I should start this by prefacing with two things: 1) I have memory issues, so this is kind of foggy to me- and I might have even said something about this before, unsure- but I do think it was you, and 2) you do not have to post this. You have no obligation to do anything with it, even to finish reading.
A long time ago, I was a lot more aware of you- not sure if we were mutuals or I just saw you in my notifications often- and that... tapered off. And every once in a while, I checked your blog, and it seems like life was just feeling crueler and crueler. And then things got quiet.
Whatever you were up to and have been since, regardless of Tumblr, I hope it's a better climb. Or at least that there are 'small things' on the path.
I'm so glad you're still around.
My love, my sweety (non romantic, just very appreciative),
You nearly made me cry twice. Write me, let me know who you are. Or if you don't want to do that feel free to send other asks anytime.
I have trouble with staying in touch with people, esp if I barely get messages by them or they don't answer me. My brain tells me they don't want to talk to me and I talked to too many to write everyone. If we never talked it may have been less time on Tumblr or less interest in your specific stuff or just more people flooding my dash. I can't tell you for sure.
I've struggled for different reasons for pretty much all my life. Recently quite some issues went away, but others surfaced again. I'm generally better nowadays. I still struggle but I'm mostly fine. My mental health made me go away from tumblr a few times but it never held for long. My blog showed my mental health issues pretty openly tbh, in different ways.
I'm planning to stay here for the long run. Don't expect a time without any problems but it should be better than it used to.
Thank you so very very much for sending me this, you don't know how much I appreciate this. I took a screenshot from this ask and it's in my faveourites folder.
"This child cannot get this treatment because their parent said no" why is this normal to you!!! "This child, who is begging for treatment, cannot be given lifesaving medical care because their parent said no" is a wild statement!!!
Children should not need parental permission for medical care!! This doesn't just apply to life or death care*! A pregnant teen should be able to get an abortion without parental permission! Let teens go on birth control without parental permission! A kid should be able to see a doctor about a mental condition that is harming them and get it treated, even if their parent "doesn't believe it's real".
KIDS SHOULD BE ABLE TO HAVE MEDICAL AUTONOMY!!!!!
*it should be noted that the reasons I list after this can also be considered life or death, as a lack of access to them can be deadly.
[image ID: a screenshot of the notes on this post, featuring several people indicating they want to know more. End ID.]
OKAY SO. You know how we talk about how one way fast fashion has made itself “necessary” is that the clothing looks like shit and feels horrible after just a few washes?
Let. Me. Tell. You. Something.
Laundry stripping is a process where you load your laundry into a tub or bin (I’ve been using my bathtub) with warm water, half a cup of borax, half a cup of washing soda, and half a cup of laundry soap (not detergent, SOAP, there’s a chemical difference). Leave it there for at least eight hours. I’ve been going for 12-24.
What you will come back to is a tub full of nearly-opaque black-gray-brown water that absolutely REEKS. This is normal. You are looking at (and smelling) hard water buildup, body sweat and oils that were embedded in the fabric, dead skin, and just regular grime.
Wring out your clothes. Throw them in the washer. (I like to do a spin-only cycle before going any further, because I have one of those washers that determines by weight how much water any given load needs.) Wash as usual.
You will notice I didn’t suggest any further pretreatment, and that’s because 1) you don’t want to layer too many chemicals on top of each other but also 2) you may not even need it.
When your clothes come out, check each one as it goes into the dryer, and if anything else s still stained, set it aside to run again with a regular pretreatment. One of the sweaters I did this with apparently did need a second treatment…to deal with what appears to have possibly been a hot chocolate stain that was previously invisible due to “well, it’s old” dinginess. I was planning to throw this sweater out. It looks almost new now. I need to wash it one more time for the probably-a-hot-chocolate stain, and then it needs to have the hem weighted to block it and bring it back to evenness, but dude. I wear my clothes to rags and I thought this thing was unfixable. “I need to reshape it” is nothing.
Remove clothes from dryer when done. Fucking MARVEL at the colors and how good the fabric feels. Give them a smell. Get righteously and royally angry that you can rejuvenate this stuff so easily, with a process that does take awhile but is 90% hands-off, but we’ve been trained to believe it’s all got to be binned once a year because discoloration and gross fabric is “normal wear and tear” and can’t be fixed.
