypheus to give him the orb, before Solas had traveled to Haven, and saw his plans come to naught, and before Solas had met the Inquisitor and joined his Inquisition, Solas had traveled to edges of Kirkwall to walk the fade and learn what had happened there. An opportunity to learn what had sparked such universal change in the south so quickly.
Amidst the mire of brutal suffering and death that was Varric’s beloved city’s history, there had been threads in the Fade, lanced through with the stories of Hawke, Varric, and their friends. Most significant among them, was the man who had chosen to become a vessel for a spirit of Justice. A Justice so ill-suited to the depravity, violence, and inequality of Kirkwall, that it had quickly twisted itself into Vengeance.
Anders had eventually plotted to destroy Kirkwall’s chantry, in a move that so clearly echoed plans from Solas’ past in the rebellion, he’d felt an odd sort of kinship with the man. Backed into a corner, the halls of power unchanging, causing harm, Anders had removed the ability for those in authority to choose. The Mage Circles were forced to rebel, or face execution and tranquility. It was as much something Solas could have seen himself doing.
It was the path Solas had chosen to take now.
Solas had never met the man, and in the frenzy left in the vacuum of power the Inquisition would eventually fill, most people had seemed to forget the mage that threw the first snowball that would become an avalanche.
And here Anders now stands, in Solas’ Crossroads, having carved out a corner for himself to protect.
“We haven’t heard anyone say that, in a very long time.” Three voices of distorted spirit and man answer. “How do you know of me?”
Anders lacks a staff, but Solas does not doubt that the man contains tremendous power. The corpses they found on their way here suggested as much.
“You are Anders!” Rook sounds utterly delighted. “Of course I’ve heard of you, you’re you!” Rook apparently lacks the regular sane response to meeting someone who has committed violent atrocities. “I can’t believe how lucky we are, that’s amazing. Did you know we met Hawke previously, he actually gave me—”
“Hawke was here?” Purple light briefly overtakes Ander’s aura. Vengeance, if Solas had to guess. And not pleased to have heard of Hawke. Perhaps it knew something of what Hawke had become, and perhaps a Hawke bound to a spirit of Courage would be able to overcome previously held reservations about killing a friend to see justice served.
Rook’s smile is wide, and for someone so good at seeing to the heart of people and spirits alike, she had stunning blind spots. She opens her mouth, ignorant of the danger. Solas presses his thumb into the dip where collarbone meets shoulder. As anticipated, she freezes.
“Hawke saved our lives in a previous encounter, and then left us be, departing the Crossroads.” Solas does not know if that is strictly true, but he will happily lie if it will get them past this obstacle.
Anders stares at him hard for a long moment. “And why should we treat you?”
Solas is almost amused by how offended Rook appears. “What do you mean why?” she asks. She gestures at the foot Solas is getting a little tired of holding aloft. “He’s hurt, he needs healing.”
“We will not make the mistake of healing any who would harm this place.” Anders tells them.
Having entirely forgotten she’d ever been starstruck, Rook puffs up in indignation, much to Solas’ amusement. Before she can say something foolishly incendiary, voices call from deeper within the cave.
“Is that Rook?”
“It is!”
“Rook is here!”
“Rook is alive!”
“Rook is here to save us!”
“Rook will protect us, I told you!”
Dozens of spirits pour out from deeper within the cave, streaming past Anders. They approach Rook and Solas, joy and relief saturating the air. Rook’s face is open with naked astonishment, quickly morphing to joy. Solas watches, the spirits clustering and bobbing and weaving in the air in front of them, many brushing where Solas’ own hand grips Rook’s shoulder as they fuss at Rook, as if to make sure she is real—and probably to get a sense of Rook’s connection to him.
“You guys are okay!” Rook says, smiling so wide, her eyes are narrow crescents. Many voices try to speak at once, each asking their own questions, each burbling with happiness.
“Is that the Dread Wolf with you?” A small cat like spirit asks, perched on the antlered head of a larger spirit of Fortitude.
“Yes, I’m sure many of already know him, but for those of you that don’t, this is Solas.” Rook pats his waist, where she’s still gripping him to help him keep his balance. She grins when he casts her a sidelong glance.
Solas tips his head forward. “A pleasure to meet you all.”
“The Dread Wolf is injured!” One spirit calls.
“We should get him in for healing!” Says another.
Rook is nodding her head eagerly. “Yes, that would be wonderful.”
“We shall not.”
The crowd turns to face Anders, who has remained rooted to his spot. “We shall not invite the Dread Wolf, who caused so much damage and disruption already, into this place of safety.”
Solas narrows his eyes, as Anders glares back at him. It is Anders who is the interloper within Solas’ Crossroads after all. “And what damage do you believe I have caused?”
Anders eyes flash, but before he can answer, a chorus of spirit voices overtake the conversation.
“That’s not fair!”
“Yeah, he’s hurt!”
“He needs healing, and you’re supposed to grant healing to all who need it!”
Anders stands resolute. “Only if that person does not present a danger to all in my care.”
“He’s not dangerous!” Rook says miffed, and Solas realizes she’s about to reveal that he cannot access magic—abundantly clear if he hasn’t healed himself—but Solas would rather it not be explicitly stated. He shifts his hand, threading his fingers with hers at his waist, squeezing. Rook looks up at him startled. He gives her a meaningful look.
“Yeah! If Rook says he’s not dangerous, then he’s fine!”
“All of Rook’s friends are allowed, the Caretaker said so!”
The little cat spirit hops to land on Rook’s head. “Rook, is the Dread Wolf your friend?”
There is a very pregnant pause, as Rook stares up at Solas, his fingers still threaded with hers. She whips her head around, dislodging the cat spirit, a fetching color high on her cheeks. “Yes! He’s my friend.”
There is a chorus of agreement, that any friend of Rook’s is in their care, therefore if they are in Anders care, so must Solas. The simple logic of spirits, how Solas has missed it so.
Anders for his part does not look pleased, but finally acquiesces, allowing them to enter the central cavern so that he might heal Solas.
As the spirits scamper and wind back into the cave, Rook helps him limp forward, bearing a substantial portion of his weight. Unable to help himself, Solas leans his head in closer to hers, a driving need to see color on her cheeks and the tips of her ears once more. “Friends are we?”
Rook scowls up at him fiercely, her cheeks ablaze, just as he wished. “Yes, now so help me if you tease me anymore I’m going to drop you and you can crawl to Anders to get healed. I’m sure you’ll love that.”
Solas allows himself a huff of amusement, quickly twisted to hiss of pain, as he unthinkingly jostles his ankle.
Rook helps him towards the corner of the cave that makes up Anders’ clinic. A table of rock, and gauzy, threadbare curtains hung in a fraudulent bid to conceal the space from prying eyes. Solas is placed on the rock table, his injured leg stretched in front of him, while Anders fusses at the far wall, not looking at them. The cat spirit who had asked if they were friends sits next to Anders, watching them, it’s tail flicking.
Displaying her usual level of stubborn loyalty, Rook resolutely stands at Solas’ shoulder, glowering at Anders, as if daring him to antagonize her. Anders pointedly ignores her as he sorts through bottles of tinctures and bandages, fingers lifting to scratch under the cat spirit’s chin.
Solas brushes his fingers to her elbow, drawing her attention. “You need not wait with me.” Rook’s brows furrow, chin tilting as if she’s ready to argue. Solas nods at the swarm of spirits tumbling deeper within the cavern. “You wish to say hello to your friends, do you not?”
Rook turns, and her expression is one of such longing that Solas has to catch himself from laughing out loud. She looks back at him, hound dog. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, go.” He flicks a dismissive hand, and is rewarded with her wide, grateful smile.
Before Rook bolts from the room, she turns, a stern expression on her face. “Be nice.” Solas sits uncertain if that was directed at himself or Anders.
With Rook gone, Anders finally turns, a bottle and tweezers in hand, and a terribly put upon expression on his face.
The man maintains a frosty silence as he works, and Solas is only too happy to allow it. The most Anders says is a derisive cluck at the quality of Rook’s bandaging. At the very least he is a competent healer, even if Solas believes the man is attempting to be sloppy in petty revenge for bypassing his wishes. Vengeance spirits can be quite spiteful when they so wish. Or perhaps Solas is reading too much malice into how itchy he finds Anders magic, he has not felt healing magic from anyone but himself in a very long time.
Varric had not spoken much of this man at all during their time in the Inquisition, odd given how much time he spent telling stories of every other companion. It is strange to see in the flesh a person who had such a massive impact on the world, after having vanished quietly into obscurity, only to emerge in the most surprising of places.
Solas muses perhaps he had done much the same, once upon a time.
“You mentioned that you had encountered Hawke?” It is the voice of the man who speaks, but when Solas meets his eyes, it is to the resonant glow shifting between purple and blue.
“Yes, we had.”
Anders’ hands pause as if waiting for Solas to continue, and seems put off when he says nothing. Interesting. Anders must have been in the Fade for awhile, to expect straightforward answers.
“And you have been in the Crossroads for awhile?” Solas asks.
Anders does not look up from his work. “Yes, I have.”
Solas smirks, amused despite himself. “Did you arrive in this place before or after the Caretaker vanished?”
The healing magic threading into Solas’ bones waivers for a moment as Anders looks up at him, expression guarded. “I go where I am needed, where I can help.” He returns his focus back to the task at hand. “This place was in dire need of help, and the spirit in charge of looking after it had been subdued. I will move along if and when it is restored.”
Interesting. Solas would not have thought a spirit of Justice or Vengeance would be yoked to such needs. Duty or Benevolence perhaps. Even Penance would make more sense to drive Anders to such places to help where he could.
Anders pauses once more, making Solas’ nerves jangle at the frisson of dissipating magic. It is with the voice of the man who speaks. “It is not Justice who compels me, it is my own…” He frowns, blue light overtaking his face once more. “We would see justice served.”
“And what justice is that?”
Anders keeps his gaze locked on Solas’ ankle. “The one that saw so many dead.”
“You feel you must atone, for what you have done?” Solas asks, curious.
Purple overtakes the blue as Vengeance glowers at him. “We sought retribution and freedom, we need not seek atonement.”
Even now Anders is an Era’harel in conflict with himself. A man who wishes to heal and help. A spirit of Justice split with a need to seek justice upon itself and the surety that it did no wrong in it’s Vengeance.
The cat spirit jumps on to the table and makes a show of head butting Anders arm. The anger in the man’s face diffuses by millimeters. Fascinating. A spirit of Temperance perhaps?
“Then you have no reservations about the lives you took in your retribution?”
“You cannot judge us Dread Wolf.” Speaks three voices as one, expression flat. “We knew of your intentions, we saw what catastrophe you would have wrought. What atonement will you seek?”
Atonement. The act of tearing at the Veil is all the atonement Solas has left in him to give. But that is not for Anders to know or judge.
Solas stares Anders down coolly. “We need not moralize at each other, I have come for healing, and nothing else.”
Purple and blue aura flicker around the man, before he scoffs and puts his head down to resume his healing. Reinforcing his belief that Anders is indeed petty, the itchiness of his healing magic grows by several magnitudes, enough for Solas’ toes to twitch as his tendons are properly stitched back together.
After a time the voice of the human man speaks, still focused on his healing. “I have spent the time since Kirkwall finding people who need my help, and doing everything in my power to do so. Call it penance if you like.”
“And does it help?” Solas asks.
“With what?” Anders asks, his glowing hand moving upwards towards Solas’ calf.
“Your guilty conscience.”
That causes Anders to chuckle. “Not really no. But Hawke let me live, and I figure it’s the least I could do.”
Solas wasn’t sure what answer he was seeking from the other man but it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. It should not matter whether this man has found his penance, nor that his guilt isn’t alleviated. It has nothing to do with Solas, they are not so similar.
In the distance, a peal of Rook’s laughter carries through the cavern and Solas finds himself turning at the sound. He cannot see her through the crowd of glowing bodies of spirits, instead he can just make out the flash of her hands gesticulating wildly as she shares a story with her friends.
“You are fond of her.”
The smile he hadn’t realized he’d been wearing drops as Solas looks back at Anders coolly. “No more than any other traveling companion.”
It is the man’s voice who derisively snorts at him. The itch finally subsides as Anders lifts his hands away, finally finished healing him. He gestures for Solas to stand. His healed foot feels stiff, but it no longer reverberates with excruciating pain for which Solas is grateful.
The cat spirit leaps up and settles comfortably on Anders shoulder, it’s pale eyes gleaming at Solas.
Anders jerks his chin towards a steaming pool of water not far from this corner of the cavern. “I will have you soak your heels in the spring over there. It will insure your repaired tendons don’t stiffen too quickly. You should remain there until I say otherwise.”
Solas nods. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“Before I leave you, I have one request, Dread Wolf.” Solas pauses to turn back to Anders, curious. Anders’ face has gone stony. “Refrain from using your blood magic connection while here, I cannot guarantee how we will respond if it is used in our presence.”
“And what makes you think I would use blood magic here?”
Anders looks off to the side. Solas follows his gaze to see Rook listening to one of her friends intently. “You may be inclined to use that connection here, or end it, it does not matter to me. I only ask that you do not while in my sphere of influence. We do not like blood magic, and doing so will be dangerous.”
Solas only frowns in response.
Anders turns and begins to move away, but pauses at the curtain. When he looks into Solas’ face it is with brown human eyes. “It would be kinder to tell her about Varric, but it is not my place to do so.”
Solas watches him go and it takes him a surprisingly long time to recognize the feeling roiling in him as frustration. Solas shakes his head and walks stiffly towards the pool of steaming water. Shucking his armor, leaving him in his shirt and leggings, Solas submerges his legs from toes to calf. He stares at the steaming surface of water, his mind a tangle of too many thoughts.
Anders did not seem so foolish to not understand that Solas hadn’t access to his magic, which meant the man was attempting to clumsily moralize at him. This era and it’s pedantry around blood magic was ever tedious. Anders would know that Solas will be unable to truly access the blood link he has with Rook until he has his magic, or the dagger in hand. Meaning Anders brought it up in an attempt to make Solas feel guilty.
It is irritating that such a fumbling attempt is working on him at all. He should not feel guilty. He used the connection with Rook in order to maintain influence and open up possibilities for his escape. That he is free from the prison at all right now, is proof enough that Solas had been right to do so. Would it be better to allow Rook to wallow in her grief over a man she knew for all of a year?
It should not matter that he’s lying to her.
He will not think about what impact it will have on her when she learns that Varric is dead. It will not be like when she discovered Defiance’s death—she’d known Defiance her whole life, the weight of her grief for Varric would not compare. It would not be a wound that Rook would be unable to recover from. Solas chooses not to think about how she will respond when she learns what he has done, for it will not matter.
In fact she should be grateful that he no longer needs to switch places with her within the prison. The misfortune within the Crossroads has been a boon to them both, even if it’s rendering him weak and foolish in all the ways he has striven to avoid on his path until now.
Solas has grown too close, has taken too much enjoyment in her company. That he even allowed her close once more after learning of her trespass. Solas cannot fathom what is wrong with him. To goad and charm her afterwards. To indulge in petty flirtations. To admire the strength of her carrying him as if it’s nothing. The thrill of her hand on his knee. To be offended on her behalf over her crass dismissal of her own importance.
Solas sighs, pinching his nose. He must stop this. He needs—
“So you survived your encounter with Anders. I’m glad.” Rook’s voice cuts through his thoughts.
Solas looks up to find the object of all his turmoil standing on the edge of the shallow pool of water, her hands tucked behind her back, a happy smile dimpling her cheeks. “Only by the skin of my teeth.” Solas answers dryly.
Rook nods sagely. “Yeah, he’s kind of an asshole, huh?”
Solas snorts. “What is the saying? Never meet your heroes, are you finding that to be true, Rook?”
“I never said Anders was my hero, I have just read a lot about him.” She purses her lips. “Now that I think about it though, Varric never talked about him much, I only know most of what I do from the Tale of the Champion and rebellion manifestos. I thought Anders would be a little more tragic and funny, rather than a prickly, defensive ass.”
Solas turns his gaze back to the water at the prickle of feeling Varric’s name invokes in him. “Ought you be talking so rudely about the man, can he not hear you?”
“Oh, no. We offended his sensibilities so badly that he fled his own cave to go do a perimeter check.” Her grin is pure mischief. Solas notes then, that she still has her hands tucked behind her back.
“Hmm. And what new horror are you hiding behind your back today, Rook?” The last time she’d done something similar, Rook had surprised him with some poor unfortunate Antaam’s severed hand. Fully drained of blood and in full rigor, she had wanted to show him the presentation of arthritis in the dead qunaris knuckles. As if it was fascinating and not grisly. She’d had the air of a cat proud to have delivered a mouse to his feet.
Rook beams, flopping into a cross legged seat at the water’s edge, revealing her prize. An iridescent blue bottle of what Solas assumes is some kind of liquor. “One of the spirits of Profit had a few items from their shop, and they were willing to trade a Mourn Watch secret for this bottle, so I figured why not.”
“And you wish to share it with me?” He raises a brow at her. “Can we even get drunk, with the Crossroads as they are now?”
Rook with minimal effort uncorks the bottle, flashing him a grin. “Won’t know until we try it out. Besides, this is Anderfels icewine and Davrin told me all about it.”
She takes a sip, brows titled in appreciation as she hands the bottle to Solas. He hesitates only a moment, before his fingers brush hers as he takes the bottle. He takes his own sip, rearing his head back as the flavor hits his tongue and burns. “That is glorified spiked syrup.”
Rook makes grabby hands at him, and Solas is only too happy to part with the bottle. “You’re probably one of those pish posh ‘wine must be full bodied and taste of farts of plum’ in order to enjoy it properly.”
“You criticize my palette, as if yours is not indecipherable for enjoying that .”
Rook takes another sip, and grins evilly as she hands the bottle back to Solas. “I never said I liked it, Solas.”
He takes the bottle. “Then why are we drinking it?”
“Because we are engaging in a long and important tradition for any comrades in arms who find themselves at odds, by bonding over drinking battlefield swill.”
Solas thankfully finishes swallowing before he snorts his derision, handing the bottle back. “That is one way to describe it, yes.”
Rook makes him wait, arm extended as she peels off her socks and rucks up her leggings to join him, soaking her feet in the pool of water. At her sigh of pure pleasure as she settles, Solas is uncomfortably reminded of the sound he’d elicited from her before their arrival at the cave. Unbidden, his eyes trace the elegant line of her ear.
She takes the bottle from him with a smile, and Solas is left feeling more awkward than he has in a long time. He clears his throat.
“You have much affection for the spirits who have taken refuge in the Crossroads.”
Rook raises a brow at him, smiling around the mouth of the bottle. “Was that a question?”
He rolls his eyes at her, hand extended. “Yes.”
“Aren’t you the one who set up the Crossroads to be a refuge for spirits? What could I possibly explain to you?”
“You must be feeling back to normal if you’re drawn to being as annoying as possible in the evasion of a simple question.” Solas tells her blandly, grimacing as he takes another drink. She had been more hesitant around him than Solas was used to, even as he sat astride her back.
Rook leans back on her hands. “I do not recall being asked a question.”
Solas thrusts the awful bottle towards her. When she takes it, Solas arches a brow at her. “Rook, would you be ever so kind to describe the nature of your relationship with the spirits inhabiting the Crossroads?”
She fails to hide her impish smile behind the mouth of the bottle, but finally she relents. “As we ventured through the Crossroads, fixing some of the problems here, many of the spirits gathered in one of the central squares and opened up a bunch of shops. It was like a wonderful little community. We obviously used the eluvians for a lot of our missions, so we crossed paths with them often.”
“And you are as friendly with other shop keepers in the waking world?”
Rook hands the bottle back to him, her eyes drifting to the surface of the water. “No. This place felt a little more special.” Her eyelids droop accentuating the length of her lashes, the pretty quirk of her mouth. “It felt a lot like home. I tried to visit every day if I could.”
Long ago that had been Solas’ intention with the Crossroads. Not merely a safe haven for those seeking refuge. Solas had wanted it to feel like coming home. Solas finds he must swallow around a lump in his throat, unable to describe the feeling warming him. Surely it must be the fault of the icewine they are drinking.
Rook cared deeply about the spirits of the Crossroads. It explained her her worry at the onset of their journey when they’d last spoken to the Caretaker.
“It is good that the spirits have so much trust in you.” Solas says.
She looks up at him, giving him that titled smile. “Yeah it ended up working out for the best for you, huh?”
The alcohol must be having more of an impact than he thought, because he finds himself smiling back. Solas flexes his foot in the water, rolling his toes just under the surface. “Yes, I doubt either of us would have been able to negotiate with Anders without their help.”
“Yeah, he definitely did not like you.”
Solas raises an eyebrow at her. “Is there a question in that statement?”
Rook snorts, handing back the bottle to him. His fingers linger over hers for a heartbeat too long. “No, I just assumed that was the result of your natural charisma.”
Solas takes a sip, down to the last dregs of the bottle, the ice wine no longer tasting of syrupy burning, and more like comfort. He reserves the final pull for Rook. “I am more than capable of being charming when I so wish, Rook.”
That impish light is back in Rook’s eyes. “Oh? Do tell.”
The desire to tease her, to touch her ears once more, see if she will make another of those ridiculously sensual whimpers. To watch her flush, and her brows tilt down defiantly, as if to imply he doesn’t have any hold on her, when he knows that he does. It nearly overwhelms him. Solas instead hands the bottle back to her, careful to keep their fingers from touching this time.
He should not have indulged in drinking with her, that was foolish.
Solas looks into the water, feeling her eyes on him. “Perhaps not today.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Solas watches Rook polish off the bottle, her head tipped back and her throat bob as she swallows. How she gracefully elongates her spine to place the bottle far enough away to avoid knocking it into the water. She straightens and Solas finds her gazing back at him. Her eyes drift down and Solas is unsure what she is looking at, but her lips quirk, pure mischief.
Solas jerks as her hand is suddenly invading his space, deft fingers ducking into the collar of his shirt. “Rook—” He says, scandalized, leaning away from her. Rook does not follow, instead he watches in no small amount of horror as his bone amulet is drawn from it’s place tucked inside his shirt. Rook had looped her fingers into the leather cord around his neck, and fished his amulet into the open air.
“Huh, I had wondered what you had looped around your neck. I thought it was going to be some kind of silly locket.” Rook’s eyes are fixed on the jawbone resting in her palm, and Solas finds himself momentarily speechless at her audacity. “Is that a canus mandible? Dog? No, too large. Must be a wolf—”
Her eyes flash up to meet his, and Solas is reminded with a great sense of foreboding that she was raised in the Mourn Watch and would be quite adept at identifying bones of many creatures. Instead of doing the decent thing and apologizing for her trespass, Rook slumps forward and begins giggling madly.
Solas very firmly detaches her fingers from the cord and glowers. “If you are done taking liberties with my person.” He says, acidly.
Rook does not reply, still slumped over laughing as if Solas’ amulet is the funniest thing she’s ever seen.
“It is not that funny.” Solas tells her, scowling.
Rook finally deigns to look up, and her eyes are shinning with unshed tears from laughing so hard. “But, you go by the Dread Wolf and your necklace is a wolf mandible?” She clamps a hand over her mouth to smother her laugh unsuccessfully.
“I am so happy you find tremendous amusement at my expense, for my tribute to someone’s memory.” Solas says coldly, and immediately regrets having said so much.
Rook is not nearly tipsy enough to miss his slip. Her laughter abates and he finds himself stared at with that endlessly curious expression he’s found himself so weak to in their travels. “Who’s memory?”
He should not say. He should not share this. It has nothing to do with her. Solas lifts the necklace, thumb sliding over the dulled teeth. He thinks perhaps, his friend would have liked this woman very much.
“Felassan, it was his amulet.”
Solas does not watch her face, instead keeping his eyes on the bone. She remains silent and Solas does his best to keep his feelings from showing on his face.
“How did he die?” She is so gentle, when she chooses to be. That she can be a hurricane of destruction one minute, and then to speak so carefully, and softly to him. Is it any wonder why Solas might want to confide in her.
Perhaps if he says so, she can end this flirtation for them both once and for all.
“I killed him.”
His words are met with silence. Solas closes his eyes, remembering sitting on the ground next to the corpse of his oldest and truest friend. He had vomited just after. He remembers weeping, immediately regretting the choice Felassan has forced him to make. He remembers flashes of the daze he’d been in, desperate to do the death rights properly, frustrated at his stunted magic, at the Veil impinging on his ability to do what he needed. He remembers lifting the mandible amulet from Felassan’s neck— I wear it for you, so everyone knows to whom I’m loyal, like a team Solas —fingers trembling as he’d pressed it to his own chest.
He had worn the amulet ever since. In memory. As a reminder for what he had sacrificed to get here. As penance.
Rook does not speak for a long time, and when she does, it is once again with nothing but her endless curiosity. “Why?”
Solas slides his gaze to look at her, and it is not compassion on her face. “Does it matter?”
Her face hardens a fraction, her chin tilting up. “Yes. Because you told me he was your friend. And earlier, I called you mine, Solas.”
The breath he lets out is more exhausted sigh than anything. He supposes she is right, and she deserves to know. Perhaps then he can finally have the distance he needs from her. She will choose it for them, when he has been too weak to do so.
Solas let’s the jawbone dangle, bumping against his chest. “Because he had grown reluctant in our path, had too much esteem for people he shouldn’t, and he would have been a dangerous liability.”
Even all these years later it feels like a cheap excuse. But Felassan had known. Had known what Solas was going to do to him, and why. And he hadn’t fled. His back turned, Felassan let Solas do what he will.
“Was it before, or after you joined the Inquisition?”
Solas turns to her, his brow furrowed. “What does that matter?”
She looks back at him and shrugs. “It was before, right?”
Solas swallows, and nods his head once.
“Do you think you would have done the same, after your time in the Inquisition?”
Solas opens his mouth to say, yes, of course, but he finds himself pausing. Would he have killed Felassan after the events of the Inquisition? Would Solas have left the Inquisition as he had if his friend had been alive? Would he still be on the same path as he is now? They were all pointless questions, ultimately. They did not live in the universe where Solas had made that decision. Thinking otherwise would just compound the regret, and give his enemies something to latch onto further.
“It changes nothing.” Solas says eventually.
Rook makes a sound like she disagrees, drawing Solas’ eyes. Her brow is furrowed, but she slides him an opaque look. “Who was the bad crowd he fell in with?”
It is such an absurd way to frame the whole situation that Solas finds himself scoffing in disbelief. “He mentored someone he shouldn’t have, an elven woman in Orlais, very dangerous. She had brief control over a network of eluvians.”
“Are you talking about Briala?”
Solas turns to look at her. “You know of Briala?”
Rook chuckles. “An elven woman fucking the Empress of Orlais and seizing power for the elves? Yeah, Solas. I don’t think there’s an Alienage who hasn’t sung Briala’s praises in the past decade.”
Something about that statement rings odd out of her mouth. Solas turns to focus on her face. “You never mentioned you spent time in any Alienages.”
There is a shadow of some veiled emotion that crosses her expression, before Rook slides him a teasing smile. “That’s because I never did mention I spent time in Alienages, but you’d have to be living under a rock to have never heard of Briala.”
A lie of omission if he had ever heard one. Solas is more than familiar with the tactic. Rook may have never said she spent any time in an Alienage, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t. He recalls that out of place blanket with embroidered Alienage motifs in her room during their encounter with Defiance. He remembers: ‘The little girl was sent away to the Alienage of Nevarra City to live with the elves that understood they were lesser.’
Solas is about to press her for more, when Rook turns to him, smile all teeth. “I’m more interested in what you thought of Defiance, now that you’ve met it.”
She has thrown up a wall, daring him to try to and climb it. But if this will allow them to move past the topic of Felassan, then Solas is more than happy to do so.
“Defiance was a very old, very powerful spirit. Was that something you knew as it raised you?”
Rook purses her lips. “I knew it was older and stranger than most other spirits, but I assumed that was because it loved me like it did.” She cuts him a look. “I didn’t know it was that old or that I was apparently related to it.”
He watches her mouth twist. “I assume you have questions.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes Solas, of course I have questions. And now that you’re not ignoring me anymore, can we please talk about it?”
He’s surprised she’s actually asking his permission. He doesn’t think it is out of her desire to be polite. Rather to insure she doesn’t trample through a boundary. A pity, he prefers her brash. He gestures at her. “Ask.”
She blows a relieved breath and clasps her hands together, turning to him. “So I’m apparently related to Defiance, what exactly does that mean? Who do you think put baby me in the Grand Necropolis? Because that feels like someone gifted me to Defiance, and that feels kind of gross. Do you think anyone would get the dirt-something powers from my scythe, or does it have to do with bloodlines? And it looked like you had a realization while we were in that memory about who or what Defiance is, can you please tell me what that was?”
Solas stares at her blankly, letting her flood of questions wash over him. He is almost shocked she managed to keep that bottled inside of her for as long as she did. The idea that she had effectively been a kettle boiling with questions, and still miraculously keeping her silence while he’d been avoiding her, causes Solas to laugh.
Rook looks back at him affronted.
He holds up his hand. “I did not mean to, I am merely surprised you managed not to voice any of those questions for so long.”
Rook heaves an over dramatic sigh. “It was so hard, Solas.”
He chuckles. “Then allow me to help you with this burden.” He pauses, thinking through her various questions. “Anyone could become a spirit’s Dirth'ena enasalin, but your scythe in particular may be special, given the nature of Defiance and your relationship to it. What I realized while you were arguing is that I believe in my time Defiance was once Ghilan'him banal'vhen, an Elvhen warrior who served Falon’din.”
“That’s the death guy, right?”
Solas snorts. “Yes, in a manner of speaking Falon’din was known for dealing death. The Ghilan'him banal'vhen rebelled against the Evanuris.”
“Really?” Rook perks up. “Before or after you did? Did you ever fight along side them?”
Solas cannot keep the smile from creasing the corners of his mouth. He had missed her endless questions and follow up questions. Rook always cared to pay very close attention to the things that he said. “They rebelled before me, during the period after the war with the Titans when the Evanuris were trying to rebuild and consolidate their power.”
“So you didn’t know Defiance personally, when it was an elf?”
Solas furrows his brow, trying to remember. “I do not think I ever met any of the Ghilan'him banal'vhen, so I cannot say for sure. It may have been in a time before Defiance came to fight for Falon’din. But then I do not know how I would have been able to tell.”
He glances at Rook to find her thoughtful. “As for your other question, I do not know who or what could have delivered you to Defiance, but it was obvious it had intention behind it.” Solas searches her face. “You do not have any guesses as to who?”
Rook sighs, crossing her arms. “No, I’ve been wracking my brain for any weird interactions I could have had with someone unfamiliar when I was a kid, and I have no idea.” She looks back at Solas. “It sounded like Defiance intended me to leave the Grand Necropolis with it’s supposed death, do you think it wanted me to find you?”
Solas had wondered much the same. “Perhaps. May I ask how you met Varric originally, such that you ended up in pursuit of me?” Solas does not know that specific detail about her past and it grated. Though he’d learned just how much his informants had missed about Rook in their travels together. But to know how she met Varric might help him solve the puzzle of who set her on this path.
“It was a elven mystic visiting Nevarra city after I was asked to leave the Mourn Watch.” Rook says, her gaze far awar. “People called her Keeper Daisy, she told me a friend of hers had work for someone like me, so I went and met Varric at a tavern.” She gestured between them, as if to say ‘and now here we are’.
Solas furrows her brow. Keeper Daisy? Had he known of any Inquisition agents by that name? “Was she Dalish?”
Rook shrugs. “More or less.” Solas gives her a flat look and Rook puts her hands up. “I don’t know, she had the accent I guess. And the tattoos. I didn’t ask. She was nicer than most Dalish.”
“And given your opinions on the Dalish, that is the highest of praise.” He says, dry.
Rook wrinkles her nose at him. “I’m just left with more questions now.”
Solas sighs. “You are not the only one.”
Rook casts him a sidelong look. “Do you think it’s good or bad that someone might have intended me to meet you?”
Solas looks back at her, and finds he wants to ask her the same. “Without knowing their intention, it is impossible to say.” She looks as though she deflates a little, and Solas will blame the icewine for what he says next. “I do not however regret our travels together.”
Rook turns to him, and her smile is warm and genuine. “Yeah, me either.” Rook bites her lip, and looks down at the water, before giving Solas a very odd hopeful kind of look. “Solas, can I ask you something else?”
“You need not ask permission, Rook.”
Her lips quirk into a smile. “So the original elves were once spirits.”
That was not a question. He had wondered when she would broach this topic, now that they’ve aired how she has this information. “Yes.”
“And you were a spirit of Wisdom?”
“Yes.”
He prays that she will ask him something ridiculous, something silly, something crass and lewd. Something that does not approach the gaping maw of his first and greatest regret. That she does not ask about how he feels about Defiance’s offer.
Instead, Rook decides to surprise him.
She points at her chin. “I was obviously born to someone, not that we know who that is, but if I’d been an ancient elf back then, what kind of spirit do you think I would have been?”
Solas chuckles. For her to ask the most juvenile of all possible questions, instead of about his own experience taking a body, or what that meant through the ages, or if it could still happen today. Even her asking about Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain spirit aspects would have made more sense. He might’ve even expected a question about elven reproduction in the ancient age given their conversation about her being a descendant of Defiance. Instead, she merely wanted to know what kind of spirit he thought she would be.
“It is not so simple, Rook. Once a physical form is taken, our emotions become too complex to be defined by a single virtue.” It is why he struggles with his pride so much, something that never happened in the times before. To be embodied in a vessel of emotion, is to grow arrogant at your superior knowledge over the others around you. It is why Defiance had terrified him so, because unlike it, Solas would not have returned to a perfect distillation of Wisdom, not after the life he has led.
She puffs out her cheeks, displeased. “I guess that explains why you come across like an arrogant ass more than a wise man.”
There is no heat behind the barb, so Solas brushes off her words. “However, that isn’t to say I haven’t pondered the question.” Her gaze alights on him, open and honest in it’s curiosity.
Upon first meeting her, Solas had assumed that if she was anything, she must be a creature of Chaos and Discord. Each action she took seemed to sow further disquiet in her enemies and himself alike. She was unpredictable and dangerous.
Upon getting to know her better from the interior of his prison, Solas had thought she reminded him of spirits he had known long ago, of Loyalty and Commitment. She was dogged in her pursuit of her goals, and became most prickly at any attempts he made to probe at her relationship with her team. She was protective of them, unerringly so, even during their short acquaintance.
He believed that further upon tumbling into the Crossroads with her. It was in her nature to protect those around her, and that had included him. In a short time together, Rook had been willing to sacrifice herself for him, for no greater purpose than for him to survive.
To call her Defiance would be too easy. That was how she lived her life, how she was raised, but it was not who she was at her core.
“Well?” Rook has shifted closer, enough to jostle him with her elbow.
“Hope.”
Solas watches surprise, confusion, and suspicion flit across her face. “You think I’d be a spirit of Hope?”
She believes he’s making fun of her, he can tell. It makes him smile. “Yes, Hope.”
“Me?” She points at her face, highlighting the opportunistic tattoos sitting on her cheekbones.
“Yes. You have an uncommon gift for seeing the best in people, and the impatience to inform them of that fact. I have watched the way in our travels, how you go through life expecting things will always turn around for the better. At first, I thought you incredibly foolish and naive.” Her face pinches in offense. “But it’s what allows you to face the dangers set in front of you. You might think that is the guidance of Defiance, but I assure you, that you are more than merely standing up for yourself.”
She sees the best of him, even that which he believes is long dead. It’s almost enough for him to think, to hope, that small parts of himself might still be there. With all that she’s learned about him, she’d have turned her back on him otherwise.
