"Here let me touch your vest. Oh, you ran away! Oh no, anyway.."
"Fucking Illario, but he is family. I don't want to be the First Talon,"
"Perhaps you should go talk to Neve about it instead. This is too heavy stuff for me."
"I made you cake, wanna eat it? If you don't, it's ok, I'll give it to Neve, served from my perfect body."
"Sure, I guess we are an item now."
*tumbleweed rolling across the game screen*
"Oops, we found you from the Fade. Let's have our first kiss and the first time in the same scene without touching each other previously in the game."
"Well, I did touch your vest."
"You clearly understand I love you, Rook. I'll never leave you. "
"Cool beans! Could I get a kiss?"
Before you tear into me as a hater. I am a prolific fanfiction writer, who loves Lucanis. I do not take an issue with the lack of physical intimacy because it is part of his character, but the depth of meaningful conversation with him- even platonic kind. But, that is why I write fanfiction. This was written with that in mind. It was written tongue in cheek. In my fiction, Rook's tongue is obviously in his cheek.
Sleepless night, wanted to express how I think my current fic Rook looks like. Well, it worked, but life management skills went out of the window. Again.
Seasons in Minrathous
AU, Tevinter Magister Rook, Veilguard doesn't form, all that Jazz. M/M, explicit and plotty.
I went ahead and started another Rook/Lucanis fic because AU-inspiration hit me in the face like a limp dick. Poetically speaking, of course.
Cue confetti. Enter Orlesian Bard Rook: charming, slippery, and ready to take any bottom-wheel dialogue options BioWare refused to give us. Renegade interrupts? Also yes.
Song of the Knives
Fandoms: Dragon Age: Veilguard, Origins, Inquisition, Dragon Age (all media)
Pairing: Male Rook / Lucanis
Rating: Explicit. There will be blue balls.
Tropes: Slow burn, Enemies to Lovers, (The rest redacted by Leliana)
Summary:
Rook is a bard by trade and a liar by instinct, and he moves between countries, masks, and names with ease.
Then a target places him in the path of Master Assassin Lucanis Dellamorte—a man who sees too much, speaks too little, and refuses to lose. Their collision sparks a game of cat and mouse, where none of Rook’s performances land quite right. A collision neither of them planned. Or knew they wanted. If he wants to survive, he may have to risk something unpracticed: being himself. Disgusted noise
Someone slams into him as they walk along the road.
“My apologies,” a man’s voice says.
A trickle of water from a fountain snaps his attention away from whoever it was he bumped into. Lucanis needs to fill up his waterskin, so he walks away briskly.
“Levity,” Spite says. Lucanis ignores him.
In times of peace, things can get very boring. Luckily for the Antivan Crows, there is always something to do. In this particular case, it means travelling to Rivain on a contract for a target Lucanis and Illario know nothing about. Not the most inconvenient place to go, since Lucanis could use help with an increasingly demanding Spite, and Rivain is teeming with seers.
Chapters: 1/25
Rating: Explicit
Words: 2423
Incoming Lore Divergence:
Let’s all assume the Inquisitor got through to Solas at the end of Trespasser in DA: Inquisition and agreed that pulling down the Veil was perhaps not the best idea, so he mended it instead, making Veilguard redundant. Sadly (or, for the purposes of this fic, to my delight), it means that Rook and Lucanis never met.
Share it. Be proud of it. Use the tag #reflection rtuesday also tag a few of your fellow artists, you'd be curious to see what they may have stored away in their wip folders.
The breakfast is on the table. Eleanor and Bellara have been busy. Lucanis joins them shortly to cook the wedding meal.
“So, it’s pissing down outside,” says Rook. Lucanis’ eyes flick behind him. He doesn’t have to turn around to realize Caterina is sitting behind him. Well done reinforcing her opinion that he’s a brute and not worthy of her grandson.
“It is,” she agrees, after letting him hang for a moment. “Alternative arrangements are needed.”
Lucanis’ face shifts from frozen to relieved. He’s getting more expressive, Rook notes.
Caterina gestures for Rook to sit beside her at the table.
“Careful what you’re digesting,” Illario mumbles to Rook through his fist. Caterina glares at him.
Rook grimaces at the implication of dying from poisoned food before the wedding but decides to go to his grave as he has lived: dick first, brain trailing far behind.
Caterina startles everyone by initiating small talk.
“Lucanis and Rook, any pre-wedding jitters?”
Here we go with jittering again, Rook thinks, but instead of letting his mind wander in that direction, he replies, “None.”
“No,” Lucanis says plainly and briefly takes Rook’s hand.
Caterina grunts, somewhere between impressed and pleased, and continues eating her scone. Her cane slips, and Rook reaches out to pick it up, handing it to her with gentlemanly flair.
“There, my Lady.”
Caterina nods in acknowledgment and resumes eating.
Illario raises his eyebrows at Lucanis questioningly, who simply shrugs. Rook remains non-committal.
“So, the gazebo is drowned,” Taash announces as they and Davrin come in through the back door. “We moved the benches away from the rain, but that one is fucked.”
They pause, noticing Caterina at the table. The realization that they’ve just reinforced a class divide sinks in. A brief worry crosses their mind, but Caterina shifts in her seat and asks,
“And what solution do we have for this lack of venue?”
Taash relaxes. “We had one, but does anyone else have an idea first?”
“Drag Rook into the Chantry, and it’ll burst into flames from sheer blasphemy,” Lucanis says.
Rook kisses Lucanis’ hand and nods in agreement, thoroughly impressed by his unexpected joke.
“It’s Satinalia, so not many places are available,” Caterina muses, leaning on her cane. She is surprisingly involved in the process for someone who tried to kill one of the grooms three days ago, but Rook can roll with it. No doubt, she’s still thinking about it.