It’s utterly unreal! I just pulled a seven-year-old work undershirt out of the dryer and this thing looks NEW!! It FEELS almost new!!! One of the shirts I hung up from the last load is older than some of the people on this site and it went from “I keep this to wear on laundry day, for sentimental reasons” to “I could actually wear this out of the house, it looks old but respectable”! The pajama bottoms I’m wearing were from Goodwill and they have BRIGHT YELLOW in them! I thought it was goldenrod!!
I do not know how often you’re supposed to do this (doing it every time can strip the dye out of your clothes, not to mention it’s way too much work to do every time), but once or twice per season seems respectable. I don’t wear white, so I can’t test the “it will make whites look almost-new as well” claim, but I’ve seen a lot of people on the cleaning subreddit attest that it works.
Just remember: WASHING soda. Not baking soda. I tried baking soda and a little bit happened, but not a lot.
Go forth. Rejuvenate your clothing. Strip your laundry.
Was designated to bring dessert to two separate Thanksgiving meals today, did NO shopping and just scrounged in my empty cupboards for ingredients. This baking shit actually easy af.
Thank you to the cookbook I was gifted from a convent — turns out people who take vows of poverty know how to make good food out of NOTHING.
the new york times has such a great series of elevated butter noodles, if you ever want a super fast easy dinner that still feels grown up and you can emulsify pasta water + butter together basically the sky is your limit
ya got
gochujang butter noodles
peanut butter noodles
chili crisp fettuccine alfredo
miso butter noodles
any one of these + a bag of salad or whatever vegetable side you find easiest/cheapest, and you've got yourself a full meal that tastes far above the effort you put in.
insane news that I’m still processing but I will be moving into a (tiny) apartment in november. I still need a couch which i’m gonna get from fb marketplace, and will also need a different litterbox for my cat and some essentials like cleaning and first aid supplies. I am asking for assistance in this process. The litter box is around $24 and the stuff in my cart at walmart is around $147 after tax. I’m hoping to find a couch for $100. Anything helps!
GOAL: $271
I will update when and if people are able to donate. thank you!
Feels like I've read multiple times the opinion of, "music illiteracy is a problem on this site because most people on this site don't listen to [insert music genre that opinion haver likes here]." And it's like I don't know man, I think most people are music illiterate because they can't read sheet music, not because they don't listen to metal.
Queen of getting invited to Opioid Crisis Taskforce Meetings as a person with lived experience / representative working on Harm Reduction advocacy + programs, then getting my microphone muted halfway through.
I was invited because I worked on the decrim campaign and volunteer at a syringe program. But I was open that I’m a person who uses/has used drugs. My crimes:
1. Correcting a cop who said you mentioned dying from touching fentanyl. This myth has led to people being afraid to touch or help someone who has overdosed. It was popularized a while ago by a cop who had an anxiety attack after handling things at a crime scene. There was no evidence that this person experienced, or could have experienced, an opioid overdose.
2. Correcting someone from NA who stated that naloxone encourages people intentionally taking an overdose and then reversing it. Overdoses are terrifying, especially if you are dependent and therefore wake up in precipitated withdrawals. People who use drugs are already collectively traumatized by our supply being poisoned, and public health officials putting up further barriers to safe supply. No one is having Narcan parties ffs.
3. Stating that drug use has been a part of human behavior since the beginning of humans, and drug users deserve autonomy.
4. Stating that there is more than one way to recover, heal, or make positive changes to one’s relationship with drugs.
I spoke less times than others in the call. The moderator ignored my answers after calling on me, then fawned over literally anyone else speaking from a more prohibitionist perspective.
A couple social workers said privately that my points were accurate, but didn’t stand up for me publicly.
People Who Use Drugs are, as a group, often a part of leftist groups, but looking at discussions of PWUD is useful to leftist causes for one particular reason above many others: it works as a proxy for how other groups will be treated when they can be properly dehumanized, criminalized, and from there one is forced to contend with just how easily groups are going to be put through this in order to make them acceptable targets for hatred.