Her eyes are wide, lips parted, and there is a charming flush on her cheeks and ears. He wonders idly if his cooled fingers would warm against her cheeks. Instead before he can act on the impulse, Rook jerks her head away to look at the water, her face flushing an even more becoming shade of red.
Solas tucks his hand back against his thigh, and tries not to think about the mistake he’d nearly made.
“So what you’re telling me is that you’ve put a lot of thought into this.” Rook’s tone is falsely light.
“Some.”
“Well I’m glad you spend so much time thinking about me.”
Solas raises an eyebrow at her. “And why is that?”
She flashes him a mischievous grin, her cheeks still warm. “Because I always suspected you’re a little obsessed.”
“Who is the prideful one now?”
“Still you.” She tells him tartly.
Solas rolls his eyes, falling into a companionable silence with her, as they both stare into the heated waters. Solas rotates his freshly healed ankle in the water, feeling tendons stretch and flex at the movement. He has enjoyed this conversation with her, even as it became fraught. He finds he enjoys silences with her too. It is comfortable, sitting here with Rook.
Perhaps this isn’t such a mistake after all.
“Solas?” He looks up to find Rook staring at him. “Can you tell me why you want to tear down the Veil?”
That comfortable feeling abruptly shutters behind a defensive wall. His back straightens. “And why would I need to rationalize myself to you?”
He watches that instinctual flare of contrariness light behind her eyes, but she bites her lip, keeping whatever cutting words she has at the ready inside. “You don’t. You don’t need to rationalize yourself. But…” She looks into the water, toes twisting.
“I want you to convince me.”
Solas blinks. “Convince you?”
Rook looks him in the eye. “Yes. You’re so incredibly smart, you know so much, and you can see so much. And if you feel the Veil needs to come down, I just want to know why, I want to understand.” She shifts ever so closer and Solas knows she’s being sincere. She doesn’t have the skill to lie so well. “I want to know why the Veil needs to come down, I want you to convince me to…”
Let him do it, she doesn’t say.
Solas stares into her face, such a tangle of emotions eating him from the inside he doesn’t even know where to begin. She’s sincere. She’s manipulating him. She wants to find holes to poke in his arguments. She wants to help him. She wants to stop him. She would let him kill this world that made her. She will do everything in her power to preserve it.
He finds he can’t look her in the face when he finally answers. “The world is less than it was, because I made it so. I am the only one who can put it to right.”
“How is it less than it was? What is missing?” Rook and her ceaseless awful questions. He can still hear the sincerity in her voice. All she wants is to understand, and Solas does not know how to explain it to her, and it is killing him to be unable to do so. Had he his magic, he might be able to show her something in the Fade, but not now when all he has is the meagerness of language available to him.
“I can’t— I don’t know how to explain all that we’ve lost. All that you don’t know.” Solas knits his brows, trying to think of an analogy she will understand. “It would be like trying to explain color to someone born blind.”
He looks at her, a tight feeling in his chest. Frustration at his inability to explain, with her for asking. With her for being unable to understand. Rook is staring into the middle distance, biting her lip as she thinks hard. There is no argument she can make that will change the fact that her life and how she understand the world would be seen as no different than a Tranquil in his time.
It is why she will never convince him to deviate from his path, she cannot begin to comprehend what has been lost, therefore why should she get any say?
“Red is like the feeling of sitting near a warm fire, or the heartbeat of another person.” Rook says, satisfied tilt to her mouth as she looks him in the eye. “Green is the smell of trees and freshly cut grass, it’s the snap of a fresh vegetable between your teeth. Blue can be cool like ice, or refreshing like water, it’s like the sound of rain falling on a roof. Yellow is the feeling of the sun on your skin, the smell of flowers.”
Solas stares at her, unable to believe this creature sitting next to him. He attempts to come up with a comparison that should be impossible to articulate, and here she is smilingly defying his expectations. As she spoke, he could vividly imagine each experience in his mind, feel the yellow on his face, the smell of fresh green. Wishes to paint the world as vividly as she explains it.
Rook places her hand atop Solas’ own at his knee, and he stares fixedly where her callus roughened fingers are warm against his own. She gives his hand a squeeze, drawing his focus up to her face. “Okay, now your turn. If I can explain color to a blind person, you can tell me about Elvhenan.”
“How…” Solas doesn’t know exactly what he’s trying to ask. How had she done that so quickly? How did she continue to surprise him? How did one such as her come to be in this world, when it was so much less, so shattered from what it once was?
The tilt to Rook’s mouth is pure mischief. “To be fair to you, I have been presented that analogy before, so I’ve had lots of time to think about it.” She gives his hand another squeeze. “But fair is fair, I explained your inexplicable example, now you need to explain yours.”
Her eyebrow waggle pulls a laugh out of him, the end result has her eyes glittering at him. He notes she does not remove her hand, nor does he find he wants her to. “Very well, fair is fair.”
And so Solas tells her. He describes magic being woven into every aspect of daily life. Of a world free of disease and death. Of the music and art and stories crafted to perfection over hundreds of years because everyone will live forever and have the time to do so. Of the spirits integrated into the fabric of society, into daily life, to wake to a world surrounded by close friends embodying perfect emotions. Of soaring spires and cities floating in the sky. Of knowledge and understanding communicated more quickly and easily that words could ever convey. He speaks of the best of Elvhenan, of all the things he misses, and all the things he loved.
It feels wonderful to be able to describe them, to give them form, even in the limited language left to him in this world.
“It’s sounds like a paradise, the way you describe it.”
Solas turns to her, eager that she might understand. But the expression on her face isn’t the wonder he expects. “Can you not see why I might desire a return to such a world?”
Rook is gentle when she asks, “But would tearing down the Veil restore that world?”
“Not at first, no. I know that. But it would be possible to one day. To restore all that we’ve lost.”
Rook nods her head. “It sounds like you lived a pretty wonderful life, but I need to ask Solas,” She looks him in the eye, and he does not like the expression in her face. “If that’s what your experience of Elvhenan was, as second to Mythal, what was it like for everyone else? What would it have been like for me, without magic?”
“All of the elves had magic back then—”
“Alright, to varying levels of power, I would assume. What about anyone who was not deemed powerful?”
Solas scowls, tugging his hand away from hers. “You ask because you wish to remind me that Elvhenan was not simply the paradise I describe. I know that better than anyone.” He shakes his head. “Had you lived back then, you would not have been a mere slave.”
In quiet moments of contemplation, even before she had been gifted her scythe by Defiance, Solas had imagined Rook would be a chosen arcane warrior of someone like Falon’din or Dirthamen, as Defiance had once been. He knows in his time what that would have meant. She would have been gifted to Ghilan’nain to experiment on and warp into the ‘ideal’ warrior. But that wouldn’t mean—
“I wouldn’t be a slave, but there would be slaves?” Rook asks.
Solas swallows past the shard of glass that has found itself embedded in his throat. “It would be different this time. It wouldn’t need to be the same. I wouldn’t let it. I would—”
Rook’s fingers brush his elbow. “You would be the new god? Guiding us on the correct path?”
Solas jerks away from her, horrified. “No! Of course not.”
“But if everyone who survives the fall of the Veil suddenly has access to a lot more magic, what’s to stop people with power from doing what they always do? Where they hurt others, damn the consequences. Maybe it won’t be slavery this time, but who’s to say it won’t be something just as terrible?”
She speaks this way because of her hatred of Nevarran gentry. She knows the whims of powerful humans, she’s seen the squalor in Alienages. “Humans, of those that survive, would have a fraction of the power that the elves would have.”
“And no elf has ever become a tyrant when granted power?” She speaks of Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain, Solas knows, and he wants to argue that it will be different. But Rook does not allow him to catch his footing.
“What about the spirits, Solas?”
He looks at her sharply. “What about spirits?”
“If millions of people die, whole corners of the map reshape and break when the world merges with the Fade once more, how will the spirits survive the horror and the tragedy of that loss of life?”
Solas remembers standing on the battlefield, after the first devastating loss against the Titans—when Elgar’nan had been convinced it would be impossible for them to lose. He remembers the spirits who had traveled with him, twisting and warping in the face of his own grief, at the mess of bodies littering the ground. He remembers how many spirits had returned home as creatures of Grief and Suffering, forever forgetting what they once were.
“I had safeguards in place.” Solas says, not looking at her, his words feel hollow the more he repeats them.
“Solas, I know you’re very powerful, but I don’t think even you could stop every spirit across Thedas from twisting and warping in the aftermath of so much devastation.” She sounds so kind as she says it, it infuriates him.
“Casualties are inevitable in times of great change.” He says, glaring at her.
“So you don’t regret the loss of life that happened from the Titans, the blight, or putting up the Veil in the first place?” It was inevitable that she would try to cut him with the knives she had found in his past, he supposes.
“You know that I do.” He says evenly.
“Then why do you have to do it? Why do you have to tear down the Veil?”
“I am doing it for the elves, Rook.”
She makes a derisive sound. “Elves like me, or elves like you? How many ancient elves are even left?”
Too few. “I am doing this for all elves to save you from the squalor and abuses of this age.”
She doesn’t believe him and it grates. “Then in all your infinite power and wisdom and experience, why haven’t you helped the elves of this time? Those enslaved, Dalish going hungry in the woods, the Veil Jumpers, or city elves?”
Solas shakes his head. “You know one individual cannot move the needle, unless drastic action is taken.”
She arches a brow at him. “Comparing yourself to Anders now?”
“What are you looking for me to say, Rook? That an inversion of the social order can be bloodless if you wish hard enough? Neither of us is so naive.”
Rook turns to him, her shoulders square as she glares at him. “What I want is for you to stop hiding behind the veneer of a noble cause, and admit that you’re doing this to assuage your guilt.”
Solas leans back, surprised at the accusation. He frowns at her. “You believe I wish to tear down the Veil because I feel guilty for the Titans? For the Blight?”
“No, Solas, I don’t think that’s it.”
“Then illuminate me.”
“I think you’re so committed to this, because you feel guilty about Mythal.”
She might’ve slapped him, he’s so stunned. It takes him a moment to find his breath. “That is not true.”
Rook shakes her head. “I just don’t think you should cut off more pieces of yourself, when she she’s not here to appreciate it anyways.” She had told him that one of his memories was the one where he took Mythal’s essence left in the waking world. From Flemeth. “When she wouldn’t care about the sacrifices you’ve made.”
“Do not speak of her as if you know her.” His breath comes too rapidly. What on earth is she trying to say? She knows nothing of Mythal. She knows nothing of his sacrifices–that isn’t true. She knows more than she should. Her face is unending kindness and something in Solas bucks and shies away, unable to be seen in this moment.
Solas finds he’s gripping the sides of the pool of water, his knuckles white.
When Rook speaks, her voice is soft, gentle, an apology in all but words.
“And what would Felassan think?”
The breath stalls in his chest, and Solas releases his grip on the side of the pool. He turns his face away, no longer able to control his expression, not that he believes he’s had any control over it for the last while.
What would Felassan think? He’d hate what Solas has become, it’s why he needed to die. And that’s all that should matter. And yet… Every step of the way Solas can almost feel Felassan’s disappointment. Corypheus, the orb, the Inquisition. What he did to the shard of Mythal that had attached itself to Flemeth. Felassan would have despised it all.
Rook has only just learned a fraction of what Felassan meant to him, and what Solas had done to him. And yet she uses his memory like a weapon. Solas hates her for it, just a little.
Rook sighs, curling forward, her elbows on her knees, tracing her fingertips over the surface of the water. “Solas, why did you start your rebellion in the first place?”
Solas watches her fingers swirl over the water’s surface, trying to soothe his frazzled nerves. She’d cut too deep, too fast. “After the war with the Titans, I had been promised that all the measures taken to insure the supposed safety of our people, yoking them directly to different members of the Evanuris, both as a power sync, and to keep track of the people—that was meant to end. It did not. And so began a terrible period of reconstruction and expansion that saw countless abuses, horrors, and death.”
“It wasn’t right, so you stood against it, freed people. You didn’t want anyone to be slaves.”
Solas closes his eyes, feeling that old raw anger awaken at the memory of the betrayal. “It was hypocritical. Part of their propaganda against the Titans was how none of the Children of the Stone were individuals, each of them suffering the cruel leash of an evil unknowable entity. We needed to fight them so we could all be free. And yet, look at what the Evanuris became.”
Solas looks at Rook out of the corner of his eye to find her watching him. He turns his head to look at her in full. “I started the rebellion because someone needed to stand against them. Someone needed to stand for the people. I wanted people to be free.”
As Rook stares into his eyes, Solas can see a candle flicker of something, he earlier might have identified as hope. “Then, I have to ask Solas. When you started your rebellion who was it that stood at your side, and who was it that turned their back, Solas?”
She might have stabbed him in the chest and it would cause less damage. She’d told him she had witnessed the memory of him trying to convince Mythal, Solas just hadn’t expected it used as a blade against him.
Is she wrong?
Rook had only seen one of his many attempts at trying to convince Mythal, the last one, the one that would haunt him to this day. Rook had not witnessed the hundreds of clandestine meetings in the Fade while Solas dreamt. Countless coded messages, begging Mythal to please reconsider. Her dismissals, and her occasional anger at the the Dread Wolf’s successes. Her rage at his betrayal.
The corner of the Crossroads he had painstakingly crafted to suit Mythal and her tastes.
Felassan’s hand on his shoulder after a century of rebellion and his ever kind eyes and Perhaps she won’t ever come my friend .
Solas closes his eyes, and releases a ragged breath.
Hesitant fingers brush against his arm, before Rook seems to steel herself and she presses her hand to his bicep. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to win an argument, Solas. I just want you to think through different possibilities. To walk the path of—” She cuts herself off.
His mouth quirks rueful as he peels his eyes open to throw her a sidelong look. “Walk the path of Wisdom?”
Rook is gnawing at her lip once more. “Yeah, something like that.”
The irony is not lost on him. This terrible, wonderful woman, wanting to take him by the hand and make him reflect. She more closely embodied Wisdom than Solas thinks he might have in a long time. Is it any wonder that he thought she might have been Hope in another life, another dream?
“You’ve given me much to think about.” Solas says eventually, his eyes once more on the pool in front of him.
“That’s your exceedingly polite way of asking me to leave you alone, right?”
Solas snorts, watching her pluck her legs out of the pool, beads of running rivulets down the line of her toned calf. Rook pushes to a stand. “With every new act of consideration you demonstrate, you reinforce just how willfully obtuse you choose to be sometimes.”
Rook stares down at him blankly. “Is that a criticism?”
“No, it isn’t.” Solas turns back to the water, gesturing over his shoulder. “Enjoy your time with your spirit friends until Anders chooses to evict us.”
He listens to the sound of her feet padding away, looking up when she pauses. “Thank you for talking to me about all of this, Solas. Truly. It means a lot.”
He cannot look at her, merely nods his head, and continues to stare into the water as she walks away.
For the first time in a very long time, Solas wonders if he might’ve been wrong.
And if he’s been wrong, what does that mean for his tomorrow?
Notes:
Anders POV this chapter:
Anders: Who are these fucking guys?
Anders: Oh fuck, Dread Wolf! I am absolutely not dealing with this asshole. I'm through with world saving bullshit, no thanks.
Anders: Who is this woman and why is she like the product of an unholy union between Hawke, Varric, and Merrill?
Anders: The spirits in my care have unionized against me.
Anders: This Solas guy is a rude fuck.
Anders: *asks if Solas has a crush*
Solas: NO I DON'T SHUT UP
Anders: 🙃
Anders: *comes back from patrol*
Anders: *dreadrook with very intense looks of longing in the spring with added pornographic hand holding*
Anders: *picks up the spirit kitty from his shoulder*
Anders: The second we are able to Tempers we are leaving the Crossroads, because fuck this place.
Tempers the Temperance cat: Word.
Chapter 13: Chapter 13
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"Andraste’s tits, it’s still working?” Rook gapes up at the otherworldly sheen of the Vi’Revas, the only eluvian in all the Crossroads that seems to be functioning. Every other mirror they had passed in their journey back to this central island had gone dark or had detached itself from a blighted island to float lonely and inaccessible in the sky.
“You had your doubts?” Solas sounds amused as his gaze traces over the mirror, assessing.
“Are you fishing for compliments about your workmanship over all the other eluvians?”
The corner of Solas’ mouth quirks and he slides her a sidelong glance. “I have no need for flattery when I am well aware of the quality of my work.”
Rook snorts, rolling her eyes.
Solas has been talking to her, and Rook is honestly kind of surprised. After they’d been politely but very firmly asked to leave Anders’ sanctum, and after Rook had said goodbye to all her precious spirit friends, most of whom made it out of the chaos—for which she will never not be grateful to Anders even if he is kind of a prick—Rook and Solas made their way through the final leg of their journey, reaching the final central island containing the Vi’Revas, and the locked door that would lead to the source of the Crossroads corruption.
Walking out of the Deep Roads island, Rook had assumed that Solas was going to either give her the cold shoulder again, or would sit in a broody, thoughtful silence. She had prepared herself for it, in fact. She committed to letting him take however much time he needed, especially since this time he wasn’t looking at her like he resented the very air he breathed. He looked… normal?
Rook had held up a mirror to his face, and bonked him with it a few times. And so far in their acquaintance Solas had proven to be one of the most self aware people she had ever met. He somehow managed to also be the least self reflective person she had ever encountered. Solas might say I am no god! And then he will decide he gets to make unilateral decisions for people from on high without a single hint of irony. A truly complex and odd man, Rook was finding.
So Rook having assumed that Solas would want to sit in contemplative silences after she’d emotionally bludgeoned him with a mirror he didn’t really want wasn’t unreasonable.
Solas, instead, had decided to surprise her by asking her about what she liked about her upbringing in the Mourn Watch. Rook had stopped walking and stared at him blankly, causing him to pause and look at her curiously.
“You’re talking to me?” Had been the graceless way she voiced her surprise.
Solas had only arched an eyebrow at her. “Whyever would I not, Rook?”
So Rook had indulged him, and talked about how much she liked learning and meeting spirits and how she enjoyed being more knowledgeable than shitty noble kids, which Solas had found very amusing. And then he asked follow up questions, like everything was fine, and that Rook hadn’t unearthed a whole lot of his opinions and ideas and trauma very recently.
Like he hadn’t painted a vivid picture of why Elvhenan was a thing of nightmares. Soaring spires of glass crafted by mind bending magic as far as the eye can see! Lots of slavery. Spirits everywhere to be your friend! Twisting and warping them into monsters by the horrors committed by empire. Everyone lives forever! But you may be yoked to an evil asshole who uses you as a battery.
Rook had not expected after they’d talked about everything they did, that Solas would go back to how they were before they’d encountered Defiance. The way the corners of his mouth would turn up as he spoke was honestly kind of freaking her out.
That and the Felassan thing.
The thing where he murdered his best friend, loyal comrade, partner in crime for the error of making friends in this era. Which is not how he framed it, but Rook feels like she’s gotten pretty good at reading between Solas’ lines at this point.
Despite all they talked about, despite the flirting, and watching him light up as he described the past, or did that thing where he looked at her like she was a revelation—the thing Rook kept coming back to was Felassan.
His back turned.
The first revenant. The one she’d put down after an annoying fight with it’s stupid massive shield. That had meant to be a representation of Felassan. The man whose notes littered the Crossroads and Lighthouse, acting like a guide to all, even in death. A cruel twisting of someone Rook is quite convinced was a very good man.
Solas had killed Felassan. And the rational part of Rook’s mind that still exists thinks this is the emotional equivalent of aposematism. Solas was revealing his poisonous emotional scar plumage like ‘yes, it is actually very foolish to get close to me, and you should stop, because I am inevitably going to kill you if you interfere with my plans.’
Maker’s breath, was it even surprising anymore? Solas had killed the fragment of Mythal left in the world to steal her power, so that he might still rip down the Veil.
But he looked very sad as he spoke about Felassan, the stupid part of her says, the one that likes to admire Solas’ eyebrows and cheekbones and his chin dimple.
Yes and if regrets were wishes, Solas could restart his life as a magical infinite wish granting wizard.
Solas had called her Hope of all things, and he had said it with such affection, a handsome little smile lighting up his face, like she was all the world needed. And how is Rook meant to stand against that? She is but a humble mortal.
And! Solas had talked to her about it. His plans, why he was doing what he was doing. He hadn’t yelled at her when she said he was lying to himself. He didn’t just shut down. He had spoken to her. He had listened. And Rook had sat there, thinking maybe, maybe she’d finally gotten through to him. Maybe he would finally understand. Maybe he would make the right choice. Maybe he would stop.
Which Rook was sure would happen, given they’d only been traveling together for an indeterminate amount of time, half of which had been spent sniping at each other. Which is the foundation for a really good, trusting relationship. Hardships and all.
Unlike the relationships he’d had with Mythal and Felassan for thousands of years before he killed them both.
Rook has never felt she needed her team more than she does now. Because if she could get Neve and Davrin to look at her like she was an idiot once, maybe her brain chemistry could go back to normal. Maybe she could stop imagining picking up Solas’ hand and pressing kisses to his knuckles. Or drop the fantasy about tasting his smile against her mouth.
One look of ‘I can’t believe you’ve done this’ from Harding would be enough to set her to rights. Thank the Maker they’ve arrived at the final island, because Rook thinks she might die if she has another deeply emotional heart to heart with Solas.
Or she’ll rip off her pants and say fuck it, fuck me.
She just needs her team, a little bit of distance and sanity can prevail once more. Only, Rook had forgotten a key thing about the Vi’Revas before they’d gotten here. The fact that it needed a key thing.
“How are we supposed to get in without the knife?” Several of Spite’s attempts at exploring the Crossroads had only been thwarted because the Vi’Revas wouldn’t work without the fancy blue knife Rook kept on her at all times, currently sitting in her room in the Lighthouse, and not here where they need it.
Rook might call the light in Solas’ eyes mischievous. “I have designed a few fail safes, in the event I was ever separated from the knife.”
“What kind of fail safes? Like a password? Or something else? Can anyone use them?”
The crease at the corner of his mouth deepens. “In a manner of speaking.” He leans in closer, his voice pitched low, and Rook’s stomach swoops and it takes all her willpower not to stare at his mouth. “What I am about to show you is a secret I have never shown anyone.”
Her impatient curiosity bowls over her desire, and Rook looks into his eyes eager to learn what the secret is. She gestures at him to get on with it, which has his smile widening. “Well?”
“Before I show you, would you tell me what your opinion on blood magic is?” Solas asks, watching her reaction closely.
“Do you want my actual opinion or the polite one I share?”
His face lights up with amusement. “Your true opinion.”
“It’s just another form of magic, I always kind of thought of it as a subclass of necromancy, personally.” She keeps this opinion to herself mostly because she doesn’t actually cast spells, so she doesn’t know if Blood Magic feels different from necromancy. The underlying principle is merely the same. Rook points a finger at him. “But if anyone asks, I did not say that.”
“I am surprised you would think so, I have heard you use many epithets common to those adhered to the Andrastian faith.”
Rook snorts. She’d been made to attend Chantry services as a child, and even from a young age, Rook had an intrinsic sense for other people’s hypocrisy. She’d always thought it very ironic indeed that Chantry folks would preach about the Fade, only for her to be taught the opposite in the Mourn Watch sometimes in the same day. Rook’s teachers often gave her the stink eye if she ever called that out. Nevarra had a complicated relationship with its faith in Rook’s opinion. It also certainly hadn’t helped that Defiance thought the whole Chant of Light thing was stupid and would tell Rook so, every time she asked questions.
“Call me bad at faith if you must, but I just think it’s fun to say ‘Maker’s Breath’ when you’re in polite company, and even better when you’re in less polite company and you get to say ‘Andraste’s tits’.”
“Less polite company, am I?” Solas smirks at her somber nod. “I suppose it should not surprise me how naturally questioning authority comes to you at this point.”
“I don’t know why it would either.” She plucks at his sleeve. “I answered your question, show me your skeleton key.”
Solas chuckles, reaching for the short sword at his waist. Rook watches him, curious. That was the sword he pilfered off a Venatori early in their journey. His question makes perfect sense when he draws the sword lightly across his palm, blood welling in the wound.
“I may not have access to magic, but I have imbued the Vi’Revas to respond to my blood as a key in case of emergencies.” Solas says.
She wonders what other secrets he has set up in the Lighthouse that she hasn’t uncovered yet. “What about me? Can I go in with you?”
He looks pleased at the question. “Under normal circumstances, no. But given our tether that saw us speaking in the Fade, if you give the gift of blood as well as we walk through, your blood will also act as a key.”
“Neat!” Rook says, earning herself another one of his amused smiles. “Does that mean I can use my blood going forward then, if I need to?”
“Yes.”
This is a pretty big deal for him, Rook realizes, and her hopeful little heart thumps at the amount of trust he is giving her. She reaches forward, and nicks her palm on the edge of his blade, allowing blood to well. She gives him a grin. “Shall we?”
Solas reaches out his bloody palm to her, and Rook doesn’t hesitate to thread her own bloody hand through his. He smiles at her as she does so, and they turn to the Vi’Revas as one.
They step through the mirror and into the Lighthouse. The air is still and all is quiet in the room containing the Vi’Revas. A tension Rook had been carrying so long that she stopped noticing it finally eases and she feels her shoulders sag in relief. She turns to Solas, a big beaming smile on her face.
“We made it!”
“Did you ever have any doubts?”
She laughs. “Yes, obviously. We almost died an awful lot.” She closes her eyes and tips her head back to sigh, basking in the smell of this place, like ozone and books and cinnamon all at once. “I’m so glad to be home.”
She opens her eyes to find Solas watching her. “What?”
He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth creased. It is Solas who breaks the clasp of their hand, drawing his arm back to his side. “It is nothing.”
She hadn’t even realized they were still holding hands. Rook notes with mild interest that her palm has already stopped bleeding. Their healing is accelerated even here. “Well, shall we go say hi to everyone?”
Solas nods and steps forward, and Rook thinks how odd it is to see him here , even after all their time spent together. She had known Solas had made the Lighthouse his home, could find little traces of him through this place, and yet seeing him here…
It is in that moment that Rook remembers she hadn’t really thought of how everyone was going to react to Solas being out of prison, and coming in to the Lighthouse with her through the Crossroads. She’d only been thinking of the relief of having her friends scold her for her very stupid crush. Not the moments before that, when they would see Fen’Harel walking among them, free from prison. “Uh…”
Solas pauses, looking at her curiously. “Is something the matter?”
“I should probably go first, and make sure no one freaks out when they see you.”
Solas raises a brow at her.
She waves him off and brushes past him towards the door. “I just want to make sure this goes as smoothly as we can possibly make it.” She tosses over her shoulder, reaching the door. Rook pulls on the massive doors that separate the Vi’Revas from the rest of the Lighthouse. She peers through the opening of the door and immediately slams it back shut.
Well shit.
Rook had forgotten what sat on the other side of these doors.
“What in the world are you doing, Rook?”
Rook closes her eyes, pressing her forehead into the carved wood, desperately trying to figure out how she can get Solas through the Library without needing to see any of the murals that now decorate it’s walls. Would he tolerate her covering his eyes? Playfully? Probably not.
“Rook.”
She turns to face him, using her back to guard the doorhandles, lest he try to open the door himself. Solas is giving her his ‘she may be concussed, but how?’ look and she grimaces sheepishly at him.
“Uhm.”
“This is no time to be playing games.” It’s the thread of vague disapproval that leeches into his tone that finally resets her brain.
“I never actually told you the nature of how your memories we witnessed materialized in the Lighthouse.”
“You said they were statuettes.” He says carefully.
“Yes. Statuettes when placed in certain parts of the library revealed a mural depicting events.” Rook says too quickly so that her words trip over each other.
Solas looks at her carefully. “And there is one of these on the other side of the doors?”
She nods.
“May I inquire as to which?”
“The one where you told Mythal about the Evanuris using the blight.”
She watches Solas’ face go blank, before he sighs. “I thank you for the warning, but we may as well walk in. It won’t get easier the longer we sit here.”
Rook thought he might take a moment to freak out about it for longer than that. She glances over her shoulder, and back at Solas. “Are you sure?”
Solas looks her in the eye, his expression closer to grateful than anything else. “Yes, Rook. I’m certain.”
Rook turns and heaves the door open, and she and Solas step through to stand in front of the mural. She watches his face carefully as he takes in the image on the wall. His gaze slides from his despairing figure, to the blighted red Evanuris, and then rest for a long time on the depiction of himself and Mythal. He doesn’t look as aggrieved as Rook would have thought. More like his curiosity is piqued.
“Huh.” Solas says after they sit in a silence that might be an eternity.
“Huh?”
Solas tips his head towards her, but keeps his eyes on the mural. “I painted this, a long time ago.”
“You did?” She was no great appreciator of art, but each and every one of the murals was done in a similar style. Bellara had guessed they were all painted by the same person. Rook hadn’t realized Solas had done them, even though Harding had said he used to paint in the Inquisition. Rook supposed that made sense, but did that mean that Solas originally painted it here, or elsewhere?
Solas draws his eyes away from the mural, to look at her. “Yes. I painted this fresco shortly after Mythal was murdered. I subsequently destroyed it not long after.” He draws his gaze back to the wall. “Curious that this is how the memories took shape. Are they all like this?”
“Yes. They’re all wrapped around the library.”
“I see.”
Not really thinking about it, Rook reaches up and squeezes his arm, making Solas look down at her, surprised. “I’ll give you a few minutes. I can go and check in on everybody and warn them you’re here. That should give you some time to collect yourself and maybe view the murals if you want.”
He stares at her for a beat before his mouth quirks and he nods his head. “Yes, thank you Rook.”
She gives his arm another squeeze, and she turns to walk up the curved stairway to check on her friends. She doesn’t even need to go very far. Bellara is standing at the bookcase, her back to Rook. Typical of her friend to be so caught up and focused in whatever has grabbed her attention that she doesn’t even notice a strange voice joining Rook’s downstairs.
Rook lets out a relieved breath. “Bellara! There you are! You are not going to believe the absolutely insane story I’m about to tell you. Or maybe you will, knowing you.”
Bellara does not turn to acknowledge her. Which is surprising, because usually when Rook calls her name, it’s enough to get Bellara to jump, surprised out of her focus.
Rook rolls her eyes, grin wide as she steps towards her friend. “Bellara, I promise I’m not trying to scare your ears off, and I’m sorry about what I’m about to do. But…”
Bellara still doesn’t respond, completely and utterly still—so odd for her friend who is ever in constant motion, even when she’s hyperfocused.
Rook reaches forward to touch the space between Bellara’s shoulders and is soundly confused at how stiff and inflexible the soft linen of Bellara’s shirt feels. She doesn’t react at all to Rook’s touch. In fact, it doesn’t feel like Bellara is even breathing.
“Bellara?” Rook calls, starting to feel alarmed. She tries to turn her friend by the shoulders, only to realize that Bellara feels as though she is made of stone. Rook moves to stand in front of her, trying to catch her eye. Bellara’s face is relaxed, a small smile curving her mouth as she gazes down at the books on the bookcase.
It’s like she’s frozen.
“Solas!” She can hear his feet racing up the stairs at her shout. Rook looks at him, panic making her heart race, her hands fluttering uselessly towards Bellara. “I don’t know what’s going on. It’s like she’s frozen. She’s not responding—”
Solas is at her side, his hand sliding to the gap in her armor where her shoulder meets her neck. “Calm yourself, Rook.” She takes shuddering breath as Solas turns to examine Bellara.
She hadn’t thought— Everyone at the Lighthouse was supposed to be alright. They were supposed to be better off than she was. She hadn’t even thought to worry about them. Because if she started she never would have stopped. Had they been like this the whole time?
Solas eventually sighs, shaking his head. “She is frozen in time. I suspect the entire Lighthouse is like this.”
Rook looks at him, stricken. “But why?”
“I had wondered if this was a possibility. The Lighthouse uses much the same magic as the Crossroads, but sits apart from it. The time dilation in the Crossroads is likely the culprit. The Lighthouse sits on it’s edge, and is caught in the measures taken to prevent further incursion into the Crossroads.”
“Can we fix it?”
Solas looks at her, compassion in his expression. “The Caretaker would be able to resolve this, or if I had my magic. But I think likely the best hope is to cleanse the distortion in the Crossroads, and everyone here shall be freed.”
Rook drags both hands down her face, feeling frustrated. This was supposed to be the nice little moment of respite. It was supposed to be that they reach the Lighthouse, they connect with the team, get some rest, Rook could eat some food, and then everyone works together to take out the last blighted revenant. Added bonus for her team to knock some sense into her about whatever she has going on with Solas.
It’s like having salvation dangled in front of them only to have it pulled out of their hands at the last second.
They aren’t any better off than they started.
She feels Solas wrap his fingers around her wrists, pulling her hands from her face. Rook blows out a breath, and gives him what must be a very petulant look.
“Your friends are fine, Rook.” Solas says, his tone gentle. “We need only do what we planned on doing anyways.”
Solas is right. She knows he’s right. She slides her wrists out of his hands. “You’re right. We’ll be fine.” She sighs, looking down at her fingers. “I just… I thought we were through the hard part, and it was supposed to be easy from here on out.” If this were a story, this would be the moment the heroes have their respite before needing to defeat the big evil bad guy.
Solas’ fingers lift her chin, so he can look her in the eye. “It is no different from what we have already faced, nor are we worse off.” The corner of his mouth quirks. “And you had wondered why I called you Hope.”
Her spiral entirely forgotten, Rook feels her cheeks flush. She turns, looking at Bellara once more. “Yeah, well. It still would have been nice.”
“Yes, but we will survive anyways.” Solas says, his hand drifting down to his side.
Rook watches him out of the corner of her eye, his eyes scan the room, and the warmth in his face slowly dimming. Rook clears her throat. “I’m going to go check on everyone else. Unless you want me to stay?”
Solas looks back at her. “No, Rook. Thank you. Check on your team. I will be fine.”
She nods, and leaves him to it. She walks up the stairs to the second floor, checking to see if Taash is in their room. They aren’t there, and Rook tries not to let it bother her. It wouldn’t be odd to find Taash hanging out with Davrin or Harding in the courtyard.
What really freaks her out, is that Varric isn’t in the infirmary. He’s almost always in bed, and instead all that’s there is his coat and a book lying on his comforter. Maybe he’s in the kitchen? Rook will see when she goes to check on Lucanis.
She’s nearly bowled over with relief when she finds Manfred bent over a table, setting up a tea service for Emmrich. Emmrich sits in his favorite wing back chair. She says hi to them both, knowing neither can hear her, and she throws a rock-paper-scissor at Manfred, and pretends his out stretched hand is rock, allowing herself to lose.
Back in the library Solas stands in front of the Wisdom mural, an unreadable expression on his face. Rook doesn’t say anything, but as she approaches him on the stairs she presses a hand to his elbow, and feels a prickly warmth zing up her spine when he reaches up to brush his fingers over her knuckles.
“Thank you, Rook.” He says, softly.
She nods and heads out the door to check on everyone else.
Just as she suspected, Taash is stepping off the tree bridge away from Harding’s Greenhouse. Harding herself stands at the doorway of her Fade apartment, leaning against the wall, watching Taash walk away with a bright smile dimpling her cheeks. She pats Taash’s even more rock hard than normal bicep as she walks by, grateful her friends are okay.
She knows Bellara is in the library. The Caretaker has vanished, leaving their storefront empty.
On the second level she finds Davrin obviously playing peek-a-boo with Assan around the feet of the Dead Lovers statue she convinced the Caretaker to install. Davrin is wearing a wide, easy smile, as he bends around one of the statues legs. Assan play bows at him, tail high in the air. Rook wishes she could see the scene play out live, and watch Davrin try to huff and puff to cover up his obvious affection for his partner.