“Listen, that’s really the conclusion. The city is celebrating; there’s nothing out there,” Rook says, pointing outside. “And the weather will just drive all the parties indoors.”
“What did you have in mind, Taash?” Lucanis asks.
“How about the Lighthouse?” Taash offers.
Lucanis’ eyes glow purple, and his face twists into Spite’s grin.
“Raw Fade? Yes! I am the best man, cousin!” Spite says enthusiastically.
Illario muses, “Technically, Your Hideousness, you’re a groom too.”
“No! Best man!” Spite roars.
Caterina shakes her head and rubs her temples. For all her newfound tolerance and participation, Lucanis being possessed still doesn’t sit right with her.
“Fine. For the sake of entertainment,” Illario concedes.
“For chaos!” Rook toasts with his coffee. Spite takes a sip of his.
Narrator: Lauri "Rook" Thorne finds a questionnaire.
GENERAL
Name: Lauri Thorne
Alias(es): Rook, and 'Oh come on, Rook'
Gender: Male
Age: Very late thirties
“You’re early forties now,” Lucanis corrects.
He is not wrong. Rook cannot keep track because it changes every year.
Scootch, narrator. Move. Let me finish this myself.
Place of birth: From the Hinterlands, Ferelden, a place so desolate it has no detailed names on the map, and from where everyone wants to leave as quickly as possible. And the fucking bears, man…
'Near a boulder, beside the oak.' is a perfectly viable way to describe your address to the courier because there is nothing else there. Except it created me. The only class act coming out of there.
“You done?”
Yes. You know how it is, Lucanis. Kicks in the stones every time I think about the place.
Sexual orientation: Anyone will do. Including Spite.
Occupation: Pre-Veilguard: Mercenary and swindler, then Grey Warden.
Veilguard: Still don’t know what I was doing there—except Lucanis.
“And did well.”
Oh, look at that. He delivers!
Post-Veilguard: In between things. Retired Grey Warden, occasional enforcer to Antivan Crows. Husband.
0000000000000000000 Get off, you softie. You made a mess of my art.
“Art?”
Loose definition. Answering this fucking questionnaire. I love talking about myself.
FAVOURITE
Colour: Navy, orange and white. I can’t go anywhere with this.
Entertainment: Simple pleasures, simple man. If pressed: horseback riding, reading, and city breaks.
Pastime: Definitely training swordplay—many kinds—often they overlap. Topless training. Lucanis will eventually yield.
“Only because of the lack of a shirt.”
Can’t keep your eyes off.
“Only for your safety, mi amor. Knives are sharp, and you have unprotected skin.”
And the dick in your hand soon after? Protection against chafing? Pants are dangerous.
Moving on. I do too much weapon shopping.
“Want to go today? Anton has some new swords.”
Ah, we have a happy marriage.
Food: Any food that isn’t from home.
“You’ll eat it too, but you’ll just complain about how ‘fucking awful’ it is.”
Your Fereldan intonation is getting good, baby. A few more fucks in the sentence and you’ll pass as a native.
Drink: Coffee!
“Speaking of coffee, I’ll make some.”
Books: Oooh easy. Antivan romance novels. Smuttier or more romantic ones — not picky. The kinds that make even the city sweeper a hidden prince.
“He gets all flowery after reading those. I get whiplash from his character development afterward.”
How do you fucking know from there what I’m writing here, Lucanis?
“Spite is there and told me.”
Cheeky.
“He reads most Wistful Looks and Lurid Dreams.”
Ah yes, THE smut book.
Well, that shit is good. It's a shameful book where one story centers on a nanny doing dishes in a great Antivan villa. A master of the house enters and flirts his way with her, only to find out that his dearest wife has gotten there first. Alas! All hope is not lost, as it turns out the lady-pair is a bit of an exhibitionist, and they wish to be watched in action.
Isn’t that romantic? Enter holes, drill holes, and the thrills of potentially being watched. Classy stuff.
“I got you a new one, Blooms and First Thaw. I believe it's about virgins.”
Oh, I did like those. Next question. I need to get to reading. My afternoon is all taken now—reading through that baby and shopping for weapons.
Lucanis get your hands off—this questionnaire is important shit! Hold that thought. Yeah. The schedule is definitely full.
HAVE THEY
Passed university: Nope. I would have failed at the entrance by misspelling my name. Too many ideas of a practical nature—good for heroics, womanizing, and swinging swords—bad for academia.
Had sex: Half of Thedas had become intimately familiar with me before meeting Lucanis. Otherwise: sure! This morning.
“Rook!”
What? You’re supposed to be honest in these things, Lucanis.
Had sex in public: Of course. One of the greatest thrills. Almost got me killed once. That was fun.
“Don’t remind me.”
The scar still itches.
“Does it?”
It needs a lick. Heals the itch.
“I’m getting the coffee.”
Gotten tattoos: Big Griffon on the shoulder. Took a long time to do, fellow Warden had to sober up for finer lines.
Gotten piercings: Nah. Not my thing.
Had a broken heart: Nope. That would require having been attached to anyone. Well, Lucanis and his fucking running away was heartbreaking.
Okay, puppy dog. You put a fucking ring on it. I think we’re over it.
Been in love: Fuck no. Lucanis was a one-time deal. Well, Spite is the second case. Spite, I can fucking see you there, stop it you prick.
“Stop saying. nice words then, Rook! Besides, this time. he let me through.”
Of course, he fucking did. Fuck, Lucanis!
“He said, 'its the point—to fuck.'”
An Antivan ass.
Thanks, Lucanis. Yeah, spilled some on my shirt.