PWUD, drug users, junkies, tweakers, crackheads, whatever your preferred term, are all part of a group that is criminalized, stigmatized, and frankly, killed whenever possible through neglect, carelessness, or through the most profound and insistent acts of alienation possible. Being a PWUD can bar you from so many services it is frankly absurd, and when harm reduction or drug policy come into the discussion, how we are lefv out is even more apparent.
to address this dangerous, lawless criminal’s obvious offenses in order:
1. fentanyl is an incredibly dangerous subject to work with in bulk, and one that is very dangerous to use, but the myth of police coming into contact with it accidentally and ODing from it is one that is used in order to justify violence toward drug users of all sorts, both ones who use fentanyl and ones who use drugs which “may contain” fentanyl, a category that can be stretched to cannabis if an officer is desperate enough to be sure about it. if it convinces police to carry Narcan, then that is an accidental benefit, but for the most part, it is used to justify measures of caution that are vastly unnecessary. Fentanyl overdoses dont occur just from handling fentanyl.
2. Anyone who claims that Narcan encourages overdose is either lying, incredibly behind on their knowledge of drugs, or both. the idea that opiate users are taking doses they know could lead to an OD so they can get as high as possible and then get narcanned after they OD is ridiculous not only because an OD is an awful experience in just about every way, the experience of being Narcanned is so awful that frankly, the first thought many have upon being “brought back” is that they wish they had just been let go. Narcan rips the opiates off of your opiate receptors, which reverses the overdose occuring by sending you into withdrawal on purpose. from here, one can correct the main cause of death during an OD, that is, a lack of breathing but the sudden change, similar to how drugs like Buprenorphine act by binding more effectively to opiate receptors than any other drug, is basically going from so high you may die into the worst withdrawals possible. thats why some have suggested ambulances start carrying subs as a post-narcan treatment: it will help aid outcomes by making it so that the person who is now breathing again is at least not in active withdrawal while they try to get them the care they need. Narcan parties are the same as “rainbow parties”: ridiculous fantasies of people who dont know what life is like
3. People joke about how civilization was influenced by the desire to cultivate beer, which is how much beer is a part of civilization. Beer and cannabis are both sold legally in numerous preparations, liquor stores are incredibly common, and drug companies already prepare drugs in different fashions for different uses, company to company, so on. the famous Peach-Mint Actavis taste is well-known, and if it were decriminalized and made again it would be an incredibly lucrative product! Being able to buy actual Percocet, or any number of blue 30mg oxycodone pills (aka Perk 30s) or to buy pure cocaine mixed with coconut flavored powder to recreate one of Mexico’s favorite treats would absolutely be in line with how people enjoy drugs already. In Amsterdam, the number of different psychedelic truffles available is incredible, and with the genetics works that growers have been doing lately, the number of strains of Cubensis mushrooms available is growing rapidly with no sign of stopping. Nights of cocaine and booze capped off with a few blasts of crack and a few xans with a blunt for a nightcap would not be everyone’s vibe, but it would be the vibe for some. that doesnt even begin to cover how many MDMA pills and LSD blotters there are out there, and how fun a dispensar of those would look. And even with fentanyl, making it so that users can inject, insufflate, or smoke known doses would make it so that a drug once considered a scourge could become a drug used by those who respect its incredible power, who understand it as such. Why can we not use drugs in these ways?
4. to continue on, for those who wish to stop using certain drugs, what’s to say they can’t use others recreationally? someone who is okay with their weed smoking and occasional cocaine habit but wants to try methadone therapy would not have to be forced to lie about their sobriety, and instead get the help they need with honestly given advice attached. not advice that tells them to stop, but rather about how best to balance their use for their own safety and to make their lifestyle easier to maintain. For those with a drinking problem, therapies based off of LSD being widely available would provide a classic solution yet again. Decriminalizing and legalizing while also offering therapeutic services with drugs would solve the potential problem posed by these services not being as effective as we wish: a strict legalization like Measure 109 posited could easily lead to the exact sort of prohibition enacted on MDMA and MDA in the first place!
PWUD are, in many movements, canaries in coal mines. when police come after us, social services stop serving us, when we begin to lose the battles we fought so hard to win, it is a sign that progress we made previously is being lost. When a group treats PWUD within a community poorly, it indicates that they plan to expand that treatment to the rest of the community. When PWUD are forced to go without basic services, we all suffer.