She finds Neve in her office, slouched over documents, frozen mid motion of trying to brush her hair behind her ear. It looks like more Shadow Dragon reports on Aelia. Rook reaches forward, tapping her finger on the edge of Neve’s desk.
“We’ll catch her my friend, I promise.”
She does not find Varric in the kitchen either, which should worry her. Lucanis at least is there, staring into the fire as he raises another one of his endless cups of coffee to his mouth. Rook stands beside him, pressing her hand to his shoulder.
“Hey Lucanis. You’re probably fine, but Spite if you’re in there and you can hear me, don’t worry. I’ll fix this, I promise.”
Having found everyone but Varric, Rook makes her way back to the library to check on Solas. Maybe Varric is in the baths or toilets? If he is she really doesn’t want to intrude and see something she shouldn’t.
Rook walks back into the library, only to find Solas nowhere to be found.
“Solas?” Rook calls.
“In the Sila’alasis.” Comes his voice from the second floor.
Rook frowns, having no idea idea what that word means, but it sounds like it was coming from her room. She makes her way upstairs and down the hallway, to find Solas standing in her room in front of the fish tank, a funny expression on his face.
“What’s a sila-assis?” She asks, setting her scythe down against the wall. She’ll need to talk to Davrin about making a rack for it to hang in here after they’ve fixed everything.
Solas tilts his head to look at her. “Sila’alasis. A place of profound and meaningful complementation. You might call it a meditation room.” Rook moves to stand next to him, finding him meaningfully contemplating the Dwarven reliefs she has decorating the walls. “I see you’ve taken ownership of this space as your own.”
“Mhmm.”
“I am surprised at all that has changed since you moved in.” Solas says, shifting to focus on the fish tank. “I had felt some reverberations of changes in the Fade, but I did not understand to what extent.”
Rook looks at him curiously. The age old question of how much he knew of their movements, what he could see. “Like what?”
Solas turns to look at her. “I am impressed you took the time and effort to repair the library for one. Or that you’ve gained access to so many other rooms in the Lighthouse.”
Rook smiles. “It was fun, solving the puzzle of how to get it all working again. Everyone else had their own problems to solve, applying their expertise, and I had a lot of time on my hands. It felt good to get something working.” She considers him. “Why didn’t you fix the library?”
Solas returns his gaze to the fish tank. “I did not think to do so.”
“Why not?”
“I did not think there was a point. I stayed in the Lighthouse by myself, and could summon any book I needed with little effort.”
She wonders what it says about him that he didn’t think to fix something a little broken, because he could work around it easily enough.
“May I ask, Rook, why do you have Dwarven art on the walls?” She looks up to find him staring at her rather intently.
Rook glances over her shoulder at the stone carvings she put up on the walls shortly after moving into the Lighthouse. That might have been even before they saved Lucanis. “I think they look interesting.” She glances at him, to find him studying her face. “And after everything we learned I thought it would be appropriate to honor what the Dwarves have become.”
Solas blinks, genuinely taken aback at her answer. “Do you believe the Dwarves are better off now?”
“I didn’t say that. I don’t know what they were like before, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have a wonderful and rich culture now. Despite the hardships.”
Solas hums, his eyes on the wall art as he mulls her answer over. Rook finds she doesn’t want to have another serious discussion, not now. Not without her needed buffer.
“Also I won’t lie.” Rook says lightly, drawing his focus once more. “I did make some of my decoration choices specifically because I hoped it would piss you off.” She slides him a sidelong look, and is amused at his vaguely affronted expression.
Solas finally scoffs, shaking his head. “Ever the spiteful creature.” He gestures at one of her many Dalish statues decorating the room. “I had wondered why there were so many Dalish figurines in here.”
Rook pats the nearby Nug carving, a smile on her face. “It served as a good reminder that I should be taking joy in antagonizing you before our little meetings.”
“Is this where you would come into a restive state in order to meet with me within the Fade?” Solas asks, eyes alighting on the room around them, newly curious.
Rook grins, and flounces over to the little table with the incense she hadn’t bothered to light on her last meeting in the prison with Solas. “Mhmm, behold my meditation throne.”
Behind her Solas makes a derisive sound.
Rook catches a golden glimmer out of the corner of her eye, and finds her Lords of Fortune heavy armor sitting pretty and shiny, freshly polished on it’s stand right where she’d left it in the corner of the room. At the armor’s hip sits the sheath holding the knife. She can’t imagine Solas hadn’t noticed when he walked in, and yet he’d left it alone.
That small little glimmer of hope burns brighter inside her.
She steps towards her armor, it’s mirror shine, enough to reflect the room, Solas a distorted gold black figure over her shoulder, watching her.
“The knife can break enchantments, right?”
She does not turn, instead watching Solas’ head tilt in the reflection on her armor as he regards her. “Yes, that is it’s ultimate purpose.”
“Do you think even without your magic, you might be able to break the enchantment freezing everyone in time?” Hope and something else squeezes her chest.
Solas does not respond for a moment. “I… I do not know Rook. Not without trying.”
Rook wraps her fingers around the hilt of the knife, and pulls it from it’s sheath. The practical warrior raised by a spirit of Defiance in her screams at her to stop. To not do this. That this is very, very foolish. The dreamer who’s always loved to ask questions has dozens it begs to ask now.
All drowned out by the hopeful little idiot that has watched Solas this whole time and thinks he will choose to do good, not to harm. He’s the one who called her Hope after all.
She turns, walking towards him, the knife held in front of her, blade to the side. Solas watches the knife, like a man dying of thirst. He looks up at her, his expression vacillating between so many emotions, it’s hard to track them all. Confusion, surprise, delight, shame, awe and so many more Rook cannot name. His fingers twitch at his side as she comes closer.
She stops half a step away from him, holding the knife in her hand between them, not quite out to him, but on offer all the same. “Would you… Would you be willing to try to free the others?” She looks into his eyes, sees the wonder in his expression, the way he marvels at her like she’s something he didn’t think existed, and her heart thumps. “For me?”
Solas raises his hand, fingers trembling between them. He does not move to grab the knife, allowing her the agency to choose to put it into his hand. He stares at her with a mix of surprise, and a hope so profound, that Rook finds herself shifting her hand closer to him before he’s agreed to anything.
Solas looks into her eyes, his head nodding slowly. “Yes, yes . I will try.” He says it like a prayer.
Afraid she will lose the nerve that has her making what might be the most foolish decision of her life, Rook presses the hilt of the knife into his hand. He gasps as she does so, his fingers curling gently, lovingly around her own.
Solas does not look down at their joined hands, instead he looks into her eyes, his expression soft. As if he is committing to memory her face in that moment. “For you, Rook, I will try. Anything. Always.”
Rook takes a breath, feels his thumb slide gently against her knuckles, like she’s something precious. She watches the way he leans forward, ever so slightly, his eyes flick down to her mouth, and she makes her decision.
Careful of the knife between them, Rook rocks forward onto her toes, and moves to press her mouth to his. For a suspended moment, Solas leans to meet her halfway. And just as her eyes are drifting shut, feeling his warm breath on her face, she watches his expression change, and Solas draws away from her.
“I am sorry. I cannot.”
Stung, Rook unthinkingly releases the knife into Solas’ hands, pulling away from him to gain space. “Alright, I’m sorry.” The words more perfunctory than actually felt.
Solas watches her, his brows drawn together. “No, do not apologize, Rook. I should not have—”
“It’s fine, Solas.” Rook says, feeling twin flames of heat coloring her cheeks, an unfamiliar twinge of shame hunching her shoulders.
Solas, like an idiot, keeps talking. “It would not be fair, Rook.” He shakes his head. “It can never be equal between us.”
Rook is so stunned, that it takes her a moment to process his words. “Sorry, it can’t be equal?”
Solas seems to miss her tone, shaking his head once more. “It would not be right—”
Rook holds up a hand to him. “Stop. Whatever rationalization you’re trying to do for yourself. It wouldn’t be equal? Why because you have so much magic you’re indistinguishable from a god?” She’s right on the money, she can see it in his face. “Guess what Solas, right now, this moment, this is as equal as you and I have ever been. But, that’s fine, if you want to wallow in your lonely sadness, you’re welcome to.”
Solas frowns at her. “It does not matter what you think you feel now—”
“Oh, you’re going to tell me how I feel, please enlighten me.”
His frown deepens. “I have wounded your pride, I know, but I am making a choice for the both of us. The right thing—”
Rook makes a disgusted noise at him. “Oh shut up, you self righteous ass. Don’t moralize about how you shouldn’t want to want me. Just admit you’re a coward and we can move on.”
Solas looks well and truly angry at her now. Good. “I am making this choice for your benefit. You do not understand. Nor could you ever.”
“Okay former spirit of Wisdom. Impart your superior knowledge upon mine unworthy mind. Tell me why you think it’s such an evil bad thing to want to fuck me.” Rook flashes her teeth at him.
“You do not understand. You cannot. You would not want this if you understood all that I have done.”
Rook throws up her hands. “I seem to recall us talking about a lot of the horrors you inflicted on the world, Solas. And you will notice, that wasn’t a deal break for me.” And what does that say about her? Nothing good, Rook knows.
He flinches at her words. “You would not want me, Rook. You must know this.”
She doesn’t even know why she’s arguing with him. It will change nothing. Her pride has been hurt, Solas is once again full of shit. She needs to get out of here. Fuck him, and fuck this.
Rook rolls her eyes. “Whatever Solas. I’ll leave you here to mope or whatever it is you do when I’m not around, I need to go find Varric. We can talk about freeing the others afterwards.”
“Rook…” He calls, but she ignores him, turning on her heel and walking out of the room and down the hallway.
Rook rounds the corner out of her room, and can hear Solas pad after her. The annoying fucker can’t even give her the dignity of letting her nurse her ego in private. She’s gathering the requisite amount of acid to tell him to fuck off and leave her alone for a bit, when she feels a sudden sharp flash of pain against her scalp.
Rook claps a hand to the back of her head, and whirls on Solas. “Did you just cut me?” She cannot believe what the fuck is wrong with him. He doesn’t want to kiss her, and now he needs to evil pull her hair? Solas stands staring at her, looking like he’s in mourning. “What is wrong with you?”
Rook pulls the hand covering the wound on the back of her head to her face to examine the blood. Very little, it must have been shallow. Not that it matters. He managed to nick her right in the scar nestled in her hair, all that remains of her traumatic head wound from the ritual site. Solas still does not say anything. “You lunatic, who—”
Rook suddenly feels like she can’t catch her breath. Her brows pinch together, confused.
A wellspring of grief that hadn’t existed seconds ago floods inside of her. She stumbles back a step, her shoulder smacking into the wall. “What—”
“I am so sorry, Rook.”
She looks into his face, and it’s like he’s a mirror for the sudden choking grief starting to overwhelm her. Unbidden tears burn up her nose, their source unknown. She glares up at Solas. Before she can open her mouth to ask what the fuck he’s done to her, an image crystallizes in Rook’s mind, one that has her reeling back another step.
The source of this strange, overwhelming feeling.
That’s not possible.
She’d spoken to him afterwards. He had spoken back. They’d talked almost every day.
Rook stumbles away, her hip smacking into the plinth holding one of his awful statuettes. She does not even feel it, so choked in emotion as she stumbles towards the infirmary. She struggles to keep her feet under herself as trips her way down the hallway that has never felt longer. She clumsily wipes at the first tears that try to fall, because it’s not true. It can’t be true.
She knows she just talked to him the other day. The last time she’d been in the Lighthouse, anxious about talking to Solas after Weisshaupt. He’d told her to keep her chin up, that she was always good at rolling with the punches.
As Rook stands at the foot of the bed where she thought an injured Varric would be waiting for her, an easy smile on his face, the memory she hadn’t known was missing finally reveals itself in all it’s horror.
Dazed and bleeding after successfully disrupting the ritual, Rook reaches for her mentor, her friend, crumpled on the ground. When she turns him over he is limp, the dagger lodged in his chest. His core temperature already starting to cool with no heart blood being pumped anew. Dwarves are slow to onset rigor, and may take several hours until he fully stiffens in death, her concussed Mourn Watcher brain had told her.
She had felt the wet meat pull of the knife, as she’d taken it from his body, before Harding had picked Rook up and dragged her away, leaving Varric’s corpse.
Varric is dead.
Had been dead since the very beginning.
All that’s left of Varric is his journal, his coat and the broken fragments of Bianca.
Rook turns and falls to her knees to vomit. Bile and spit splatter the stone of the floor.
She stays like that, on all fours trying to breath through the feeling, staring at nothing. How had she not known? She was a Mourn Watcher, she had been raised to honor the dead, and instead she had spent the last months deluded into thinking he was alive. Varric deserved more than that. He had meant more than that.
She can feel Solas standing at the doorway, his eyes on her, witnessing.
She raises her gaze slowly, from his feet, up his legs to the blue lyrium knife that he had used to kill Varric dangling loosely in his hand, a smear of blood on the blade. Her blood.
Her eyes flash up to look into his hateful face, full of sorrow that is nothing but lies. “What did you do?”
“I released you from our bond of blood magic.” Solas says, his fingers gripping the knife in his hand more tightly.
Rook clambers up to stand, unable to keep prostrating herself in front of him. Her chest heaves as her grief twists into rage. “How was I able to talk to Varric?” Her throat clogs before she can add ‘when he’s apparently been dead this whole time’. Killed by Solas’ own hand.
“I used our tether to make you forget his death, and to see him still so that you might seek his counsel.” She cannot read the expression in his face, not that it would matter, because he is nothing but a liar.
“You used blood magic to make me forget Varric’s death, by your own hand, to manipulate me into thinking he was alive? So I would talk to him?” She grits her teeth, remembering his earlier question. “How do I feel about blood magic, Solas? Would you like me to answer again?”
He closes his eyes briefly, like he has any right to be wounded at her tone.
“Who was I talking to, when I was speaking to Varric?” She hates how her voice trembles on his name.
Solas open his eyes to meet hers. “I… nudged his questions, and received your answers, but how Varric spoke, the words he said was largely filled in by you.”
“You’re saying I was party to my own mind fuck?” She can hear her heart beat in her ears.
“In this kind of spell, it is best to allow the target to fill in as much detail as possible.”
“Why?” The word creaks out of her throat, thick with emotion.
“I had planned on guiding you…” He trails off
“Guiding me where?”
Solas looks into her face, and he has the temerity to look ashamed. “I had meant to guide you so that we could switch places, and you would take my place in the prison of regrets when the time was right.”
She stares at him, face slack, before her fury overtakes her. Everything, the whole time had been a manipulation from the beginning. Just as she had once known it was. She had known not to trust him.
“Why did you release me now?” Her fists shake at her sides, wanting to scream and claw at his face. Wanting to peel her own skin away. Wanting nothing more than to melt into a puddle of tears and never get back up again.
Solas seems to hesitate, his gaze leaving hers before sliding back. “Because you deserved to know.”
Rook wants her scythe and she wants to choke him with it. “Then why didn’t you say anything before? Why after all this time, after everything—” She cuts herself off, her voice under threat of clogging with unshed tears.
Solas looks the same as he did when he spoke of Felassan, and she hates that she knows this. “I needed the knife or my magic to do so, I was unable to break the connection until now.”
She handed him the knife, and the first thing he did with it was release her from the blood magic he cast on her. It provides no comfort, it just makes her angrier. “You couldn’t have said anything to me, used your words?”
He has the audacity to look pained. “I did not know how you would react, without my magic to reinforce or release the spell, you could have been caught suspended between feeling and not knowing why. I did not wish—”
She cuts him off with a scornful laugh, that is half hysterical. “You didn’t say anything, because it was easier, and convenient.”
He has no business looking as though she’s the one being cruel. “Perhaps you are right.” His brows crease. “I did not think this grief would affect you so.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” The urge to cross the room and shake him nearly overtakes her. “Why wouldn’t I mourn Varric? Because I only knew him for a year?” What madness is that? What kind of cold hearted bastard wouldn’t mourn someone they knew, they traveled with closely? Rook supposes him. Had Solas even mourned Varric after killing him?
He looks up at her, a shadow in his face and Rook can feel her heart thrumming in her ears. She feels a portent of dread at what his next words will be. “Compared to the people of my time, with the Veil as it is, the world cut off from so much…” Her breaths feel ragged in her chest. Solas, is a fucking coward, closing his eyes when he speaks the words. “The people of today are as good as tranquil. I would have assumed, that you… There wasn’t…”
Rook stares at him, feels the truth he believes in his words. It explained so much. Every ‘you couldn’t possibly understand’ ever uttered at her. She had wondered what would drive him to kill Felassan, his friend. Felassan who viewed them as people. Solas didn’t.
Solas had not thought her a person this whole time.
Rook watches him open his eyes, drag them up to meet her face, and even in this he doesn’t have the conviction to be unashamed of that belief. Or maybe it’s that he’s ashamed he wanted to fuck the woman he didn’t see as a person. No better than an emotionless husk.
Rook laughs, and the sound is brittle to her own ears. “You’re a fucking monster.”
He flinches, the words a blow that he deserves more than anyone has ever. “I am sorry, Rook. I did not—”
“What are you apologizing for?” Her voice is like a whip crack. “You would do the same thing every time, in every universe.” It wouldn’t matter who she was, what she meant to him, she knows now what he’s done to the people he loves most. If his option was Fade prison, or Fade prison with a pawn in the world, he would choose keeping his pawn every time. Especially if his pawn wasn’t a person.
Solas stares at her stricken. He swallows. “Yes. I would. If I had no other options available to me. I would do the same every time.”
She wants to gouge out his stupid violet eyes, as if they have any right to look so sad. For him to sit there, pretending like he is nothing but a victim to his own choices. Of course he would choose something better if he could. It is only circumstance that has brought him to this point. Such an expert manipulator, he’s somehow managed to convince himself too.
A laugh pulls out of her chest, ragged and raw. “Was anything even real, Solas? Anything you ever said?” Anything he made her feel? She can’t believe how stupid she’s been. How she’d tried to kiss him of all things. She should have let Defiance turn him into a spirit, at least then she’d be dealing with something honest.
Solas looks back at her, hurt she might ever say otherwise. “Yes. Of course it was.” He leans forward like he wants to step into the room, but can’t make himself. “Everything I ever spoke about with you, they were my true thoughts, Rook.”
“And I should trust the word of what god was it? Oh yes, lies, treachery and rebellion.” She sneers. Solas takes her words like a slap. It brings with it a fresh wave of tears bubbling up her throat.
Rook preses the heels of her palms into her eyes, desperately willing herself not to cry. Her breathing comes ragged and wet and she will not cry in front of this monster. This monster who she had been so close to letting herself be ruined by. Who she’d let reject her, who she should not have made any offer to in the first place. What was she thinking? What was she doing? Rook has never felt so stupid.
She hears Solas take a step into the room, and she will not abide any comfort from the man who’d brainwashed her into thinking Varric was alive. Who used that connection to coax more information out of her, manipulated her so that she might take his place in his prison of regrets. Who lied. Used her.
Thought she was as good as tranquil.
Rook rips her hands away from her eyes, and feels so incandescently angry at the grief on his face, at how close he has come, his hand outstretched.
“Do not touch me!” She shrieks.
Solas freezes, his hand pauses mid air between them. He schools his face, because of course he does, and retreats back a few steps. As though she is a dangerous animal who might bite him.
Her tears warp into laughter, because it is the funniest thing she can think of. All of this, this whole stupid circumstance. From leaving the Grand Necropolis, to following Varric, his death, and all the way to this moment. Her laugh sounds harsh and bitter to her own ears, and she hopes it sounds as ugly to Solas as she feels right now.
Rook presses a hand to forehead as she stares into Solas’ bewildered face. He doesn’t know that this is like a divine comedy. The stuff of legends. She would be a hilarious footnote to history, if anyone were around to make record of her foolish, bullheaded mistake. The woman who would have willfully accepted a deceitful, dangerous wolf into her bed, only to be surprised when he betrayed her in the end.
Defiance always told her it was best that she never thought before she acted, to trust her instincts. But she couldn’t trust anything, not even herself anymore.
“What do you think it says about me, Solas, that ten minutes ago I was willing to ignore every single atrocity you ever committed. I was happy, eager even, to forgive you for every terrible thing you have ever done.” She watches, no small amount of hateful glee blooming in her chest as his face slackens. “But this, this is the thing I can’t get past. This violation? I can’t forgive.”
She laughs, because if she doesn’t she’s going to start screaming. Her team, all of them would be so disappointed in her. Disgusted. How could they trust her after this? Have faith in her decisions? What was Harding going to say? Rook doesn’t know that they will ever recover from this.
Solas himself looks to be on the verge of tears, and Rook wants to choke the life out of him. The hand he has grasping the knife, trembles. “It means you’re a kind and compassionate person, Rook. More generous than someone like me deserves.”
Rook stares at him, baffled that he hadn’t realized that was a rhetorical question. “Shut the fuck up, Solas. It means I’m very selfish, and also an idiot.”
She steps back, her knees bumping into the edge of the bed. Rook suddenly feels so tired. She flops backwards, sitting on the end of the bed that used to house her hallucination of Varric. She can feel the corner of his journal press into her low back. She is probably never going to be well enough to read it’s contents. She is forever changed and broken by this.
Solas is staring at her, like he wants to help, like he wants it to be better, but he also knows that if he moves an inch towards her, she’s probably going to take his head off. Solas has probably only survived this long having had somewhat decent survival instincts. Will he stand there staring at her, like a kicked puppy until she dismisses him?
“Go away.” Rook says, exhausted. Her anger has given way to her well of grief again, and she can feels it rising, ready to drown her once more. Solas leans on his back foot, but does not otherwise move. “Go the fuck away, Solas. I can’t fucking look at you anymore. Leave me alone.”
His hands clench at his side, but he nods once. He turns his back and walks down the hallway. With the knife. The knife that Rook, an idiot, handed him. She is too tired, and Rook doesn’t have the ability to care right now. He could go tear down the Veil right now, and Rook would just shrug and say ‘what did you think would happen putting me, a fucking moron, in charge?’.
Rook finally allows her tears to fall. She cries for Varric, who had been dead this whole time, and Rook hadn’t mourned him, had allowed herself to be deluded with words of wisdom from her friend, because she so very badly did not want to be in charge. Who had been used as a puppet by a very cruel and terrible man. A man who had once been Varric’s friend.
She cries for the stupid naive hope she’d been holding on to this whole time. Her arrogance that she thought she would be enough to convince the fucking Dread Wolf that life is more worth living than he thought. When she didn’t even know how stacked the deck was against her this whole time. Each conversation she’d had with Varric since the ritual had been Solas all along. The fucking not apology she’d delivered on his behalf. How he must have laughed at her.
How amused Solas must have been, to watch her start to trust him in the Crossroads. To rely on him. To risk her life to protect him. Confident that his manipulation of her was total and perfect.
Rook doesn’t know how long she sits in the infirmary crying, but eventually her tears run dry and all Rook is left with is raw feeling. What Rook wants more than anything, is for Solas to understand how much he hurt her. To hurt him a thousand fold more than she has been hurt.
She lifts her head, and finds herself staring into the reflection of the mirror across the room. Her face red and blotchy, her eyes swollen from too many tears. She sniffles, wiping at her face, her foolish, naive, trusting face. Covered in the tattoos of another lying monster.
Rook’s eyes traces the branches of Mythal’s vallaslin on her cheekbones and she remembers that there is one more doorway in the Crossroads she has yet to explore. A door that Morrigan had unlocked for her after she had borne witness to every one of the terrible Solas memories in the statuettes.
Yeah, Rook can think of one way she might hurt Solas more than he’s ever hurt her.
It’s time for her to go kill a god.
Chapter 14: Chapter 14
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Solas stands in his office, finding himself rooted to the floor staring at the surface of his desk. A replica conjured from the memory of his own desk in the great library of Mythal’s central palace. A treasured artifact from the time before, when he’d allowed himself to be docile and blind. It has sat pristine in this room for thousands of years, party to Solas’ toils over his long life.
And in the months he was locked away in his prison, Rook had taken it upon herself to carve a crude skull and bird into the desk’s surface.
Solas ought to leave. He has the knife, just as he had wanted, as he had planned. There is no use in staying. He ought to take the Vi’Revas to an exit outside the Crossroads and move forward with his plan. Gather his agents, make contact with various factions. Deal with Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain as needed.
And still Solas finds his eyes drawn to the image scraped into the wood of his desk. Something about Rook leaving her mark on something so old and untouched has arrested him.
He has the knife. Gifted to him by Rook’s own foolish, naive hand. Everything worked out better than he could have ever dreamed. No fight. No trickery. No soft and gentle manipulation. Just the knife pressed into his hand, with a trembling plea for help.
Rook had looked at him with such hope and trust in her eyes. In that moment, Solas would have kneeled to her, a supplicant to her blind and innocent faith, wanting desperately to never disappoint her. Wishing she would look upon a wretched thing like him, pinning her hopes and her heart to him.
Rook will never look at him the same way again. He crushed that false dream as effectively as anything else.
The grief that had overtaken her, the hate in her eyes. Their trust, a lie in the first place, broken to pieces, never to be restored. She knew all, and Rook would never forgive him.
A monster, she had called him.
She had been right. Because as she had put the knife in his hand, and he’d been overwhelmed with the need to kiss her, to show her his devotion, to respond in kind with a need to cherish her, Solas had understood that she would succeed where all others had failed. She was the sweet promise on offer if he deviated from his path. More than all he’d wronged to get to this point. Solas had thought, I would rather the world end than to see her hurt.
The god of lies and treachery so apt at his aspect that he had nearly allowed himself to believe the false world he’d constructed. The one where he could pretend he had not already harmed her irrevocably. Had not used blood magic to nudge her thoughts, to erase and reshape her memory, had not groomed her to failure so that she might take his place in a prison of regrets.
That her hope and trust and blind faith in him was built on a bed of lies.
Solas was a coward, for when he realized that he could not live in the false reality of his own construction, he decided to tear it all down, and reveal himself as the monster she labeled him. In doing so, Rook would set him free from her yoke, never wanting to hold his leash ever again.
What was one more regret to add to his endless mountain of failures?
Solas has the knife, he ought to leave.
Instead his fingers brush the carving of the bird, and finds himself marveling that she had bothered to sand the wound she’d left, polish it with oil to make the surface smooth to the touch. Never one to do anything by half measure. She had looked at him, confused as to why he wouldn’t repair the library, and Solas wishes he could tell her that for all the ways they are similar, he lacks in so many ways she does not.
Where Rook sees a broken thing to repair, Solas can only see the failures that lead to his regrets.
Solas imagines Rook exploring the nooks and crannies of the Lighthouse to learn its secrets, her dogged pursuit in finding answers. He can imagine the pleased curve of her mouth as she coaxes the space into opening up to her further. An inclination born of her natural curiosity, and a driving need to feel useful, to make better the world around her. It stands in opposition to the feelings of inadequacy she had admitted to him while he wore the mask of Varric, that she was not enough, that she wasn’t ready. He had fed and fostered that inadequacy, hoping to use it against her.
A glorious creature who only wished to make the world a better place. And he tried to pluck her wings. He is the monster she says he is, but Solas already knew that.
On the corner of his desk sits a neat stack of papers of varying sizes. Solas had not left those, and he finds himself morbidly curious to know what papers Rook had left here. Solas rounds his desk to find his chair covered in several cushions that he had never placed, draped over the seat and arms. Despite everything, Solas can vividly imagine Rook sprawled here. Her leg hooked over the arm, foot kicking in the air as she read missives and books and whatever else that might please her.
Perhaps she had used this place as a secret hideaway from the eyes and expectations of other people, much like Solas had once upon a time. Claiming his space as her own.
Sitting in his now decadently comfortable chair, Solas reaches for the stack of papers, a small slip of paper sliding out from the pile. His eyes catch on the handwriting, recognizing it instantly.
‘Damn it, Solas. I’m with you as long as we’re protecting the innocent from the powerful, but you make it hard sometimes.’
Solas flips through the collated pages of notes, dozens of missives on many different topics all from the hand of Felassan. Some Solas had seen and burned for the safety of the rebellion long ago, some he has never read in his life, reading more like a journal entry. He can hear Felassan’s voice perfectly in each. His wry humor, the worried frown, the put upon sighs threaded throughout.
Solas has gone through the stack twice when he realizes that the effort had been made to put the notes in a chronological order. Rook had done this. Had found these notes—where, Solas has no idea—organized them and stacked them neatly. Placed them here, in Solas’ office. Like an effigy to a man she never knew, but had seen enough, had read these notes, and thought Felassan might be important to Solas. His memory a place of honor within this tomb.
Solas slumps back in his chair, his heart in his throat. She had done this long before their journey, in a time where there was no trust between them. The care with which Rook moves about the world, even for those she considers her enemies, Solas cannot fathom it. He does not deserve it.
Solas must leave this place, he needs to take the knife and go, but the desire to see Rook one last time before he departs, transforms into a need. She despises him, she will not thank him for his presence, but Solas can try to free her friends before he goes as a parting gift to her and everything she has done. And once she spits in his face one last time, Solas will depart.
He knows he ought to leave this place, that would be the wise thing to do. But Solas has not been Wisdom in a very long time.
Solas leaves his office, knife sheathed at his waist and feels only a little trepidation, walking silently towards the infirmary, not wishing to forewarn her of his approach. He does not find her where he left her, merely the drying remnants from her vomit smeared on the stone.
He is not brave enough to call out to her, but he rounds the corner into the Sila’alasis, knowing full well this might be dangerous for him, this is where she had left her scythe. He walks into the room with his palms open, only to find it empty. Her scythe is conspicuously absent. There is no golden glint of her armor either, the stand sits in the corner empty.
Solas can feel his heart drop. She wouldn’t, would she? She couldn’t be that foolish.
“Rook!” He calls into the library. There is no answer.
Would she go off to fight the final revenant to spite him, all alone? Just to insure that she wouldn’t need to rely on him to save her friends? She had been the one to carry the key, and had the means to do so, if she so wished.
Solas swears.
Yes, she absolutely would. And Solas had in a moment of foolhardy giddiness, gifted her a skeleton key through her blood to use the Vi’Revas whenever she so chose. A desire to let her come and go to this place she considered home whenever she wanted, no matter what happened between them.
Solas rushes out of the Vi’Revas back into the blighted Crossroads, and climbs the short staircase to the doorway leading to the final revenant. He finds it still covered in blighted branches, the doorway still sealed. But if Rook isn’t here, then where did she go?
Solas turns, scanning the lower levels of this island, trying to find any sign of her, of where she may have gone fully armored and armed. There, a smattering of snow, with what he hopes from this distance are footprints cutting a path. He climbs his way down towards the path, and is relieved to find Rook sized boot prints fresh in the snow, walking towards an open doorway.
It takes him far longer than it should for him to realize to which doorway her steps lead. His breath stalls in his chest. This is a doorway Solas himself has not walked through since before he raised the Veil. One he had been avoiding since he awoke from uthenera, ashamed of the world his mistakes had wrought.
How was it opened?
And why had Rook decided to go visit Mythal?
Solas can hesitate no longer, he walks through the doorway, his heart beating a frantic rhythm in his chest as he follows Rook’s footprints in the snow. The Caretaker once would have ferried Solas—and Solas alone, for the fragment of Mythal no longer audienced supplicants—to the island holding the castle Solas had carved out of the fade for Mythal’s personal use, had she ever deigned join his rebellion. Now it only houses the last fragment of Mythal’s soul left in the world.
Instead of a ferry, a dried and dessicated tree root stretches between the central island towards Mythal’s island. Solas clambers over the snow crusted root, climbing upwards, following Rook’s path. How long ago had she left? Why? Solas does not know, but he fears what he will find. Even a fragment of Mythal is far more powerful than Rook could possibly realize, and she will be incautious in her address.
Solas can hear voices as he comes closer, drifting down over the cliff side he climbs. He recognizes the polished tones of Mythal, and feels his heart thump anew in his chest. She does not speak loudly enough for Solas to make out the words clearly. But he knows that tone, as though it was graven into his skin long ago. Mythal and her wrath.
Rook is not so restrained.
“I’m no slave who will bow to you!”
Solas’ hand freezes reaching towards his next handhold, fearing the silence almost as much as fearing Mythal’s response. He cannot even hear the tones of her voice, and when Mythal would go quiet, that is when things were most dangerous. Solas tries to scramble up faster, his foot slipping, but he cannot stop.
He does not hear Mythal’s words, but whatever was said is enough to inflame Rook.
“—think you’re just! Your decisions are what made the world you hate, you stupid bitch!”
The insult rings in Solas’ ears and he knows true fear for Rook. There is only silence at her words, but Solas knows, he knows what comes next. Foolish, headstrong woman was going to get herself killed.
A bone chillingly familiar trumpet of a dragon echoes down to him, Solas has not heard it in a very long time. Of course this fragment would still have access to her shape change. Solas can only assume her power is a shadow of what it once was, and no less devastating.
Solas tries to climb faster, his heart flinching at the sounds of battle above. He finally reaches the summit, to find what he had last seen here was a glorious castle, with wide verdant gardens, fountains of water streaking through the air, and a library that paled in comparison to Mythal’s own, but Solas had tried to meet her desires to the best he could. Instead this refuge for Mythal is now a frozen wasteland, the walls and gardens vanished, leaving only an outer ring to create an arena at its center.
Within the arena Rook, donned in her gold and blue armor like a hero of old, faces off against a spectral pink dragon, smaller but no less menacing than Solas remembers her. “Mythal...” His voice, hardly above a whisper, his heart drumming in his ears.
He watches Rook slash at Mythal’s foreleg, her scythe glowing the toxic green of her necrotic magic. Mythal shrieks, batting at Rook with her tail. Rook attempts to dive away, but is too slow and is sent flying backwards, rolling to her feet, green energy pulsing, healing her wounds as they form.
“Rook.” His throat is clogged, the word coming out garbled and too quiet. Solas desperately clears his throat, stepping to the edge of the platform overlooking the battlefield.
Rook tosses her scythe with deadly accuracy, striking Mythal in the shoulder, erupting another shrieking roar. Solas can see it, that in all the dragon fights Rook has undertaken, she has never had to face off against a dragon with the true intelligence. Instead of keeping her distance, Solas watches in horror as Mythal takes to the air, leaping forward to land directly on top of Rook.
Solas lunges forward, sliding down the slope into the arena. He must stop this. “No!”
When the dust and snow settle, Solas can see Rook pinned under one of Mythal’s foreclaws, her scythe under the other. White hot fire gathers in Mythal’s mouth and Solas finally finds his voice.
“MYTHAL! STOP!”
The fire dissipates as the dragon stills. She lifts her head, turning to look at Solas as he runs forward. “Please, Mythal. I beg you, stop.”
And she does.
Solas watches as light envelops her dragon form, until all that remains is the spectral form of the woman who Solas had once loved more than anything in this universe. The one he had failed. The one who’s displeasure he dreaded more than any others.
“Hello, old friend.” Mythal says with a careful neutrality that makes Solas’ heart wrench.
“Mythal.” His words have fled, and Solas can feel himself trembling under her assessing gaze, knowing she more than any other could clearly see his failures, plain as day. She had always been the one to forgive him for his failings, but in this moment, Solas knows he is unworthy.
Mythal’s eyes cut to the side, and to his shame it is only then that Solas remembers Rook. She lays winded on the ground, breath coming in wheezed pants. Her ribs likely broken if not bruised, and Solas finds himself taking a step to go to her.
“I see all it took for you to visit me once again, after all this time, was your ever tiresome concern about the well being of my supplicants.”
Mythal’s voice is coolly pleasant, and it cuts like a blade, rooting Solas to the spot. His pulse thrums at the reminder of an old argument between them that predated the war with the Titans. Her rebuke at his not visiting threads shame through him.