You're not going to act surprised? No?
ARE THEY
A cuddler:
No.
“You are, Rook.”
Don’t tell them!
“I thought you were supposed to be honest in these?”
Scared easily: Nah. Too slow for any scares. The situation is usually over before I realize something scary happened.
Jealous easily: Nah. We are solid.
Trustworthy: Yeah, I get you out of shit if needed. I also do cause the shit but I do what I say, eventually.
FAMILY
Sibling(s): None. Davrin probably counts by now.
Parents: A swamp hag mother
“Rook!”
Fine. Dolores—over-the-top mother.
“She wrote again.”
Listen Lucanis, if you want to have sex, this is not the way.
And father George, builder architect, and general tourist.
“They are coming over next week.”
What? They fucking aren't. Get your fucking clothes on, Lucanis.
“You don’t mean that.”
Ha. Nope.
Children: Not naturally anyway. But we keep on trying to make one.
“Por la sangre del Hacedor.”
Hey, I should update the language section—my comprehension of Antivan is passable.
“Do not say it.”
Mmmierda.
“Rook. My beautiful language bleeds.”
Pets:
“You are going to say 'Lucanis,' aren’t you?”
You purr? Would you rather I say Spite?
I have done my duty. I have other duties. Lauri Thorne, over and out!
This time, with more clothes.
It was a necessary addition because I was faced with a friend asking "What did you draw?" and flashed out in the broad daylight the unclothed version.
Ficwise : 1300+ words down, noticed the pair hasn't left the bedroom yet. Title: wedding day, and it's morning. Well well. I'm sure there is going to be plot somewhere hidden in my mind, waiting to come out.
Spoiler alert. The Lads are getting married soon and Rook says "Fuck yeah," instead of "I do."
From First time to Forever
Randy Dowager
"A torn quarterly missive of suspect virtue.
The Randy Dowager is out of print. No preview available. Printing press on fire after reading the cylinder.
The Lady herself says: “Too hot to handle. Five scarves fluttered in shock out of five and caught fire.” – RD"
Seven days of Satinalia
"A dagger pierced quarterly missive of suspect virtue.
The Randy Dowager welcomes the celebrations of Satinalia, set in the romance-filled city of Treviso. Naughty men stab each other in the fragrant streets under the broad daylight. How many more thrusts can a First Talon endure before he collapses at the feet of his Grey Warden prince? And did anyone catch a glint of a ring? Is it for a finger or..?
The Randy Dowager: Exhibitions for the noble of thought, but spry of step.
The Lady herself says: “A deep dive into the psyche of Antivan love life. A hard read, as promised. Four scarves fluttered in shock out of five.” – RD"
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Pairing: Kerry Eurodyne x Male V
Prompt: "Vocal Cords"
Warnings: language
“Ker, your voice is not fucking fine!”
“Nothing’s wrong with it, V.”
“Well, go on then, sing a fucking Black Dog and see how fucking fine you are!”
“Fuck,” Kerry says and coughs while the slime rattles within his cybernetic throat.
Dogs need to fucking stay unsung.
Kerry Eurodyne, the music god, and the geriatric man of a legendary Afterlife Fixer V, has fallen.
He is planning his epithet for his grave in the North Oak Columbarium. ‘Lovingly fucked up’, was at the top of his list at the moment. He woke up, after a particularly forceful evening with his man, who softly, lovingly, but firmly tied him into a bedpost of their nova bed. V rode him to oblivion and edged him beyond cruelly.
At some point it was only natural progression that Kerry was choked at his own request, to get him hard as possible and to tease V’s fucking prostate into a tingling mess. V had screamed harder than groupies in Samurai gigs, so since Kerry is in the service industry he considered their experiment a bewildering success. Without this current predicament, he would do this more often. Since he isn’t smart enough for self-deception anymore, he will still suggest it again for V, because his moans were fucking delicious—with few modifications. If they get the little bumps like life-altering injuries smoothened out, he can ride his hard-as-fuck dick all he wants.
Here is the thing, though. If you take away from Kerry Eurodyne his voice, what remains? Inner thoughts! And he is no fucking philosopher. He sees a dick, his own jumps up like a spring in old machinery and vibrates until it is sprung. And it will need relief. That is the extent of his bodily functions at this point in his life.
Kerry is not a deep thinker either. The only thing deep in him is his asshole and his fucking pockets. He used to be able to hold a thought, dip into the stream of consciousness, and make sense of what exactly was his point. Then he drank away all brain cells and used the substances provided by Night City to beat the rest of them into nonexistence—words longer than ‘dick’ went past him.
As Vik would say: there were no cybernetics for stupidity.
Now, in the absence of yammering, Kerry has to listen to himself.
And that is precisely what he has tried not to do all his life.
V appears to be waiting for something and Kerry’s remaining brain cell is seizing, but he manages to focus long enough and focus on Mr. Better-ride-than-Rayfield Caliburn.
“We are going to Vik, Ker,” V tells him. And say what exactly? That he choked him to hypercharge his dick to ride without suspension?
“Come on, you stubborn fuck,” when V says it so nicely he has to oblige, and because admittedly speaking hurts quite a lot. He gets dressed, as even though everyone deserves to see the glory that is Kerry Eurodyne’s dick, he keeps it dedicated to that angry but sexy man, who is glaring at him. Kerry’s idea was not the best, but the thought of his arsehole on his dick …
“Kerry, snap out of it!”
He slouches in the front of the car and V plants his ass on the driver seat. Before he touches the ignition he turns to him.
“Does it hurt a lot, babe?”
“Yeah,” Kerry says hoarsely. “Would do it again though.”
“Fuck no, Ker!”
