Archive of Our Own

It wasn’t much of a plan. Universe knows, it was the worst thing Rook had ever cobbled up. Chalk it up to the Blighted Evanuris cheating, altering the bloody position of the sun and the moon. At least it was something. Sneak into the temple, spy on Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain. Report back and prepare a plan of attack. Easy in theory. Practice was a whole different story.

Solas? Rook prodded the air around them with their mind and a prayer. They should have thought to ask Bellara or Neve if the Veil was thin here. Oh well, nothing they could do about it now. I could really use your help right about now. With bated breath, Rook awaited his response. Be it a hand on their shoulder, or a kiss on the cheeks. Or the lips.

Rook shuddered. Oh, if their teammates only knew… Harding wouldn’t hesitate for a second.

Taking deep breaths, their chest brushed against the inside of their pearlescent breastplate. One. Two. Light poured into the room through a widening doorway. Three. A shadow, instantly recognisable, tore through the bloodied stream of the forced eclipse. Carried proudly by Elgar’nan’s back, the wet moon’s ivory caught the foreboding rays falling from the whole up above. The pale red twinkling along the bold golden tips was reflected in the Eluvian across the room like two blighted stars heralding his might. Here comes the All-Father, carrier of all that sustains life. Cross him and face his wrath.

No reply. The air slipped through their lips. Rook was well and truly alone. Never mind then. Their gloved fingers slipped to the dagger’s cool hilt. Utterly familiar, its sleek and angular design pressed into the age-softened leather. They could do this. With or without him.

Who had needed the Dread Wolf in times like these? Rook, but they weren’t going to admit that.

Half his face was cut off by the pillar Rook’s back was pressed against. Elgar’nan’s thick bottom lip alternated between forming lines and half-circles while his angular features remained frozen. “Visitor” and “Prepare courtyard.” Orders given without much emotion. The Evanuris weren’t worried. Well, they should be! Rook bit their lip. Those who celebrated victory too early were doomed to fail. Better stay focused, Rook.  

There was no courtyard near the front. They would have already stumbled upon it otherwise. Based on the temple’s architecture with its giant open spaces and curving archways—late Elvhenan, close to its ultimate demise—the area would be near the exit, surrounded by the kitchen and smaller ‘servant’ quarters. Or, at least the remains thereof. Considering this may have once been an entrance for Eluvian visitors, a servant’s passage should be just around the corner.

Now all they had to do was wait for the blighted elf to leave, hope that he’d reveal some more, and go—

Still carrying the Wolf’s Fang, I see? The words, Elgar‘nan’s, slid down Rook’s spine. Muscles tensed and relaxed, a shiver called forth by the tender touch of an enormous hand. I do so hope you have managed to grow an intellect since we last met. It would be a shame for you to have come this far only to end up as an ugly stain. This shall be the final time I make this offer, Rook. The touch grew firm and pinched their bottom. Air raced down their throat as the jolt sprang up from his touch and forced them back.

Found you. Burning yellow eyes floating in the night zoned in on them. The corners of his mouth curled up, the perfect reflection of his symbol. The tips of his long sleeves rose from the cracked tiles. With his arms spread wide open, ever the welcoming father, Elgar’nan encroached. If he truly believed that Rook was going to storm into his arms, the elf-blooded finally returning home, then the sun god was in for a surprise.

Rook spun away and dashed towards the nearest exit. The Eluvian’s gleam beckoned them. The dagger’s password vibrated in their grip. Never.

Fine. Have it your way. His words ghosting across their skin grew long and sharp. Sinking into flesh, Rook clenched their jaw. One foot landed before the other. The ground soared up to meet them. With their face an inch removed from the stone and dirt, black curls flew into their vision as a thick vine curled around their ankle and flung them into the air. Uselessly, their silver helmet clattered and rolled across the floor. So much for coming out of this unscathed.

Though I must profess… Elgar’nan’s smile had dulled but did not fade. Alone, Rook was no threat to him. A fact he basked in with his hands neatly folded behind his back. He tilted his head, and for a flicker, Rook saw the resemblance. Elegant and precise. The First of the Elves. The prime embodied example to those who followed, including Solas. Where the Dread Wolf here, he would deny the similarities vehemently before accusing Rook of making fun of him.

Nothing a kiss couldn’t fix. Rook smirked to themself. Elgar’nan’s gloved hand struck down and wiped it off their face.

 I had found myself hoping you were smarter than the lapdog’s usual toys. How disappointing to find you’re nothing but a pup barking at the looming void to prove its might. Fret not, Ghilan’nain is more than eager to fix this, along with all other design flaws. The hard edge of his golden gauntlet scraped across the round shell of their air. Pulsating, the Blight tendril crawled further along their leg. Its cold slime penetrated through the fabric of their dark trousers. They needed to hurry.