His head bows. “I—”
“Supplicant, my ass.” Rook clambers to her feet with a grunt, green energy swirling at her defiance as she moves to join them, standing equidistant from both Solas and Mythal, a sneer on her face. She spits, blood spattering the snow between the three of them.
Mythal’s lip curls distastefully. “You no longer have dispensation to speak, mortal.”
Rook bares her teeth, and Solas knows the violence will begin anew if he does not intervene. “Mythal, I beg you let her go. She has not lived in an age to learn the respect you deserve.” Out of the corner of his eye he can see Rook boggling at him. Solas keeps his focus on Mythal’s face. “You and I may speak, but I must ask that you allow—”
“You do not get to speak for me.” Rook snaps, her fists clenched. Solas can only be grateful she hadn’t thought to pick up her scythe yet, or he might have had it flung into his face, blade first.
“You hear that old friend. You do not speak for the mortal, allow her consequences to be her own.” Mythal sounds amused, and the fear gripping Solas’ heart for Rook unclenches by inches. “Very well, Solas. You have come to speak after many ages, I hope not only for the wellness of someone who does not care for your concern. What excuse do you have for us?”
After so much time at her side, Solas can feel Rook bristling, and he knows if he does not speak, things will worsen. “I… I did not know how to face you. After my promises, and failures.”
“Yes, I can see the shame cloaking you, at the wound you inflicted upon the world. You feared my rancor?” Solas sees the blithe curiosity in Mythal’s face. He does not dare look at Rook.
“Yes.”
“Foolish and headstrong.” Mythal sighs, but not unkindly. “You promised me the Veil would be a solution that would see my revenged, and fix the mistakes of the past.”
“Yes.” The very last time he had seen this fragment of Mythal had been right before he executed his plan, fervent and excited and angry all at once. Felassan had worried terribly for him.
“What mistakes did you believe you were setting to right?” Mythal asks, and he knows that she is already aware.
Solas can feel Rook’s eyes boring into the side of his face. “To find a solution to lock away the blight, after we released it, to protect the People from its harms ever again.”
This Mythal had counseled him to narrow his focus, that he need only stop the tyranny of the Evanuris. Solas had not listened to her, arrogant that he could save them all, he could stop the Evanuris and the blight in one fell move. Solas had feared that even without the Evanuris, someone would rise to try and use the blight again if he didn’t lock it away. Mythal had disagreed, and in the end she may have been right. Solas had overextended himself, resulting in the Veil being a suffocating blanket on the world, instead of the fine gossamer curtain he had intended.
His mistake had destroyed Elvhenan, that which Mythal had loved more than anything.
His great failure. The shame for which he could never face Mythal again.
That which he needed to fix, above all else.
Mythal tilts her head, her hair brushing over her shoulder. “You speak as though the course that led to the blight in the first place is a mistake.”
Solas can feel his pulse quicken. The root of much of their eventual conflict. Not the only source however. He swallows, trying to find the correct path through this conversation.
“No,” Rooks voice rings out sharply. Solas is almost surprised she managed to keep quiet as long as she had. “Killing the Titans and unleashing the blight is unquestionably an atrocity that has led to thousands of years of suffering and death.”
Mythal’s eyes narrow. “I do not care for your opinion, for you are so ignorant of the world such that you bring little value to this conversation.”
Rook’s expression is flat and she cuts Solas an unimpressed stare before she scoffs at Mythal. “I’ve heard that one before. Too bad, I’m here and I don’t give a shit what you want.”
“Peace, please.” Solas tries to interject, watching Mythal’s face cloud over at Rook’s disrespect. She looks to Solas, as if seeking him to reprimand Rook. And the old habit tugs at him before he catches himself, reminded of the words he’d seen scrawled on one of Felassan’s notes. ‘I’m with you no matter what.’ Rook had asked Solas who had stood with his rebellion, and who had turned their back. And yet even still, Mythal would seek him to manage those who would disrespect her.
Her loyal lap dog.
At his waist he feels the dagger start to warm within its sheath.
“All that matters is the Veil is catastrophic mistake, a wound cast on the world in hubris, one Solas need rectify.” Mythal lifts her chin, glare icy for Rook.
“Even if it kills millions, and breaks the world again?” The last part Rook directs to him, and she is angry, but even so, Solas can see an ember on the wick of her hope. His heart squeezes that she would even still bother.
“You are nothing but a half life, a nascent child, little better than a halla faun speaking to your betters.” Mythal tells Rook, and Solas feels his own offense mirror Rook’s. She should not say that, not about Rook. She— “You place a burden of value on you and your people that does not exist. The worth of this world you so desire is negligible, grown meager and wrong under the Veil.”
Rook grits her teeth, acid gathering in her words behind her teeth.
Solas has said, has thought much the same, and even he finds he wishes to disagree. That is not a fulsome picture. That is not what he has been shown.
There is a sudden flash from the knife at his waist, and Solas feels a pull from the closed well of power inside of him, that he has not been able to safely access in too long. Across from him Mythal’s spectral form flickers.
She appears enraged, glaring at Solas. “What is the meaning of this—”
“Calm yourself dear, it is only I.”
Solas freezes at the gravelly voice coming from behind his back. That is not possible. She cannot be. He had killed her.
A ghost of the old woman who had once been Flemeth, saunters from around Solas’ shoulder. And it is the Mythal of the mortal world, her hair tied into spikes behind her head, iron crown at her temples, clawed gauntlets, and feather armor. Her mouth curved in a mysterious little smile as she pauses halfway between himself and Rook, assessing the gathering.
“How?” Solas asks, his hand sliding to the knife, still glowing warm at his side.
Flemeth’s eyes twinkle. “You are not the only one full of secrets and tricks, old friend.”
Across from him, Mythal looks as though she’s ready to blister in her anger. “And what new vulgar incursion is this?”
Flemeth purses her lips at Mythal. “Oh to have been trapped here for thousands of years, maddening in your loneliness, nothing but the paltry entertainment of witnessing mortal lives to entertain, seething at the slight of being you, so glorious, cut down in your prime by your lessers.”
Mythal bristles. “You—”
“So impatient in all your anger. In due time.” Flemeth says airily. “You cannot kill me in a way that matters as you are now, trust me for I would know better than all. For now I have others I must greet.” She turns to Rook, who gapes back, stunned. “Hello, little Rook, wonderful is it to see you once again.”
“Again?” Rook asks, brows furrowed.
“Yes, though I suppose you might not recall. Mortal babies have such strange memories.” Flemeth tips her head, mouth pursed. “Like sponges for learning but sieves for memory, odd that.”
Realization hits Rook, at the same time it does Solas. “Wait, are you the one who left me in the crypt?”
Flemeth turns back to Rook, pleased that she was so quick. “Yes, dear. You’re very welcome.” Flemeth turns to Solas, her smile positively mischievous. Solas can feel no small amount of malice in that look.
“Wait, please.” Rook calls, getting Flemeth to return her focus. “You gave me to Defiance? Why?”
Flemeth chortles. “Oh, I do so love it when they’re polite. Surprising that a spirit of Defiance would impart that. I assume it was the rest of your upbringing that facilitated.”
Flemeth looks at Rook expectantly, who frowns. “Uh, yes? The Mourn Watch teaches etiquette.”
“Marvelous! That might explain it, why this seed took root and blossomed so beautifully. Thorne and Aldwir were fine. Mercar and De Riva might have been close. Laidir was otherwise occupied. But Ingellvar! A portentous name chosen for you, a guardian of life indeed. Tied to such a powerful spirit, of course that would be a boon.”
“Then all of this has occurred because of you? You are the mastermind behind this?” Solas asks, his voice sounding rough even to his own ears as the weight of realization starts to overwhelm him. Wondering if he’d ever had any agency.
“I was still answering the young lady’s question, old friend. Take a page out of Her book and be patient in waiting your turn.” Flemeth sniffs at him with a dismisive gesture at Mythal, who seethes.
Flemeth turns back to Rook. “You were gifted to Defiance, a mutual trade. It wanted to see its line carried forward—it took ever a long time to find you dear girl, not to worry your parents were dead, I didn’t kill them of course, but I did rescue you. And upon putting you in the hands of Defiance, it promised it would help me protect the world from the Evanuris when the time came.”
Rook stares stunned at Flemeth. “I was payment?”
“I suppose you could look at it that way. But when all go one way, it is strength to step in the opposite direction.” Flemeth smiles at Rook’s sharp intake of breath. “Worry not, dear girl. Defiance loves you more than it loves anything else, maybe even its vengeance.”
“Why have you done all of this?” Solas asks, voice wretched. Flemeth finally turns to him.
“Those were merely plans upon plans in the north, but they were not my sole plots. Kirkwall and Lothering, and so many others.” Flemeth’s eyes flash. “I knew the day you would rise from uthenera would be upon us soon, and that your god prison would fracture, setting you on a desperate course. I had to prepare.”
Solas looks into her wrinkled face, and feels his heart wind tight. “To stop me, or to kill me?”
Flemeth kicks back her head and cackles. She gestures at Rook. “You tell me old friend, what do you think?”
Rook meets Solas’ eyes, and finds conflict in her expression. He does not know. He only knows that he does not deserve her grace. Solas drags his gaze away to look back at Flemeth.
“That is why you allowed me to kill you, to take your power?” She hadn’t fought back, just as Felassan hadn’t. A small ugly part of Solas had felt vindicated in that. They wouldn’t fight him, because ultimately they knew he was right, and it was only Solas willing to do the unpalatable thing, what must be done. But Flemeth had layers of contingencies to stand in his way, prepared over decades. Rook is old enough to have been born long before Solas had awoken. How many other potential hurdles had she set?
Flemeth regards him, expression opaque. “I knew I could not face what would remain of the Evanuris, not as I am. But you, old friend, you would be clever enough to best them. My life for their end seemed a worthy trade. But I enjoyed this world that you made in your mistake, I did not wish to see its end, so I knew I would need to put obstacles in your path.”
Her ghost shifts closer to Rook and she turns to gaze down at her. “I could not have convinced you, not I who was a relic of your past, twisted and tainted by the world you now despised.” Rook’s eyes dart between Flemeth and Solas, her jaw clenched. “My greatest wish would be for someone to teach you that life is more worth living now than it ever was before.”
Across from him, Mythal makes a derisive sound, but does not otherwise speak.
Solas furrows his brows, watching Rook watch him back. “I can’t… I cannot stop, otherwise all of the sacrifices I made…” Rook rolls her eyes and looks ready to say something in turn.
Flemeth doesn’t let her, giving a decidedly evil laugh. “Oh you old fool. I know. That is why I am here now, by grace of your theft of my power, the fragment of me who has sat here rotting frozen in anger, and the knife.” She turns to Rook, a wicked smile on her face. “Thank you for being stupid enough to give him that by the way.”
Rook’s face flushes. “I—”
Flemeth tuts. “None of that girl. We do not make excuses, we merely try our best to take a step forward.” Flemeth looks at Solas as she says it. “Now, time to teach you a lesson, old friend.”
“Wait.”
Solas tears his gaze from Flemeth, finding Rook staring at Flemeth, a pinch between her brows. Flemeth looks back, an amused curve to her mouth. “Yes, dear? You had something else?”
“All of this, this big conspiracy was all predicated on the fact that we had to travel the Crossroads together with it in chaos.” Rook’s expression darkens and Solas breathes in sharply as he realizes where she’s going.
“Yes.” Flemeth says, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “It would seem it had.”
“The Evanuris didn’t manage to penetrate the Crossroads throughout his entire rebellion when they were at the height of their power, so why now? How did the blight find its way here?” Rook asks, and Solas can see that she already knows the answer, just as he does.
“My, you’re a clever thing. I can see why he likes you so much.” Flemeth laughs, and the sound grates, so dismissive.
“You provided a means for Elgar’nan to wedge his way into this place?” Solas asks, his voice tight.
Flemeth tips her face to look at him, her smile terrible. “Merely a small window. But a humble crack. It was my last act before you killed me, old friend.”
Solas remembers, her gauntleted hand raised to an eluvian as he approached, pressing power into it. He had thought, had assumed Flemeth was merely leaving a last note for her mortal human daughter. He had been too grief stricken to check afterwards. But this? Her final act had been pure malice. Meant to wound him, to wound this place.
“Oh do not be so angry, old friend. I merely needed to cause enough of a disturbance that you might be forced to rely on someone. It plainly worked.”
“You would listen to this twisted creature, knowing what she’s done?” Mythal’s voice singes the air, looking at Solas.
“No more twisted than yourself, I am afraid.” Flemeth counters with a cackle. Mythal glares at her hatefully.
Solas can only stand in enraged silence, unable to believe what was done, how many had to suffer for Flemeth to try and convince him otherwise? And for her not to care. For Mythal to try and sow mistrust. He closes his eyes, feeling that old familiar exhaustion at what the Evanuris courts had become, how senseless it all was. Always another scheme, another machination waiting, uncaring of those it hurt. The People and spirits just another form of collateral to their endless games.
“Disturbance?” Rook spits, cutting off further comments from Mythal and Flemeth both. “You call it a disturbance, letting the Crossroads get shattered and destroyed by blight?”
“What would you call it?” Flemeth asks, curious. Flippant. Uncaring.
Rook appears to be choking on her rage, and Solas is almost astonished to find their gazes meeting, and he knows that she may still hate him, but in this they are united.
“An atrocity.” Solas says, well and truly angry now. “Many spirits were taking refuge here, this was meant to be a safe haven. How many had to perish for your plans? You had no right—”
“Ever the hypocrite.” Flemeth tells him evenly. “But I suppose that is why I am here in the first place.” She looks down at Rook, arching an eyebrow. “You might just be a perfect little mirror. Look at the way in which your heart burns, angry for such small spirits, just as his does.”
Rook snarls at her. “There lives are worth an awful lot more than yours.”
Flemeth throws back her head and cackles. “In that, I think you may be right.” She sobers, just as quick as she had laughed, her eyes on Rook predatory. “Now, allow me to take the piece from you I need for this long and slow work to finally reach its end.”
Flemeth reaches forward, Rook flinching as Flemeth’s hand presses into Rook’s chest. When it emerges a candle flicker of green light rests in Flemeth’s palm. “Yes, this will do nicely, thank you dear.” Flemeth prowls towards him, the green light growing in size, extending from her clawed gauntlet.
“What do you mean to do now?” Mythal’s voice slices through the air.
Flemeth keeps her eyes on Solas when she answers. “I will show him that these half lives are more worth living than anything he has ever known.”
Solas does not take a step back, glaring at Flemeth as he allows it to happen, just as she’d once let him take her power, killing her. The weight of decades, maybe centuries of plans pressing him down, forcing him to look at what Flemeth needs to show him.
His eyes meet Rook’s one last time before Flemeth reaches him, and he is surprised to see a concerned frown on her face.
Flemeth presses the green light to Solas’ chest, and he finds himself falling backwards into memory, the snowy arena vanishing, swallowed by dark green mist. Solas stands in nothing but darkness, alone, until to his left he sees a flare of light, the warm glow of a campfire.
Solas walks towards the warmth and is greeted by the sight two Dwarves and an Elven woman sitting around the fire. Solas notes that she does not yet carry tattoos on her face.
“Alright kid, I need you to help me out.” Varric looks up from where he’s polishing Bianca.
“With what?” Curiosity, wariness at the tenuous new trust thread through the air and directly into Solas’ heart. Her emotions, deeper and more vast than Solas could have ever imagined. He had thought her tranquil?
“I’ve been wracking my brain and I think it’s about time you help me choose your codename.”
“You let people choose their codenames?” Humor, delight.
“Eh, not typically, but I’ll make a special exception for you.”
“He means he’s having a hard time pinning down who you are and how he can call that out with the maximum level of irony.” Harding doesn’t look up from fletching her arrows, but the smile is evident from her tone.
“Then what’s your codename Harding?” Confusion, fear she hadn’t paid attention.
“Just Harding.” Laughter, joy at a shared smile with a new friend.
“Alright Varric, before I help, what’s your codename then?” Curiosity, hope for a story.
“Don’t got one.”
“Oh, do I also get to come up with your codename too?” Teasing, warmth.
“Don’t need one. C’mon kid, I can’t just call you kid can I? Help me out a little here.”
Memories within memories. Defiance. Little bird, little rook. “Rook.” Sorrow, fondness, love, happiness to keep that name alive, to remember where it came from. An affectionately tweaked ear every time it is spoken.
“Huh. No, no I like it. It’s good. I just didn’t expect you to be so self aware.”
“Self aware?” Confusion.
“Yeah, kinda on the nose to choose the chess piece that only moves in straight lines, but it’s still pretty powerful. Not bad Rook. We’ll make a story out of you yet.”
Joy, amusement, pleased to have picked something Varric would approve of. That smirk is suspicious. “Wait, what do you mean ‘only thinks in straight lines?’ Is that an insult? Varric!”
Varric, mentor, friend, guide. Always with a kind word and a funny joke. Sadness in him, a sadness in her. He understood her like few else did, even if he always said he didn’t like that ‘spirit fade shit’ she loves so much. He taught her Wicked Grace, and how to watch people, how to trust and be trusted. He wrote her favorite book of all time, but he was so much more than the pedestal she had put him on.
But now…
Dead. Lies, lies, lies, lies. Gone.
Grief suddenly chokes Solas.
Within the infirmary, Rook sits on the edge of the bed she’d thought for too long belonged to her mentor, her friend. Varric is dead. Solas lied, when she knew not to trust him, she knew and yet, and yet—
A little girl weeps, her small friend had only wanted to protect her from the hands of those noble children. Had been killed. No one listened when she said that they shouldn’t get to be Necromancers if they would hurt a spirit so small and gentle and kind. Instead they talked about sending her to an Alienage to learn her place. Only she remembers her little Wisdom.
A house burns within the Alienage, adults running to fetch water and save the people yet inside. A young girl stands before the flames, tears streaking down the face. This is her fault. She should have known, she wasn’t supposed to antagonize human nobles. It’s dangerous, they had told her. She was warned, to please be less strange, less odd. To know shame. This is her fault, her fault, she’s to blame.
Guilt weighs heavy on Solas’ shoulders.
The streets of Dock Town are littered with the corpses from the Venatori’s successful coup. Blood stains the stones. Rook stands in the ruins of the Shadow Dragon’s hideout, and feels she might be sick. She chose Treviso and this is all that remains. Neve turns away, she is needed by her home far more than Rook.
Revealing too much of what she knows, Solas’ expression shutters, all warmth and ease vanishing as if it had never been there in the first place. As he walks away, angry, Rook regrets—
Varric’s face falls the first and only time Rook asks him about Hawke, a month into their journey. He is quick to hide the pain with a smile and a quip about reading his book, but it is easy to see how carelessly she wounded her friend.
Anger has Solas gritting his teeth.
Her little Wisdom is dead and the little girl loses herself in violence. As she shatters the femur of the boy who had killed her friend, his face a bloody ruin. One of the other boys tries to flee. She will not let that happen, every one of them is to blame and she does not care who they are. They will hurt, as she has hurt. She will hurt them more.
Knife ear! Men shout at a young pair of elves seated in the corner, their heads bowed in shame. Rook sits at the bar, meant to wait for Keeper Daisy’s contact. She watches one of the men pour his drink over the elven man’s head. Rook is no longer in the Alienage, she is no longer a Watcher, and she does not need to worry about retaliation against her people. She merely wanders over and serenely smashes her ceramic cup into one of the jeering men’s faces. As her elbow connects with the throat of another, she thinks about how good it feels to unleash all her anger finally.
The hypocrisy makes her want to choke, Rook snarls at Solas, for telling her to value her life, his tool, as if it matters more than all the others he threatens to kill with his stupid myopic plan. She rises to her feet, despite her broken bones, ready to tear into him—
Fear causes Solas’ heart to catch in his chest.
Wind whips and thunder cracks as Rook dodges under the swing of the Pride Demon. Her ears pop as the Veil tears further. A tall elven man stands silhouetted by fade rifts. The myth she’s hunted for a year made real. He is going to kill them all, everyone she loves. He is going to destroy everything—
The blighted dragon bellows at them in a Treviso courtyard, and Rook wants nothing more than to turn tail and run away screaming. She fights spirits and the undead, she protects crypts from looters. She knows nothing about fighting dragons. She will die here, her bones to clean the teeth of a monster.
Rook stands on the battlements of Weisshaupt, staring down at the massive horde of Darkspawn besieging the fortress. It it hopeless. This place is lost. How many have died? How many will die? The mask of Ghilan’nain floats in the sky and for the first time Rook believes that what she faces may actually be a god.
Solas is finally allowed to take a breath, opening his eyes to the misty green void. Flemeth’s specter stands waiting for him.
“Well now, would you say in your estimation that you’d been right about the people of this era and that they are as good as tranquil?” Flemeth asks.
Solas looks up from where he’s sprawled on the ground, his chest heaving at the force, and weight of Rook’s emotions. Fear, anger, guilt, and grief. He felt them all more viscerally than Solas thinks he has his own in a long time.
He staggers to his feet. “I know all about the awful things experienced in this time. If this is what you have to show me, you are not convincing me the world is better as it is.”
Flemeth chuckles. “Always so stubborn and willful. Very well, perhaps we ought to show you the sweeter things in life.”
“It will change nothing.” Solas says through gritted teeth. “There is nothing you could show me that would convince that this era is richer than what you and I have lived through.”
A world that would treat someone like Rook cruelly as it had, is not a world Solas can imagine wishing to preserve.
“A challenge from the Dread Wolf?” Flemeth asks with a cackle. “Oh old friend, you should know better than to bet against me, not after all these years.” She raises a hand and the mists coalesce, twisting and reshaping into a home.
A warm hearth crackles with fire, a hearty stew bubbling away over the flame, the smell delicious enough to make a mouth water. A kitchen bench, tidy and well used as a pregnant elven woman rolls dough at the table, another woman leads a toddler through her steps along the polished wooden planks of the floor,
“I don’t understand why you can’t just stay here for a few months, it would be wonderful to have you.”
Warmth and happiness and love suffuses the memory as Rook looks up from where she’s listening intently to the babbling toddler, a smile on her face bare of tattoos. The pregnant elven woman who’d spoken has her chin in her hand. “You know you’re always welcome.”
Rook continues guiding the toddler through her steps. “I know that, and I’m grateful. But we both know it’s not a good idea.”
“I don’t know that at all.” The pregnant woman pouts. Rook snorts, amused at her friends stubbornness.
Rook straightens pulling the squealing child up with her, laughing and swinging around in a circle before depositing the child next to her mother at the table. “It’s not safe Kallian. I made an awful lot of very important useless nobles very angry. And I don’t want to be a danger to anyone. Not again.” An old bruise of guilt and sorrow the last time she had been incautious with the people of the Alienage.
Smiling, Rook reaches forward to tweak the little one’s ear, earning her another squealing laugh.
“I don’t care about some stupid frilly nobles opinion.” Kallian grumbles, face scrunched.
Familial love blooms and Rook laughs, bending down to kiss the top of her friend’s head. “I know, but maybe instead of that you can focus on keeping healthy and giving me another ankle biter to dote on.” Rook bends to kiss the round cheek of the little girl at Kallian’s side. “I’ll be back in a little bit, I need to catch that ditzy Keeper Daisy. I heard she might have a lead on some work for me.”
Rook makes for the door, tossing over her shoulder, “And I won’t forget your cheese buns this time, I promise.”
Solas watches as the smiling family and Rook vanish into mist, a wrinkle in his brow. “She never mentioned family, aside from Defiance.”
He can hear Flemeth pace behind him. “You admire this girl for her cleverness, and yet choose to forget it whenever it is convenient, old friend.”
Solas looks over his shoulder at her. “Oh?”
Flemeth does not answer until she stands before him. “Because she has an open and kind heart, she wished to give you every opportunity not to disappoint her.” Flemeth moves revealing an image of the pregnant woman and her small child and a young elven man smiling at them through the misty dark. “But if you knew these precious people existed, and still would threaten to destroy the world of that family, that small child?” Flemeth’s mouth curves and it is not a kind smile. “Little Rook would have gutted you then and there without a second thought.”
Solas blinks, stunned that he didn’t disagree. He’d felt the warmth and the love Rook had in that scene, the happiness suffusing that home. And he knew how doggedly loyal she was. How vicious she could be, ‘They will hurt, as she has hurt. She will hurt them more.’
Rook would not think twice about ending any who threatened them, even Solas who believed he would be doing them a kindness.
“Generous is she,” Flemeth says, gripping Solas’ shoulder. “For not giving you any rope with which to hang yourself.” And with that she shoves Solas backwards into more of Rook’s memories.
Notes:
I miss Kate Mulgrew's Flemythal voice so much.
Shout out to the lovely @loominousfish for introducing me to the meaning of Ingellvar: "Guardian of Life"
Chapter 15: Chapter 15
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Courage catches Solas as he falls, allowing him to stand back up.
Heart beating in her ears, Rook watches the three twisted heads of a blighted Archdemon wind around each other, reminding her of breeding ball of snakes she once witnessed. It brings a bloody smile to her face. This is just a creature, grotesque as it is. And she’s proved to have quite a talent for killing Ghilan’nain’s creatures.
The elevator begin to descend into the bowels of the Grand Necropolis and Rook knows that if she doesn’t stop them, this fight will never end. She smashes her maul into the head of the skeleton she’s fighting and sprints towards the descending elevator. She leaps into blackness, confident she can stop them.
Young and awkward, a teenager is shoved forward by her giggling friends towards the young elf come home to visit from his time at sea. She admires the tan of his skin and the way his teeth sheen white when he smiles. She glowers at her friends, before turning a bright smile on the young man, her cheeks warm. She will ask him to dance.
Wonder strikes Solas, leaving him breathless.
Rook stands on the precipice of the Crossroads, overlooking all other islands, her mouth agape. She’s never seen anything so beautiful, full of such potential. The light refracts through the mist and it hits her eyes and makes her feel complete in a way she never knew she could.
Rook watches as Solas picks himself off the ground after his encounter with the Desire Demon. She is transfixed by the dusting of pink high on his cheekbones all the way up to his ears. He can blush! Can she make him do it again—
It is her first time seeing a Vhenadahl, the tree of the people in an Alienage. The one in Nevarra City is massive and sprawling and beautiful, its boughs brushing the roofs of nearby buildings. Streamers and banners wind around the trunk and branches. A group of children around her age call out, smiling from where they sit high in the tree watching her.
Love fills a void in Solas’ chest he hadn’t known was there.
An elven couple stand beneath the Vhenedahl, their hands tied together as all the denizens of the Alienage watch. Rook stands near the front, so unbelievably happy for her friends. Married in this place where she first met them. She tries to hide her face when they point out she’s crying, so silly for a big tough Watcher.
One of the human noble students tries to tell her that her knife ears are ugly. The little girl snorts at the boy and tells him that her best friend, who is a spirit of Wisdom, and therefore much smarter than him, says that her ears are very cute, so she doesn’t have to listen to him. She smiles when little Wisdom tells her she’s very wise indeed to love herself first, before listening to others.
Rook slams the doors leading out of the room containing the Vi’Revas. Solas only looks at her confused and she needs to decide how to get him through the Library without traumatizing him. Maybe she can—
Joy brings a smile to Solas’ face.
A young girl dances in a circle around the Vhenadhal tree, hand in hand with other elves for the first time, her first festival. She smiles and laughs with her friends. The first time she has ever felt a sense of community with others like her.
A bowl of hot stew is placed in front of the young girl, a slice of still steaming bread at it’s side. The girl stares up at the kind faced elven woman who will take care of her while she’s banished from the Necropolis, telling her to eat. She takes a spoonful and it is a transcendent experience, better than any ration she has been given by the Mourn Watch or Defiance in all her years. The little girl cries, she didn’t even know what she was missing this whole time.
Her hand shoots up to answer another question in the classroom. When she is confused at the instructor’s response, she asks many more questions until she is sent outside to stop being a disruption. There she meets little Wisdom for the first time, who likes her questions and wishes to be her friend. They will be friends forever, so long as she never stops seeking answers.
Senior Watcher Myrna laughs at Rook’s expression, utterly flabbergasted that of any apprentice, Myrna would choose the magicless elf. She can’t hide her smile when Myrna explains that while she has much to teach Rook, she also believes Rook will be able to teach her quite a bit about the handling spirits too. Rook glows with pride when she is told there is no one in the Grand Necropolis more qualified than her.
Rook’s smile is all mischief as she, Bellara, Neve, Emmrich, Harding, and Manfred discuss the latest bodice ripper they’d found in Solas’ library. She nearly falls out of her seat laughing as Emmrich critiques the anatomical concerns he has with a particular scene. She only laughs harder when Manfred attempts to recreate the position, much to Emmrich’s horror.
Solas whirls on her enraged, shouting at her for making too much noise. All Rook can think is this is the longest he’s looked at me in an eternity, and she takes a malicious pleasure in riling him up, just so long as he keeps paying her attention—
Rook is pure giddiness as she skips through the recently created shop square in the crossroads. She ooh’s and aah’s over the various trinkets, talking to the spirits, feeling more at home than she has in over a year. A wisp of joy bounds along with her and has Rook giggling like a fool, feeling like a child for the first time in ages.
Hope blazes bright, illuminating Solas’ path forward.
Keeper Daisy catches Rook just as she’s about to leave the Alienage for the last time. The older woman smiles at her and suggests she might have a destination for Rook after all. Keeper Daisy tells her about an old friend who needs some help in the hunt for a dangerous, very powerful mage, and it would be ever so lovely if Rook might go and help Varric. Having no other plans, Rook shrugs and agrees to the rendezvous at a tavern on the road to Hunter Fell.
The Caretaker does not know what the wolf statuettes are for, but it does suggest that Rook may be able to repair more parts of the Crossroads if she removes other sources of the blight. Just as she had with the market. Rook is more than happy to try her best.
For a heart stopping second Rook can feel her fingers slipping on stone, her legs kicking at nothing but air. And then Solas is there, a hand reaching out to pull her back. He doesn’t hate her. He doesn’t want her dead. He’s saving her life. He—
Rook hands the dagger to Solas, watching a multitude of emotions flicker over his face. Finally he looks up, wonder writ in his expression. He promises and his fingers enclose on her own, and all she can hope—
The ever undulating cloud of memories pauses, and Solas takes his first breath in what feels like ages. He has borne witness to so much of her life. And yet it is still only a fraction, small snapshots of happiness and courage and her determination. Rook has lived a scant handful of years compared to his own, and has still crammed so much life into it, Solas feels his own lack.
When had Solas ever viewed life as something to enjoy? He has spent an eternity viewing his existence as torture compared to his life as a spirit. He has not known a fraction of the joy Rook has. He has not lived, as Rook has.
“I ask you again, old friend, who are we to decide if a life is worth living?”
Solas turns to find the specter of Flemeth standing at his shoulder. An old familiar patience creases the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, folds of skin that had never graced the immortal face of Mythal in life. Something only able to happen in this world, in Mythal’s death.
“I was wrong.” Solas says, and he is ashamed but he is also unburdened. “I only saw the terrible things, the hard things, anything to reinforce my biases. But there is so much joy, so much pleasure to be had in this time, and I blinded myself to it.”
He’d been rejected by the Dalish once, and found reason to take offense at all their beliefs, because they canonized monsters, and painted him the great villain. What value could they have in their blind ignorance, aside from being the broken remains of the People?
He’d looked down on the music and art of this time, had seen the worst of the efforts made by the Orlesian gentry and their pastimes. He had been disgusted at the reminder of the worst excesses of Elvhenan, and summarily dismissed a whole continent of peoples. Solas wonders what someone who had lived a life closer to Rook’s might be able to create. What art has been made.
That even in despair there is happiness and love and wonder and courage.
“Thank you for seeing with eyes open, my friend.” Flemeth says, a smirk creasing her face. “I knew you’d pay attention, if it was her. I am glad.”
Solas huffs a laugh. “Had that been your intention with Rook?”
Flemeth gives him another mysterious smile. “No, because if it had you’d have sensed it and rebelled immediately, she’s not the only creature of defiance I know.” She chortles. “Though I cannot say if that wasn’t truly the intention of the dwarven storyteller when he met her.”
Solas snorts, shaking his head. Flemeth places her hand on his shoulder.
“Come. I have two more memories that I would like you to see, old friend.” She gestures behind herself. “When you are ready.”
Solas hesitates, only a moment, before he walks shoulder to shoulder with her into another of Rook’s memories.
Rook sits on the second floor walkway outside the Lighthouse, her feet dangling off the edge as she stares into the endless sunset of the sky. Wisps whirl and play in the air before Rook’s feet. There is no one single overwhelming emotion threaded through this window into the past. Instead it is a morass of many feelings. Anger, sadness, conflict, anxiety, and a bone deep weariness.
“Thought I’d find you up here.”
Rook keeps her eyes on the sky. “Did one of your little informants snitch on me?”
A wisp floats up to the balcony to flitter around Neve’s head. She leans against the rail, looking down at Rook. “Something like that.”
The silence between them stretches a long while, and Rook knows that Neve is trying to get her to fill this silence, as Rook has always felt she must. She won’t, not this time.
Neve chuckles low, her detective’s tactic having failed. “I have to ask, Rook. What exactly are you doing out here?”
“Enjoying the sunset, obviously.”
Neve arches a brow. “There is no sun and the Fade around here always looks like that.” She leaves a pregnant pause that Rook does not deign to fill. Neve sighs. “It seems to me like you might be killing time.”
Rook looks up finally. “I’m surprised you drew the short stick to come talk to me, I thought we weren’t exactly on speaking terms anymore.” A thread of guilt winds it’s way through the memory. Minrathous. The Venatori. All the hangings in the street. Her fault.
Neve leans her weight further onto her elbows, lips pursed. “It’s not like we’re plotting against you, Rook. We’re only concerned.”
Rook’s only answer is to hum. They sit in another long drawn out silence, and the guilt in the air is slowly overtaken by a smug pleasure, at making detective Neve Gallus pull teeth.
“Maybe you could tell me why you’ve been avoiding going to talk to Solas. I’ve noticed you’ve been running yourself on an awful lot of missions of late, without going and talking to your erstwhile advisor. You know, like we all asked you to after Weisshaupt.”
Guilt. Sadness. Pity. Anger. Trepidation. And smaller than it all, a candle flame of hope.
“It’s been busy, and I haven’t been in the mood to be condescended to.” Rook shrugs, her eyes once more on the sky.
Neve stares at her hard, before she gives a scoffing laugh. “Alright, time to cut to the chase, you’re talking to me, not Harding or Emmrich.” Rook looks up at her, surprised. Neve cocks an eyebrow at her. “You’ve been acting strange since we reviewed the memories out of those statuettes.”
Rook stiffens, and for a moment it feels like she might fling herself from the wall to escape this conversation. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Neve taps her chin. “It was the fourth memory, when you changed how you talked about them.” Her hawkish gaze alights on Rook. “You got an awful lot more uncomfortable about any of the less than kind comments about Solas from Davrin or Taash as well.”
Rook shifts in her seat, her heels tapping against the stone of the Lighthouse. “Not really…”
“Yes really, Rook.” Neve leans over the edge railing to bring her face closer to Rooks. “It isn’t surprising if you and Emmrich both are having second thoughts, now that we know he was once a spirit.”
Rook’s shoulders are hunched as she looks away. “It’s not that.”
“Then what pray tell is it, Rook? Because I know you’re not stupid enough to trust him.”
“I don’t.”
“Then why exactly are you having so much trouble—”
“Because he was Wisdom!” Rook bursts out, throwing her hands in the air. Neve leans back, eyebrows high on her forehead.
Rook scrubs a hand over her face. “Because everything makes sense now, Neve. Everything. Every step of the way. Every choice, what he’s doing now, why he wants what he thinks he wants? It’s because he started as Wisdom.”