See, Kerry knows his man. He may be able to convince his man to provide this service again, given time. He just needs some sweet words and some smooching. Maybe he can let him touch his guitars again.
Fuck, it all comes to a perspective now. What if his throat is fucked? He is a fucking musician. He plays guitar and screams for a living. How does he do the latter if this is serious? Something stumbles on the ground within him, the certainty of career until death. He has no other skills than music, and being annoying as fuck and the latter offers no career prospects, but it's not about money, so fuck that. It's about that passion. Music is his life, his lifeblood, and if taken away? Something crumbles inside him further, the guaranteed joy falls on the ground beside his career, when they were so firmly attached to him before.
Kerry Eurodyne is his music.
From the Samurai Era, he has not measured himself against anything but his musical prowess. His crises are all related to his legacy and rely on him burning out in the flames of an amplifier. He would burn after the performance of his lifetime. V in front of the stage would spontaneously burst into flames too, as they’d let the music reverberate around them and through them. V and he would seize to exist, fucking romantically burning in the heat of his passions, only fully clothed and in public. It would be one last elation before the dark and the curtain closes on majestic Kerry Eurodyne and his man love.
His grim fantasy drops his house of self down on the ground next to the pieces that fell off earlier.
“Ker?” he hears V go.
‘Fuck, what is wrong with me?’ Kerry thinks but says nothing to V. His throat burns like liquid fire. A wrong kind of burning, not that homoerotic fame masturbation he experienced just a moment again so vividly in his mind.
V touches the skin underneath his eyes wiping away something, mascara no doubt, which feels so fucking nice. Somehow calming. Fuck sometimes he still forgets how much love V brings into his life and it's all because he runs his self-absorbed mouth nonstop. Mostly he is driven by his dick, but it has quite a long time ago stopped being only about that. V cares for him and he fucking adores V’s grumpy puss.
“We get you fixed, Ker,”
See, the man reads his thoughts just like that. They’re one soul in one body. Both of their minds fucked up to absurdity, but their passion shines like a sea full of stars.
Kerry grabs his hand and nods. He will need Vik and fast. He gestures to the road.
“You’ll sing again,” V says and starts driving. He is a mind reader. If Kerry loses his voice he will stick around for V instead of offing himself. His man had already almost witnessed that when Johnny introduced them. For all the good he has brought in his life he wouldn’t do that to him even if... V said it, he will fucking sing again.
Vik looks at the neck. “How the fuck did you manage to squash the whole synthetic vocal chords?”
“Had him on the chokehold to get him harder,” V says like a fucking sledgehammer he can be. Those were good times, sincerely they are worth mentioning.
“Ah yes, benefits of the natural cock,” Vik says unperturbed by his honest response. After twenty or so years he is well aware of smut that can come out of V’s mouth.
“Fellow connoisseur?” V inquires.
“I’ve dabbled. Now want to hear good news or reasonably good news?” Vik asks but doesn’t wait for a reply. “He will be fine.”
“No bad news?” V seems relieved. Softie.
“Well, hopefully, you’ll like introspection Kerry, because there will be one week’s worth when you let the fleshy bits heal.”
Kerry’s despair has to be visible on his face as both of them sympathetically burst out laughing. Dicks! He did nothing but at least for an hour, and it already brought about feelings and thoughts that hurt his head and heart in particular. Then again, if he has to listen to himself introspect for a week to sing his heart out again, he will manage. V has listened to him for ten years now and has never fucking complained. Maybe he comes out of this verbal purgatory as a more refined man.
Or maybe he will just lock them into a bedroom for a week to pass the time. That should stop all errant thoughts quickly when the contents of his dick spray to places, and post-coital bliss takes over.
First of all, I would like to express my desperation for this. Seems a harmless question- except if one was a gardener, which incidentally I am. I shall be spending the next hour battling with myself what would be the best one. "One with green leaves" will not do.
To my Antivan Crow Rogue: she would gift a Venus Flytrap. She and Lucanis would feed and stare at it, but she would get bored with it quickly because of the slow digestion of one single insect. Lucanis would continue staring at it more patiently and she would stare at him instead and prod him. It would die in the end.
To my Warden, Warrior Male: she would give a peace lily for purification and peace of mind.
To my Shadow Dragon Elf Mage: she would give a dark pink hydrangea in a large pot. It would be outside the dining space and quickly grow too large and it would be repotted. Lucanis empties the coffee grounds on it every day to keep the soil perfect.
Do they like Harding's cooking?
Rogue: nope! She rather drinks more coffee and grabs something easy to go.
M!Warrior: He will eat anything offered and too much of it- even Harding's food. Only because he is fighting he stays in good shape.
Mage: Not really, but she is too nice to complain. She would even offer a compliment.
What animal/monster would Davrin carve for your Rook?
Rogue: A cat, she misses the cats of Treviso
Warrior: A dragon. Fascination is real.
Mage: A statue of the Architect
Does your Rook like the walks in Arlathan with Davrin?
All three: resounding yes, but Warrior would like to be fed too, and drink more tea because he liked the buzzing in his head.
What is something Neve could call on your Rook for if she needs certain expertise for a case?
Rogue: good for talking someone to death or to act as a seductive bait
Warrior: if Neve needs someone to take someone head-on or needs a bodyguard, alternatively undercover work as someone functional after all drinking.
Mage: for company. Or in-depth newly found expertise in demonic possession.
Does your Rook share Neve's love of fried fish?
All three: Fuck no.
Does your Rook join Bellara in her technical talks about the Fade and various artifacts or are they more content to listen?
Rogue freezes eyes in place and pretends to listen, when its quiet she nods enthusiastically or asks "yeah?" or "yeah."