Now or never. Straining against the tendril’s expanding grip, Rook swung back. Air breezed past them as the force of their movement threw them back at him. Scrunching up their face, Rook spit. A blob of saliva landed on his face. Unthinking, Elgar’nan’s eyes snapped shut. Fingers pressed and wiped at his skin. Bye-bye concentration.

Hello freedom. The tendril’s grip loosened. Without a second to waste, Rook tugged their arm loose, grabbed the lyrium dagger and plunged it into the tendril’s writhing mass. Dark ichor oozed from the wound. Ripping itself free, the tendril shrank back into the ceiling.

The hard floor embraced them like a distraught partner walking in on their traitorous other. It smacked them. Hard. The lines between the tiles split. Bits of grass and dirt caught between them arose, floating in circles before them.

With their tripled hands, Rook forced themself up and staggered towards the Eluvian. All they had to do was go in there, down a healing potion, and locate the mirror that would take them back to the others. Simple enough. Even a first-time sailor could do it.

You! And that was all the warning they got.

Another tendril slammed into their vision. Rook ducked. Splatters of mucus rained down on their face. Rook grinned. Four more steps. The dull mirror’s surface rippled in anticipation. A blue shimmer spread across its speckled surface. Light soared towards Elgar’nan’s reflection, leaving darkness in its wake.

Two more steps. Rook’s heart missed a beat. They looked over their shoulder. Fatal mistake. Gathering before him, the All-Father pushed his large hands—palms wide open—forward. A blinding beam shot from his hands and hit Rook square in the back.

Their head crashed through the mirror. Undefined red lights danced through the void. Rook gasped. Each breath sent a sharp sting through their lungs. Broken rib.

Another tendril wrapped around their ankle and tugged. Clumps of dirt slipped through their fingers. Their racing heart slammed in their chest. Nononono. Fingers latched onto a root poking out of the dirt. Its rough texture dug into their skin. Gritting their teeth, Rook kicked at the vine and pulled themself forward. They were going to make it. They were. They were not going to—

The vine tightened. Yanked. A wave of blackened root flowed from their grasp. Its wooden body thinned between their hands. Earth and sky raced past them in a single blur. Pain crashed through their chest as the bottom of their breastplate bumped into the Eluvian’s frame.

  The vine tugged again. No movement. Stretched to the point of tearing, screams slithered from their muscles. Rook was clinging to the end of the root, barely. Raw and open skin stung, begging for release. For a break. Not going to happen.

The stupid root was now completely unearthed. The thing was stringy. Flimsy. One successful pull and it would be over. Bye-bye Rook. You had a nice run. Have fun being a Blighted puppet. They had to try again. Digging their elbows into the dirt, Rook pulled. No leeway.

Wrapping further around their foot, the vine twisted. Their foot snapped. Rook gritted their teeth. Gloved fingers dissipated into blots of darkness. The taste of copper seeped onto their tongue. They weren’t going to make this.

Something moved. They couldn’t see it. Tall. Hazy. The earth sank beneath its weight. Must be large. For a second, their heart missed a beat. Was it a beast come to chomp on its prey? Between the growing spots dancing before their eyes, a flash shot from its—someone’s—pale limb past their leg. The searing pain around their leg didn’t disappear, but eased. The vine released Rook from its clutches.

They wanted to move their leg. Crawl further into the Crossroads, all on their own. But it was so heavy. Unmovable. The best they accomplished was a mere tremor down to their knee before every muscle tensed as the motion reached their ruined ankle.

The last remains of colour, a faint red drifting within a storm, was devoured by the encroaching darkness. His—not sure if that was right, but they felt apt somehow—arms lifted them. Their head leaned against his chest. Faintly, Rook was aware of their curls catching onto something hard. But this thing, long and irregularly shaped, felt as if it were hidden beneath a set of pillows. Shell shards hidden beneath twenty mattresses for the Rivaini princess to prove her status.

Their self, their very own energy, slunk back deeper into their bones. Sharp aches piercing their nerves dulled, became slow throbs pulsing along with the swelling warmth. It became harder to remain awake. His presence didn’t help with that. It brushed against their skin. A familiarity. A sense of knowing and having known. This was no stranger.

No stranger equated safety. Safety meant they could rest. Rook allowed their eyes to fall shut, or maybe they had already been closed. Hard to say, not that they cared much. Someone should carry them more often.

Rook. Their name slipped between their curls.

Frowning, Rook opened their eyes. Sparks jumped from the blackening wood as it broke in two. Flames, born from the orange veins it had carved amidst the grains, flickered before them. Wait…  Fire?