Chapter 14:
Warnings: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH(S), Angst/Tragedy, suicide ideation, dialogue heavy
Approx 10K+ long.
Read on Ao3
Prompt 18 out of 25:
Minrathous, Part 1
Follow up from Treviso (chapters 7-11) and Burn (spin off/what if follow up to chapter 8- IllarioxRook)
The Battle of Minrathous was won, but at what cost?
---
The battle against Elgar’nan was nothing like he had ever faced. The monster of a god able to wield magic so naturally, it was as if each spell was an extension of his being, bending to his will seamlessly. They almost lost; if it hadn’t been for Bellara interceding and controlling the Blight, their futures looked set to end by his hand.
Yet somehow, against all odds, he fell with just two strokes of a blade. Bleeding out like any other man he had met on the street. Nothing special or awe-inspiring to behold in his demise- just another dead man.
He didn’t know what to feel. After all it took to get there, it all ended so quickly.
Lucanis rushed to hold Rook, suddenly too desperate to feel her against him, to make sure it wasn’t all just a dream. Her arms wrapping around him felt even greater than their victory, and whilst he was still too shy to kiss her in front of their friends, she welcomed his embrace, only making a noise of discomfort when he squeezed her a little too tightly.
She managed to make it down and smiled and waved at the citizens of Minrathous, letting them know that the god’s reign of terror was over and that they could begin to heal. Rook warned them to steer clear of all the Blight, but for now, it was their time to live and celebrate.
The First Talon ran to find Teia, Viago and Illario; all three had minor cuts and bruises and were beyond exhausted, but otherwise all remained perfectly intact. He took the Fifth Talon’s arm, gripping it firmly in a show of solidarity and relief. He hugged and kissed Teia on the cheek, thanking her for her constant support, and he offered Illario a curt nod, thanking him for joining the fight. His cousin mirrored the action, unsure of what he could say, their relationship reduced to cold professionalism. However, Lucanis would be lying if he said that his heart did not lighten at the sight of his cousin whole and alive.
He spoke to their allies to check who still stood and breathed a sigh of relief to know so many managed to survive, worse for wear, certainly- but around to fight another day.
“Neve, have you seen Rook? I saw her speaking to Emmrich not too long ago, but now I can’t find her,” he said, eyeing Minaeve, his next target to ask if Neve didn’t know the answer. The woman couldn’t have gone too far; the people in the streets would not have let her pass without a song and dance heard for miles, and besides, they promised they would go back to the Lighthouse and fall asleep in each other’s arms. He wasn’t going to step foot out of the city without her firmly tucked in the safety of his embrace.
He wandered the ruined halls until he happened upon Emmrich, who was sitting upon a crate, hunched over and using his staff to hold himself up. Myrna and Vorgoth stood vigil beside him, the human watcher’s hands on his shoulders to comfort him. Lucanis was about to shout out to him when Spite stepped forward, his head tilting one way and then another as he surveyed the professor.
Curiosity’s Keeper is… sad.
“There has been a lot of needless death here, Spite. Someone like Emmrich, who can hear spirits, is probably feeling it much more keenly than a normal person.”
… Maybe.
Lucanis turned around to speak to Minaeve, but was stopped by a hand on his forearm. Spite perked up as he raised his nose into the air, a large smile spreading across his face. He took a few steps forward and another deep breath before confirming that he could smell Rook, pointing to a door guarded by another Mourn Watcher. The demon had yelled at him to hurry up so they could take Rook home, his exclamation loud enough to reach Emmrich, who looked up at Lucanis.
The Crow had never seen the man look so tired in all the months he had spent with the team. The older gentleman always had a spring in his step and a jovial disposition that helped brighten even their more stoic members. He had thought that after such a glorious win, the necromancer would be happier, especially as they stood beside Rook as she took down Elgar’nan. He had seemed rather chipper, if not a little worn, the entire way back down from the Archon’s Palace.
“Are you doing alright there, Emmrich?” he called out, ignoring the way Spite was screeching to leave that mage for theirmage, who was just behind the door.