Neve shakes her head. “Rook, the man is thousands of years old, led a rebellion, you can’t just ascribe a single motivation to everything he’s done. Especially not one that absolves him of everything.”
“I know that Neve!” Rook gets her feet under herself, and pushes to a stand. She moves to stand next to Neve at the railing, not looking at her. “But— have you ever met a Wisdom spirit before?”
Old grief and affection at the memory of little Wisdom, the one who taught her to always be curious and question, to find joy in the knowing of things. She lost it too soon, but even all these years later she still loved it so much. Maybe that’s why…
Neve shrugs. “There are some libraries in Minrathous that use Wisdom spirits as archives.”
Disgust rolls through the memory, as Rook’s face scrunches before she shakes it off. “A Wisdom spirit’s purpose is to share knowledge, learn and guide others. With all that we know about the gods now, how much do you think they listened to him? How many times do you think Solas knew the answers, tried to guide the people around him, only to be ignored?”
“He was still a man then, no longer a spirit. His choices were his own. That does not absolve him, Rook.”
“I know!” Rook collapses forward on her elbows, pressing her forehead into the railing. “It’s just… Neve, he was convinced to take on a body, only to be ignored left and right, on and on. I know he was a person by then, but it’s not like he was born to someone like you or I. One day he was Wisdom, and then the next he was Solas. He wasn’t ever a child, he didn’t develop like we did.”
Never frowns. “That’s just a hypothesis from Bellara. And claiming him not having an adolescence is a very odd defense to stake your case on.”
Rook turns, as serious as she ever gets, trying to make Neve see. “What I’m saying is he was Wisdom. People ignoring him, making huge mistakes, abusing others? That would have still twisted him. It’s their fault he is the way he is.”
“Just because we understand the motivation for horrendous acts, doesn’t absolve the perpetrator.” Neve says.
“But it should influence how you deal with the person, when you confront them for their horrible actions.”
Neve blows an amused breath through her nose. “Remind me never to take you to a criminology conference in Minrathous. You’ll probably get into a fist fight with a bunch of academics.” Neve pats Rook’s shoulder. “Come along fearless leader. Now that we know that you don’t think Solas is the root of all evil, it’s probably time to go talk to him and get his advice on our next steps.”
The memory fades, and as it does Solas realizes he recognizes the clothes Rook wore in that memory as the same ones she had donned throughout their journey in the Crossroads together.
The breath he releases sounds more like a sob.
Even before everything, before all their conversations. In the violation of witnessing his most traumatic memories, Rook had still seen him. Had empathized. Had looked at all the tremendously terrible things he had wrought in his life, and had thought: this devastation isn’t entirely your fault.
Even when she disliked him. Even when she didn’t trust him. She could see him.
It’s as if he’s been flayed open, every emotion raw and intangible.
He wonders if she’s right? If he’d been so twisted from his purpose from the very start, that all of his mistakes had fallen from that? That he thought he was still an idealized version of himself, incapable of being wrong. Had watched time and time again the paths he’d laid out, knew were coming, and tried to guide others into making the right choices, only to be soundly ignored every time.
Solas had spent much of his time before his rebellion being so incredibly angry. Wisdom had always been considered a soft virtue, it was only as a man that Solas was able to steep in his resentment. He had not been meant for anger.
How many times had Mythal ignored him. Each time felt like a crushing blow. When did he break? Was it her agreeing to the plan to yoke their people during the war? Or had it been smaller insults and indignities. Or was it the first choice, taking a body when Wisdom had known it would not be wise?
Was Solas just the shattered remains of what he once was?
But this doesn’t absolve him, Neve had been right. It doesn’t excuse the mistakes he’d made. For all his Wisdom, his careful planning, his time spent thinking, he had full control of his faculties and went along with those plans, created a few of his own.
Flemeth’s hand materializes out of the mist to caresses his cheek, her thumb brushing the tears welling in his eyes. “I pulled you from the fade you loved and sent you into war. I used your wisdom as a weapon… and it broke you.”
Solas sobs, shaking his head. “I agreed to come.”
“Because I asked.” Flemeth tells him. “The things that we have done, they are not for you to bear alone. The many wrongs we did, we did together.”
“And I could have told you no at any point. I created the dagger, even though I knew what would come.” Solas fingers brush the dagger sheathed at his side.
“Yes, because I demanded that you save the People. When you finally told me no, what happened between us?”
Mythal turned her back on him.
Solas looks into her eyes. “A relationship worth keeping should not shatter when one moves to do the right thing.”
“Nor should it yoke you to an idealized past that has been dead for eons.” Flemeth says.
Solas sobs a laugh, nodding his head. “Yes, I see that now.”
“Come old friend, I have one final memory for you.” Flemeth steps away.
Solas wipes at his face, dabbing unshed tears, nods and walks with her.
Fury and grief and rage and humiliation and shame choke this memory, it is like a wall of suffering held in the form of a woman sitting in the bed of a dead man, her face in her hands. Her tears have long dried, only a cloying well of sorrow surges within her chest.
Sitting right where Solas had left her after he revealed how he hid Varric’s death from her. His plans for her. How catastrophically he had hurt her.
Rook looks up into the mirror across from the bed, her eyes alighting on false vallaslin on her face. Rage once again swallows all other emotions, and she surges to her feet, needing to do something. Wanting Solas to hurt a thousand fold of what she has. Obliterating the last traces of Mythal should do the trick.
Solas has disappeared and good riddance. Rook slips into her room, takes her Lords of Fortune heavy armor, the corpse gold she favored to go into a battle with. Might as well, given she was going to meet her supposed maker.
Rook stands before the last fragment of Mythal, waiting for her rage to abate enough to speak. The specter of the haughty ancient elven woman gives Rook the same once over she has received from nobles her entire life. From Mourn Watchers. From powerful Mortalitasi, disgusted by the magicless elven woman being taught as a necromancer. One who looks at her and sees her as less than.
“You are Rook. I never again expected to see my children in the Dread Wolf’s Crossroads.” The corner of Mythal’s mouth creases. “And you know who I am. Have you come to seek the blessing of your god?”
Rook can feel the the way Mythal’s eyes linger on her face, on the tattoos she stole to hunt the Dread Wolf. Proprietary, even now. The well of rage cracks open at the certainty that Mythal did not join the Dread Wolf’s rebellion because she too enjoyed owning people. She could just never say that out loud to the person who loved her most.
“You are not my god.”
Mythal’s gaze is flat. “You wear my mark, you are a remnant descended from my empire. It is cruel, how much you do not understand, how much you don’t know. What meager light you’ve suffered without.”
“I know enough of you. I have seen Solas’ memories.” Rook hisses.
“Recollections cultivated like a tree twisting to catch the sun.” Mythal scoffs. “Unless, you think you ought to trust Solas? More fool than I could have thought. His talents at manipulation have grown significantly if in all your travels together within the Crossroads, you believe in him still. He is using you.”
Her humiliation and rage still raw, Rook wants to twist the knife back “As you used him?”
Mythal tilts her head, genuinely puzzled at the question. “Should I have not? Solas is a friend, certainly, but he is the one who has left me here to rot since he awoke. Even still he has and always will be a powerful tool.”
Just as Solas had intended to use Rook. His tool. She sees now where he learned that from. She wants to be angry, not to have empathy. But this is the woman who bade him take a body because people needed him, who wished to use him as a weapon, no matter what her ‘pure’ intentions were. Who lied to Solas about what would happen to the slaves after the war. Who let the other Evanuris call him her lap dog. Who would not stand beside him, and would use him anyways.
Mythal had yoked Solas so tightly to her, that her death had left the remains of a Wisdom she broke, shattered and set him on a path to cause unbearable harm to the world.
Solas had hurt her so much. But he had been hurt by this monster first.
Rook is so angry, and she supposes she may as well use it for him if she cannot use it for herself.
“He is a person!” Rook rages. “And you never listened to him! How many times did he try to dissuade you from the wrong path? And how many times did you ignore him?”
“To rule is to make the best choice for your people within the affordances presented to you.”
“And who was it who decided you should rule as gods? Merely Elgar’nan, or did great and mighty Mythal see an opportunity to spread her Benevolence further? In my experience Benevolence means always looking down at those in your charge, doesn’t it?”
“You know not of what you speak. My role was to temper the others on the Evanuris. To guide them in their path. To enlighten the lives of all within Elvhenan.” Mythal says.
“Yes, just like how you took a spirit of Wisdom to guide you, only to ignore him. To let the others treat him like nothing but your lapdog. And you wonder why he rebelled.”
“I was not so cruel as you paint me, child. I was the best among the Evanuris.”
Rook scoffs. “Yes, I’m sure the best of the ruling class of slavers was a beloved matriarch.”
“Do be careful child.” Mythal’s voice is all careful threat. “My patience wears thin.”
“Yes, yes, said like any and all emotionally manipulative assholes abusing their households.” Rook sneers.
“You do not have the dispensation to speak to me thus.”
Rook holds up her hands, a pleasant smile on her face. “My apologies. You’re right. I’m here to talk about how your choices broke the world, and then you decided to let Solas shoulder the burden of your mutual sin.”
Solas gasps a watery laugh, as the memory fades. It would not be long after that moment when he himself would arrive to overhear Rook’s argument with Mythal.
“As foolish as she is courageous.” He mutters to himself, wiping once more at his face. But so much more. It wasn’t forgiveness that changed her intent.
“Do you know why that is?” Flemeth asks at his side. They stand alone within the Crossroads. Here where Solas had killed and wept over this fragment of Mythal. He can feel the edges of this space starting to collapse as the memories draw their curtain, their purpose now complete.
“Because Rook loves nothing more than antagonizing figures of authority?” Solas asks, a small fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Flemeth kicks back her head and laughs. “No, you complete and utter fool. You’ve truly learned so little in all this time.” Flemeth smiles not unkindly at him. “Upon you revealing the great and terrible thing you had done to her, her first instinct had been to hurt you back one thousand fold.”
Yes, Rook had fully intended to murder the last remnant of Mythal to pay him back for the suffering he had caused. She was absolutely, magnificently terrifying in her wrath.
“But upon meeting Mythal, she discovered the root of you. Insight. Wise enough to stay her rage, despite the pain you caused her. An incredible creature.” Flemeth murmurs. “Had she truly hated you, she would not have approached with a need to fight for you, to argue for things you would never argue for yourself.”
Solas’ lips part. “And you believe she must not hate me?”
Flemeth gives him an achingly familiar raised eyebrow, made more significant by the lines creasing her face. It is the look Mythal would give those she thought to be very ignorant indeed.
Solas’ breath whooshes out of his lungs, remembering the warmth of her memories, how Rook had seen him. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Though I do not believe I deserve any such grace.”
Flemeth steps closer to him, the edges of this reality beginning to crumble, the dagger beginning to cool, her last effort in her great conspiracy coming to it’s end. Flemeth leans forward, cupping his cheek, pressing her forehead to his in farewell, as she begins to dissolve. “Then, old friend, I believe you ought to strive every day to be worthy of the love of such indomitable hope.”
A tear strips down Solas’ cheek as he regains his senses within the enormous broken arena housing Mythal’s spirit fragment. Rook and Mythal are still arguing. What had been Solas witnessing the full and wonderful life of the indomitable woman in front of him, had been mere moments for the others in this space.
“You are ignorant to all that you do not understand.” Mythal seethes at Rook, looking on the verge of transforming once more. In another time, Solas might have taken amusement in the idea of Rook provoking Mythal into attacking her. But not today. Perhaps not ever again.
“Oh, I’ve heard that refrain before! Do you have anything else?” Rook’s answering smile is all baring of teeth.
“Stop.”
Mythal looks at him, affronted at his gall. Rook scowls at him in the way she had anytime he, as she put it ‘kill stealed’ during one of their battles in the Crossroads. It has a surge of fondness swell within him.
“This must stop. I must stop.” Solas says, looking from Mythal, to Rook. To her he says. “You are right. What I have done, I broke the world. Twice.”
Rook stares back at him stunned.
He looks at Mythal. “I blinded myself to the wonders and joys, and the people of what the world has become in the aftermath of my mistakes. I cannot— I will not break it again.” Solas takes a step forward, pressing a hand to his chest. “I failed you, Mythal. Just as you had failed me. In so many ways. But I will not let this endless cycle of suffering and death continue, not by my hands.”
He turns to Rook, finding her watching him back, her eyes wide. He can see that candle flicker of hope he’s now felt beat in his own chest shimmer behind her eyes, and he loves her all the more for it. “This world has created unparalleled beauty and wonders. It would be the most profane of mistakes to try and wipe that away. My penance—” He swallows, but does not take his eyes from Rook as he unsheathes the knife, holding it out to her hilt first. “My duty will be to do everything in my power to safeguard it, to repair as much of the damage I have wrought as I am able.”
Rook tears her eyes from the knife to look into his face. She swallows, before taking it. Solas tries not to ache at how she avoids touching his fingers.
He turns back to Mythal, who has straightened. She flicks an appraising glance at Rook, knowing him well enough to recognize the well of emotion he’d spoken from. “You truly believe that?”
“Yes.”
Mythal continues to look him in the eye. “Then I suppose this insect you’ve foolishly bound yourself to—”
“Do not speak of her that way.”
Mythal’s eyes narrow and Solas does not feel the trembling terror he expects to, because he will not allow Rook to be disrespected as he had allowed himself.
Mythal lifts her chin. “I only ever wanted what was best for my People.” Rook makes a derisive sound, which Mythal ignores. “I am but a shade of what I once was, I need you to enact my will to the betterment of the People.”
“No.” Solas says. “We were wrong. In so many terrible ways. And I was unable to see that until the first time you truly betrayed me, when you kept your slaves after promising me you would free them.”
Mythal lifts her chin. “I had to insure I kept my seat of power. I needed to keep Elgar’nan in check.”
“And you failed. Elgar’nan was not kept in check, nor were the others. We killed the Titans and unleashed the blight, even though you promised me it would remain untouched. And still the People were slaves.”
Mythal looks back at him, stricken for only a moment before her shell hardens. “And my murder? Am I to blame for that as well?”
She brings it up like a weapon to keep him silenced, to cow him into his grief and shame. To use his regrets to cut him. “It would not have happened if you had listened to me.” That it has taken him countless ages and breaking the world to finally be able to say that out loud.
Mythal’s shoulders draw back, her spine straightening even further. “Mistakes were made, but that does not mean we cannot repair that which needs fixing.”
The breath Solas releases is somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “I should never have made the first mistake, which was to follow you out of the Fade and into the world.”
Mythal steps forward, her hands raised. “Old friend, we must not wade into old griefs—” Solas takes a step back away from her, and watches her face fall. “If you seek my forgiveness, I grant it to you. You need not apologize, for there is nothing that you need regret.”
“That is not true.” Solas says, softly. “I am nothing but a wretched creature full of regrets. We have done tremendously terrible things together, and we have much to apologize for, things that can never be forgiven.”
Mythal’s face freezes, and she stares at him a long while. The light of calculation dying in her eyes. She turns to look at Rook, who Solas finds staring at him, as if she is surprised by what she sees.
“You have been irrevocably tainted, Solas. Your utility is lost to me. There is nothing we have left to say to each other.” Solas turns to find Mythal regarding him coolly, like he’s a disappointment. For the first time on the receiving end of that look, Solas doesn’t believe he is.
“I release you from my service.” Mythal turns and walks away, slowly fading into nothingness.
Solas rocks forward as the specter of Mythal disappears, leaving nothing in her wake. It is not relief that bowls him over. It is at the great yawning heartache of all that he’s wrought in his long, long life. How many mistakes. How many dead by his own hand? Felassan. Varric. How many more? All for revenge of the woman he’d pledged his service to, had loved, and been loved by, only for it to mean nothing but catastrophic harm put onto the world.
Solas falls to his knees, the very air he breathes choking him.
Rook stands over him at his side. She is not soft and gentle and compassionate as she might have once been, but she stays next to him as he begins to unravel, the weight of his mistakes and his grief erupting out of a long locked chasm within him.
“Rook.” Solas says, lifting his face to look at her. She stares back at him, her brows pinched together as if in thought. He does not know where to begin, but knows he must speak. She must know that he aches over what he has done to her, that he will forever be sorry for the terrible thing he has inflicted on her. That he will spend his life trying to make up for it, if she will bear his presence. “I am so very sorry for what I have done to you, for all that I have said. For the threat I was to you and all that you hold dear. You more than any other did not deserve the immeasurable cruelty I inflicted upon you, to tamper with your memories, to fool you with Varric—”
Solas’ breath hitches on Varric’s name but he must still speak, he needs her to know.
Instead he is surprised when her callus roughened hand cups his cheek. He’d have expected a slap before anything so gentle. She looks into his eyes, her brow still furrowed. “I wanted you to feel worse than I did, and I got my wish. It doesn’t make me feel better, it doesn’t feel good.”
Solas gives a watery laugh, despite himself. “A creature of defiance, but never cruel.”
Her expression softens and Solas is brave enough to lean into her touch, his eyes drifting closed. If this is the comfort she will offer in this moment, he will take it. He deserves far less than even this.
Her hand slips down his face and Solas finds himself tugged forward as her hand wraps tightly around his jaw. Her fingers press hard enough to bruise as she jerks his head up to stare into her face. Solas gasps at the anger he finds there.
“Solas I need to make one thing very clear to you.” Her lip curls as she speaks. “If you ever use blood magic on me ever again, I am going to rip off your arms and beat you to do death with them, do you understand me?”
Solas marvels that he had ever managed to convince himself he was not unfathomably attracted to this woman. She has his blood burning hot for her, even now when he is being choked by the grief of all his foolish mistakes. Solas tongues at his lips to wet them, and watches her eyes flick down to track the movement, and a thrill winds down his spine to wrap low in his belly.
“Yes, I understand.”
Rook’s sneers and she shoves him backwards, releasing him from her grip. His back knocks against an overturned log, thrown onto his backside. He supposes he deserved that in the least. Rubbing at where her fingers had left brands on his skin, Solas watches her slump into a seat beside him, her shoulder pressed to his. As if to offer a reluctant and uncomfortable support. Solas finds himself unbearably touched by the gesture.
Rook heaves a sigh, scrubbing a hand over her face.
“You are not still angry?” Solas asks, watching her face closely.
Her eyes flash up to meet his. “I am, and I’m still hurt, but let’s call a truce and say we’re both wounded soldiers right now.”
“And what happens after the truce?”
Rook wipes a hand down her face. “I don’t know Solas. We’ll find out.” Her mouth pinches at him. “Stop looking at me like you’re begging for scraps.”
A glimmer of hope awakens in him at her mild irritation, so familiar from their journey. “And what does that look like?”
Rook turns to him and gives him a scathing once over. “Don’t flirt with me, it goes against the rules of the armistice we’re operating under.”
Solas laughs, and he’s so surprised that he can in this moment that he laughs harder. When he finally has control of himself once more, Rook heaves a sigh. “This whole thing was extremely fucked up.”
“Yes, yes it was.”
“Solas?”
“Hmm?”
“Tell me why you changed your mind.”
Solas buzzes with an energy he hasn’t in a very long time, as if it’s all that keeps him at bay from collapsing into his grief. “Do you want my true or the polite answer?”
He is rewarded with an armored elbow jabbed painfully into his ribs.
Clutching his side, Solas tells her. “Flemeth showed me the life you had led.” Solas says, unburdened from the need to lie or only share half truths. It is an unfathomable relief. He will not lie to her, not ever again if he can help it. “The emotions you felt, it was unbelievably arrogant for me to ever equate you with the tranquil.”
At his side, Rook stiffens. “What memories did you see?”
“Many, and I am sorry for the violation, but know that you helped open my eyes.” At her sidelong look he tells her. “I witnessed moments in your life where you felt intensely memories of Fear, Rage, Grief, but also of Joy and Courage and Love. I saw memories of you as a child, as a Watcher, your time with Varric and your team in your fight against the Evanuris.” He turns, knowing she will feel defensive at his next words. “I saw your friends and family in the Nevarra Alienage.”
That shadow of emotion, the only she’d ever been successful at hiding from him crosses her face. Protective and fervent love. Solas tips his head to catch her eyes, her expression guarded. “Thank you for never telling me about them.”
She narrows her eyes suspiciously. “You’re welcome?”
Solas smiles. “Had you ever spoken of them, and had I kept my same course anyways, you’d have killed me long ago, would you not?”
“I wouldn’t have hesitated.”
Odd for speaking of how narrowly he escaped death at her hands, but Solas finds himself smiling wider. “Thank you for giving me no rope with which to hang myself.”
Rook turns away from him, slumping against the upturned log at their backs. She is frowning once more. “You mean to tell me that the only thing we needed to do this whole time was show you a bunch of memories with emotions tied in them? Then you would have stopped?” She seems very annoyed at this.
“No, Rook. I believe it had to be you. After all this, as you say.” He finds himself smiling at her suspicious stare. “I thought you reminded me much of myself, when I was more idealistic. However, I can plainly see the truth of it now. You are what I saw myself as, not what I truly was. You exist in the world full of so much curiosity and a willingness to learn, a desire to help others, with the ability to stand up for people, no matter what it takes.”
His smile is self deprecating. “Had you been in my position, you likely would have attempted to overthrow the Evanuris long before they even attempted to claim godhood. You would have seen their promises as the falsehoods they were, would have known the overreaches as the hypocrisy it was. You would have stood up and said no, this shall not happen.” Solas lived several thousands of years under their rule, letting himself fragment further until he finally reached his breaking point.
“Wisdom is gentle, you wouldn’t necessarily have known not to trust them.” She doesn’t look at him as she says it, speaking to the air in front of her. She is thinking of her friend, Solas knows, not him.
“That is kind of you to say, but I was no fool to not to see the lies, or the poor choices coming. I would rather watch them fail and bask in the superior knowledge that I had been right, and they wrong. I viewed being right as my purpose in life. That it was impossible for me to be wrong. But you,” Solas watches her turn to face him, and he is like a sunflower opening to the sun. “You are a revelation of hope and determination and joy. What greater sense of completeness could a person have but to enjoy friends and family, food, and the pleasure of learning. To preserve such a world where that is possible.”
Rook is not stupid, he knows she can see what he does not bother to hide in his face, as he smiles down at her. “I had not wanted to see any benefits to living in a Veiled world, but seeing fragments of your life, I can think of no greater gift.”
Rook stares back at him, alarmed. “Solas, you cannot pin your entire will to live in a Veiled world on me. Especially not when we’re still fighting two over powered assholes. I could die at any moment, and you not destroying the world doesn’t get to die with me, do you understand?”
Solas wants to tell her that he will never let anything happen to her. That he will do everything in his considerable power—present circumstances notwithstanding—to protect her. But that is not what Rook needs to hear. That is not a promise he can make to her, because he has committed to never lying to her again.
“In the unlikely event of your death,” Rook rolls her eyes at his concession. “It would be a disservice to your memory to do otherwise. I promise not to pin all my hopes and dreams of the future on you. You’ve already shown me that this life is worth living, and I plan to do so to the best of my ability with or without you.”
“Good.” Rook says with finality.
Even in this, she wants him to choose the right thing, not because of her, but because he should be wise enough to do so. If she would let him, Solas would wrap her in his arms for an eternity so he might learn by osmosis what she does by instinct. That he might one day be a fraction of the person she is. He can only dare hope.
Instead Solas is content to sit in silence with this woman he admires so very much. But Rook has never had much patience for silences, Solas has learned.
“Flemeth gave me to Defiance.” Rook says eventually, not looking at him. “To stop you.”
“Yes. I am sorry you were embroiled in our old conflict.”
“I feel like I never had any agency in any choice I ever made. I thought I was doing the best for me, for the people I cared about, but I’ve just been some old hag’s puppet this whole time.” She presses her fingers to her forehead, rubbing. “Defiance letting itself be killed in the waking world, getting kicked out of the Mourn Watch, what if me being sent to Varric was all part of the same elaborate plot.”
“Your circumstances may have been out of your control, but every choice you have ever made Rook, everything that culminated to this moment, is because of who you are as a person.” Solas wishes he were brave enough to grab her hand, as she had once done to him, trying to make her see what he does. “At any moment you could have chosen cruelty, to stay angry, be resentful and never see any beauty in the world that calls you knife ear and believes you to be less. But never did you.”
For which Solas in unfathomably grateful for. Because were she not who she was, Solas has no doubt in his mind that she likely would have killed him long ago, for that would have been easier. What had Flemeth said? When all go one way, it is strength to step in the opposite direction. She embodies that principle beautifully.
Rook looks into his face, as if she is searching for any hint of untruth. Finally she sighs. “I guess I should be grateful it was Flemeth who was involved, and not…” She jerks her chin to where Mythal’s ghost had faded. Solas appreciates that she curbs whatever insult she had wanted to use for Mythal.
“There are many stories of Flemeth and her contributions to history throughout the ages, I suppose I should not have been surprised that she would have a few plots waiting for me as well.” Solas says, his mouth twisting. Her memories had been closed to him when he took her power, and Solas wonders what might have changed if he’d known what to expect.
No, he knows. He would have found Rook a decade ago and snuffed her out before she could present a threat to him.
It is a gift that Flemeth kept just enough from him, one he will never stop being grateful for.
“Why do you think the Mythal here and Flemeth were so different? They were both fragments of the same person.”
Rook’s voice draws him out of his grim thoughts. He turns to find her watching him. “Flemeth bound herself to a shard of Mythal, one who managed to reform itself long after her murder as a spirit would, but it retained much of it’s power and memory. For hundreds of years she lived in the world by exchanging bodies, saw empires rise and fall, countless wars and death. But she also raised daughters, treated with heroes, acted as patient old bog witch healing the wounds of Chasind.”
“Perhaps at one time Flemeth allowed herself to feel the rage of what was done to her, but she lived many lives in the world. Her experiences opened her up to understanding something that I failed to see, or that the shard of Mythal I brought here for safekeeping could.” Solas looks around the desolate frozen arena, that had once been filled with the warm, verdant dreams of healing his relationship with Mythal. Cold and remote, lonely and forgotten. “That to live, to step forward into life is far more comfort than any of the memories of the past. That happiness can happen again in the future, no matter the past.”
“Was the Mythal here closer to what she truly was?” Rook asks, ever full of the right questions.
Solas closes his eyes. “Yes and no. Her manner of speech, how she held herself, how quick she was to anger. Her sense of justice. Those were all aspects of the Mythal of old.” He opens his eyes when Rook presses her shoulder into his, a grounding comfort. “But a fragment gathered in the moment of her murder, left to twist in this lonely place, steeped in her anger at the past… Mythal could be cruel, but here she forgot her compassion and sincerity and her dream of the better world for the People.”
And he had put her here, his selfish need to preserve even a small fragment of Mythal, for himself. Not for her, not for the People, not for his rebellion. For him. It would have been kinder to let her vanish from the world, to the both of them.
Another of his endless mistakes.
“I should not have left her here. I should not have taken her in the first place.” Solas says, his voice thick.
The euphoria of taking a stand for himself, for admitting his mistakes, for Rook maybe, perhaps not fully despising him, finally washes away, overtaken once more by his grief. Solas bows his head, feeling tears well up his throat. He has so much to atone for, he could spend lifetimes and he will never balance the record. Solas might be grateful that he understands that he still needs to try, but it does not mean he won’t still mourn all that he has wrought.
“I’m proud of you.”
Solas peels his eyes open, to find Rook looking at him with a warm sincerity he thought she would never use again for him. His lips part, but she is not finished.
“Ever since I saw the memory of you as Wisdom, all I wanted was for someone to let you choose for yourself, no emotional coercion, no pressure, no needing anything from you. Because you were Wisdom, and if you would just stop and think for a moment, there was no way you wouldn’t make the right choice.”
His heart wrenches at her faith. He remembers the slip of memory, her little friend who died protecting her, who she had loved so much. Her little Wisdom, who had let her have more blind faith in Solas than he had ever deserved. “I have been so unwise, Rook.”
“I know, Solas.” She rests her hand on his arm, looking into his eyes. “But once you actually stopped and listened and thought about it, you did the thing I hoped you would do the whole time. I got to watch you do the right thing, say the right thing, and stand up for yourself. It must have been hard, but I’m glad you did. I was really proud of you.”
Solas shakes his head, she is being too kind, too forgiving. “If I had changed sooner, so much loss, so much harm could have—”
Rook squeezes his arm. “And stewing in your regrets is what got you into this mess in the first place.”
Solas releases a breath, and it is wet and sticky with emotion. “I just need to try, a little every day to make the world a little less terrible?”
Solas watches Rook’s brows tilt in surprise, remembering the words she had spoken to him, a balm on his soul when he had not known how much he needed it then. For the first time since she had placed the knife in his hand, and Solas had freed her from his blood magic, Solas watches a little stunned as a small smile curves her mouth. Like a sun dawning on a new day.
Rook leans forward, and Solas is astonished to find her arms wrapped around him. His hang limply at his side, until, as if in instinct he melts into her embrace, his arms wrapping tightly around her back. She does not let go, instead holding him tighter. Her hand cradling the back of his neck like he is something precious.
Solas buries his face into her neck, she smells of sulfur and sweat and snow and it is more comfort than Solas has felt in an eternity. Tears well in his eyes once more, and he doubts Rook can’t feel their wetness stain her skin. She has left him flayed open. She who should despise him, and yet here she sits, wrapped around him, her hand brushing down his back, as if to comfort the child that he never was.
Rook is warm and her very essence is comfort, even through layers of armor. Rook who would touch him so casually, to tease, to laugh, to emphasize a point. Reminding him of the pleasure of affection between people. Rook giving him the gift of what must be his first hug in thousands of years.
Solas will spend every day, the rest of his life, trying to pay back this woman for her kindness, even now.
Solas will love her until there is nothing of him left to remember her by.
After an age, and still a tragically short amount of time, Solas feels her draw away. Rook does not go far, instead keeping her face close to his, their foreheads pressed together. Breath mingling in the cool air between them, an intimacy Solas will cherish for the rest of his life. He dare not kiss her, he dare not hope, he merely closes his eyes, pressing his forehead to hers.
Her hand at the back of his neck slides forward, until she is cupping his jaw, thumb tracing his cheekbone, blunted warriors fingers caressing his temporal bone behind his ear. It takes everything in him not to lean into the touch.
Rook pulls away further, their foreheads no longer touching, but she remains close. He looks into her beautiful smiling face, and is awed by the impish light he thought he’d never get to see again.
“Rook…”
Solas loves her. And though he is unworthy of her, he will spend every day for the rest of his long life, striving to live up to her glorious ideal. To make the world better in small and large ways. To bring joy to those around him. To protect the people who need it most. To be kind and compassionate, even to those unworthy, like him.
Solas loves her so much.
Her tilted smile widens further at what he is certain she sees in his face, the hand tracing his cheekbone lifts. Solas cannot help the sound he makes at it’s loss, feeling bereft. But Rook does not draw away, lifting her hand to give the tip of his ear an affectionate tweak, as she had done once upon a time, and it fills his heart with such warmth. Solas stares into her face, watching her smile stretch wider, astounded by the beauty of her. Like a goddess of mercy and compassion. She is—
A sharp twang of pain blooms from the tip of his ear, shooting into his skull and Solas, claps a hand to the side of his head. “Fenedhis!” He gapes at Rook as she draws away from him and pushes to a stand, a mean smile stretching across her face.
“Now that made me feel a lot better.” She tells him, her eyes twinkling as she extends a hand. Her scythe flies from its place on the ground into her waiting palm. “No more need for a truce, I think we’re basically even now.”
“Flicking my ear made us ‘even’?” Solas asks, incredulous. His ear throbs. That had been magnitudes more painful than the last time she’d done it, which had hurt an awful lot then.
Rook sucks on her teeth, making a show of thinking about it as she twirls the scythe in her hand. “Well, I could do it again, if you don’t think one ear flick is worth gaslighting, manipulating, and brain washing me?”
“But it isn’t.” Solas has no idea why he is advocating to suffer more pain, outside of the naive hope that if she hurts him enough perhaps he can get to the point where Rook might tolerate his presence in her life.
Rook raises her hands in a laissez-faire shrug he has watched Varric do many times. “Eh, Neve says I’m prone to restorative justice instead of punitive, but I figured you deserved at least one good ear flick before we resolved things.”
Solas stares up at her, marveling once more at this at the incredible, confounding woman in front of him. Vicious and merciful and so incredibly kind. “I would take any punishment you thought I deserved if it meant you may one day forgive me.” And he means it, with every fiber of his existence.
Rook snorts. “We can talk about your burgeoning interest in masochism after we save the Crossroads.” Rook extends her hand towards him, offering to help pick him up. “C’mon, let’s go kick the shit out of a blighted revenant dragon.”
Solas chuckles, clasping his fingers around hers, once more impressed at her ease and strength in setting him back on his feet. He does not immediately let go, instead tracing his thumb over her knuckles, looking up from their joined hands to find her lifting an amused brow at him. “I look forward to the day you’re once again willing to speak of any and all burgeoning interests, Rook.”
Rook clicks her tongue, turning to walk away. “I guess I did say no flirting until the truce was over.” She gives him a limp wristed flick over her shoulder, indicating he should follow. “Carry on then, sir.”
Solas laughs, walking in step with her out of the caldera and into what Solas can finally hope is a brighter future.
Notes:
Talk redemption arcs in the comments to me baby 😘
Chapter 16: Chapter 16
Notes:
Beware! In this chapter lay dragons! The dragons being smut
finally.Also an actual dragon too. I guess.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"You mean to tell me a powerful spirit inhabiting the corpse of a dragon sent you hate mail upon it’s defeat?” Solas does not sound as though he believes her.
“I just inspire an incredible amount of ire in all my enemies.” Rook tells him serenely, smiling at his snort, as they reach the final closed door of the Crossroads, the one that will lead them to the source of the disruption. Apparently containing a blighted dragon, because the Evanuris are nothing if not predictable.
Ahead of their last battle, Solas had wanted to make sure Rook was adequately prepared for what they would face, therefore he asked her to regale him with tales of all her fights with dragons so far. She’d very quickly managed to distract them both from the topic at hand when she began describing the Formless One and the trials they had to face to solve a great Grand Necropolis mystery. Solas had many increasingly incredulous questions.
Rook uses the key and watches as the blighted branches peel away, allowing the door to finally slide open. It reveals a long dark hallway, absolutely coated in blight. Both the wet, slimy kind, and the dry crusty kind like the branches locking the door had been.
“Why do some blight tentacles look wet and slimy, and why are some dry, crusty and kind of powdery?” But in a sticky way that was hard to wash off her clothes. Rook wrinkles her nose. “You’d almost think those bastards were going for something phallic and…”
Rook catches Solas’ pained wince.
Rook blinks.
“Wait, I was joking. You don’t mean—”
Solas grimaces. “It is not a direct reflection, more… inspired by the font of perceived power.” He cuts her a look at being made to talk about this. “Blight driven by the Evanuris will take shape in a way that the individual understands their power. Some like Elgar’nan may think of it more… carnally than others.”
Rook gapes at him, horrified to realize he’s being entirely serious. “Solas. We climbed those tentacles.” Her hands had been on those things more times than she could count as they clambered around the Crossroads.
“Yes.”
A shudder wracks her entire body, and Rook suddenly finds she needs to dance on the spot and shake her arms out. “Blech! That’s vile. I hate that I have this information.” She looks up at Solas, and he appears grimly amused at her antics. “I hate them so much, we should definitely defeat them so I never have to think about this ever again.”
Solas nods, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “As you say.” He turns to step into the cavern, his face screwing up in disgust. “This is plainly the source of the disruption deeper within this place. I can feel the poisoned magic in the air.”
Rook steps in with him and feels the air thicken considerably. Almost like it makes her bones feel heavier. “I don’t know what poisoned magic feels like, but to me it kind of reminds me of this wing of the Necropolis that is dotted with a bunch of sulfurous hot springs. This place feels like that place smells.”