Rook pushed themself up. Their body should refuse the movement. Pounce on them until the stars went out. Instead, there was nothing but a lingering echo. Sour, but nothing they wouldn’t survive.

A man. Their rescue. Long hands. Bursts of short pieces flared up in their mind. Flashes of a slim and yet strong figure. There was no doubt about it. Once they raised their head, they would find him sitting right across from them. It was a good thing the flames were there. Rook would have no other way to defend the touch of roses spreading across their cheeks. They had to do something. Act normal. Check their wounds and armour.

The bottom of their turquoise tunic gently moved in the breeze, though its fabric did not brush against their skin. As they raised their garment, white gauze itself. Wrapped around their waist, there appeared to be no knot or bulging hump where the sheer fabric had to be tied together. The same went for the strips around their hands and wrists. Whoever their saviour was, he was a professional. Not your typical run-of-the-mill bloke that had happened upon a Lord getting the ever-loving shit kicked out of them. Even their fingers had been cleaned. Nothing but a throbbing sting close to the nail bed to prove that Rook’s natural daggers had nearly been torn off.

Speaking of daggers, this Lord had a package to deliver to a certain Lucanis via the Eluvian network. Better thank their saviour and go back. Putting their full weight on their arms, small trembles—tiptoeing waves which build up both speed and intensity—traversed up their flesh. Rook pouted. ‘Course their body wasn’t fully healed yet. Why would it? Not as if they had a world to save.

You ought to take it easier. I did not waste my mana for you to waste your life at a more convenient point in time.

Solas? Solas was their saviour. The ground met their arse with a resolute thump up their spine. It was him. Really him. Pale beyond belief, long ears, and cheekbones so pronounced that a marble statue would need to take but a single glance to shatter in shame. Except it also wasn’t him. Or rather, not the Dread Wolf they knew. Thick globs of red drifted around within his pupils like a living slime trapped within dark marbles. To further accentuate the wrongness of it all, rivulets of anger drifted around him. They curled and twisted, showing a clear preference for the top of his chest, close to his heart.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. The light emanating from his sickened body held no candle to what had grown—scratch that, burst—from his flesh. Jagged crystals poked out of torn skin and shredded fabric. Just like one of Varric’s tales.

The memory came unbidden, a blanket of fog thrown across everything else. It had been a late winter afternoon. Frost had outlined each window, a barrier of light against the freezing dark. With a couple of ales in their leader had gotten bolder. His arm had nearly swiped dear Bianca off the table as he rattled his tale with broad strokes of his arms. “Now, you didn’t get this from me, Rook. It’s kind of a secret. An Inquisition trade secret, if you will. Anyways, where was I… Oh, right. Picture this: time travel. Not the sort that the hacks of the Dowager Quarterly come up with. No ‘if we travelled back and killed the magisters sort of stuff’. Nah, I am talking the real deal here.”

Leaning forward, the tips of his shoulder bumped against his stein. Amber beer sloshed over the rim. “Travelling to the future.” Brown eyes travelled across empty chairs and drinking patrons before flicking back to them. The skin above his lip creased as he grinned. “A blast meant to kill Inky had hurled her and Magister Sparkler forward straight into the dungeons of doom. The two were forced to fight their way through with nothing but a decorative dagger and a makeshift staff forged out of a broom.”

Interesting and all, but how had it ended again? Ah, yes, members of the inner circle. How had he put it again? With one hand, Varric had slicked back his greying hair and raised his chin. “Soaked in sweat and blood, they stormed into the cells where they found us. Cassandra, Solas, and me; handsome as ever. ‘Course, the pleasant sight of me never stood a chance. Besides the glowing eyes, there was the Grand Enchanter caged in the lyrium growing out of her own body”

Rook swallowed. The tale was about an alternate timeline. The one in which Corypheus had won. Everyone had thought it was destroyed. Gone. With the Inquisitor back in her own time, there was no reason for it to continue and yet this Eluvian…

Beyond the fire’s reach was nothing but dead earth, withered trees, floating clumps of land pulled towards the spiralling clouds, and dots of burning light. Angered blood crystallised into heralds of the end were littered throughout the domain. A warning telling them to head back, lest they go down with this realm. Leave it to Rook to step through the one Eluvian leading to an alternate reality.

“How far is the Eluvian?” Rook signed the words. Sure, telepathy was faster. Some days they even got the impression that it’s what the Dread Wolf preferred. If so, he was out of luck. Enough words had been hurled at their body to last a lifetime.

Solas quirked a brow. Perhaps I had not been clear enough. Your body needs to rest. Besides—reaching into the pouch tied to his slim belt, he held up a small rune between his thumb and finger—without this, you won’t be able to return. I also fail to grasp your desire to do so. This realm is an abomination, I admit, but surely it cannot be much worse than the Blight-corrupted hands of Elgar’nan?