Warrior changes the topic
Mage is interested, tries to learn but mostly listens.
Do your Rook and Bellara read serials together?
Resounding yes from all!
What is your Rook's favorite dish that Lucanis cooks?
Rogue: His twist on her mom's Antivan Carbonara.
Warrior: anything served using Lucanis' body as a plate. Alternatively what he has eaten.
Mage: Calcio e pepe with red wine
What would Lucanis buy for your Rook at the Grande Market?
Rogue: a whetstone for her knives, but he would still sharpen her blades most of the time with his own
Warrior: draw between a gag to shut him up, or scarf to tie him down with, depending on the day.
Mage: Bouquet of Roses
What dragon would Taash think your Rook would like the best?
Rogue: Highland Ravager
Warrior: Kaltenzahn, he is cooler than the dragon- he thinks so anyway.
Mage: Gamordan Stormrider
Do they bring your Rook 'round the Hall of Valor to drink often?
Rogue: yes, she brings a cheese tray and whatever she gets Lucanis to cook as snacks.
Warrior: Yes, only the first bottle is sophisticated drinking
Mage: certainly. It is a lovely evening every time. Someone has to hold her hair at some point.
Would your Rook like Emmrich's mother's hazelnut torte?
All: Does Divine Victoria like nugs?
What kind of tea would Emmrich make for your Rook?
Rogue: Liquorice
Warrior: He doesn't even try and makes him coffee instead.
Mage: peppermint
Bonus: What is one thing a companion does to cheer up your Rook if they're feeling down?
Rogue: Lucanis takes her to Treviso canal to try to spot fish in the mucky water. Works every time.
Warrior: Emmrich tells a story about all the people who have shown romantic interest in Vorgoth.
Caterina is pale. Her face is haunted and her hands are like two claws gripping the crow’s head handle of her cane. Her eyebrows contort, in what momentarily looks like raw pain. Rook lets her be out of self-preservation, as like a wounded animal, Caterina would not hesitate to strike. Rook stands in the Dellamorte Villa for the first time in five years without receiving a single threat to her health or life, and it is because Caterina is focused on being Nonna. Lucía is a wonderful, if somewhat unruly child. She has her father’s expression as she crosses her little arms in front of her. Spite seemingly has done something to earn her disapproval. Rook can practically hear her chastising the demon like Lucanis does. When her skill manifested it was found that Spite did not need her to speak to understand her - he hears her thoughts directly, even if the child is still lacking the words to speak them aloud.
Rook looks at Lucía’s hair. Less than an hour after suffering a battle with a hairbrush, it is an untamed mane—entirely wild and unmanageable, like the rest of their daughter.
Lucanis had braided Lucía’s hair yesterday. He had sat on the ground behind her, staring intently at the messy mop. He had taken a hairbrush, which he barely uses himself when apparently five fingers and carefully positioned knife will do too, and got to work. Rook was watching fascinated at his face, as he focused, trying to wrangle the strands into a braid. His fingers were, as always, nimbly going about it, and for a moment her thoughts were entangled somewhere between them braiding a hair, and them being on herself, but she took another sip of her coffee and restrained her thoughts.
Coffee had tasted strange again, even though the roast had not changed. She had not told Lucanis yet that there were to be more hair to braid soon, and he had told Spite to remain quiet until she was certain that his first time of finding out was not re-enacted.
The day when they found out was a horrific day for both of them. In the Antivan romance novels, which Rook loved to read for their cringe-worthy beauty, the pregnancy announcements were always a happy occasion. The man’s hands would find the cradle of the baby, and they would gaze lovingly into the eyes of one another until the child was born. This is not how it happened to them; in fact, after they learned about it, there were no eyes for Rook to gaze into at all.
The day had been otherwise unremarkable, but the smells of the market were unpleasant and entirely changed. What had been a lovely mixture of fragrances coming from various stalls selling spices, flowers, and scented oils, was now akin to sniffing the rotting rubbish on the street corner. She was also feeling nauseous again, like many days before that. It was an all-day-long sickness, and she genuinely thought she was severely ill. Being with a child did not even cross her mind. In fact, until the local crystal trader arrived, she was certain that her death was just around the corner. His exact words were, “Your hearthstone is misaligned and congratulations!”
“For what?” Rook felt the neighboring fish trader repulse like never before and the conversation was adding some queasy in the mix.
“For your pregnancy?”
“My what?” She thought she had misheard him.
“Oh, you did not know?” The trader quickly removed himself from the situation. Lucanis looked confused, and Rook saw him querying Spite. His eyes turned purple as Spite took centre stage.
“Rook,” the demon greeted her.
“Spite, what is going on?”
“It’s true, Rook, you smell different,” Spite said.
“I am pregnant? Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Didn’t think you wanted to know.”
“It’s not going away by ignoring it, Spite. Of course, we needed to know. For how long?”
“For a few months?”
It explained so much. Everything felt off, and most bizarrely she had been dreaming of children. They had long ago settled into a thought that they were never going to have any, so unrequited hopes were unlikely to feed such notions into her head.
By the demon’s logic, it wasn’t entirely far-fetched that Spite thought they would not even like to know as they had been perfectly content by themselves. Of course, not telling them was obviously ridiculous if one were to approach it with human logic. Lucanis’ body had changed radically when Spite was implanted. Nobody knew the extent of the change, and since nothing in their years together suggested it was even possible, they fulfilled their lives in different ways than dreaming of a family. They had made the most out of their child-free existence. Now it turned out, her dear husband had a nervous breakdown as his life was once again profoundly uprooted.