“Lucanis, my dear boy, I… I,” he faltered, licking his lips as he scoured his mind to find the right words. “I will be here, right outside, whenever you are ready.”
Lucanis flashed him a bemused smile, unsure of what he was talking about. Perhaps Emmrich had meant that he would join him and Rook on their way back to the Lighthouse, and to collect him when they intended to leave. “Certainly, but you do not need to wait. If you wish to go ahead or stay with your Mourn Watchers-”
“I will be right here,” he replied in a clipped tone, pounding the end of his staff into the ground, the tip flashed a bright green with the flare of his mana. Emmrich apologised quietly as he turned to his colleagues with his stricken expression etched on his face. He took in a breath and set his glassy eyes back onto Lucanis, his lips pressed tightly together. “Until you are ready.”
Lucanis… Rook…
Something in Spite’s voice made him tear his attention away from his friend and onto the demon, who was half-crouched beside the Mourn Watcher guarding the door. The small, prostrated form of the demon worried Lucanis. He had never seen him shy away from anything, always ready to fight back and raise hell, and yet—there he was—shrinking away from a door.
“Hello, Watcher,” he said, watching Spite from the corner of his eye. He could have gone through easily; there was no need to wait. However, he remained fixed in his spot, almost afraid to go in without him.
“Hello, Master Crow. Those who fell in our fight lie in the next room. They will soon be taken to grave or pyre as their beliefs dictate; for now, they wait, and we attend them. If you wish to pay your respects, please enter.”
Suddenly, it made sense. Rook was in there, visiting their fallen comrades. She was probably crying, and Spite hated whenever Rook cried; he felt diminutive and powerless to do anything to comfort her. He realised he had not seen more of their friends from the Veil Jumpers, nor had he seen Taash since they had agreed to assist with holding their ground- if any of them had passed on, Rook would have never forgiven herself.
Lucanis quickly nodded to the Mourn Watcher, who bowed his head and stepped to the side to allow him past. He had thought that as someone who had lived with death for so long, the sight of so many fallen people would no longer affect him, and yet, seeing the bodies lined up on the tables with shrouds over them unsettled him more than he could understand. He could only imagine how hard Rook was taking it. She had taken the time to speak with people around each of their allies’ camps, making friends and forming real relationships with so many of them. For her, every loss would have been another knife to the heart, another scar she’d be forced to bear for the rest of her life.
Lucanis… Lucanis… it’s Rook.
He turned his head to where the spirit had wandered, but could not see their beloved Rook anywhere. “What are you talking about, Spite? She’s not here. Perhaps she was just in here and has since moved on- we should check with Strife and Irelin-”
No. Here. Here .
“Where?” he asked, throwing his arms out to his sides in frustration, a flood of guilt crashing over him for raising his voice in front of their dead. He was three steps away from Spite when he saw the familiar shock of amethyst-hued hair and a singular pointed ear. A rush of warmth spread through him, replacing the unease he hadn't realised was there until it left him. She would never understand the peace that her mere presence brought him.
Rook was sitting on the ground with her head tilted forward and her eyes shut. Little paths of clear skin peeked through the dust and dirt caked on her cheeks, cut by the dried tear stains that trailed down to her chin. She had cried herself to sleep.
... Asleep? No. Lucanis... She... Rook...
“Hmm?” he asked with a noise at the back of his throat as he bent down to brush the stray hairs away from her face, smiling at seeing her peaceful expression.
I didn’t know. Didn’t notice. She smelled of fight and magic and blight, but we all did. Everything. Did. But she still smells of it.
Lucanis’ heart stopped for a moment when he was pulled from his rose-coloured world and back into reality. He must have heard him wrong, must have misunderstood. “What did you just say?”
Spite knelt down and reverently touched Rook’s leg, bending over to smell her again before repeating himself to ensure he wasn’t wrong. But by all the gods and spirits in the Fade, he wanted to be wrong.