The rune’s edge gleamed in the firelight. The etched-in lines glowed a brilliant blue that seeped into the lyrium. Moving towards their hip, the muscles in Rook’s chest eased as their fingers brushed against the dagger’s golden handle. At least they still had theirs. The runes, all three of them, were there too. Relief slipped past their lips.

For such a strong connection, you do think very little of me. His hands were now pressed together, fingers resting against his lips. Concentration toyed with his eyebrows. A shudder passed through them. He was studying them. For what, Rook wasn’t sure. It could be that he was merely trying to discern why they were connected. But if not…? Best not to dwell on it.

“Funny, I had been told it was ‘tenuous’.”

Leaning back, his face smoothed save for the rippled skin clinging around the four—let’s call them ‘gems’ to be nice—protruding from his forehead. This Dread Wolf, it seemed, could no longer hide his hunting gaze. One as red as the promise made by merely uttering his name. Interesting. Either he lied to you, or your connection has grown with time. A little fact he must have neglected to mention. It is, after all, quite obvious to those who care to think.

“And to those insisting upon telepathy, apparently.”

It is nothing personal. Solas stretched out his arms, and oh yes, that made sense. An actual excuse for once. The not-so-divine trickster of elven myth was a thorny man. Literally. The elf had more pieces of lyrium than Rook had anticipated. Small and evidently sharp, previously hidden shards ran along the inside of his elbow. Dried and rusty spots, and fresh wounds corresponded to where jagged edges met wiry flesh whenever he should bend an arm.

“That looks…” Gnarly, ghastly, hideous, gross, lethal. “Painful.” The least offensive descriptor in the book.

Solas’ arms slumped back to his sides. You have not practised this with him, have you?

‘Him.’ How often had they not referred to Solas as just ‘him’ or ‘he’? Well, come to think of it, not that often. ‘A hand over their heart followed by a finger aimed at him,’ ‘vhenan’ to mirror their lover, and ‘Maker.’ The last one was purely to watch his face twist with annoyance. The way it pressed all the right buttons. It was too perfect not to use. Rook was a Lord of Fortune after all. There was nothing they loved more than searching for the edge and run along it.

To have another call their dreaded ‘him’ was a strange sensation. Even more so as it came from Solas, albeit a different man. Most likely a dying one at that. Considering the casualty attached to his words, they might as well be discussing a shared acquaintance. Which was the point, perhaps. Remind them that he was not their lover and establish that he knew more than he let on without ever stating as such. Bastard must have looked through their mind while they were unconscious.

All of this begged the question: why was he doing this?

Why indeed? The soft ebbing glow around his eyes flared. The smile creeping upon his face robbed the fire between them of its warmth. Maybe I’ve figured out your intent. Perhaps the lyrium has corrupted me into a sadist. Or, alternatively, I am nothing but a man trapped in this withering world all on his own.

With that, he left the perfect hook dangling before them. Solas was trapped, and this world was ending. Getting the rune by offering him entrance was the logical solution. The obvious solution. If studying elven lore had taught Rook anything, it was this: behind the Dread Wolf’s words lay a dagger awaiting your tender back. Pass into his games with care. There was something he wanted out of them, and it had the potential to spell the end of theirs.

Oh, I would not be so dramatic if I were you.

Rook crossed their arms and looked at him, sternly. “Must you insist on reading my thoughts?”

I would not be if they weren’t so loud. As for your proposal, I have no interest. Solas’ gaze slid down to where his fingers were patting the ground. A dried leaf, as dark as death itself, shattered beneath his tips. Revolting as it is, this world is still mine. I will stay here till the end.

“Yet something tells me you won’t just give it to me. Not without a price.” Regardless of realm, universe, world, or whatever one wanted to call it, Rook knew Solas. A wolf may don a billion different furs, it will always remain a predator underneath. Wolves dancing with Rooks were no exception.

Solas’ lips curled. He has been giving you a hard time, has he not?

“He’s become a bit distant lately, but all couples have their ups and downs. And no offence, but I really need to go back. Name your price, so I can get on my way. Please.”

Very well, as you have asked so politely. I propose a game—

Fuck, they didn’t have time for this. Rook shot up to their feet and marched over to him with their hand resting on the dagger, but halted when Solas held up his hands.

If you would let me finish, that would be great. His eyes bored into them as he waited for Rook to sit down. Satisfied with the result, he gave them a curt nod. I wish to propose a game, though before I delve into the details, you would probably like to know this: time moves more slowly on this side. Much slower. One full hour does not even equate to a mere minute.

He could be lying. But what would he benefit from it? Their company? Why on Thedas—if this clump of prolonged decay could still be called that—would he want their company? Was there something in their mind he’d liked? A memory of what his more fortunate self had? Or perhaps he was just desperate, grabbing the first life form that came to him?