Solas looks at her, flat.
She grins. “I’m saying it feels like a fart smells, Solas.”
Solas sighs, but she can see the corner of his mouth tick up in a suppressed smile.
His smile has been coming easier since their confrontation with the Mythals in that frozen wasteland. His sadness too, no longer stuffed down and buried. It’s like the mask of Fen’Harel has vanished, leaving in it’s place the man who had been hiding underneath all along.
Things between them are still complex, she knows that, he had hurt her so badly. But after everything she’s learned, everything she’s witnessed, Rook finds finds it very hard not to like the Solas they’ve managed to unearth through it all. It is him, the person who she glimpsed so many times during their journey, with his dry humor and glib comments, and open curiosity about the world. The one who he had been reluctant to reveal, and would draw away anytime he found himself exposed.
It was this Solas who had looked at her like she was something unbelievable and precious in those quiet moments between them.
After leaving Mythal’s arena, with an imminent threat and a problem to solve on the horizon, Rook and Solas had silently and unanimously agreed to put a pause to further intense conversations about feelings and betrayals in order to figure out how to kill a shitty blight dragon. They’d returned to Lighthouse to make preparations for the upcoming fight—most of which involved raiding Taash and Davrin’s rooms for dragon hunting and trap supplies. And an attempt to free her friends with the knife, which failed, leaving her unsurprised and annoyed, as if this was another Flemeth machination, somehow.
Their prizes laid out in the courtyard, Rook and Solas had spent a good long while working through possible strategies. They debated what form the dragon might have, what abilities, and Rook had recounted once more with as much detail as she could remember her other revenant fights. It reminded her of the first time they’d truly worked together, preparing for the fight against the undead horde and the third revenant.
Solas seemed just as distracted now, as he had then.
Sometimes she would catch him watching her, when he thought she wasn’t looking. Solas looked at her like he believed Rook was the solution to every question in the universe, and from a former spirit of Wisdom, that was a high compliment indeed. Firm, and slightly mean spirited reminders to not put her on a pedestal, like cracking her knuckles as close to his ears as she could, only seemed to be met with a chagrined fondness.
And yet for all his orbiting closer, the comet was not actually making landfall.
Which is deeply annoying to Rook in so many ways, least of all because Solas is so plainly in love with her a spirit of sloth would notice. Solas is however appallingly decent about even this. He’s so respectful of what he believes her wishes are that he dare not linger too closely. Because she should still be angry with him. She should still hate him. She should not want him.
Should.
She’d been so angry, Rook likely would have killed him if he’d stepped into her path on her way to Mythal. Rook had thought she would never forgive him. And then Mythal had opened her mouth and Rook had sat there, blazing in her anger, forged into a blade she thought she wanted to cut Solas with, only to find herself wanting to protect him with it instead. Because Mythal is what had shaped the Wisdom who became a reluctant man, into a weapon and twisted him from his purpose so badly that Solas would become what he was.
Solas was the one who hurt her. Mythal was the one who hurt him. Her resolve started to crack as Rook imagined how she should fit into that cycle.
Rook could see that endless loop of violence and suffering, and her own part to play, what atrocities would she commit because she had been hurt? She thought of Neve telling her that restorative justice is hard, because at some point the person hurt needs to look at the one who hurt them, and say ‘I don’t want to hurt you back’. That it took profound courage and hope about other people to do so.
If Rook had thought for a second that Solas had called her Hope to make her forgive him, she’d have killed him. But especially now, she knows those were words from the unmasked Solas.
Didn’t mean she couldn’t blacken that bitch, Mythal’s eye though. It was perhaps a miscalculation on her part to assume that helping a bunch of Wardens kill Razikale meant Rook would be capable of fighting Mythal solo, who was but a humble fragment of a dead Evanuris. A little high on her fury and grief, and a tendency to act before thinking had nearly gotten Rook killed. If Solas hadn’t arrived when he did, Rook would probably be dead right now.
Solas had come for her. It had been like a blade on her raw feelings in the moment, seeing him there, the agonized expression on his face. But it was not meant for her. Rook finally got to see another layer of the man underneath: Mythal’s beloved servant, so guilty at having failed, he was cloaked in nothing but the shame of his mistakes. This was it. The core of it all. Why the Veil needed to come down. This woman, this toxic fucking relationship.
It had made Rook so angry. Because how could Solas not see it? How Mythal spoke to him? How he acted around Mythal. Even in his grief at setting Rook free from their blood magic bond, Solas had still stood tall, had looked her in the eye, and told her the truth.
To Mythal he had cowered like a child about to be scolded. Deferential. She watched his mind race, trying to find the best way to answer Mythal’s questions. To survive this encounter. It reminded her of how her friends sometimes acted in the Nevarra City Alienage, when nobles would come ‘slumming’ in their homes. It just made Rook angrier.
It wasn’t until Flemeth appeared that some of the Solas she was used to had come back. Rook had stood between two fragments of a psycho goddess, and the god of lies, treachery and rebellion—depending on who you asked. Rook had watched their little family drama play out, and sat there thinking ‘these are the people who broke the world’, and they acted like a grandiose version of a melodramatic stage play about infidelity and treachery. Utterly ridiculous.
Flemeth had spoken to Rook like she should be so lucky to have been involved in this petty drama. And the only thing Rook could feel grateful for is that she was given to Defiance, who did in fact love her, and want what was best for her, even if it didn’t always understand the why of what Rook wanted, or how to be gentle and kind. She was grateful that she didn’t grow ‘meager and twisted’ under the love of someone like Mythal.
What would you become if you had grown and learned in an environment with either of the awful fragments before them? Probably someone so hideously self aware that he is intimately familiar with his every failing, his every mistake, and still have no ability to reflect on why he made those mistakes. Her resolve cracked further.
Their shared look of outrage at Flemeth’s casual destruction of the Crossroads to serve her purpose and plans, had been the sundering of that resolve.
Every fucking chain Rook had tried to tether her feelings with, to try so very hard not to feel anything for Solas but the righteous hatred he deserved, obliterated in seconds at the expression on his face when he finally confronted Mythal.
Heart in her throat, Rook doesn’t think she’s ever been so proud of anyone before. It had left her staggered, only able to watch as Solas stood up for himself, for her, for the world he moments ago would have gladly admitted he despised. Had admitted and owned his mistakes, recognized they were something he should try to fix, not merely regret. Convinced because of her, and the life she had led. Hope he had called her, like a revelation to find her in this world.
Solas had handed her the knife.
Solas had said he was wrong.
Solas had promised he would do better, to protect this world, to try and make right all of the wrongs he had committed. Had stood up to Mythal and would not allow himself to cower before her any longer, no longer her tool.
Solas had kneeled on the ground, tears in his eyes, as he looked up at her with a heartfelt apology on his lips. Wonder in his face that she was not so angry anymore, that she didn’t hate him so anymore.
Solas had looked at her like he never believed in any god until he laid eyes on her.
And Rook had watched his tear stained eyes slide shut, relief naked on his face, pressing his cheek into her palm. And she had thought ‘I love this man even with all his wretched regrets, even though he hurt me.’
And Rook had been so annoyed that she couldn’t even hold onto her anger long enough to make him rightfully stew in deserved misery.
Perhaps Rook might be a little insane. Were her team not stuck frozen in time, they would tell her this, she knows. But they did not get to see the sorrow in Solas’ face as he failed to break the time dilation spell that had caught her friends without access to his magic. The knife was not enough. And Solas had raised his face to her, so very sorry to have failed, and Rook had to throttle the urge to wrap him up in another another hug.
She really ought to examine this inclination to dote on Solas any time he looks particularly pathetic. At a later date.
Though it feels an awful lot like confirmation bias, it does help that Varric decided to give her a thumbs up from beyond the grave. She’d finally had courage enough to open Varric’s journal in a quiet moment on the eve of battle, and she’d found a note informing her that Varric had decided to will this journal to her, with a request to give the letters enclosed to the people they’re addressed to.
She’d found one scrap of paper for her, much shorter than it looked like all the other letters.
Give him hell, Rook.
Save the world. We both know you can.
And remember that forgiveness is an awful lot harder than holding onto your anger. Look where that got Chuckles. Don’t be like Chuckles.
Be you, you’re a great story in the making. I can’t wait to hear it someday.
VT
Truly no one could read people like Varric could, it was indistinguishable from magic at this point. Varric had once told her he thought she and Solas would get on like house fires. On asking what he meant, Varric had only mysteriously smiled and said ‘Chuckles likes nothing more than someone with questions but who will also call him on his shit. I think he’ll need you, once he knows whats good for him.’
Rook’s glib response was that she’d be happy to show the Dread Wolf the error of his ways with her boot up his ass.
In the end, no boots in asses needed, just an awful lot of pain and suffering, and a little light bullying, and Solas got there eventually.
Her reward for all her tenacity? She gets to catch Solas watching her gesticulate wildly as she tries to explain the very terrible fight they’d had with the dragon in Treviso, and his expression will be so soft, like there is nowhere in the universe that he would rather be than here. Listening to Rook explain in grisly detail slicing her axe through dragon cloaca. And when she is done, Solas will then explain to her what she ought to have done instead to disable the dragon, and that her petty defiance, though admirable, was a waste of energy that she will not have the indulgence for in their coming fight.
Rook desperately wants him to kiss her.
And he so plainly wants to as well.
Not that Solas is following through, to her ongoing frustration. Rook has never been one for patience, and in all her past relationships she was always happy to take the lead. But with Solas, a man who was rediscovering his own agency, Rook does not want to add undue pressure to him, or yoke him to yet another caustic, strong willed woman—though Rook believed herself to be a vast improvement over even the most generous interpretation of Mythal. For one thing, Rook does not wish to be venerated on a pedestal. For another, she does not have the patience or focus to be that manipulative.
Solas is probably agonizing over power imbalances, or he thinks he needs to self flagellate for another decade before she might forgive him. Which is probably sane and normal compared to Rook, but if she’s going to put her life at risk to save the Crossroads, Rook thinks she should be entitled to a little not-a-god kissing.
She would have even taken some heartfelt, intense eye contact that spoke of yearning. But as they’d gotten their gear together ahead of the battle and wandered back into the Crossroads, Solas had suddenly become all business, focused only on the goal at hand: killing the blighted dragon revenant, and saving the Crossroads.
And now here Rook sits, standing on the literal precipice of battle—there is a small ledge and then a deep slope that will land them inside the caldera housing the blighted dragon. And Solas is lecturing her on all the elements of their plan, reminding her of the things they’ve already discussed.
And here Rook sits, unkissed, vaguely annoyed.
“You will then offer a distraction while I take the time to set up the traps we have borrowed from Taash and Davrin.” Solas is saying, a very serious expression on his face. Rook is finding she’s having trouble paying attention, her eyes drawn to his absurdly plush looking mouth. “You have the gaatlok devices?”
“Mhmm.”
Business Solas is not going to kiss her.
Rook sighs. Just like everything else during their journey in the Crossroads, she will need to do it herself.
“Though we may need to shift strategies if the dragon is—”
“Solas?”
Solas blinks, brow furrowed in mild irritation at the interruption. “Do you have a question, Rook?”
Rook reaches forward, her hands gripping the collar of his coat, and she hauls him downwards towards her. His little inhalation of surprise is perfect, because when Rook rocks up onto her toes to kiss him, his lips are parted. She slips her tongue between his teeth and is rewarded with a magnificent broken sound from deep in his throat. Like her own mouth, his is surprisingly clean and herbal, that Rook can’t keep the smile from her face.
She gives him one more quick little peck for good luck and leans away, grinning at his dazed expression.
“Wh—”
Rook reaches up to pat his cheek while she uses her other hand to thumb at her lower lip, thrilled at the way Solas tracks the motion, and gives him a wink. “I forgive you. We can talk about that if we both survive the dragon.”
And with that she turns and vaults over the ledge, keeping her feet underneath her as she skids down the slope towards the caldera holding a big asshole of a blighted dragon. That was probably the best decision she’s ever made, she feels rejuvenated and giddy despite the heavy atmosphere of corruption.
She hears Solas slide down after her. He clears his throat as he joins her, hands needlessly fussing with his collar. She is pleased to see a little pink in his cheeks. “Yes, we should speak afterwards.”
They watch as a twisted green thing of a dragon unfurls from the blight tentacles suspended on the wall, moving like corruption itself. Rook scans this hideous battlefield, covered in black tangles of blight and swollen red blight cysts dotted throughout the arena. Through an unwalled opening in the back of the space she thinks she might see the shadows of black spires far in the distance.
“No Fade rift this time.” She tells Solas cheerfully.
“Small blessings.” Solas watches the dragon, his expression hard. To be fair that had been their chief concern while they’d been planning. That the dragon would be able to shield itself under a blight rift and heal itself. Rook for one was glad it couldn’t. Or maybe Solas is feeling some kind of way of being faced with the twisted form of his most terrible regret, unleashing the blight on the world.
Rook takes her scythe off her back, and reaches to squeeze his hand. Solas looks down at her, brows raised. “Let’s wipe the floor with dragon ass.”
He snorts, squeezing her hand in return, turning to face their enemy as it finally lands on the ground with a disconcertingly wet splortch and a roar. “Yes, let us.”
Rook steps forward, as the dragon bounds towards them. The coloring is off, but the shape of the head and the size of the wings makes Rook think it looks an awful lot like a Kaltenzahn—something learned from Taash in the weeks since they joined the team. After the fight in Treviso, Rook was not going to be left wrong footed again if she had to fight more dragons.
All this is to say, under the tutelage of Taash, Rook had been right in how to start off this fight.
Rook races to meet the dragon and just as she’d been taught it would, at the very last second the dragon leaps into the air, fully intending on raining ice breath on her. Rook is ready, whipping her scythe over her shoulder, slashing the dragon in it’s belly, forcing it to pull up and away from her, landing across the arena with a shriek.
She tosses Solas a cheesy smile and gives him a thumbs up. “Told you it would try to pounce first!” They’d debated hotly how to start the fight. Solas had cautioned waiting for it to attack, asses its abilities before committing to a course of action. Whereas Rook had learned from Taash to be just as aggressive as the charging dragon, better to keep a dragon on its back foot and wary of you.
“Yes, Rook. Congratulations. Now please keep it distracted while I set up traps.”
Rook salutes at him with a grin. “Yes my liege, your will be done.” Solas scoffs a laugh at her, as Rook turns to face the dragon, coming back for round two.
The fight is a brutal one, the dragon may look like a Kaltenzahn, but it’s apparently capable of breathing more than ice. Rook finds this out the hard way when she is nailed in the shoulder with the aftermath of lightning breath she hadn’t been expecting. She’d been slowing down more than expected, the air too heavy, feeling like she was swimming through soup. Her ability to recover her stamina like she had in the fight with the undead revenant nearly vanished.
Rook would have been made into paste after she was tagged with that lightning, laying stunned on the ground, if Solas hadn’t besieged the dragon with their remaining supply of gaatlok grenades.
His plan of controlling the flow of battle by using traps and the occasional burning explosive device is the only thing allowing Rook to take a momentary respite, finding she needs them more often than ever before. One person is not meant to fight a dragon, this really sucks. She wouldn’t be on her feet at all if it weren’t for her scythe’s necrotic magic, healing her every time she takes a hit.
The third time Rook is flung off her feet by a swinging dragon tail, slamming into the caldera wall, feeling her ribs crunch and then immediately repair themselves, Rook gets a little frustrated. And though she has avoided popping them so far, finding the explosion of meat endlessly gross, Rook flings her scythe at a nearby blight cyst, watching it pop with a grotesque kind of pleasure. It burst with a lot more pressure than expected.
Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Solas looking up from where he’s setting up another claw trap.
The dragon shrieks at her enraged, like she’d just smacked it. Rook sneers. “Oh, you don’t like that, you big ugly bastard? How about this?” She tosses her scythe at another one of the cysts growing out of the wall, watching with satisfaction as it erupts.
The dragon goes into a shrieking frenzy at this, and charges at her, looking maddened. Rook rolls out of the way, pleased to see the dragon so out of control that it smashes hard into the wall, momentarily dazed. She’s about to press the attack when Solas shouts for her.
“Rook!”
She turns, finding Solas waving and pointing at another cyst. “It’s the blighted masts! Those are the source of the disruption. Destroying them, I can feel the tether on my magic loosening.”
A little tired from an endless fight with a very mean, very strong Fade dragon, it takes Rook longer than it otherwise would to get what he’s saying. “Wait, I destroy the cysts and you get your magic back?”
“Yes!”
Solas gets his magic back, he can do the fighting and Rook can sit along the wall and maybe nap. She laughs. “Oh then I am going to burst every single one of these gross fucking things.”
Against the wall, the dragon hisses as it climbs back to it’s feet. Instead of pressing the attack, Rook smiles wide, feeling like this moment might be the culmination of her life’s work. Staring the dragon in its big ugly face, Rook tosses her scythe to the side, bursting another cyst. The revenant dragon bugles at her, furious.
Yes, Rook is more than happy to sprint around a giant arena blowing up blight cysts, pissing off an extremely powerful dragon. It becomes a game of dodging and diving out of the way of the dragon’s attacks, as she flings her scythe at the cysts littering this space. Thank the Maker she can recall her scythe once thrown, otherwise this fight would be a bigger pain in the ass than it already is.
Solas takes out a few himself, but is far more helpful in pointing out the ones she misses. She sprints around the ring twice, nearly getting bisected by the dragon, looking for the last one. She can’t run forever, and the dragon is a lot faster than the undead they’d faced with their last revenant.
“Anything?” Rook shouts, hoping to hell Solas has found the last one.
“There! Near the entrance, on the overhang!” Solas calls, pointing at the archways of rock and blight tentacles near the entryway. She can’t see the cyst from this angle, but she can see the telltale glow of red near where he points.
Rook pivots, slicing the dragon’s foreleg with necrotic energy, causing it to trip, while simultaneously giving her a little healing boost she needs. Rook pelts towards the entryway, feeling so bone tired, she might scream if this isn’t the last one. She finds the cyst hanging from the ceiling—gross—and flings her scythe at it, bursting it. The dragon screams, charging after her.
The arena feels no different to Rook, but that could just be her own exhaustion. There’s a narrow crevasse here that she saw Solas slip through earlier to maneuver around her fight with the dragon, and instead of running away, she dives into it, shimmying through the narrow space, as the dragon frantically claws after her, like a cat desperate for a mouse. Rook just makes her way out of the exit as the dragon breathes flame into the crevasse after her.
It doesn’t seem to realize she’s made it out, instead half maddened, it claws and head butts the opening where she’s disappeared.
Rook slinks to the outcropping of rock Solas is currently ducked behind, a tremendous frown on his face. She slides down beside him, exhausted.
“Well?” Rook gasps.
Solas twists his hand in front of him, frustration apparent on his face. “No, not yet.”
Rook curses, glancing around the side of the rock to see the dragon still scrabbling at the narrow opening she’d just squeezed through. “Then where is the last of these stupid things? I’ve been running around forever and I haven’t seen anything.”
“Nor can I feel any blighted tendrils rooted through this place, outside of the dragon itself.” Solas looks at her, his expression grim. Were they not in very dire, very terrible circumstances, Rook would almost think it’s cute how he feels bad he can’t help more.
The dragon bugles it’s fury, head rearing back as it prepares another gout of blighted flame. Rook blinks, as she catches a throbbing red mass on the dragon’s back, recessed deep between its wing joints. Rook ducks back behind the rock, and thunks her head on stone in frustration. “Of fucking course.”
“What is it?”
“I found the last cyst.” She thumbs over her shoulder, and Solas lifts himself up to peer over their cover. He drops back down, muttering another elven curse.
“That presents a problem.”
“Only a little.”
“I don’t think despite your incredible ability to throw your scythe on target, that you’ll be able to hit that cyst from the ground.” Solas says, brows creased like he’s trying to find any other solution.
“Nope.”
“Which means…” He looks up at her, and he looks utterly agonized, unwilling to ask her.
Which is great, because him not wanting to ask triggers the part of her brain developed under the tutelage of a greater spirit of Defiance that convinces her she absolutely needs to do it.
Heaving a sigh, Rook clambers gracelessly into a crouch. She gives Solas a meaningful look. “Alright, Solas remember what you promised me.”
He stares back at her, a wrinkle in his brow. “Which promise?”
“That if I die, you need to go on living and protecting the Veil and striving to make the world better.”
Solas looks absolutely stricken. “Rook…”
He looks like he might cry, making Rook crack into a smile. She reaches forward to boop his nose. Solas flinches away, affronted. “I’m not going to let some blighted lizard kill me. But if this unlocks your magic, I’m tapping out and taking a break and you can handle the rest.”
He looks annoyed that he’s finding himself charmed, but he nods at her. “I will hold you to that. Good luck.”
Rook stands, watching the dragon pant as it paws at the crevasse. “Don’t need luck when you’re an exceptional talent.” She hurdles over the outcropping of rock and whistles at the dragon to get its attention. It whirls on her, apparently still very angry.
Rook sprints forward watching the dragon’s back legs as Taash taught her. A step and a twist on it’s far leg and Rook releases the scythe in as hard a toss as she can manage while on the run. She misses dragon scales by inches, just as she intends.
Rook sprints directly towards the dragon, counting her steps. One, the dragon squares up to her. Two, the dragon opens its mouth to breathe kill breath into her face. Three, Rook’s scythe arcs back towards her, with the dragon in its path now, slicing into the dragon’s flank, the scythe’s course knocked directly upwards. Four, the dragon, startled, whirls to face the surprise attack, exposing its back. Five, Rook leaps onto the dragon’s back leg, kicking off with her sixth step to land on its back.
Her scythe lands in her hand as Rook races forward, swinging with all the power she is able to. She arrives at the disgusting swollen mass of blight wedged between the dragon’s wings. On her ninth step she swings the scythe downwards to pierce the surface of the mass.
She expects the extraction of the cyst to be like all the others. Another gory mass of disgusting blight flesh bursting. Instead it’s like gaatlok has been set off under her feet. The air pressure changes, popping her ears and making her nose start to run. Like a headache spontaneously vanishing. She finds her limbs no longer feel so heavy, and she can take a full breath of air.
This place no longer feels like a fart smells.
The dragon beneath her feet shrieks and bucks in agony. Rook finds herself taking the edge of a rotted wing to the stomach, and is flung backwards into the air. Into the air, away from the walls of the arena, instead Rook tumbles towards the opening at the back of the gulch. How fucking unlucky is she? For the second time since this absolutely insane journey began, Rook finds herself plummeting over the edge of a Crossroads island, to fall endlessly into the Fade abyss.
This time she has her scythe and maybe she can hook the edge—
Her momentum abruptly ceases, as though she’s been caught in the very gentle, but firm kinetic hand of a giant. Rook twists where she’s suspended in air, and whoops in excitement at what she sees.
Solas stands where she’d left him. Even at this distance, she can see the way raw power warps the air around him, his eyes aglow lyrium blue. His hand is outstretched, as if he’s holding her gently. Rook is smiling so hard, her cheeks hurt.
The dragon shrieks enraged, recovered from Rook’s attack. It turns towards its nearest target: Solas. He gently sets her down on the thankfully stable ground, far enough away from the edge of the island to avoid anymore mishaps while he’s busy. Rook cups her hands over her mouth. “Have fun, I’m going to take a break now!”
It’s hard to see from this distance, but she would swear he smiles.
The dragon cannot take a single step before it is suddenly enclosed in a massive fireball that explodes, knocking it backwards. Rook laughs a little manically, really glad Solas is on her side now. She finds a nearby flattened rock and sits her ass down, fully intending to enjoy the show.
They’d made the decision that Solas should carry the knife into battle—with a lot of sorrowful, grateful, full of yearning looks that did not result in Rook being kissed—in the event that something like this did happen. This way Solas could unleash absolutely bonkers spells on the attack. And Rook is so glad they did, because watching him expertly twirl the knife in his hand as he rains down a massive blizzard on the dragon, Rook finds she quite likes watching the finesse of his hands.
Solas had been graceful without his magic, but watching him slide and roll through spells, casting quicker than anyone Rook has ever seen, each to monumental effect, it dawns on Rook that Solas was made for this. Quite literally, he was made to wield an epic amount of magic, and has done so for a very long time, and he is very, very good at it.
At the tornado of lightning bigger than the Lighthouse itself, Rook is pretty sure Solas is letting loose and maybe showing off a little. He’s grinning savagely at the dragon as it attempts to pounce on him, only for Solas to fade step away at the last second, calling down a rain of massive flaming blades onto the dragon’s flank making it shriek.
Okay, yeah, if he could fade step he would be very hard to hit, Rook will give him that.
Watching Solas laugh with wild abandon as he reappears on the dragon’s back to freeze one of the dragon’s wings, shattering it into dozens of pieces, before disappearing once again, Rook finds herself wearing what must be a very doofy, smitten smile.
Solas smoothes his hand along the blade of the knife, lengthening it with crackling magic, and Rook cannot wait to see where this is going, because it looks like he’s going to do the ancient elf version of a knight enchanter thing. Which is why Rook complains audibly when the dragon shrieks, casting whatever it is that these things cast to render the field of battle in silent darkness.
Like a curtain has been cast on the battlefield, Rook can hear the dragon’s roar muffled in the distance, followed up by a series of dazzling white lights illuminating the air, then a pillar of flame. Followed swiftly by nothing but silence, which is usually when Rook is about to be knocked on her ass again. She reluctantly clambers to her feet, preparing for the worst.
Above her white mage light fireworks explode, clearing the darkness and allowing normal sound to hit her ears. Which is when Rook sees the dragon still cloaked in its shadows, maybe twenty meters away, readying fire breath for her.
“Oh fuck off.” Rook grumbles, pivoting to sprint. She’s going to get a little singed, but at least Solas can heal her now.
Before she can take a step, Solas is suddenly there, his arm looped around her waist to stop her momentum. He looks down at her amusement lighting his features. Just as they are about to be engulfed in flame, Solas flicks the knife in his free hand and a massive wall of rock lifts from the ground to shield them from dragon fire.
“There you are.” Solas says with a smirk. “I thought I’d find you here.”
“Showoff.”
His smirk widens into a toothy smile. “Perhaps a little.”
He has not, she notes, let her go. “You look like you’re having fun.”
He gives her one of those eye crinkle smiles. “Yes, very. I had not known just how much I missed casting spells.” He twirls the knife in his hand, keeping his eyes trained on her face. “It feels magnificent.”
This is the show of prowess that apparently does it for her. “Yeah?”
Solas tilts his brows, smile slow and easy. “However, it is not the only thing.”
There is another gout of flame, the dragon smart enough not to get close, merely lobbing fire at them until they emerge. Rook leans out of Solas’ hold to peer around the rock wall at the dragon, panting and bleeding copiously, lightning now accumulating in it’s jaws to spit at them, slower than it had with it’s back to back flames. She ducks behind cover as the electricity hits, leaning her back against the rock, bringing her shoulder to shoulder with Solas. He’s watching her, eyes glittering.
“You are thinking something.”
Rook sucks on her teeth, collating information into a tidy pile in her head. “It can breathe three elements, and it takes eight seconds between breaths of the same elements, but twelve between elements, slowed to about fifteen seconds now that the dragon is on its last leg.”
“And you noticed this even as I was flirting with you?” He doesn’t sound offended, more like he thought that was incredible foreplay.
“I can multi task.” She sniffs, which makes Solas chuckle. “Anyways, it’s spitting lighting now.” Another burst of electricity streaks past their boulder. “Once it changes that up, to fire or ice, I’m going to peel around the corner here, hit it with a wee little necrotic tornado. It would be great if you could throw the rock before I do that.” She thinks about it for a second. “Low center mass preferably, I’d like it knocked onto it’s hind legs as much as possible.”
Solas does not say anything, merely stares at her like she is the solution to every question he’s ever had. This effect is made more profound as the air behind him is lit up with more purple electricity, bringing out the violet in his eyes.
“What?”
Solas only smiles, shaking his head. “I hope to one day delve into that wondrous mind of yours and explore its secrets.”
Rook pats his shoulder. “Thank you for being very creepy about your compliments.” Solas once again laughs.
The air around them lights up with fire, and Rook whirls to sprint around the wall of rock. The dragon, exhausted, seems to struggle to form flame fast enough to meet her, just as planned.
Solas times his throw perfectly, Rook dragging her scythe behind her through the air and the fade at once, catching on and collecting a catastrophic amount of necrotic energy. On perfect target, Solas smashes the boulder into the dragon’s chest, knocking it backwards onto it’s hind legs. Only one wing left, it struggles to maintain balance as the dragon tries to rock forward to meet Rook.
She will not let this stand. Not in this place. Not today, not ever. The Crossroads are a sanctuary for any who need it. For the gentle, kind spirits who live here. For her friends. For her. For Solas. After a year of running, she finally feels as though she has a home once more. She will not let it be tainted. Shitty, ugly, blighted dragons are not welcome in her Crossroads.
Rook swings and releases a hurricane of necrotic energy, watching it engulf the revenant dragon. She can feel it being ripped and dissolved into pieces, the last of its life force bleeding into her, recovering every wound. Instead of dissipating the vortex of necrotic energy grows wider and taller, consuming the blighted roots in its path. Very suddenly Rook feels a dam open in her and around her, and green light burns through all of the blighted roots littering the battlefield like a fuse on a firework, sourced from the eye of her storm.
Green light rips around the caldera, burning away the blight, sizzling green sparks into the air, swirling and amassing into the still spinning green vortex. The green light follows the tentacles of blight over and under the caldera, until it is out of sight, but Rook can still feel it continue burning throughout the Crossroads, clearing everything of blight, healing this precious place that she has loved so much.
The vortex in front of her finally dissipates, revealing a massive tree Rook had often wondered if she would ever see again. Though this one is a good five times the size of what it’s supposed to be.
“Is this the Nevarra City Vhenadahl?” Rook gapes up at the streaming banners and ribbons in the branches, familiar motifs, but also symbols of the Mourn Watch, and Grey Wardens and many others decorate the tree now, as they do not in the real world. Skulls and bird figurines hang from the branches, also carved into the trunk just like her scythe. She sees a streamer high in the boughs covered in familiar wolf statuettes.
“Interesting that this is symbol you would choose.” Solas says, as he comes to stand next to her at the base of the tree. He stares up at the tree admiringly, a smile curving his lips.
“I would choose? I did this?” Rook continues to gape up at the tree, watching as the little fizzles of green magic float in the air, like leaves swirling, the ground around them is blooming with grass and flowers that do not exist around the tree in the real world.
Solas chuckles. “Yes, you did. This is quite extraordinary Rook, truly.”
“It is very well done, dweller.”
Rook jumps as the Caretaker emerges from the tree, looking like it’s back to its normal self. “Caretaker! You’re alright!”
“Thanks to your efforts, the Crossroads have been cleansed of the blight and may now heal. The window left open for this incursion slammed shut once more.” The Caretaker gestures at the tree. “You have gifted this place a protective seal, insuring the safety off all who would seek refuge here.”
“Me?” Rook asks, stunned.
“A mighty display of defiance against the Evanuris one might say.” Solas says, smiling down at her.
“A Champion of the Crossroads, guardian to all who pass within this place. Protector of spirits and mortals alike.” The Caretaker says, like that is a completely normal thing that was on the table at any point. It tilts its head in the way indicating the Caretaker is about to leave. “I must go check on the others and the reordering of the islands. I thank you again Champion.” The Caretaker disappears with a little nod, leaving them alone once more.
Rook tries very hard to be normal about being called a ‘Champion’ like her hero, but she obviously fails, because Solas is looking at her with an awful lot of amusement. She swats at him. “Shut up.”
“I said nothing.”
Rook fails to suppress her smile, biting at the inside of her cheek. “And how exactly do you feel about me being the Champion—” her voice warbles on the word, which has Solas poorly disguising a snort. Rook clears her throat. “Being the supposed Champion of your Crossroads?”
Solas lifts a hand to his chin and seems to consider this sincerely for a moment. “I can think of no one more suitable, and I am honored to have one such as you protecting this place.”
Her cheeks heat, because she knows he means it. She looks back up through the boughs of her tree, and feels herself smiling at a hard fought, hard won victory. This whole journey had been difficult. But they’d made it, they’d done it, even though they had almost died several times. They wouldn’t have been capable of this at the outset, but together after a whole lot of hardships and a lot of learning about each other, they’d done it. They saved the Crossroads.
“You were magnificent today, Rook.”
Rook looks to find Solas staring at her with more than admiration in his face. “You weren’t so bad yourself.”
He huffs a laugh, but his face sobers in the next moment. Rook turns to him, curious and a little eager for what he’s going to say. “We have much we must speak on.”
Rook bites her lip to keep from laughing, because if Solas can find a way to approach a topic from the side, he absolutely will. “Do we?”
Solas holds out a hand to her and Rook doesn’t hesitate to take it, thrilling in the way his thumb brushes over knuckles. A familiar gesture between them now. “I must confirm, if this is something that you truly want. To forgive me, but also if you may want me.” He looks into her eyes, and Rook can see a plea there. “It may be that now that I’ve access to magic once more, you are having second thoughts and I do not wish to pressure you unduly.”
“Pressure me how?”
From the warm amusement in his face, he knows she is teasing him. “Rook you are no fool, you know how I feel about you.”
“And how is that?”
Solas takes her hand and presses it to his chest, his eyes sincere as he gazes into her face. “You are the hope for a new day. The dawn come again when I have only known a world of lonely darkness. Unfathomable light and warmth and good humor, shining upon all even those unworthy like I. You are unparalleled in all of the history I have witnessed, and I will spend the rest of my life doing my utmost to live by your example, Rook. You’ve shown me the vividness with which you see the world, you’ve brought it to mine.”
Rook gapes at him. She’d expected a ‘beautiful’ here and maybe an ‘I love you’ there. Had he been composing little poetic metaphors about her in his head this whole time?
Solas bends to press a gallant kiss to knuckles, and Rook feels her heart thump. “Unworthy as I am, I am in love with you.” He looks into her face, the warmth dimming with slight regret. “But if you do not wish for me, if you should prefer that I leave you alone, I promise that… You need not ever forgive me. I…”
Rook doesn’t ever think she’s witnessed him so flustered for words. He seems to struggle how best to say how he’ll respect her wishes. Whether it involves him or not. On the list of things Rook will need to at a later date examine about herself, she will add teasing a flustered Solas to the list.
Rook tips her head back and heaves a mighty sigh. “I should have known you’d be an awkward bookish nerd about this.” He gives her a micro frown, his thumb pausing it’s slide on her knuckles. “I already said I forgive you. Need me to say it again? I guess you want me to take the lead again. Though I feel it’s important to remind you who did most of the work to get us here. But if needs must—”
Solas silences her with a kiss, tugging her forward by her hand, and pulling her flush against him, as much as their armor will allow. His hand threads into her hair, the other cupping the back of her neck. He wastes no time in scraping his teeth against her lower lip, making Rook gasp, and his tongue plunges into her mouth. The hand in her hair shifts to tuck her behind her ear, long clever fingers gifting her with another one of those erotic strokes up the length of her ear. Rook whimpers into his kiss, and she can feel Solas smile against her mouth.
He breaks their kiss, pressing his forehead to hers, a pleased curve to his lips. “I suppose I have my answer then.”
Rook nods against him, her eyes half lidded in her kiss addled delirium. She pulls at his shoulders, trying to rock up to kiss him once more. Solas is only too happy to oblige, catching her lips once more. This time instead of threading his hands into her hair or playing with her ear, Solas slides his hands down her armored body to grip at her waist. Rook finds herself walked backwards, while Solas traces the seam of her mouth with his tongue. Rook tightens her arms around his neck, and groans when her back makes contact with the tree, allowing them to deepen the kiss. A new kind of business Solas emerges, one who wastes no time pressing his thigh between her legs.