Rook smells of blood. And death. Death stronger as time. Passes us. Rook is dy-
“Don’t you say it!” he growled, lashing out with his hand as if he could hurt the demon physically. “That is not a joke to be made, Spite. Not here. Not now- she is just... We need to go home, and if she’s still unwell, we can get Emmrich to look…”
Lucanis trailed off, remembering how Emmrich had greeted him just moments before. The tired face of a broken man. He knew. He knew she was in here. He knew that she was-
His train of thought was interrupted by the tight grasp of Spite’s hand around his wrist. He was about to pull away and yell at the demon, but stopped when he saw him reach out and grab Rook’s shoulder, Spite staring intensely at them both.
Still time!
Lucanis thought he was going to be sick; a wholly uncomfortable feeling pulled at his gut, but it was gone in an instant. He opened his eyes, when had he shut them?, and instead of the sand coloured stone that was so common around Minrathous, he saw dirt underneath patches of white… snow? He took a second to take in his surroundings. Gone were the tables with the bodies of their comrades and the clutter of books and candles about the room, replaced with barren trees and a grey sky and… he knew this place. He had been here before.
Lucanis saw Spite run off in front of him, but he took his time to find his bearings and try to understand what had happened.
Why was he back here? This was where they met and almost fought with Mythal, wasn’t it? He recognised the broken arch leading to a ledge overlooking a large clearing. Had Spite taken him to meet with Mythal? Wasn’t the last of her in that vessel with Morrigan?
Lucanis took a few tentative steps toward the figure standing on the edge, greeting Spite, and though he was not that far, he couldn’t quite make out their face. Perhaps it was the sun cutting through the clouds, or maybe it was just exhaustion finally catching up to him and playing tricks with his eyes. Whether it was Mythal or another Crossroad Spirit, Spite was conversing with them, and the demon seemed almost afraid to touch the hand that hovered over his cheek - in affection? To comfort him? Lucanis doubted this spirit was Mythal; she hardly seemed like someone to take much notice, let alone show kindness to a demon of Spite.
Looking at the woman hurt him; his eyes blurry and wet whenever he tried to focus on her. Maybe she could tell him why he was there. She was clad in a long white dress, its hem resting atop the snow, untarnished by the moisture or dirt surrounding her. He forced himself to get closer to her. She could be his way back to Rook, and he wasn’t going to-
Rook.
Rook.
That white dress, she wore one just like it, not too long ago. Of course she had. It was the day that he realised just how truly beautiful she was, not because of her exposed skin or how she wore her hair, but because she just looked like a woman- and not a mage or a warrior or a leader. Just a beautiful woman he could picture walking through Treviso’s streets with him, if he were not a Crow and just a man. The two of them enjoying each other’s company with no strings or obligations to anything larger than themselves. Lucanis saw the life she represented, so simple and carefree, with no pretence or barriers between them. It was so beautiful to him. She was so beautiful.
A bright ray of light passed over his eyes, and he hissed, stumbling back. He blinked once—twice—his hazy vision slowly returning to normal until he could see her clearly.
She was still so beautiful.
He stopped a few steps away from them, the two deep in conversation and had not realised they were no longer alone.
“Spite, please. Look after him. He will need it, he will need you.”
Spite’s eyes widened, the bright purple glow of his spirit pouring out from behind his gaze. He shook his head, his hair whipping around his face, mouth twisted into a deep frown.
“Lucanis needs Rook.”
“I’m sorry-”
“Spite needs Rook!”
Rook felt the words she had meant to say next die on her tongue, replaced with a strangled noise before she pressed her lips together and swallowed it down.
“You just need each other.”
“No! You have just gotten us out. You started opening the doors! You cannot close this one on him, on us!”
The demon’s shoulders dropped, and he scowled, unsure of the mixture of feelings that stirred within him. Anger. Vengeance. Curiosity- that he understood. But this hollow that appeared deep inside him, he had never felt before. Was this grief? It reminded him of the way he felt around Despair. Would he, too, change, and no longer be Spite?
Rook apologised to the spirit and turned to the Crow, standing in the snow in his dark leathers, looking just like a lost child in the markets.
“Hey, Lucanis,” she smiled at him, just like she had the night before they set off to Minrathous. He had never felt so warm or at home just from a smile, but there he was again, wrapped up by everything that was his Rook, and he did not want to leave.
“Rook… what are we doing here?” he asked, trying his best to understand what had happened.