“And direct lies are not his style,” Varric’s broad hands chimed in from the back of their mind. “You should have seen him stammer, Rook.” Another time, another bar. Varric had shaken his head with this tired smile on his face. Not something that had grown on him, but something he had to dig for. A fading mirage he refused to let go of. Reaching the moment that tied the story together, his lips had parted into a broader grin. “All he had to do was lie about court, and yet all he could muster was some vagaries about the Fade.”

A lie was out of the question. Elbows resting on their knees, Rook leaned forward. “Any chance you’re asking for a game of Wicked Grace?” Rook had played that one often enough with Varric.

A tiny shake of his head. It is far less complex than that. Solas’ hand slipped to his pouch. I pull us into a dream, and all you will have to do is find the rune.

“Sounds easy enough.” Which meant that it wasn’t. “Anything else I need to know?”

Solas looked up at the gloom of the green burning sky. Thinking. It was hard to tell if it was genuine or not. Presuming it was real, this could be their moment. Slip the dagger into his chest—oopsie—and  grab the rune. They could be out of here within sixty seconds. But…

Rook bit their lip. His frame was far thinner than what they were used to. Erase the lyrium, and he seemed almost approachable. See here the Inquisition’s apostate, watch how he manages to use that brain of his through the pain. This image of him, this version, sank into their belly. Doing it would be wrong. Because… because it would be without honour. Yes, that’s the reason. Nothing else to see here. Move along.

I give you one day to find that which you desire. Fail, and you will be forced to accompany me for the remainder of my life. Solas held out his hand. Fingers destined for painting were covered in the Titan’s rage and trembled.

Before the seed of doubt could burst and halt Rook’s limbs, they took Solas’ hand in theirs. Lyrium pricked their skin, a warning to tread with care for the prettiest flowers contained poison within. Adjusting their face into the mask they had sculpted and finessed through years of deal making—a Rivaini royal here, a Chantry sister there, just about anyone who needed a ‘dumb tool’ and thought the Lords were filled with those—and shook. May regret not rear its snout any time soon.

Not bothering to release himself from their ‘grip’, Solas’ eyes fell shut. Without delay, his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Waves embraced the shore with an equally mesmerising tranquillity. Was he slee—

The ground fell beneath them. Red, green, and darkness gave way to ethereal light slipping between billowing curtains. A feather-soft mattress embraced their back. And so the game had begun.

Rook rolled onto their side, half-expecting Solas to be there. He wasn’t, though the bed certainly had the space for it. They slid their arm across the ocean of silk, smooth beneath their touch. There, right in the middle, where the bed still bore a dimple, a soft warmth yet lingered. His. Fire trickled up their cheeks as Rook flung their legs off the bed. Was nothing sacred anymore? Having them start the game in a bed haunted by his presence was a definitive decision. A move to taunt them into making an error.

They shook their head and marched off. Rook needed to find clues, not distractions. Their reflection, far cleaner than it had any right to be, passed them by. Its blur of sea-greens and sky-blues beckoned them to come closer to see, see what he’s done. And the worst part was that it succeeded too. Rook stopped and took one step back before looking. It was just them. Round-eared Rook, who had inherited nothing of their birth mother save for the radiant skin and short length. Even the clothes, while not the ones that had been worn beneath their armour, were recognisably theirs. Loose trousers and a shirt. Another thing pulled from their unconscious.

He must have seen their blind spots. Natural Order help them; this was going to be more difficult than assumed. Letting the air slip between their pursed lips, Rook hurried into the hallway. In order to even stand a chance of making it back home, they’d have to do something similar. Study him. His thought processes. His desires. Being a Solas didn’t make him their Solas. Their Solas hadn’t gone through the end of Thedas. There was no telling how that could have impacted him. One thing they did know. He was all alone and wanted their company. Whether there was something sinister behind this want was uncertain.

Pale stone on their left made way for long archways. Gateways to emerald leaves swaying in the wind. An inner courtyard. One filled with benches forming neat rows of elves, their attention lost to their notebooks and the man before them. Solas pointed at various parts of the chalk sketch: a slender spirit whose tail curled almost into a perfect circle.

Rook stepped closer. The wall was smooth beneath their touch as they leaned against it. Unlike them, he was in the same clothes. A long, unassuming tunic, completed with a simple belt and green trousers that blurred into the surrounding nature. The only difference—besides the obvious tears and dried gunk—was the jaw hanging from his neck. It was gone. A foreboding image, or decrepit reminder, erased.