Surprisingly, when it comes to being an orphan, which is a soul-destroying starting point for most people, Lucanis approached that particular matter in a very pragmatic manner: he felt grateful he had someone looking after him, despite the way Caterina went about it.
In its entirety, his parents’ love is a blank spot in his memory. Even after seeing the memories of his mother, reflected on the dining room’s wall at their wedding reception, he cannot remember anything about her. He stated that he finds it hard to grieve something he has no recollection of. Being a mother now herself, Rook finds the thought incredibly unsettling. Motherhood had created a cavalcade of wondrous moments already but also brought about some of her greatest fears.
If she herself were to perish early on in Lucía’s life, she would also become nothing– not even a worthy memory in her daughter’s life. Lucanis had enough life span to move on, find another to fill in the position of Lucía’s mother, and it would be as if Rook never existed at all. She bites her lip hard, trying to suppress the thought that sometimes kept her up at night.
Her irrational fears did not end there. Ever since Lucía was born she hasn’t gotten a full night of sleep. She spends her nights waking up to check that she is still breathing, and every whimper out of her little mouth makes her jump out of the bed and rush over to her, while Lucanis sleeps soundly. Only too many Antivan old ladies gave her growing tummy an unsolicited rub during her pregnancy and told her that she would never sleep well again. Rook thought it was a joke, but realized quickly, after their daughter was born, how terribly wrong she had been to doubt them.
She must have let her smile slip as Lucía runs to her and looks into her eyes clearly wondering about her. Rook offers her a hug and she gets into Rook’s arms. Lucía’s scent and warmth reinforce her once again. Her mind stitches itself together after her fears yet again ripped her apart.
Her mind is now calmed by an intuitive toddler, she returns to the day they heard about the incoming child. Rook is terrified Lucanis’ reaction will repeat itself with their second born.
The stall keeper gestured at her, “Señora Dellamorte, are you going to pay what your husband took before he ran off?”
Rook asked Chance Candide, her friend and the spymaster of the Crows to keep an eye on Lucanis. He had returned to Caterina’s mansion after abandoning Rook to the market without as much as an explanation. Rook received the reports daily.
Lucanis opting to catatonia did not surprise Rook. His preference is always to shut down instead of displaying any greater feelings. The only time he displays heightened emotions is when they are having a row, or are in the throes of passion. Had Lucanis gone around killing without concern or filled with rage, she would have known it was a quickly passing phase. However, when Lucanis shuts down, the duration of it is impossible to predict. She also voted ‘no’ for this ending to someone's death. Had he been enraged she would have been in the other camp.
Rook had cried bitterly after reading his journal entry. She was not interested in debating the morality of reading his diary when he had run off and left her, or rather them. Her hand had drifted to her belly. She however knew him: going after him would make it all worse. If there were instructions for handling Lucanis Dellamorte, the first entry was to let him think it through alone, and only then work out the rest of it together. As a consequence she stood alone in their home, holding a paper in her hand that suggested Lucanis was about to leave them. If she had rushed into the villa, he would have acted in haste and left immediately without thinking.
Rook had found it hard not to laugh at the Crows' commentary in the report, despite it all being troubling information. At least Spite had told him what he thought.
Lucanis had declined a contract from Viago. As far as Rook was aware, he had never even contemplated turning down a contract before.
Even the Crows considered his lack of knife maintenance a warning sign. During their years together it had only happened once. Sharpening his weapons every morning was a form of meditation to Lucanis, and the fact that he did not do it now, was terrifying in itself.
She had never seen him grow his beard out either. Morbid curiosity arose within her to know what he looked like. Turns out his beard grew really fast when she asked for a demonstration afterward and twirling it in her fingers was endless fun, despite his protestations against it on the account of the fact that it hurt. Suffering it was the least he could do after what he put her through in such a delicate state, or figure out something better to do. He did find better things to occupy her fingers with. After that, he gave himself a quick knife shave.
Rook had felt strange sensations in her womb all day. It felt as if someone was blowing soap bubbles underneath her belly button. It was the first time she felt anything alive in her tummy, and Lucanis was nowhere to be found, except perhaps navel-gazing at a wrong belly button. But the fact that he was falling into his wyverns again suggested, he was working through something in his head, so Rook was hopeful.
The last report was barely legible.
Rook chuckled at the chaos of the report. Not long after that Lucanis reappeared.
He threw himself at her feet and kissed her wedding ring: it barely fitted anymore, she was so badly swollen due to her raging hormones.
“I’m sorry, Rook. I don’t know how to be a father” he said.
“And I am clueless about being a mother,” she replied.
It had been enough. Everyone present was in a violent agreement of figuring it out.
Rook had pulled him up from the ground and noticed he had missed a spot while shaving. It would drive him mad, so she took one of his knives from his waist. With the wyvern tooth dagger, she cut off the offending tuft of hair, while his eyes followed her movements.
“Missed it while shaving. Very unlike you,” she said smiling.
“There was a lot of it,” he replied.
“I heard. It brought down the betting ring,” she said. She had no intention to hide that she knew what had been going on.
“Would you like to see the journal entry that never got to you?” he asked and showed her a carefully folded paper. Sharp and straight edges as usual.
As Rook smiles at the memory of the note, Caterina comes back to her senses. Rook helps her up and surprisingly she does not resist. She was half-expecting her to smack her or at the very least insult her. Instead, her momentarily frail body rises without adversity as Rook assists her.
Lucanis seems startled as he comes down the stairs. When he moves now, he creates more noise. Rook no longer has to experience the terror of him catching her unawares by sneaking behind her. Under normal circumstances, Caterina would have given him an earful about it, but now she seems to be looking at Lucía still lost in thought.