Her smile faltered momentarily, but she recovered quickly, taking one step closer to him with Spite, who was uncharacteristically quiet and unable to look him in the eye.
“Lucanis. You know why. Heard. Why.”
“Spite has told me that you’re aware of my condition,” she replied, her sad smile still on her face like she had just told him his favourite wine was discontinued, that they couldn’t go for a picnic or that she lost his whetstone. Not… Not that she was-
“You’re dying?”
“I am.”
“Then we get Emmrich. Minaeve. Bellara… everyone-”
Her head swayed slightly as her expression broke for a moment, in her sadness for him and not herself. Lucanis wanted to scream. “There’s nothing to be done, Luca. I knew you would both find me before it was too late. I knew you would. I wanted to say that I’m so sorr-”
“What if we hadn’t found you? Did you think of that, Naera? You slinked off to die alone, like a dog, and I’d be left without you and- no, No! Stop trying to justify it. You don’t get to absolve yourself because you thought you were trying to be merciful. This wasn’t a kindness, Rook.” Lucanis cut her off with a sharp stare and a pained scowl. His arms felt like lead, yet still he thrashed them about in hopes he could hit something and make it hurt, make himself hurt and not have to deal with the bleeding hole in the centre of his chest. The truth slowly chipped away at it bit by bit, and soon, he knew there would be nothing left of him. “You can’t. You can’t be dying.”
“Lucanis, you’re right. I was selfish and I am sorry for that too-” she started, her arms outstretched to him as he stepped further out of her reach. If she didn’t touch him, if she didn’t say the words, it wasn’t real. It wasn’t the end. She couldn’t leave him. “Lucanis, please.”
He turned quickly and pointed at her like he was accusing her of a crime, and perhaps he was.
“You promised! It’s not right, not fair! I never-we- we never had a chance to be anything more!” he cried, teeth bared in a painful grimace as he forced the words out, his burgeoning grief fuelled by his overarching, ever-present guilt. If only he had spoken up sooner, cleared the misunderstanding and stopped being so scared… they could have had more time. They could have had so much more than just one perfect day. It was not enough. Even ten lifetimes with her would never have been enough.
But he would have settled for even one.
Just one.
“You sound like Spite,” she chuckled quietly, shrugging softly, hoping that her classic attempts at masking pain with ill-timed humour would have brought him a modicum of comfort. Lucanis swore and returned to her, his eyes wide and entreating, as if his silent pleas would be enough to stop what was coming for her.
“Why have you given up? Please, there must be something,” he entreated, his hands raised between them with his palms up in unconscious prayer.
Rook smiled sadly and tried to take him by his hands, only to be evaded once more. “I’m not giving up, Luca. There’s just no fighting this… or at least… no winning this time for me.”
Lucanis snarled to stave off the pain bubbling up his throat and began to pace again, his feet crunching over the fresh snowfall, doing his best not to let the encroaching despair win. To stay there and not retreat to the confines of his mind, where he could stay and Rook was safe and alive and-
“Stop, Lucanis. Not much time left. If you leave… You will never see her again. Never say goodbye.”
“I don’t want to say goodbye!” he snapped, growling at the demon who merely stared back at him solemnly. “There must be something we can do, something I can do to fix this. Is there an ancient god of death? Tell me! I’ll do anything -” The Crow looked up and saw the demon’s expression change and knew he was telling the truth; there was not much time left. He would never see her again. Because she was right. There was no defeating this enemy, no deity he could invoke or strike down to keep her with him.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered, his eyes falling back down to the ground, his vision slowly clouding with tears he refused to shed. Rook stepped forward, almost hesitant to touch him in case he would break into pieces at the contact. She could see how tightly wound his muscles were, ready to strike and lash out at any perceived threat, or curl up into a ball and wish the world away. Gathering her courage, Rook reached out to touch his hair, patting him softly in the hope he would find any measure of comfort from it.
“You once told Bellara, that if anyone knows that people die, it is an assassin.” She watched as he scoffed bitterly at her words, unable to meet her eyes. “You know this dance, Lucanis. We traced out the steps every day, just to a different tune, a different beat. But you know how this ends. You know what comes next.”