She pulls away just long enough to pant. “Is it maybe profane to do this against a spirit tree?”
Solas smiles down at her, his clever hands having found one of the straps holding her chest plate in place. “I can think of many more profane things.”
A surge of heat pools low in Rook’s belly. “What kind of profane things?”
Solas does his handsome man chuckle, bending to press his mouth to her jaw. Before nosing up just slightly to flick the flat of his tongue over the underside of her ear. Rook whines, clutching at his shoulders with the sensation. Her rebuttal about ears not seeming very profane dies on her lips as he scrapes his teeth near the tip of her ear, leaving only a pathetic whimper in it’s place.
“Yes, that is exactly the sound I had hoped you’d make.” He murmurs into her ear, sending a bolt of want through her. Rook turns her head to capture his mouth with hers once more, and swallows his breathless laugh.
Rook gives as good as she’s getting, as she threads her fingers into the sides of Solas’ armor, trying to remember how the clasps had worked. Solas is making quick work of her own armor, the Lords of Fortune believing very strongly in being able to take off armor quickly—supposedly in case someone falls into ocean, but Rook has met Isabela so she wouldn’t be surprised.
She manages all of three clasps of Solas’ armor, while he’s gotten her into nothing but her small clothes. Rook makes a frustrated sound, having never in her life been thwarted by stupid buckles to this extent. Solas laughs, leaning away from her. She watches his hand glow over the surface of his armor, and it peels off him like a metal and black leather rind, the clasps coming undone a thousand times quicker than Rook could manage. His armor sits in a tidy pile on the ground, leaving him in his shirt and smalls.
“I knew it!”
Solas raises a brow, as leans in once more to kiss her. She allows one kiss, enjoying the grind of his newly naked leg against the apex of her thighs, before she leans away again, needing to speak. “I knew your stupid armor had to be taken on and off with magic, there was no way a sane person would use that many clasps and buckles to do by hand.”
“Yes, very clever, Rook.” Solas says against her lips, before he kisses her once more, pressing ever closer. Rook grabs his hips to encourage him to grind against her harder, making him moan, which she finds she likes very much. She can feel him hard against her thigh and Rook wants nothing more to peel him out of the rest of his clothes to feel all of him on her skin. Rook wraps her hands around the hem of his shirt, and it really is freakishly soft, to tug over his head.
Instead of depositing it on the ground, Rook finds herself rubbing her fingers against the material, marveling that it doesn’t catch against her calluses. She pulls her mouth away from his to get a better look. “What material is that, it’s very soft.”
Solas cups her jaw with his hand, tilting her face to his, with a bemused expression. With his other hand he reaches for the shirt, to tug out of her hand and throws it to the ground. “Please stay focused, Rook.”
Before he can capture her mouth again, Rook opens her mouth again, more for the thrill of being annoying than out of disinterest in what they’re doing. Solas presses his thumb to her lips to silence her, his gaze hot. “Needs I must occupy your mouth with something else?”
Rook opens her lips enough to bite the tip of his thumb, enjoying the way his eyes sear her. His thumb strokes her lower lip, and Rook finds twin desires war within her: the one that wants to be good under his ministrations, and the one that has always sought thrills annoying this man.
Annoying wins out. “Maaaaaybe. What did you have in mind?”
Solas leans forward and presses a sweet and relatively chaste kiss to her mouth, his hand still cupping her jaw. She can feel his other hands slide from her hip, to her flank, sliding up her spine, palm flat. It feels good, but—
Solas’ eyes glow blue, and the hand pressed into her low back flares with magic and very suddenly Rook is onset by the most intense orgasm of her life. She arches back as white hot sensation radiates from her spine to her toes all the to the tips of her ears and scalp, she can even feel her nose tingle with sensation. Her mouth open in a soundless cry. She’d have clocked her head on the trunk of the tree, if Solas were not holding her face tenderly.
When sensation is finally done rolling through her, Rook comes back into awareness, panting and confused. Solas is staring at her, looking both very aroused and very smug. She manages to catch her breath, her pulse still thrumming hot through her whole body.
“I knew you would be a vision in the throes of passion. I have imagined it for quite some time.” Solas murmurs, his thumb sliding over her cheek sending zings of pleasure through her entire skull.
“What the fuck, you can cast orgasm on people?”
Solas chuckles, leaning forward to kiss her languid and slow, and with a mind blowing orgasm still giving her the occasional aftershock, it is the most erotic kiss of her life, his tongue leisurely in it’s exploration of her mouth. When he pulls away, Rook feels like putty in his hands. “It is merely a simple activation of the neurons and blood flow in the body, to mimic an orgasm.”
“No that definitely felt real and not mimicked.” She doesn’t think she’s ever been this wet in her life.
He laughs low. “It is no different from any healing magic, really. Same principles.”
Rook leans away from him, to squint into his face. “I have never felt any healing magic like that before.”
“Then you enjoyed it?”
Rook doesn’t have the current requisite control over her facial muscles enough to give him an ‘are you fucking kidding me?’ eyebrow raise. “Chyeah, Solas. Yes.”
Solas looks pleased, leaning in to press another gentle kiss to her mouth. The hand at her jaw slides back to cup her neck. Solas leans away, a wicked smile on his face as his eyes glow blue. “Good.”
Unprepared even though she knew it was coming, Rook wails as sensation winds down her spine and wraps around her brain. Solas is kissing her, breathing with her through her sobbed moans, his hand dipping into her smalls to cup her ass, pulling her flush to grind against his hard length, adding a whole new layer of overwhelming sensation. Rook is incoherent, clawing uselessly at his back, trying to pull him in deeper as though he could burrow his way into her and make it stop and never let it end.
When sensation finally abates Rook finds herself shivering in the aftermath, bereft of her clothes—how the fuck had he fully disrobed her?—and her legs basically mush. She would fall over were it not for Solas pressing her into the tree as he traces sweet little kisses to her neck, as though he hadn’t nearly ended her life with the force of an orgasm.
“This isn’t fair.” Rook whines, more than says. She can feel Solas chuckle against her collarbones as he bends lower towards her breasts. “We haven’t even gotten to the touching the exciting bits part, and you’ve nearly killed me with two orgasms already.”
Solas pauses his exploration to look up at her, gaze intent. “Would you explain the exciting bits to me, Rook? And what you would like done to them?”
Rook doesn’t think her glower is very effective, especially when Solas bends to capture one of her nipples into his mouth. She is oversensitive and she keens at the sensation, head lolling back against the tree. She attempts to retaliate, to reach for his smalls that he is still wearing, which hardly seems fair given the circumstances.
Solas rewards her petty rebellion by doing it again, so proficient with magic he can apparently cast orgasm by laving his tongue over her nipple. He’s kind enough that it doesn’t overtake her entire nervous system this time, but she still shudders against him, sobbing at the feeling, trying to curve around him and squirm away at once, as he continues lavishing her breasts with attention, his hands firm at her waist, locking her in place.
Rook’s bones are made of soup at this point, and she thinks she might actually die. She pants pathetically, tears in her eyes when he finally frees her from the thrall of pleasure. Solas stands to loom over her once more looking oh so pleased with himself. Her entire body feels like an exposed nerve.
His hands slide down her sides to her hips, trailing electrifying sensation everywhere he explores. Over the curve of her ass, the other stroking teasingly at her labia. Rook blinks, trying to clear the mush between her ears. Solas bends to kiss her once more, and when he pulls away, he is absolutely smirking. “You are so beautiful.” At least he finally took his underwear off so they’re both ass naked.
If Solas casts orgasm on her clit, Rook is pretty sure her bones will spontaneously combust. She clumsily paws at his face, trying to get his attention. Solas responds by failing to look at her innocently as he sucks her pointer finger into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it. It is the eye contact as he does it that makes it feel painfully erotic.
“Solas, give me a minute, please. I need a break.”
He releases her finger with an obscene pop. “Will you beg oh so sweetly for me, Rook? I may stop then.”
Oh, this isn’t a lack of understanding of what a mortal body can take, or him being so repressed sexually he’s going overboard on her like the sex version of what he’d done to the dragon. Solas is sexy torturing her so she’ll beg him for it. Annoying prick, she loves him so much. Her thoughts are clearing, and her bones don’t feel like soup anymore, and she watches Solas’ expression light up with satisfaction. She imagines her eyes are glowing a very defiant green right now.
Faculties returned, Rook hooks her leg behind his and shoves Solas with more force than is called for, but he probably deserves. Solas lands on his ass, grinning up at her, seeming more pleased that his game was interrupted than he had while making her nearly black out from coming so hard.
Sprawled naked in a field of flowers, looking like some kind of erotic painting as he grins up at her waiting, his cock standing proud and flushed against his belly. Solas truly is too pretty for words.
So Rook does not say anything as she straddles him, allowing Solas to surge up to kiss her, as she aligns his cock with her sex. She doesn’t tease or ease into it, merely fucks herself down, and delights in Solas’ gasp into her mouth. Pleased to have control, pleased that Solas wants her to have it, gives it to her freely. She sets a brutal pace with nothing but the strength of her thighs, which are very strong indeed to power her. Solas is more than happy to take it, laughing breathlessly through his groans.
Solas bends to press kisses to her breasts and collarbone, however when she feels the scrape of teeth, Rook pauses, roughly gripping his face, and forcing him to look up at her. She does not miss the way his eyes seem to dilate further, or how his cock twitches inside of her. “Do not leave any marks. I don’t like them.”
His eyes half lidded, Solas gives her a dazed nod. “Yes.”
She gives him a mean grin. “I knew you liked it when I told you not to use blood magic on me.” Solas’ eyes are searing as he looks up at her. “Burgeoning masochism?” She asks pleasantly, drawing her hand away.
Solas does not let her get far, catching her wrist so that he might press a searing kiss to her palm, looking up through his stupid pretty long lashes. “Yes, I like it very much when you’re like this.”
Rook responds by reaching for his nipple with her free hand, and giving it a pinching twist that is a touch too hard. Solas whimpers, thrusting up hard into her, his head thrown back. Rook smiles, tracing her hand behind his neck to reel him back in for a kiss as she rolls her hips.
As she fucks herself on him, Solas murmurs things in elvhen into her mouth and her skin, and she has no idea what he’s saying, but she thinks she catches his meaning in the way he looks at her. She’s beautiful to him. She is perfection. She feels so good, he never wants this to end. That he loves her. Rook rides him and kisses him, conveying that she feels the same.
Solas slides a hand between them, his thumb circling her clit in time with the rock of her hips. He smiles at her whimper, licks into her mouth in rhythm with their bodies. Her tempo beginning to stutter as she approaches her release once more. She can feel Solas getting close, his breath coming in desperate pants, the hand on her ass spasming in time with the rock of their bodies, as his clever fingers work her clit like a master.
He looks up at her, his eyes desperate, as if to ask ‘may I?’. Rook has no idea what it is he’s trying, but she’s too curious to not. “On the condition you look me in the eye as you come.” His smile flashes her teeth, before the hand at her clit lifts to press to her belly. Sensation is suddenly tumbling through he body, unlike any orgasm she’s ever felt.
It is hers and it is his, at once and in time. An endless recursive loop of pleasure, as Solas stares into her eyes, wonder and awe and pure raw pleasure, as Rook stares back mirroring him. They groan as one as their rhythm becomes frantic and messy, moving together desperately. It feels too good and perfect and wonderful and she’s never been this connected to anything before and Rook has the sudden desperate need to kiss him to make whatever this sensation is into a closed system. Their kiss is sloppy and perfection and all that Rook will ever want ever again.
With one last desperate cry, Solas finishes, and Rook keeps her face close to his, breathing in his air, pleasant tingles of radiant pleasure tingling down her scalp as she slides her hands up and down his back. Solas has his arms wrapped around her tightly, as if he is unable to let her go. She lifts her head, wanting to look him in the eye. Wanting to see his flushed cheeks that she has caused.
Solas stares back at her, looking dazed, a sheen of tears in his eyes. Overwhelmed with sensation and feeling. Warmth blooms in her chest, and Rook feels such affection for this strange, complicated, equal parts terrible and wonderful man. She cups both sides of his face and Rook bends forward to press a kiss to his forehead. She feels him relax just a little at the ease of her affection. So she does it again.
She bends to kiss his brow, his nose, her thumbs rubbing soothing patterns into his glorious cheekbones. Solas smiles under her ministrations, his eyes sliding closed. He begins to laugh when she gently turns his head to and fro, pressing kisses along his ears, his jaw, even his adams apple.
Finally she presses a slow and languid kiss to his mouth, and Solas kisses her back, his hands tracing up and down her sides like she is the most precious thing in the world. She pulls away to smile at him, delighted by his soft smile back at her.
They resettle on the ground, laying in the field of spirit flowers. Solas lays on his back, Rook, half sprawled over his chest, sliding her fingers over his shoulders and neck. Solas brushes his through her hair idly.
“You know it’s good we didn’t figure out how good we are sex together early on, with the infinite time thing, we’d probably still be on that first island.”
Solas looks at her, a small smile on his face. He traces his hand up her neck, into her hair, and gentle, sweetly over her ear. “That’s awfully confident of you, seeing as how I attempted to murder you upon first exiting the prison.”
Rook’s mouth drops open, delighted, despite his words. That he casually mentioned potentially killing her meant she was even better at sex than she thought she was. “I am so proud of myself.” Rook tells him, and Solas squints at her, confused. “I think I successfully fucked the stick out of your ass. I’m marvel. An uncommon talent.” Solas pinches her ear, making her giggle.
Rook swats his hand away. “You can’t deny, Solas, that when when you’d been in the prison, there had been chemistry between us.”
He raises a skeptical eyebrow at her. “Chemistry?”
Now he’s just being obtuse. “There’s no way you didn’t also feel the tension between us back then during our little fade chats.”
“Yes of course I did. Because we were enemies.”
Rook squints at him, not believing him in the slightest. “Sure, but all things being equal, and if you could have done it without consequences, or us never having to speak of it again, you’d have fucked me. Admit it.”
Solas looks at her appalled. “When we were enemies?”
Rook rolls her eyes at him. He’s such a liar, she remembers the expression on his face when she’d asked which of his enemies he’d been attracted to. “Fine, maybe you’re boring. I definitely would have.”
At that Solas’ attempt at playing the fool drops and he chuckles. “Very well, in that very improbable circumstance, then yes, I’d have been happy to indulge myself with you.”
“Indulge myself!” Rook repeats with a laugh. She adopts her very worst Solas impression. “I would deign to indulge myself with you.”
Solas scoffs, rolling them over so that he might press her into the ground to kiss her. As a strategy to get her to shut up, Rook doesn’t hate it. He no longer tastes herbal and clean, and Rook wonders if she no longer has that minty taste to her mouth. Instead they both taste of thoroughly kissed mouths, a testament to their hard work on each other.
A thought occurs to her. Rook draws back, and Solas stares down at her, smirking. “Solas, the timey wimey—”
“Time dilation.”
“—bullshit we’ve been dealing with. That’s done now, right?”
Solas turns his head to the side, wrinkle in his brow, probably doing some secret Fade thing she can’t see. “Yes, it appears time is flowing naturally in the Crossroads again.”
“Which means my friends are probably free, and freaking out about where I could have gone while I was supposed to be talking to you in the Fade.”
Solas stares down at her blankly, before his face screws up in a very adorable, petulant expression Rook never thought she would see him make. “You are saying we ought to leave?”
Rook bites the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing. “Yes, I’m sorry. We should probably get dressed, and go back home.”
The petulance smooths from Solas’ face, replaced by a soft smile. She might call his expression goopy.
Rook is helpless but to smile back. “What are you looking at?”
“I enjoyed the way you said ‘home’ and ‘we’.”
Rook tries to clamp a hand over her mouth to no avail, a peal of laughter escapes right into Solas’ face. “I’m sorry, that was so sweet and nice and adorable. But—” She sniggers, and Solas does not look impressed. “This just explains so much about your book collection in the library.”
Solas raises a brow at her.
“All the romance novels and the bodice rippers. It’s because you’re a romantic.” And it’s the funniest thing she can think of, the big bad Dread Wolf being a gooey romantic at heart.
Solas does not look offended though. His expression goes soft once more, and he bends down to give her a sweet kiss. He is giving her a warm, half lidded gaze staring deeply into her eyes, his mouth curved softly. He gently tucks her hair behind her ear, his thumb coming to rest on her cheek, stroking. “Yes, I am quite the romantic, especially for the woman I love.”
Rook’s face flushes as she stares into his unbelievably pretty violet eyes, and feels her heart thump at the intensity of his attention. When he gets all focused and gentle like this, Rook starts feeling a whole lot flustered.
And then Solas smirks at her, pleased with himself by her reaction.
Rook covers her face with her hands, embarrassed that he’d won so easily.
“I believe I’m going to look forward to discovering all your weaknesses, Rook.”
Said so low and sweetly into her ear, Rook blushes harder, because that was a good line, and she was looking forward to him discovering them too.
Chapter 17: Chapter 17
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"So is the knife like a tunning rod for your magic, amplifying it further, or is it a foci? Or a font of power?”
Solas allows himself to be tugged up the slope by Rook, finding he very much wants to do everything in his power to draw this moment out. To indulge in nothing but the pleasure of her company, to walk hand in hand with Rook through the Crossroads. Solas could have taken her hand and fade stepped directly to the Vi’Revas, but then this moment with her would end. He is more than happy to enjoy Rook’s inelegant, physical solution, clumsily scrambling over rocks all so Solas might get to see the satisfied tilt of her mouth at conquering a slope.
They’d had infinite time together and it is only now when time flows once more that Solas wishes he could stop all the clocks in the world, if he might thread his fingers through Rook’s for a little longer, listen to her pepper him with her endless questions. Perhaps steal a kiss.
“It can be all of those things at once.” Solas explains as they reach the top of the ledge where Rook had surprised him with a kiss for the first time. He finds he very much wants to respond in kind in this moment, realizes he can, and bends to capture her lips, feeling her smile against him. “The knife is a very great density of lyrium, so it can be used as a font of power, but I find it simplest to use it as a foci to narrow the channel of magic, while not diminishing any of the power in casting.”
Fingers threaded together as they step out of the cave that had once housed the source of the blight corruption, Solas is awed that he can see one of the massive tree branches from Rook’s Vhenadhal shaped seal overhanging the cave-like ceiling of the island. The walls are barren of black vines or tentacles, instead replaced by deep wooded roots, greenery dotted in gold and blue, banners strung between roots and branches with motifs from her life. From the lives of those she cares about.
Solas can see a wolf shaped bauble hang from a branch, and his heart feels warm. He finds he would very much like to paint this tree, try to capture its wonder and splendor, capture the emotions it evokes in him so profoundly.
An impressive display of magic, one that signified how much Rook wanted this place to be safe, for an eternity if she could make it so. A monument to her fortitude and determination, her willingness to help and protect others. Rook, a Champion of the Crossroads.
Solas had meant it when he said he could think of no one better suited.
He watches her light up with wonder as she takes in the changes that she has wrought. “Wow!” Rook flashes him a grin, before tugging him forward to the edge of the island so they can see the impact they’ve had on the Crossroads.
The islands no longer sit in hundreds of fractal fragments, repaired by the roots of Rook’s guardian tree, stretching as far as the eye can see. The Crossroads are more verdant, more alive, and the magics protecting this place stronger than they have ever been in the duration of Solas’ life. Rook had done this, an indomitable force of good in the world.
Solas knows, even as she had been flagging in that fight, crushed under the weight of the taint in the air, he knows Rook would have managed without him. Solas had it wrong before, she was not like a hero of ancient Elvhenan. Rook is a true hero for the modern era, in an age in desperate need of them.
Solas had not known feeling for another person could be so warm and comforting all at once. To be loved in turn, the pure raw affection of her lips peppering him with kisses even as he sat overwhelmed, softening inside of her. To be cherished. To know that she is a safe harbor for the shattered remains of his heart, that she will help him pick up the pieces, even as she expects him to repair the damage himself.
Flemeth and Varric did him a great kindness, setting Rook in his path.
Rook turns to catch him watching her, mouth tilting into a smile. “I have another question.” Solas chuckles, because of course she does. “The rock thing you did at the end there, it kind of reminded me of what Harding can do now. Is that something the Evanuris can do too?”
The vehemence with which he wants to say the Evanuris cannot, that it would be profane, and a slap in the face to all, dies on Solas’ lips before he can share it, aware of the hypocrisy. One day, when Solas is ready, he will tell Rook and anyone else who will wish to listen about the time he spent with the Titans shortly after waking into this body. How he had desired more than anything to understand the Titans, from who’s blood he had been born. Solas had once dreamed of finding common ground, to end the conflict between their peoples. To speak of all the Titans taught him, in his meager understanding of what They were. It would lead him to one day being able to craft the knife, from a place of fear and grief.
It is a long, and hard story. But Solas is sure Rook will listen. Will help him see a way forward through his mistakes, as she has proved herself so gifted. But that, along with his countless other regrets can be a conversation for another day.
“In a manner of speaking, yes. My power over stone is similar to Titan’s magic, though my own expression.” Solas can feel Rook’s eyes on him, reading between the lines of his words. He smiles, conveying he will speak of it with her sometime soon, no longer needing to lie. “The Evanuris however cannot use this magic.”
“What other magics are Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain bad at using?”
Solas huffs a laugh, raising their joined hands to brush a kiss to her knuckles in thanks. An easy, acerbic topic for them both. He allows himself to be tugged, despite his growing reluctance towards the Vi’Revas, regaling her with all his judgments at the ways in which Elgar’nan lacks.
He makes Rook laugh, and that he finds is more than reward.
They stand before the Vi’Revas once more, hand in hand. Unlike last time, Solas finds he is not eager to step through the mirror. Rook’s forgiveness was undeserved, but a soothing balm that allows Solas to move forward. He does not believe for a moment her friends will be as understanding.
Rook’s hand squeezes his own. “You said you weren’t going to be a coward anymore.”
Solas cuts her a look. “It is not cowardly to prepare oneself for what is sure to be many questions.”
“They’re probably not going to be very nice to you, no. But remember what I said, Bellara and Emmrich will be the best allies for you. Lucanis too once he realizes you’re not a threat.”
Solas closes his eyes, feeling very silly indeed. He does not deserve the grace of potential allies, and still. “I am more reluctant for this encounter than I was every time I entered Elgar’nan’s throne room, where he and I would regularly enter into screaming matches before his court.”
She squeezes his hand again. “You’ll need to share that story sometime. Now c’mon, my friends bite only a little.”
Solas steps through the mirror with her and they are hit by a cacophony of voices. Bellara Lutare kneels next to the mirror, attempting to calibrate it to allow them into the Crossroads without the knife as key. Neve Gallus and the Grey Warden Davrin stand at the front of the group, hotly debating how to proceed, while Taash paces in the mid ground, visibly frustrated. Rook’s entire team armed and ready for a rescue mission.
Solas must curb a smile, all of them in a panic at Rook vanishing. And she had been so convinced these people didn’t need her.
It is Emmrich Volkarin who notices their entrance. “Oh! Rook! You’re alive, thank goodness. And you have…” Emmrich appears at a loss for words as he stares at Solas.
All heads whip around to face them and Solas watches as the relief on their faces quickly turns to stunned, slightly terrified confusion as they see who it is who stands next to Rook. Solas attempts to slip his hand out of Rook’s only to find her gripping him tightly, fingers threaded through his, holding him in place.
Rook beams at her team. “Hi guys! I missed you!”
Everyone tries to speak at once, Bellara back tracking away from where she had been kneeling closest to Solas to stand next to Davrin, her eyes wide.
“Where have you been!”
“Are you hurt!”
“What is going on?”
“Is that Solas?”
“Rook why are you with Solas?”
“What the fuck!”
No one makes a move towards them, but the questions keep coming, until Rook very loudly clears her throat, miraculously getting everyone to quiet down. “I am unharmed. Everything is fine. As you can see, Solas is out of prison and no, he is not going to kill us. I am not brain washed anymore, and we both just went on a pretty crazy journey to save the Crossroads, and we’ve been gone for what feels like an eternity because of some timey wimey bullshit.” She purses her lips looking up at Solas. “Solas, how long do you think we were gone for?”
He can feel every eye swivel to him, and Solas is quite certain they’ve now noticed Rook gripping his hand. “There is no way of knowing, but given the distance traveled, and the hurdles we faced, I might hazard to guess a period of three to four weeks.”
His words are met with silence from the larger group, as Rook nods at him, thoughtful. “Is it weird that it feels both longer than that, and also shorter?”
“Rook, perhaps you might explain what you mean by ‘timey wimey’ and the nature of your mission with… Solas.” Emmrich is unfailingly polite, his fingers steepled in front of him.
Rook gives Ememrich a grateful smile, and opens her mouth to speak, only to be cut off by Taash.
“Isn’t anyone going to ask why they’re holding hands?” Taash gestures up and down at Rook and Solas, looking at the rest of their companions as though they’re all being weird for not mentioning it.
Everyone turns to look at Rook and Solas, their eyes darting between them, and their joined hands. It is sadly now too late to slither away from their scrutiny.
Rook, demonstrating her horrifying streak for sadism, swings their joined hands in front of them and smiles wide at her team. “That’s because I’m in love with him.”
Her declaration is met with a wall of silence.
Solas gapes down at her, perhaps a little offended that this is the venue she chose to finally admit those words. And when she flicks a look up at him, Solas knows this for another type of ear flick. He turns to look back into the horror struck faces of the assembled crowd, awaiting their judgment. This conversation would need to happen at some point anyways.
“What?”
Solas swallows at the throttled rage quivering in that question. The crowd parts to reveal a fully armored Lace Harding standing behind everyone, her face hard, her color high. She does not dignify Solas with a single glance, instead she only has a very angry stare for Rook.
Beside him, Rook blows out a breath, finally releasing Solas’ hand. “We should probably talk, Harding.”
Harding’s eyes narrow, her fists clenched at her side. Solas knows it is only by grace of there purposefully being no titan stone in the Lighthouse, that the building does not shake with her fury. “Yeah, Rook. We probably should. ”
Harding shoulders past the rest of the team, stomping toward the Vi’Revas. She cuts Solas one hateful glare, before she lifts her chin and steps through the mirror.
If the silence had been awkward before, it is now suffocating. Rook looks over her team, hands on her hips. “Alright, I’m going to go talk to Harding for bit, if the rest of you could go wait in the library for me that would be great.” She sounds very casual about it, which lends a kind of absurdity to the situation. As if it’s every day that an enemy turned ally joins this rag tag group of heroes.
Rook flicks a glance up at Solas. “That includes you too.”
Solas straightens his neck, feeling slightly alarmed at being left alone in what was effectively enemy territory. In his own home. She gives him a meaningful look, before turning her attention to the assembled crowd. She points at Davrin and Taash. “You two be nice.”
And with that Rook slips through the mirror and enters the Crossroads once more, leaving Solas staring only a little sullenly at the mirror, before turning his attention back to Rook’s team, who only quietly stare back at him. Some glares as well.
It is once again Emmrich who comes to the rescue. Rook had not lied that Emmrich would be his best ally with these people. “Then shall we move to the library and take some seats while we wait?”
With some alarmed looks at Solas, the group finally disperses, out of the chamber and up the stairs into the library. Davrin keeps his eyes trained on Solas trailing after them, as if waiting for an attack. Bellara looks between Solas and the mural of Mythal as the group passes it with a deeply embarrassed expression on her face.
Solas takes the last seat available once everyone but Lucanis is seated. The chair that sits across from the group, the one he most often would read in if he did so in the Library when he lived here. He hopes it puts the group somewhat at ease that Davrin and Taash sit closest to him, a bulwark for the others against the danger of him. An imagined safety rather than true, if Solas ever truly meant these people harm.
And he wouldn’t. They had been far more noble and true than he, and only deserved his respect.
Davrin has a carving knife in his hand, and a very dangerous expression on his face. Neve is looking at Solas as though he is something she would like trapped under a microscope. Bellara at her side sits twiddling her fingers together like she has never lived something so awkward in her young life. Lucanis looms over the two women, his arms crossed, lips pursed, a sheen of spirit magic in his eyes that has Solas very curious. Emmrich sits in the little joke of a throne Solas had kept in the space for nothing but his own amusement. Solas need not judge the man, he seems to be making a tremendous effort to keep his expression polite.
Taash sucks on their teeth, squinting at Solas. Displeased about who knows what innumerable things.
Emmrich clasps his hands together. “Well, perhaps we might—”
“Why’s he sitting in Rook’s chair?” Heads swivel between Taash and back to Solas.
Solas blinks, having not realized. His hands slide over the arm rest, as if to lift himself out of his seat. “I can move if you would prefer.”
“Yes!” Taash cries, vicious.
“No, no, there is no need.” Emmrich waves Taash off. Taash whirls on him, a petulant expression on their face.
“I would like you to fill in some details about what Rook said, Dread Wolf.” Neve says, her ankles crossed, fingers threaded over her knees.
“I will answer to the best of my abilities.” Solas says, hoping he sounds sincere to these people who do not know him and have no reason to trust him.
“What was the nature of the disturbance in the Crossroads Rook mentioned?” Neve’s eyes are sharp.
“The Evanuris had made a heavy blighted incursion into the Crossroads, throwing it into chaos and disruption—I am to understand you have fought some revenant creatures together? It was of the same kind, though to a much larger scale. We fought together to reach the locked door in the central island and cleanse the blight there.”
Neve’s face is stony as she regards him. “And how were you freed from your prison, so you could assist Rook in this endeavor?”
“At the moment Rook was visiting me in the prison, the Caretaker attempted to remove her so that she might deal with the problem, before it too succumbed to the attack. I saw an opportunity to free myself, and took it. Had I not, I likely would have fallen deep into the fade, if not killed outright” Solas says, and watches the words pass over their faces, none of them sympathetic. Not that he expected otherwise.
“And what of us? Why weren’t we brought in to assist?”
“You were caught in a time dilation, a protective magic to insure no further incursions could happen to the Crossroads while they were under massive threat. It is why Rook and I experienced time differently, and were able to act, while you were all frozen.”
“Timey wimey bullshit.” Taash says, nodding. Solas fears that is how they will all talk about it now, thanks to Rook’s influence.
Neve’s eyes narrow. “That all seems rather convenient.”
Solas does not know how to explain in short enough sentences for these people to hear and understand him about Flemeth’s plot, who and what Rook is, and decades of scheming to stop him. It will all sound rather convenient, as Neve says. For it was, with great and terrible intention.
Davrin scoffs, twirling his knife in his hand, jabbing it in Solas’ direction as he looks to his companions. “Why are we even humoring this? We should boot him out of this place for everyone’s safety.”
It is Bellara who surprises Solas by arguing against this course. “We should wait for Rook, she asked us to.”
Neve tucks her hair behind her ear, back straight as she gives Solas a hard look. “Perhaps you might explain to us what Rook meant by that brain washed comment.”
Solas sighs, closing his eyes, wishing despite his desire to be more honest, that Rook had not dropped that particular bomb into his introduction to these people, without being here to help him diffuse it. Perhaps another ear flick, though she wasn’t usually that malicious. Just incautious. Attempting to explain himself will make him look even worse to their eyes. Rook should not have forgiven him in the first place, not so quickly. And yet.
Solas opens his eyes again when he can feel the scrutiny of a nearby spirit. Lucanis now stands, leaning over Emmrich’s chair, a pink fade light in his eyes as he stares at Solas. How interesting, Rook had not mentioned how these two were bound. What a tragedy for them both.
No one else has seemed to notice, looking at Solas with increasing agitation, seeing his silence as an unwillingness to answer questions. When the spirit within Lucanis speaks, it causes everyone to jump.
“Why does this Wisdom smell like Rook and Love?” It asks in a very accusatory manner, protective. It is something not dissimilar to Rook and Defiance. Pettier and smaller, more vindictive.
“Are you Spite?” Solas asks, ignoring the looks of alarm traded between everyone seated.
“Yesssss.” Spite replies, eyes narrow. “Why do you smell of Rook? Answer my question!”
“Would you not prefer to hear it from Rook herself? She should return soon.” Solas says, keeping his face neutral, even as Solas feels a pang of warmth. This fractured spirit shoved inside this man had a tremendous amount of affection for Rook, Solas could see it. Was it Rook herself, or merely their similar natures? Solas strongly suspected the former.
Spite mulls this over and then nods its head once, the light in Lucanis’ eyes fade, leaving a startled man staring wide eyed at Solas. “You— You convinced Spite to wait patiently?”
An irregular experience for all, and twisted inside himself, bereft of any connection to the Fade with its host as he is. Solas does not know if they both would be better or worse off if Lucanis were a mage. “Spite desires to express concern about Rook, it merely wished to know if it will see her again.”
Lucanis goggles at him. “Did it say that? It didn’t say that to me.”
“Sometimes when speaking with spirits, it is important to understand why it might be saying something, rather than what it says.” Solas answers lightly, and does not know if he feels condescended to at Emmrich’s nod, or if he ought to find fellow feeling there.
Solas looks at Lucanis. “If I may, perhaps we might speak sometime about ways to improve both your conditions. How you were bound was incredibly cruel to you both.”
Pink light flares in Lucanis’ eyes. “No! Not fair! Not may!”
Spite once again causes everyone with the exception of Emmrich to flinch. A pity, Spite seemed a clumsy, but kind creature. “My apologies, I did not mean to offend.”
Spite leaves Lucanis’ face, who rubs at his forehead, looking plainly tired. “No, it is alright. Thank you.”
Davrin and Neve still glare at Solas, but it seems Emmrich and Lucanis at least have softened on him somewhat, Bellara it is hard to tell with her radiant anxiety as she looks between everyone’s faces. Taash looks to be considering something.
Solas finds he does not mind their ire. It signifies how much they care for Rook. Solas is willing to forgive their dislike of himself, for the mutual love they share for one very important person. These are Rook’s people, and she in turn is theirs. He enjoys how protective they are of her, for he is much the same.
Neve clears her throat. “You never answered my question, what did Rook mean by brain—”
“So are you and Rook fucking or something?”
Solas turns slowly to face Taash keeping his face impassive. Taash who seems genuinely curious, no malice or guile in their expression. He cannot say the same thing for Davrin, who looks to be working through his disgust at the idea, morphing into a mean smile. Emmrich has his hand over his eyes.
“You can’t just ask someone about that, Taash!” Bellara says, shrill. Her face quite red. “We’ve talked about this!”
Taash gestures towards Solas. “But—”
There is a loud clatter from downstairs, heavy wooden doors banging back on hinges, and steps that Solas knows aren’t Rook’s on the stairs.
From down below, Rook sounds frustrated as she calls, “Harding!”
They all watch as Harding emerges from the stairway, her face blotchy and red. Eyes filled with tears. She does not spare any of them a glance as she scurries towards the doorway that will lead outside.
Taash leans forward, calling. “Lace?” only to be soundly ignored as Harding exits the building, the doors clattering shut behind her.
Rook’s heavier tread is on the stairs. “Harding, for the love of—”
Rook emerges at the top of the stairway with a irritated expression. Her red scarf pressed to her forehead where she has taken a head wound and seems to be bleeding. Solas is halfway out of his chair before Rook gestures for him to stay seated.
“I’m fine, I’m fine. I just need to wrap up my conversation with Harding. Should be another minute or two.” Rook keeps her eyes on the doors leading outside, clearly distracted.
“Rook, what happened to your forehead?” Bellara gasps, sounding profoundly concerned.
Rook scans the group, landing on Bellara. “What, this? Oh just a little mishap, no big deal.” Her eyes land on Solas, and then flick over the assembled group once more, eyes narrowed. “It smells awkward in here.”