Rook sees the wyvern statue mentioned in the reports in Lucanis’ hand and sees him handing it to his daughter- to his real little Joyous Wyvern.
Rook tries the coffee but it is awful again. This time the feelings of nausea and disgust are even worse. So much for the easier second time.
“She can see the demon?” Caterina's coffee is untouched and she tries to understand. “Let me talk to the thing!”
“Him, Caterina,” Lucanis corrects, and lets Spite through.
Lucanis’ face adopts the smirk and his skin glimmers in the pink hue.
“The evil grandmother,” Spite says in a way of greeting.
“Spite!” Lucía says and climbs on his lap immediately from Rook's lap.
“Maker, you’re making my grandson look hideous.” Caterina does not attempt to hide her disgust towards the demon.
“Thank you,” Spite says, taking it as a compliment.
Rook snorts. Caterina shoots a glance at her.
“Doesn’t he?” she asks. “Surely this creature is tarnishing your husband’s body?”
Rook notes that she seems to cringe when she uses the word ‘husband’. Changing Caterina is like trying to convince the east wind to consider the benefits of blowing from the west instead.
“No, not really,” Rook answers while trying to take another sip of the coffee, but her stomach lurches.
“I do not want to know,” Caterina decides, undoubtedly realizing that their marital bed is for three, since the demon is integral to his grandson now.
Spite takes a sip of Lucanis' coffee. He is getting better at tasting things. Lucía tries to reach for it too to mimic him, but Spite doesn’t allow her and pushes the cup further away from the child. He then turns to Caterina and says “It is his body, I have none. This is a side-effect. The child is not a demon if you are afraid of that, hag.”
That seemed to calm her down, and Spite calling him names seemed to make Caterina particularly pleased.
“I like this one,” she says pointing towards Spite now, but glances at Rook. “You, not so much. You, are on notice!"
Rook is quite used to being there, so it makes no difference.
Spite stops Lucía from going after the coffee cup. Her paternity is clear. She would do anything for a quality roast. Lucanis takes over.
Caterina observes Rook for a moment and asks "What is wrong with your wife, Lucanis?"
What is wrong is that Rook's stomach is churning and every scent makes her want to lie down under the table.
"No," says Caterina.
"Oh yes," counters Rook. Caterina shrugs.
Rook has a dim hope Caterina can trip Lucanis up with her cane if he tries to escape and perhaps ban him from the villa, in case he wants to grow his beard out or wants his wyvern back.
“Are you going to run off again?” she asks him.
“No. I am not, Rook.”
There will be twice as many fears and worries, with double the trouble. At least Lucanis has accepted that there will be no free time, food disappears to hungry maws quicker than he can cook it, and his agility is tested as the floors will be littered with twice as many toys. Instead of panicking, he smiles widely and hugs Lucía, who has already pilfered the chain from his shirt. Lucanis might not be a thief, but his firstborn is. "So, a sister or a brother, Lucía?"
"According to our crystal trader, it's a boy. Then again he also said my hearthstone is misaligned, and my hearthstone is just fine!" Rook replies, she doesn't have the faintest idea what that is.
‘The child is pretty,’ Caterina thinks, looking at the small thing hanging off her legs. ‘It has Lucanis’ eyes.’
She chastises herself and corrects herself, ‘She has Lucanis’ eyes,’ it is not the child’s fault that half of her is made out of Rook.
The little girl is trying to open the clasp of her shoe. Caterina remembers training lockpicking with Lucanis when he was too young to hold a blade. That job is now his if this girl were to become a Crow like her father, but Caterina suspects it is not a path Lucanis wants for her. Fatherhood suits him. He appears composed and pleased, despite the stories to the contrary she heard about his nervous breakdown during Rook’s pregnancy.
So, Lucía Illaria Dellamorte, their tribute to her daughter and his cousin. It is an unnecessary sentimentality as Lucanis does not even remember his mother, but… Caterina’s mind pauses for a moment. It is admittedly a nice gesture.
If Lucanis had remained as the First Talon long enough, he would have found out that despite her explicit orders to the flock not to tell her the child’s name, there is always one who comes and slips it to you anyway. In this case, that someone was Andarateia. It was of little consequence, as she hears it now from Lucanis too, which is what she wanted.
“Nonna.” Of course, Rook would taunt her and Lucanis had stood up for his wife. Caterina felt a momentary contentment for his backbone before the feeling disappeared again to that dark place, where all emotions within her died. Once upon a time, she would have never accepted to be called Nonna, but perhaps it was time to stop that particular nonsense.
“Fine. Now, Lucía, let Nonna show you where your father’s room is. You can destroy everything within it at your leisure,” she tells her granddaughter. What Lucanis does not know is that Caterina had the neighboring room decorated for a baby girl the day after she saw her for the first and only time, just in case this day would arrive.
The day she went to see this child her parents were incapable of stringing together coherent sentences due to their ridiculous crying. She gave them room to continue as they were, pathetic, but happy. The child had Lucanis’ eyes and that gave Caterina too large a dose of reality at once. Lucanis had again made something out of himself, without his grandmother, and Caterina did her utmost to replace her pride with anger.
“Hello?” Caterina hears a voice from a hallway, as they go hand in hand with young Lucía down the stairs. She had enjoyed her room next to his father’s old bedroom. While they were looking around, Lucanis was searching for that unremarkable statue of a wyvern. Based on him throwing items across his room, swearing, and turning drawers upside down, he was not successful. Only Caterina had placed it into his daughter’s new room months ago. She, however, felt it appropriate that Lucanis gets his exercise in dealing with lost causes, so she let him search for it.
Lucanis would of course spot his statue immediately after leaving his room, as she left his daughter’s new room door ajar. Like this, Caterina does not have to deal with Lucanis blubbering nice words and thank you.