Chalk still in hand, Solas’ arm fell to his side as gentle eyes, trapped between purple, blue, and grey, landed on them. His full lips moved with the smile of a rising sun. Rook caught some of the words written by them. “End,” “for tomorrow,” and “Soon.” A tide of students rose from their seats. Interesting. In his fantasy, the fearsome Dread Wolf was a teacher.

Slipping between them, Rook focused on the students. Or rather, they tried to. Whenever they landed on a face, it slipped from their grasp almost as fast as they had caught it. The blurry mess that was the eyes melted into skin and hair. It was as if their heads carried no grit for their gaze to hold on to. Informative. With this being his dream, his creation, it means one thing. His power was far more limited.

“Rook,” Solas signed. “Have you come to search for the rune, or has a different matter pulled you from our game?” Our? Funny, as if he wasn’t an obstacle in their way.

“Perhaps the former. You seem like the kind of guy to keep it close.” At their words, Solas’ eyes widened. Were they right, or was he just messing with them? The God of Lies, Treachery, and Rebellion, too, knew how to meld his face into a blank canvas. Rook stopped an arm’s length away from him. Close enough to test a theory. “Truth be told, I’m here for you.” For emphasis, they leaned closer, brushing against the piney scent that clung to him.

His breath hitched. Oh, he desired them all right. But then he did something unexpected. Solas took a large step back with his hands slipping behind him. His freckle-dusted face smoothed as he gave them a quick once-over. They must have gone too far, but they had seen it. This Solas had peeked into their mind and liked what he had seen.

 “And why would that be?”

“To discuss this dream of yours.” Sitting down on the nearest bench, Rook spread their arms. “Like, how big is it? Are there limits to what shape the rune can have? Can it be this building? For this to be fair, I need to have some idea of what the limits are.”

“Whoever said the Lord of Tricksters was fair?” True, but a Lord of Fortune never expected to be treated fairly. Only failure could come of it. “This pocket is endless. The rune can be whatever I want it to be, including our home, though if you truly wish to waste your time on proclaiming your desire for the walls, roofs, and windows, be my guest.”

That was the second time he had referenced Rook’s desire. It had to be of significance. A hint he couldn’t help but slip in. And something he enjoyed toying with. Rook tilted their head. Light streaming through the trees scattered flecks of shadow upon his head. He had made himself less gaunt, too, though he wasn’t close to their Solas. There was some muscle tone, but nothing like what they were used to.

“So it’s not our home.” Rook grinned at him. “Thanks for the hint.”

Solas bit on his bottom lip. It looked nice on him, Rook wasn’t afraid to admit that. He inched closer to them. “To reward your appreciation, I offer you more. If you want, I can accompany you during your search. Mind you, I will not give you any further clues, but—

Rook cut him off with a kiss. His lips were like rose petals. Soft and easy to bend, they moved in accordance with theirs mouth. A pleasant tingle zipped between them and shivered down into their belly, where it fluttered. Solas was the first to pull away with flushed skin and a mouth trapped in a perfect ‘O’. As they thawed, only one word could be read upon his face. “Rook.”

Slipping past him, Rook winked. “Don’t make me wait.” And with that, they rushed to their first place of interest.

The first solution had seemed rather obvious. In spite of the assumptions many had about the Lords of Fortune—dumb brutes, gold diggers, and tomb raiders—most, like Rook, found great joy in mere history. Be it dusty tomes, rotting maps, or collapsing murals narrating what was, what had occurred, and what will be, an archive was a perfect representation of said desire. Lost glory preserved for generations to come. Plus, it coalesced with their idea of home. Home was where they could sit down with a steaming cup of tea, a quickly forgotten biscuit, and fragments of an ancient poem left for them to rearrange into the proper order. These were some of the few tasks their Solas could appreciate.

In short, a more perfect match between desire and disguise could not be. That alone made this all the more frustrating.

Brown smudges, a rather impressionistic take on the words that should be there, mocked Rook. Another one of those things Solas did not have the power for. Dear Universe, if they did not succeed, Rook would be stuck with nothing to read. A worse fate was unimaginable.

Rook slammed the book shut and forced it back between the others with as much prejudice as they could muster. “Any chance you’re willing to tell me how I will recognise my ‘desire’, or has your generosity abandoned us?”

With the butt of his pencil pressing into his chin, Solas looked up from his sketch. He raised a straight brow as if pondering whether or not to bother answering them, before he lowered his utensil. “Did I not tell you there would be no further clues?”

“Is it really a clue if—”

Without waiting for them to finish, Solas returned his gaze to his page.