Her team shifts uncomfortably, gazes darting to Solas, all of them looking a little hound dog. Utterly fascinating. None of them like to disappoint her in the slightest. Solas feels another pang of conviviality for these people at that.
“Lucanis?”
“Yes, Rook?”
“Tonight is paella night, right?”
Lucanis looks confused by the question. “Yes of course, but we spoke about it only a few hours ago…”
“Timey wimey bullshit.” Taash says, sagely. Rook nods and points at them. Despite his best efforts, Solas cannot help but release the smallest pained sigh. Rook of course notices and flashes him a grin from under her scarf. He does wish she would let him heal her…
“Lucanis, Taash, can you please go get food started?” Rook points at the door. Lucanis furrows his brow but acquiesces.
“It’s not my turn. Why do I have to go?” Taash crosses their arms, glowering at Rook.
Rook returns that look with a flat one of her own. “Did you ask any rude questions?”
Taash looks mulish. “Yes.”
“And did I ask you to be nice?”
Taash throws up their arms and scoffs, following Lucanis out the door. “I’m not doing dishes after!” They call over their shoulder.
Pleased, Rook nods and looks ready to walk away to follow Harding, when her eyes dart from Davrin, to Neve, and then over to Solas. Rook sighs, turning to Emmrich as she removes the scythe from her back, handing it to him. “Here you go, Emmrich.”
“Oh, thank you Rook.” Emmrich says, brow furrowed as he looks at the scythe in his hands. “May I ask what this is?”
“It’s a spirit forged scythe from the greater spirit of Defiance that used to reside in the Grand Necropolis. Also I learned that spirit used to be an ancient elf, and I’m apparently descended from it.”
Emmrich gapes up at her. “O-oh…?”
Rook turns to look at Bellara who’s eyes are fixed on the scythe. “Also, relating to the scythe, I’m apparently a dirt-something.”
“Dirth'ena enasalin.” Solas corrects her automatically.
Bellara bounces to her feet, squealing. “What! Really? Dirth'ena enasalin!? You have to tell me everything!” She dives into the chair Taash vacated at Emmrich’s side, fingers hovering over the blade.
Rook smiles at her and thumbs at Solas. “Ask Solas about it, he knows more than me and he was there for it all.” Emmrich and Bellara turn to him as one, a torrent of questions in their eyes.
Rook gives him a wink and moves to brush past his shoulder, but Solas reaches out to grab her wrist firmly, stopping her. “Hold.”
Rook rolls her eyes at him, but acquiesces to bend her face towards him. “It’s not even really bleeding anymore.” She grumbles, lifting her red scarf from the wound at her forehead.
Solas ignores her, pressing fingers to her temple, and threading gentle healing magic into her wound. The bruise and shallow cut swiftly disappear, leaving her forehead once again unblemished. Rook straightens, Solas notes her cheeks are rosy and he wonders with great interest if his healing magic will always remind her of—
“Anyways, Harding time. Thanks. Ask Solas questions!” Rook tosses over her shoulder, leaving Solas feeling momentarily bereft in her absence.
He turns back to the group, finding Davrin’s expression scrunched up in a horrified kind of disgust, and Neve’s eyes on the doors Rook disappeared through, a suspicious curiosity in her face. Emmrich and Bellara did not seem to notice anything untoward, and merely look at him ready to bury him in questions.
“Did you treat with Defiance? It had very little interest in anyone at the Necropolis, save for its charge. Which was Rook, wasn’t it? Fascinating!” Emmrich smiles to himself, pleased to have solved a mystery. Solas notes with passing interest that Rook apparently never confided in Emmrich about her relationship with Defiance.
How much has Rook revealed to these people about herself?
“Do you know what the process was like for Rook becoming a Dirth'ena enasalin? Was there any ceremony? Because I’ve seen these ruins before, where some were venerated—” Bellara sucks in a breath, her eyes wide as she stares at Solas. “You were there, in Elvhenan, oh creators, can I ask you questions, please? Maybe not right now, but I have so many questions.”
Davrin sighs, slumping back in his chair, no longer interested in the conversation. Neve has returned her hawkish gaze to him, but Solas inclines his head towards Emmrich and Bellara. “I would be happy to answer any questions, perhaps we ought to keep to topics around the scythe itself to start?”
Dinner is an awkward affair that Solas survives, barely. He is almost surprised that Rook manages to convince Harding to join them, but then again he knows better than to underestimate Rook’s charm and tenacity now. She also somehow manages to convince everyone to focus on eating, instead of Solas’ presence, with affirmation that he is here to stay. Solas notes that there is no small amount of apprehension in the faces of the others at that announcement, but they all ultimately follow Rook’s lead for now.
Conversation is stilted and awkward, and Solas is keenly aware that he is a great disruption to the dynamics of Rook’s team. Not that she seems to notice, more occupied with the orgasmic experience of eating food. Having very recent experience with raw unfiltered pleasure and bliss in Rook’s face, Solas can confidently say he was right about Rook’s experience of food and he finds himself duly fascinated.
Though, even he will admit that Lucanis is a capable cook and the paella is quite delicious.
All was going as well as Solas could have hoped until Taash decided to break in with a question for Rook, from their seat at the far end of the table.
“So did you ever find out if Solas and Mythal were doing it?”
Solas can only be thankful that he had finished swallowing his last bite before Taash began speaking. He looks up with some alarm to find everyone at the table staring at him, even Harding. Rook had mentioned she and her friends had discussed the memories, and Solas supposes he might’ve asked what the nature of those conversations had been. He also supposes Rook might’ve warned him before having him sit down to eat dinner with a pack of wolves, as it were.
It is none of their business, and no amount of feeling the need to atone will make it otherwise. Spine straightening, Solas casts a look at Rook out of the corner of his eye. She has her chin in her hand, swirling her goblet of wine as she looks at Taash, unimpressed.
“I didn’t ask.”
Solas narrows his eyes at her. Rook ignores him, keeping her bored gaze on Taash. Does Rook realize if she allows too much latitude in a moment like this, she will be opening herself up to questioning whenever anyone else wishes? About any and all personal topics? Perhaps they ought to have discussed principles of leadership more often in their journey.
“Really? You didn’t?” Taash looks absolutely perplexed.
“Nope.”
The heads of everyone on the table swivel between Rook and Taash, with occasional glances spared at Solas, as if tracking a ball tossed through the air.
“But you guys did it.” Taash says, eyes narrowing accusingly. “What do you mean you didn’t ask?”
Eyes now swivel between himself and Rook, and it doesn’t matter how Rook plans to handle it, he can’t let this continue, for her sake as a leader and for his own sanity. “This—”
“That’s none of your business Taash.” Rook drains her goblet and cocks an eyebrow at them. “But can we talk for a second about how you think it’s normal to interrogate anyone you’re sleeping with about their past partners.”
Taash frowns. “What do you mean? Of course that’s normal.”
Solas watches the corner of Rook’s mouth crease, triumphant. “No, no it’s really not.”
“Yeah it is.”
“Eh, I have to side with Rook on this one.” Davrin gives Taash an grimacing apology. “That’s a little weird.”
Rook gestures at Davrin, nodding her head emphatically as she stands. “Taash, you have got to tell me if it was Isabela who taught you that.” She rounds the table to stand near the end between Davrin and Taash.
Taash crosses their arms. “It was Shathann.”
“I don’t think it’s that weird.” Harding jumps in, attempting to smooth ruffled feathers. “I think it’s kind of sweet actually.” Taash gives her a grateful smile.
“Yes, very sweet, but I have to wonder if you have a statute of limitations on how long ago it was, because if it’s just the last few years, sure. But if we need to include teenage fumblings, that’s a different conversation.” Rook perches on the arm of Taash’s chair, kicking off a lively debate at the other end of the table about reasonable time frames when questioning lovers about their history.
Solas can only sit back and marvel at how masterfully done that was. Rook had made it seem so effortless, plucking a topic from the air and lobbing it back to the group, deflecting away from herself with ease. A topic that would be a suitable distraction that could lead to a debate instead of interrogating Solas on his personal history.
To think Solas had ever doubted her efficacy as a leader, what a fool he had been.
“Solas?”
He finds Emmrich looking at him from across the table, and Solas realizes he’s been caught mooning at Rook. “Yes, Professor Volkarin.”
“Emmrich, please.” Emmrich corrects gently. “You mentioned something earlier that I was quite curious about, if you wouldn’t mind the conversation.”
“By all means.”
“Earlier when we spoke of constructs, you mentioned—”
“Oh! Are you going to ask him about the spirit experience of time dilation?” Bellara leans in from Solas’ side, eyes alight in excitement. Solas catches himself from leaning away, but only just barely. Bellara intuits she’s inadvertently impugned his personal space and rocks back into her chair, cheeks flushed. “Sorry, I just want to hear what you guys are talking about, if that’s okay?”
“Of course,” Solas bites off the urge to call her da’len, not wishing to be perceived as condescending on the first night. “Please ask your questions.”
Bellara beams at him as Emmrich opens the conversation.
After a lively discussion over dinner, Solas had left Rook with Neve, Davrin, and Bellara to clean up after the meal, and likely be buried with questions out of earshot from Solas. He had in turn taken the opportunity to use the bathing facilities, and now stands out of his armor in the courtyard marveling at how the Lighthouse has shaped around its new residents.
For the first time in a very long time the Lighthouse feels like a home, and not merely a temporary haven for his rebellion against the Evanuris. It is… Marvelous what has been done with this place in his absence.
“Solas.”
He looks down to find Harding standing a considerable distance away from him. There is little in the woman in front of him to remind him of the Inquisition Scout who had been so friendly with him once upon a time. No cheerful bright smiles anymore for the mysterious elven apostate. Only a closed off expression, shoulders hunched, arms crossed.
He feels his mouth go dry. This will be the hardest of his conversations, if there is to be anything. Rook had been devastated about Varric after only knowing the man for a year. Harding had traveled with him for far longer, had worked with Varric closely even during the Inquisition. “Harding... I am sorry.”
She holds up a hand, cutting off any more words. “I don’t want your platitudes, Solas. Not for the Veil, not for Varric, not for betraying the Inquisition.” Her eyes flash, and he is reminded of an old terrible enemy Solas has not had to lay his eyes on since he made them tranquil. “And especially not for destroying the Titans, stripping my people of our dreams and creating the blight.”
Solas swallows, nodding his head. “I, yes. I understand.”
“The only reason why I’m even thinking of letting you stay, is because I trust Rook far more than I hate you. And she says we need you to survive this fight.” Harding grits out, glaring over her shoulder, as though she can see Rook, still in the kitchens. “But let me make myself clear. If you step out of line once, if you hurt her—”
“I will not—”
“Actions speak louder than words, Solas. And your actions so far haven’t been very trustworthy, have they?” Harding says coldly. “If you hurt Rook, if you betray us, I will do everything in my power to remind you why you thought making the Titans tranquil was the good option.”
She is the fury of the stone, unseen in this world for thousands of years. It wakens an old terror in him that Solas can do nothing but respect. He nods. “I understand.”
Harding stares him down before she turns on her heel and marches towards the verdant tree house sprung from the fade. A beautiful creation, from a beautiful spirit. He had resolved to no longer be a coward in all things, to face his regrets and shames head on, as Rook would.
“Harding.” He calls as she makes it halfway across the tree bridge. She pauses, but does not turn to face him. “I will never ask your forgiveness, I have no right. But when all this is said and done, I will do everything in my power to make these grievous injustices I committed right. Quelling the blight, and helping to restore what I can.”
Harding looks over her shoulder at him. “Actions, Solas.” With that she turns and heads into the home she’s carved for herself out of the Fade.
Solas sits on the divan in the Sila’alasis, waiting for Rook to be done her bath, his mind puzzling over the problems will have to face. He must work together with Rook’s team, none of whom trust him. They must stop Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain, no easy feat. They must lessen the spread of blight. Accumulate more allies and stabilize their power. Solas pinches the bridge of his nose to stave off any headache. After so long, he needs rest more than he needs to problem solve in this moment.
Solas jumps when he feels arms wrap around him from behind, relaxing only when he recognizes Rook’s scent, though cleaner and soapier than he’s so far experienced. “I did not know you knew how to be so silent.”
“I used to play hide and seek with spirits and constructs, of course I know how to be quiet when I want to be.” Rook huffs a laugh into his ear. “How’re you doing?”
Solas leans back into her embrace, cupping her forearms with his hand. “I am more concerned about how you are doing.”
Rook leans forward to press a kiss to his cheek. “Don’t avoid the question, think about it Solas. How are you feeling?”
He sighs, briefly wishing that she were as empty headed as he had thought once upon a time, before immediately dismissing the thought with prejudice. “I suppose I feel anxious and tired, and I worry that bringing me here will ultimately hurt our cause.” Rook makes a noise as if she wishes to disagree. “But I also find myself hoping for better tomorrows for the first time in a long time.”
Her arms wind tighter around her shoulder and she presses a kiss to the back of his head. “Thank you for sharing.”
“I believe this is the moment where you are meant to answer how you are doing.” At Rook’s continued silence, Solas tips his head up to look at her pinched expression. “Perhaps you might share how you came by that head wound earlier.”
Rook groans, flopping forward and pressing her face into his shoulder, clearly a gambit to hide her expression. Solas allows it. “It was just an accident, Harding didn’t mean anything by it. She just got frustrated, and moved stone without thinking and it shattered and I didn’t get out of the way fast enough.” She rolls her neck so that she might look at him sideways. “That’s why she came back crying, because she was scared she could have hurt me worse.”
To have access to Titans magic and so little control is very dangerous. Solas would like to help if he could, but he doesn’t know where to start in his approach. Harding will not welcome his advice. “And how are you doing with Harding now?”
“We’ll be fine. She thinks I am being very stupid— and to be fair to her, in her experience she and I just spoke yesterday about how there is a non zero chance you could kill me from the Fade prison if I pissed you off enough. Also the blood magic thing…”
Solas wonders not for the first time, facing the reality of the world and her team, out of their little pocket of intimacy they’d had in the Crossroads, if it was right being with her. If she had made the right choice in forgiving him. Solas was not entitled to forgiveness from anyone. And if he would only be a distraction to her allies in the conflict to come, it might be better to end things, even if it would be painful.
“Perhaps their concerns are founded.” Solas starts, not enjoying the way his heart shies from what he must say. “And it may be best for you if I—”
Behind him, Rook snorts. He turns to bring the full weight of his offense to bear on her. She leans forward and presses a kiss his forehead. “Sorry, Solas. You’re not getting out of this relationship now. I’m not going to let you get away after all our hard work.”
“I am trying to do what is best—”
“And I say it isn’t. You don’t get to choose for me. So now you’re stuck with me. Should have thought about that before we blasphemed under the Crossroads tree.” She waggles her brows at him, and Solas does not find this conversation particularly funny.
“You know as well as I that applying moralizing religious metaphors to spirit magic—”
Rook grabs his face and presses a kiss to his mouth to silence him. “Solas, I don’t care what anyone else says. I am of sound mind, and I choose you, so please shut up so we don’t argue so that I can finally go to sleep.”
Solas stares up into her face, admiring her sheer stubbornness, grateful for it. This topic is not something he thinks they ought to drop in it’s entirety, but for now, for her he will. “Yes, my apologies. We ought to sleep, we are both tired.”
“Good.” She says with a smile, patting his cheek before drawing away.
“Then where exactly will we be sleeping?” Solas stands from the divan and tilts his head towards the doorway, curious to know what Rook’s bedroom looks like. She hadn’t showed him when they’d been here before the fight with the revenant.
Rook gives him a funny look, crossing the room to the tall cupboard in the corner. When she opens it, Solas can see a neatly folded blanket with a pillow sitting on top of it.
“You cannot mean to actually sleep here, do you?” Solas turns to her, horrified. “Have you been sleeping in here this whole time?”
“There weren’t any beds.” Rook shrugs, hauling the blanket and pillow out of the cupboard.
“Why didn’t you merely request one from the Caretaker?”
Pillow and blanket clutched in front of her, Rook purses her lips. “I don’t know, it seemed silly to bother it when it’s always so busy.” She jerks her chin at the divan. “This was comfortable enough. I’ve slept worse places.”
Solas stares at her in mute horror. That she would settle for discomfort, no matter how minor, so as not to be an inconvenience. So needlessly self sacrificing. Solas has a very sudden, and intense urge to lavish her in all manner of finery and comforts, for Rook will never ask for them herself.
He knows of one place he can start.
Solas scoops the bedding out of her arms, and places it back into the cupboard. Rook makes an affronted sound. “Oh, I don’t care if you’re some kind of blanket free weirdo, I need one to sleep, and I will not be accommodating you.”
Solas can only chuckle, affection swelling in his chest for her. He grabs her hand. “No, I merely wish to show you something.”
“Will it have blankets?”
“Yes. As many blankets as you need, Rook.” Solas tells her, guiding them down the hall and through the library to the portal that leads to Solas’ office.
Rook casts a skeptical eye around the room. “What? Are we supposed to sleep on your desk? You think that’s more comfortable than the divan downstairs?”
Solas smiles at her snide tone. He watches her face closely as he lifts his hand to pluck at one of the ephemeral magical threads in the air, allowing his bed to materialize in the center of the room. His smile widens as Rook gapes.
“You had a bed in here the whole time!?”
“You never asked.”
Rook attempts to give him a flat look, the effect dimmed as her eyes gleam and her mouth curves. “Oh fine, it’s not like you would have told me anyways.” She steps forward, sliding her hands over the covers. “Is this silk?” She throws him a scandalized look over her shoulder, though Solas notes she eagerly clambers into the bed on her knees. “Who knew the Dread Wolf liked to live a life of decadence?”
Solas’ smile is teasing, tucking his hands behind his back as he steps to the foot of the bed. “You assessed me previously as a someone with refined tastes—”
“The word I used was snob.”
“—and you believe in my sleeping arrangements is where I might comprise?” He arches a brow at her.
“Yes, yes. I shouldn’t be surprised.” She says dismissively, flopping backwards into the pillows with a small bounce, her arms akimbo as she sighs. “This might just be the most comfortable bed I have ever experienced.”
Solas has no mind for her words, as he’s noticed that her sleeping tunic has ridden up her thighs. He stands, eyes lit on the woman in his bed. “May I ask, Rook, why it is that you decided not to wear any underclothes?”
She lifts onto her elbows with a lopsided smile, shifting her knees wider apart for Solas’ benefit. “It seemed a waste to put on a clean pair after my bath when I figured you were just going to peel them off me anyways.”
Solas huffs a laugh, sliding on his knees across the bed, peeling his own shirt off, reveling in the feel of Rook’s eyes on him. “Generous are you to be so considerate.”
Solas bends, lifting her left leg to press a kiss to the top of her foot. Beneath him Rook giggles breathlessly, settling onto her back. Solas is unhurried as he slides his lips and hands over her ankle, pressing kisses and little nips to her skin, enjoying the way she writhes against the pillows and the hitches in her breath. Solas barely manages to make his way halfway up the line of her calf before Rook is trying to hurry him, impatient.
Solas slides a hand up her thigh, pushing her tunic up further, and rests a firm hand at her hip to stop her movement. “Patience.” He murmurs into her knee, and delights in the way she bites her lip, acquiescing. Solas finds he wants to play with her impatience, to tease and lavish attention on her, pulling her tension taut as any bowstring before he indulges himself in letting her find her release.
Rook sobs in frustration when after dragging his tongue up her inner thigh towards its tantalizing crease, Solas switches tacks and starts all over on her right leg. As he nips at her ankle, Solas watches in her face Rook curbing the urge to kick him. Solas rewards her restraint by being only slightly less thorough in his attentions on this leg, before he finally settles between her thighs, pushing her tunic up to expose her belly.
She is already dripping wet and eager for him, her hips squirming before him, desperately chasing sensation. Solas looks up through his lashes to find Rook watching him back piteously. “Please, Solas.”
He smiles, only too happy to oblige when she asks him so sweetly. He slides a finger down the seam of her lips, before dipping his finger to part her for him. Rook mewls, her hips rolling upwards towards his face as Solas takes his first taste of her. One long lick sustained from her hole to clit, exploratory in his need to know Rook’s wants and likes.
She is only too happy to tell him, her cries and whimpers and moans, a symphony for his ears. She tries to school the roll of her hips so Solas can focus, but when she likes something in particular she will gasp and her thighs will quiver at his shoulder. As he thrusts fingers inside her, Rook groans so loudly Solas wonders if any will be able to hear her cries leaking out the closed balcony door. He does not care.
The first time he finds her release, Rook sobs his name as Solas continues to work her in a steady rhythm, milking pleasure from her body until she can take it no more. Solas does not go far, letting her catch her breath as he presses kisses to her thighs, and her stomach. Rook sighs as if it’s over, and Solas smiles, curling the fingers he still has resting inside of her. He revels in her gasp as he presses decadent kisses to her sex once more.
He is but a humble supplicant to the altar of her body, and Solas finds as tired as he is, he could sit here in this holy place for the remainder of his existence. Each cry like a benediction, her moans absolution. The shiver in her body as she approaches climax the exoneration of her forgiveness. A goddess, merciful, true, and oh so perfect. His jaw aches, and Solas does not care. He need not ever sleep again, so long as he has Rook in his bed, pleasured by him.
Solas does not give her as much time to recover after the second, and finds great amusement in the way Rook tries to clamp her thighs around his head to get him to stop.
“Solas, please.” Rook whines at him, her hands attempting to shove him away. Solas stays rooted to his spot, amused by the expression on her face. “I want you to kiss me.”
Solas allows himself to be pushed, resting his head against her thigh. He licks his lips to taste her lingering there. “That is indeed my intention.” He draws his palm down her belly to rest on her mound, thumb stroking the crease of her thigh. He enjoys very much the way she shivers.
“I meant on my face, and you know it.” She tells him archly, the effect somewhat dimmed by the fetching flush on her cheeks. “Aren’t you unsatisfied—”
“Rook, I could spend the rest of my life doing nothing material but using my tongue to pleasure you, and I promise I would feel no greater a sense of satisfaction than in that act alone.”
Rook’s flush deepens, but she scoffs at him anyways. Before Solas can lavish her with the attention she deserves, Rook wraps her legs around him, and hauling him up her body. He laughs when he catches himself on an elbow above her, marveling at her strength.
Rook gives him a satisfied smile as her arms loop around his neck and pulls him in for a kiss. All tongue and teeth, reveling in her own taste on his mouth. She helps him slide out of his leggings, and he her tunic, never letting each other get far, and Solas is only too happy to lay with her, breathing the same air between kisses, touching knee to nose as he slides into her ready and eager warmth with a sigh.
Even here, Solas finds he wishes to draw this moment out, keeping his rhythm slow and even, delighting in the feel of her pressed so close, her kisses to his neck and shoulders. Her hands trace his back and his sides. The pleasure of her body and her touch, the feel of her against him. Not alone for he has Rook. Solas holds her close, capturing her mouth for filthy wet kisses, that sees Rook sucking on his tongue. He can feel her rising impatience, trying to rock them more quickly, harder, but Solas does not relent his slow and indulgent pace.
Rook draws him in for a kiss, and Solas smiles at the peevish expression on her face. He groans loudly when she sucks his lower lip into his mouth, her hands sliding down his back to his ass, gripping and pinching in time with his thrusts. An agonizingly slow build towards release, that will feel all the sweeter for taking his time.
And then Rook bites him, her fingers digging into the meat of his backside, and Solas finds he is beset with his own orgasm, thrusting out of rhythm as he spills inside her. Despite himself, Solas finds himself pleased that Rook is such a quick study of his own pleasures. She always paid more careful attention than he ever thought.
As he comes down Rook stays close, peppering him with sweet kisses to his forehead and cheeks. Solas smiles, cupping her face as he looks into her eyes, feeling the need to once again use the limited language of words to express all that she means to him. Solas kisses her so that he may whisper into her lips. “Ar lath ma, vhenan.”
This time, Rook does not blush and hide her face at his sincerity, instead she looks into his eyes, her own expression soft. “I love you too, Solas.” Simple. Direct. Everything he has ever wanted to hear.
Solas presses his lips to hers once more, conveying every warm and perfect feeling he has for his indomitable Hope. She kisses him back, her body relaxing and pliant until Solas is quite certain she is nearly asleep. He helps her under the covers, and with fond warmth in his chest watches her cocoon into the blanket, until naught but her face remains exposed.
Solas had some juvenile aspirations about cuddling, but he will let her have her rest.
He settles back into the pillows, and though he would like to bask in the comfort of his own bed after too long with the woman he loves sleeping beside him, Solas finds his thoughts in a tangle. He is happy, content in this moment, all while knowing he does not deserve it. His mind spins into worries about the future, about the Evanuris, about the spread of blight across Thedas. About the harm he will do to Rook and her relationships with her team. They will never trust him, for he does not deserve it.
For what he has done to Varric.
For what Solas almost did to the world.
Knowing full well that he is in for an evening bereft of sleep, and wanting Rook to be rested, Solas picks himself out of bed. He could fade step into the library so as not to disturb Rook with the sounds of the portal activating. But Solas feels he would find greater comfort in watching Rook sleep as he continues his contemplation. May she serve as a reminder that all hope is not lost to him.
Solas sits at his desk in the cushions Rook had placed. In the dark he can see a folded sheet of paper sitting in the center of the desk. Conjuring a soft mage light above his head, Solas is curious to see his name written in flowing cursive script on the front. Who?
Solas reaches for the paper, silently peeling the heavy vellum open, and inhales sharply as he recognizes the hand of the letter writer.
Hey Chuckles,
If you’re reading this it probably means I’m dead–I always wanted to say that. Good hook for a mystery novel.
I’m hoping for both our sakes it wasn’t you who killed me, because I can’t stomach the idea of being turned to stone, you know just a little too ironic for my liking. But you, I hope you didn’t kill me because I bet you’re a mess right now. Chewing yourself up about it, and then pretending like it doesn’t bother you, only to feel guilty five seconds later. It’s making me tired just imaging it. Maybe you could stop. Here, I’ll help: I forgive you, even if you don’t forgive yourself.
I’ve been thinking about that story with the fisherman. Last we spoke we talked about two choices, living or lying down and dying. I want to propose a third, even more terrible option: deciding to burn down the island, hoping to get back what you’ve lost. See how that’s different from living?
You’ve probably met Rook by now, would it surprise you to learn she reminded me a lot of you when I first met her? She’s a little angry at the world, but also a whole lot idealistic, prone to sponging all the information around her like no one I’ve met but you. Likes weird spirit shit too. Rook is different in key ways though.
Remember those weeks we spent in the Hinterlands, that time I asked you why you only watched as a group of refugees struggled to pull a cart out of the mud, instead of helping? And you looked so utterly baffled by the question, like it hadn’t occurred to you to do anything but observe. Rook, she’d roll up her sleeves and put her back into getting that cart unstuck.
I think she’s someone who could teach the fisherman to live. So listen to her, even if you think she’s annoying. You’ll be more annoyed later when it turns out she was right all along.
VT
PS- you might be looking at Rook and thinking ‘hey she’s kind of pretty and noble of spirit’ or whatever it is that gets your rocks off. But Chuckles, I have got to warn you off her. She may seem nice and like your dream girl, what with your mutual love of weird Fade shit, but I promise you that woman will eat you alive.
PPS - if she has already eaten you alive as you’re reading this, I wish you good luck on choosing to live my friend.
Solas smiles, his heart welling with a fond kind of grief, fingers brushing over the signed VT. Varric. A kindness Solas never deserved, and still Varric had sacrificed everything in order to save him, to save the world once more. Varric had led Rook to Solas in a collision course that would ultimately allow Solas to find healing and hope. Solas will never stop being grateful for the wisdom of Varric Tethras, even as Solas wishes he had listened more closely when he still had the chance.
“Thank you my friend, and I am so sorry for all that I have done. You deserved far more than what I have done to you. I will do my best to live by the example you and Rook have both set. To take this chance you have given me, and make it mean something.” He murmurs soft into the page, thumb brushing over the signature once more. Solas then notices a small arrow scrawled in the corner of the page, indicating it should be flipped. There sits one final message from Varric:
Haha, I knew you’d be smitten the moment I met her. How’s it feel to be outplayed, Dread whatever?
A throaty guffaw tumbles out of Solas’ at the words written. He presses a hand to his mouth, attempting to smother his mirth to little success. Varric was by far the cleverest, most intuitive man Solas had ever met. How did it feel to be outplayed? Marvelous, and Solas couldn’t be more grateful.
“Why are you awake?” Rook croaks at him from her spot on the bed, clearly grumpy at having been awoken.
Solas places the letter back on the desk, extinguishing his mage light, and walks back to his side of the bed. “Apologies, Rook. I merely found the letter Varric had left me. I did not mean to wake you.”
Rook continues to squint at him, until finally she heaves a sigh, smacks the bed beside her. “Give me a cuddle.” She demands, working herself loose from her blanket cocoon, to open it in invitation to him. An allowance for him, for he knows she would like nothing more than to be tightly wrapped.
Solas slides in behind her, grateful for the mortal furnace she is as he wraps his chilled arms around her. Laying flush with her back as he spoons her, Solas feels his heart ease at having her in his arms once more.
“Explains the fisherman to me.” Rook says around a yawn.
“You read my letter?”
“It was in Varric’s journal which he apparently willed to me, so you were only going to get your letter from me if I handed it to you, so yes.”
Solas pinches her hip. “Perhaps you might ask next time.”
“Yes, probably. Now fisherman.”
Solas closes his eyes, breathes in the scent of her and tries to remember. “I spoke to Varric once during the Inquisition about a memory I saw in the fade. A man whose entire village and family died, leaving him bereft and alone. He never left his home, never struck out to find anything new, merely stayed in place. I had thought that an act of surrendering. Varric thought that man had chosen life. I see now that Varric was correct.”
“Mmm.” Rook is beginning to drowse once more. “I’m glad the fisherman didn’t burn down the village.”
“As am I.” Solas bends his mouth closer to her ear to murmur soft. “I love you, Rook.”
Her response is to flick dismissive fingers into his face. “Shh, sleeping time.”
Solas smiles, pressing his nose into the back of her neck and allows himself to drift off into sleep.
The next morning, Solas is horrified to learn that Rook has one fatal character flaw, never revealed to him in all their travels in the Crossroads. She is apparently a morning person. Solas shouldn’t even be surprised, sadist that she is. Of course she would take pleasure in throwing the balcony doors open wide, cruelly brightening the room. Solas turns and attempts to press his face into the pillow.
“Fenedhis elvar'nas dhea el’vhen.”
Rook, having apparently been up for hours, plunks beside him on the mattress, leaning over to smack a loud kiss to the side of his face. Solas grunts, enjoying the affection, but would have much rather been woken slowly, several hours from now. His dreams had been plagued by a massive green entity that was surely Defiance keeping an eye on him.
“Good morning sleepy head.” Solas can hear the malicious glee in her voice, and knows she’s taking the opposite pleasure to his horror, at discovering that Solas does not enjoy mornings. Wonderful.
Solas covers his eyes with his arm. “Must you be so energetic in the morning?”
He feels Rook bend to kiss his elbow. “Yes. Now, what did you say to me earlier?”
Solas sighs. “Fenedhis elvar'nas dhea el’vhen. It means to curse the tyranny of morning people.”
Rook snorts.
Solas lifts his arm from his face and slumps upwards into a seated position, giving Rook a displeased glower, which just sets her smiling wider at him. “Perhaps you might finally explain to me how it is you were raised by Defiance, who was once Elvhen, and yet never learned to speak the language of the People.”
Rook knits her brows, thinking. “It did try to teach me when I was little. But I think that also corresponded to the first time I ever told it no, because I thought it was stupid to learn a language only the two of us could speak. And Defiance was so happy that I defied it, that it never tried to teach me again.” She purses her lips. “I might have been six?”
He can imagine the little girl he’d seen in her memories, pouting thunderously at the long limbed skeleton, demanding to not learn elvhen. Solas huffs, feeling fond, even if he’s always found her lack of interest in what should be the language of her people a little annoying. “Do you wish to learn?”
Rook tilts her head. “Does it make you happier to correct me when I mispronounce things, or would teaching me make you happier?”
Solas picks up her hand, and brings her knuckles to his lips. “The correct answer is that I wish only for your happiness, not my own.” Solas threads his fingers through hers, giving her a dry look. “But I see now that you intended to express the opposite of whatever preference I stated.”
She gives him a winsome smile, leaning forward to kiss his nose. “Oh what pleasure to be seen and known.” Solas scoffs, and Rook wiggles her hand out of his grasp. “C’mon you should get up, Lucanis has a fresh pot of coffee going, and he’s very snobby about it and only makes good coffee. I think it’s terrible but that just means it’s probably pretentious enough that you’ll enjoy it.”
Solas lifts his brows, intrigued.
Rook plants her hands on the mattress to lever herself up, when she stops, and whirls on him. Solas leans back, surprised.
“I forgot! There is one elvhen phrase I know. Defiance just taught me.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, it said you would get a kick out of it. I even practiced.”
Solas frowns. “When did you see Defiance?”
“Last night while I was bathing. It promised to visit from time to time, maybe we can actually talk to each other. About histories and things now that a lot of stuff is out in the open. And it wants to help plan the downfall of Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain.”
Solas finds himself glad for her, even if he thinks Defiance is still potentially dangerous to him, he is happy for Rook to build her connection back with the spirit who raised her. He takes her hand once more. “Tell me this phrase you practiced.”
Rook straightens, giving him a smile. “Enasalin elvy vyn nirmeh tualatha tarsul lin’din banal’evanuris var bellanaris.”
Solas stares at her blankly, parsing some of her odd pronunciation choices, and the shortening of some vowels. And then the meaning of her words are no longer opaque. Defiance had told her to say that? An old phrase, spoken to cheer the hearts of fellow death knights when facing dangerous and powerful enemies. He throws his head back and laughs a full belly laugh, his first in a very long time.
“What? What’s so funny, did I say it wrong? Defiance didn’t tell me what it means.”
The embarrassed flush in her cheeks only makes Solas laugh harder. He finds his stomach aching at the force of his laugh, something Solas cannot ever recall happening before. It is freeing. Comfortable. He feels more happy in this moment because of this confounding woman, his indomitable hope, than Solas thinks he might have ever in his long life. Rook, whom he loves more than he can describe with the limitation of mere words.
Solas reaches forward and cups her beautiful face between his hands, smiling, breathless from his laughter. Because of her. Rook only furrows her brows at him. Solas leans forward to tenderly press a kiss to her mouth.
“Perhaps we might practice your elvhen, and you can one day learn about the wonderful promise you’ve just made me.”
Rook wrinkles her nose at him. “Or you could just tell me.”
“But, Rook, where would the satisfaction be in that?” Solas asks her, smiling as she tries to look mulish. He breaks the attempt completely when he kisses her again, feeling her laugh into his lips.
Yes, Solas thinks he can take on anything in this world, even living within it, so long as he might follow alongside Rook, seeking joy in the surprises Solas is confident she will show him along the way.
Notes:
What did Defiance tell Rook to say?:
“In victory we will celebrate by making love on the corpses of our enemies for an eternity.”
Thank you so very much for taking the time to read and follow along on this journey with me. For everyone taking the time to let me know how much you enjoyed this story in the comments, this story is for you. The warmth and kindness of you all is what makes writing for rarepairs so great. Thank you!
I had a ton of fun working on this project and interacting with you all so I hope I get to write about Solas and Rook smooching more in the future. And maybe use some of that lore I built custom for this story 👀
I had three goals in mind while working on Broken Roads:
- Get Rook and Solas to interact more, because my favorite part of Veilguard was all their conversations
- Give Solas a more narratively satisfying redemption arc that felt earned
- Bully the egg.
I'm happy to say I think I nailed all three.
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