“Mommy!” Lucía yells happily. Caterina sighs. Another person that Rook makes happy. She lets go of the child’s hand but intends to get it back soon. Something in her small hand profoundly warms her.
“Hello, Caterina, and hi my baby,” Rook says, opening her arms wide as the child speeds up. She wraps herself around her little body.
Caterina shifts her weight uneasily and moves her cane, as suddenly her balance seems to be off. She remembers holding her own children in more innocent times. She had felt their love seeping in, their laughter warming her heart and their tears, aching for hours after they had dried.
She was not a good mother, but harsh, brutal, and heartless, like her parents before her in a good Crow tradition. But in those innocent years of theirs, when becoming a killer was not in the cards yet, she lived for her children. Their clean hands purified hers, if only for a short while.
She looks at Rook; how she talks nonsense with her only half-perfect child, how young Lucía looks at her mother in awe. That was Caterina five times over, but never in such a loving way. But she remembers their scent, the softness of their skins, and the little sounds they made when they slept. She remembers it all, even now when they have been dust for almost four decades. Her recollection of their faces is no longer accurate, but yet they haunt her. They are but echoes of memories of a mother she once had been.
She sits on the stairs of her grand mansion that once housed so much life. The world falls still around her. Her eyes glaze over and she remembers the day, she has spent a lifetime suppressing.
“Caterina,” the messenger says as he approaches. She feels the chair's leather under her hand and the fireplace is blasting heat from its stony gills beside her. Caterina glances at the messenger’s face. Something is wrong. He carries such a familiar tone as if she was suddenly lesser. Nobody below her station dares to call her by her first name– until today. He hands her a parchment and walks away swiftly, as if afraid.
Caterina unfurls the message and reads it:
“They are all dead. Your children and their children are gone– all but two. House Velardo succeeded.”
Caterina reads the slip of paper a few more times, but the words escape her. It was as if the note was written in an entirely different language, but she recognized the words, they just made no sense whatsoever.
Her skin suddenly feels cold, but there is no breeze other than the just-opened door. She sits down and places the paper on the table.
“Caterina.” She is being addressed. Her ears are humming and her blood gushes in her ears, blocking all sounds and creating an eerie soundscape.
“Caterina!” Someone tries aggressively to get her attention, and only when the table is being slammed she hears through her haze, “They are all dead!” And then she understands the message.
House Velardo killed all her five children and eight out of her ten grandchildren.
She walks in among their bloodied bodies, hearing her own footsteps, but feeling nothing but the cold that refuses to leave her, and smelling the metallic odor of their blood on their clothes.
Many knives had flashed in the night. They were all taken at once, without any forewarning.
Caterina pictures a clock tower of Treviso hitting midnight and dark shapes moving into their positions to erase the Dellamorte family from existence and succession. They worked so cleanly, but yet imperfectly, as Caterina and two grandchildren survived the night of the synchronized daggers. Her family went down from thirteen and their partners, to just two in one single night, and those boys still slept in their beds without knowing their parents were gone.
Yesterday, her daughter Lucía embraced young Lucanis in front of Caterina. She had given him a kiss on his always messy, dark hair, and the boy's eyes had sparkled out of affection as he looked at his mother. That gentle peck does not exist soon. It will be forgotten, and so will be his mother's love. The only knowledge he will have of her is that her parents died together, but both he and his cousin Illario will be too young to remember their parents, and it will be as if they never existed at all.
“Caterina, what will we do with the boys?”
“Bring them to me, the Dellamortes still stand together,” she says, and adds, “what’s left of us.” It was both a question and a statement.
Caterina wishes the final good night to her children. To bring them to this world, she labored. For her, it never became easier, during some she nearly died. The pain in her body as they were born, was sucked out of her the moment they took their first breath, only to be returned to her now, at this moment, when they had taken their last. She falls to her knees, screaming as her womb that carried them all contracts in pain under the weight of the years they lived.
Then, in the light of the candles in the hallway of the Dellamorte Villa– the only place large enough to hold them for the last time, she wipes her eyes and decides not to bend.
She stands up. She clears her mind and from emptiness, conjures her box for memories. She opens it and visualizes the grief as a solid substance. She takes her dead children and grandchildren and locks them within it behind the lock and a key, and swears never to open it again.
“Caterina,” Rook’s voice pulls her back to the staircase, back to the days of her elder years, bringing her hand back to holding her cane.
Rook helps her up, and Caterina does not resist. She sees Lucía, a child who will live.
“What happened?” Lucanis comes down holding his wyvern statue in his hands. He gives it quickly to his little daughter and grabs Caterina by the cheeks, checking her eyes, his own full of worry. Caterina notes kindness and care in his. She has always thought of his softness which she tried to eradicate for years, as a weakness, but she now realizes what it truly stands for: life beyond death.
“I am fine, Lucanis,” she says. “Shall we have coffee?”
“Absolutely, Caterina. Lucía, would you like to go with Nonna?” he says and takes Rook’s hand. Caterina looks at Lucanis smiling gently as he looks at his wife. He might have not felt his mother's love, but Rook has stood by him all these years. Any lesser woman would have left because of the torment Caterina had put her through, but she stayed for him.
Caterina feels the little hand taking hers and realizes that the day she locked her emotions in, all her grandchildren went into her little mental box- including the two that lived. Perhaps it is time to consider letting them out. Before that, she has a question she demands an answer:
“I insist on knowing, unfiltered, why my granddaughter walks as if holding onto two hands,” she sighs. She knows she will not like the answer.
“Spite!” Lucía exclaims.
“No. No,” says Caterina. “I will need something stronger.”