An hour spent talking to Solas, examining their situation, and travelling to the archive. Two hours wasted within. One fourth of the trial, test, or whatever one wanted to call it, was done. Over. If the rest went the same…

At least he had enjoyed their kiss. Rook drew in a slow breath. They shouldn’t think like that. Not yet. There were options. Choices. The rune should be something they would recognise as their desire—it was not a game if it could not be won—while being inconspicuous. Preferably, as the tales go, an  object hidden in plain sight. A wish they would accept as THE DESIRE. But an archive, it seemed, was too obvious. Rook needed to look for something more abstract. A representation of their desire. The reason why they were doing all of this in the first place.

Freedom. The freedom to live and enjoy life. Freedom knew many symbols. Birds were a pretty universal one. To the Chantry, Andraste and the eternal flames lit in her memory were the ultimate signs of freedom. For the elves, it was the halla. But in Rivain it was larger. In Rivain, among the seers far removed from the influence of the Chantry and the Qun, it was nature itself. Leaves rustling in the wind. Water rushing without a care.

Nature, so it happens, was also so omnipresent that it was easy to overlook. Nature, freedom, and the rune. Rook’s next perfect combination, and they knew just the spot.

“There’s this waterfall in Arlathan Forest I want to visit.” Rook neared Solas.

Each calm movement of his arm put down a curving line. A thick one for shadow here, a thin one for light over there. Rows of books standing close to a stained-glass window formed the backdrop of a person staring at the leather spines with a pointed finger.

Rook sucked in a breath. A curtain of graphite curls hid the top of their face, hiding their attention from the audience’s gaze. A few strokes suggested a mouth caught between concentration and anticipation. The tip of their tongue was peeking through between their lips.

He was nowhere near done. A part of them wanted to sit down beside him. Rest their head on his shoulders and watch. The thought of it, his warmth against their chest, his ear brushing against their hair in acknowledgement of their presence, tingled along their spine. Rook could watch him and perhaps not even regret it. Too bad their world would not agree with it. Besides, Rook pinched their arm; he was not their Solas. Merely one toying with their connection.

A tap on his shoulder brought his attention right back on them. Soft eyes blinked, noticing for the first time that Rook had moved from their spot. They repeated their request, albeit more specific this time.

“Are you certain that is a wise course of action?” Solas got up, abandoning his artwork.

“Scared I’ve figured it out?”

He shook his head. “Merely afraid you will regret the time it takes to travel.”

“But this is literally just a dream.”

“I did warn you.” From out of nowhere, Solas picked up a basket whose contents were covered by a checkered blanket. The other arm hovered behind their shoulder. For a second, Rook was convinced he would lay it on them, wrap those long fingers of his around their flesh, and smile.

Their heart slammed against a rib.

Solas nodded as his arm fell and he left the room. Freedom and desire, here they come.

Solas’ warning could be thrown onto the ever-growing pile of ‘things Rook did not heed.’ Their journey had been an hour’s worth of time. It unveiled a tale of wizened trees with broad trunks split into hundreds of far-reaching branches. Each wooden appendage was decorated with greens, oranges, reds, and even purples. 

Nearing the end of their journey, a thin stream had greeted them. Its water rolling with bumps across the pebbles beneath glistened in the golden sun. The rest of their walk was just a matter of following the lively path to its source. Solas’ need to shift the basket from one hand to the other had increased. His free fingers stretched during each break, though they got less and less time the longer their journey went on.

“Do you want me to take over from you?” An offer to give his hands more time to rest. He seemed to need it after all.

At first, Solas looked away. Refusal. Then his narrow chin slid down through the air as he considered them. His words sank through their ribs like water through fabric. Rook shivered. Please, let me have this.

The wind brushed through their curls as they reached the top of the hill. The sight of a lone tree filled their sight against the backdrop of crystal-blue water rushing down a cliff. Proud elven statues towered above the trees while they continued to stand their ground among the split streams. Ribbons of colour, shifting between green and purple, twirled around their stone bows.

Rook held their breath. A bird sprang from its nest and darted through the sky. Its sudden movement sent the leaves into a swaying dance. The flecks of their shadow scattered across the blanket Solas spread between the tree’s mighty roots.

It should spark, right? Send flames rippling through their veins and up their cheeks. So why didn’t they feel anything?

Resting against the crooked trunk, Solas had one knee up. Glass jars with a reddish jam and other spreads glistened in the basket. They wanted to decline. They were going to decline. Solas removed the cloth from one of the jars. Dipping his knife into the milky preserves, Solas slathered a slice of bread and held it out to them.

Fine, their stomach trembled. Rook would have lunch. They plopped down beside him. A tingle ran through their fingers as it brushed against his. Weird that this kept happening. Rook stuffed the slice in their mouth. Sticky sweetness cut through the medicinal taste as bread mixed with a variety of deep mushrooms.

“Have you found what you are looking for?”

“We just got here.” Rook wasn’t going to tell him. At least, not yet. Not until they had given up, because there had to be something. A thing they could find with ease. An object within reach and yet easily overlooked. There would be no fun in it for the Lord of Tricksters if his opponent stood no chance. It didn’t appear to be a concept, or even an object for that matter. What if it wasn’t a thing?

The bed, the kiss, his sketch, that touch… Rook swallowed the lump. “You like teasing, don’t you?”

“Not as much as you.” With an arm leaning on his knee, Solas stared off into the distance. Lonely.

According to Varric, Corypheus’ shattering of the Veil had killed most. Those who survived had become infected with red lyrium. There was no evil ulterior motive, or well, at least not to him. Either Rook failed—which they, for the record, weren’t going to—and Solas would have his forever companion, or Rook succeeded because they recognised their desire for him. Either way, he would get something that he, himself, desired. Companionship, even if it was only for a day. The exact kind of solution the Trickster Wolf might go for.

Were Rook to ever share this tale with their inner circle, this is that part where Emmrich’s fingers would unfold from his lap. “A sound theory, Rook,” he would say. But like any good theory, it had to be put to the test first. Only one way to find out.

With their heart bumping against its cage of flesh, Rook raised their hand and—

Plump lips caressed their knuckles. Congratulations. Solas raised his face, slightly tilted to the side, with a rueful smile. You’ve won. Now come collect your prize.

His hand was warm against theirs. Tender. It must have been a long time since he got to hold someone like this. And when was the last time someone had held Rook like this? Moving across tiny acres of white and red, Rook slid their hand onto his and rubbed their thumb over his smooth skin. Leaving him, the thought felt somehow wrong.

Then stay. Solas smiled at them as if he hadn’t made the most ludicrous decision. The world you love will never see the end you wish for. He will not allow it.

What’s that supposed to mean?

What do you think? The flat tips of his fingers danced across the edge of their jaw. To him, you are nought but a pawn. I have seen it in here. Solas’ fingers halted on the side of their forehead. The touch, no matter how light, hit them like the sharp end of a rock. He may love you, I admit, but should he choose between healing the world or keeping you alive, he will choose the world.

“You forget”—Rook leapt up and took a step back from good measure—“You and your world are dying. Mine isn’t.”

Solas merely blinked. To him, this might as well be a mere outburst he could tame with ‘reason’. “Are you certain? Once he succeeds, nothing in your world will remain as is. One might as well consider it doomed. Falling will make no difference, save for one element. Me.

Their hands fumbled before grasping their next words from the air. “Or you come with me. I have two scientists who could study your affliction, maybe even find a cure. You would be surrounded by people, and you can help me stop So— the  other Solas from ending my world.” And, as a bonus, you’ll get to put me in the most awkward position possible. But that last part need not be said.

I see. Solas’ head stooped.

The gentle breeze that had been moving nature as one, sharpened its touch. It tore through the branches, ripping each leaf to shreds. Dying and shrivelling in the wind, nature’s remains stripped the dream of its beauty. Water dried. Statues crumbled. Dead land refused to obey the laws of physics. Humps of dirt were flung into the sky. Clouds swirling in a mass of eerie green light carried into a spiral. Whatever earth remained gave birth to jagged shards of burning lyrium.

Fuck, if Solas was flipping… Rook’s hand shot to the dagger.

There is no need for that. Rivulets of blood trickled down into the ruined remains of his tunic. A vein above his ear bulged as he gritted his teeth in obvious pain. He presented the rune in the palm of his hand. I wanted it to be your choice.

Wasting no time, Rook dashed forward, pulled a green vial from their belt and put it to his lips. Tipping the vial up, the healing potion trickled down his throat. As he swallowed, his Mortalitasi pale throat bobbing, the wounded flesh knitted close. Raw skin was left in its wake. Rook pinched their lips. Had they listened to Bellara, they would have had a whole bottle with them. Not that it would have saved him.

It had gotten worse since the dream. His extra ‘eyes’ had grown into what a gentleman would refer to as horns and what a sane person would decorate with an apt ‘fucked up’. “If you wanted it to be my choice,” Rook began, struggling to look at him. Barely anything was left of his forehead. One shard was dangerously close to piercing his left eye. “Why the game?”

A bit of skin shifted, the final remains of a muscle attempting to raise a brow that was not there. How else was I to get you to stay? Would you seriously have considered it, had I asked?

Rook swallowed before shaking their head. There were many things they could lie about. But this, and to him? “You could still come with me?”

Solas pushed his hand further up. His arms trembled from the strain. Please, take your prize and leave. Just promise me one thing. The tears on his cheeks glistened in the light of his fatal corruption. Remember me.

“I will.” Rook accepted the rune and, with a snake of emotions slipping around their throat, embedded it in their dagger and left for home. A growing crystal shaped like a man defeated was all that remained.