He could no longer hold the pain that ate away at him, a gasp of breath breaking the silence as his shoulders shuddered and tears fell over the brim of his large, dark eyes.
“I do… but I do not want to.”
Rook steadied herself and held him by his shoulders to help him stand tall. “You can do this, Lucanis. I know you can. We’ve defeated Elgar’nan, and now you have a chance to live. Really live well, remember? You said that was what you wanted.”
“With you, Rook. I wanted to live well, with you.”
Her chest constricted, but she forced herself to keep going.
“Maybe I was just here to serve as the reminder that you could. If so, I am glad to be that for you. If I have to stay in the Fade forever, let me see you live happily… who knows maybe you and Neve-”
“Neve?!” Lucanis spat, offended at what she was trying to suggest to him. “What she and I shared over months, pales in comparison to what we shared in one day together… Neve- she is my dear friend, you know this. So please… Please, do not leave me alone.”
Rook did her best to ignore the sound her heart made, so as not to deepen the hurt that was already cutting away at the man before her. Her hands fell to her sides and balled into fists. She could not break, not yet. She needed to be strong for him, one last time.
Turning on her heel, she faced the quiet demon with his hands clasped together in front of him, so unsure of what to do or where to look or what he was even feeling.
“Do I have your word, Spite? You will look after Lucanis when I’m gone?”
Spite looked at her as if he were close to tears himself, neither sure if a spirit could cry.
“Yes. So you can’t forget us. Do not close the door all the way. And leave us. In the dark.”
Rook reached out to him instinctively wanting nothing more than to comfort the hurting demon and gasped. She could feel him under her hands, solid and true as one could be in the Fade. Rook gave a garbled laugh as she took the spirit in her arms and held him tight, clutching onto the leathers he wore fashioned after Lucanis’ old armour. After a minute, or a lifetime, she pulled away and clasped his face in her palms, marvelling at the way he felt, so warm and familiar, with the buzz of pure magic under her fingertips. He felt just like Lucanis, smelled just like Lucanis- if not for the touch of ozone that he always carried- just like her.
“You listen to me, Spite,” she spoke with an urgency she did not have before, lifting his face to look her in the eyes. “I am closing nothing. I’ll be here waiting for you both, doors wide open, arms wide open, when you’re both ready. When it’s time. But until then, I want you both to go and live full, wonderful lives.”
Rook quickly spun around and tugged at Lucanis’ hand to force his attention back on her. She did not have much time left.
“-I want you to do more than survive. I want you to love and be loved like you both deserve. I want you to come back here, old, grey, and with so many wrinkles from a life full of happiness, and I want to hear everything about it. Promise me, Lucanis- you’ll live as you would have with me- if you don’t want to be First Talon. Don’t. You stood against a god; you can stand against Caterina. Don’t let anyone keep you from whatever it is that brings you joy.”
“… Rook.”
She shook her head, stopping him from trying to deny her. She would not allow it, not now.
“You are what is left of my life now. Whatever memory there is left of me, lives on in you. Or were you just being poetic when you said your heart beats for me?” she asked with a pointed stare until the Crow shook his head, wordlessly promising his heart still belonged to her, it always would. “So let it keep beating. Strong. Loud. Let me hear it from the beyond and know that it will always be in sync with mine, until we can be reunited.”
Lucanis allowed himself to touch her, petrified that she would feel cold or worse, that he would not feel her at all. He let out a shuddering breath at the warmth that slowly seeped through his leather gloves. He ripped them off, hoping to etch the memory of her into his mind. He wanted to imbed his love for her into the very fabric of the Fade so deeply, that he would be able to relive the feeling in his dreams. He pulled her to him, his hands resting on her waist and pressed his forehead to hers, doing his best to breathe in her scent.
Only then, in his moment of clarity, did he realise that the entire Fade smelled of honey and lavender, and he fell to his knees, his temple nestled against her stomach, crying out in earnest for the second time in his life. He could feel the way her fingers ran through his hair, and he begged himself to keep it together, to remember every little thing and not lose their final moments together to his grief.
Rook dropped down to meet Lucanis, drawing him into her embrace, holding him as tightly as she could in hopes that he’d remember how her arms felt in the years to come without her. To pretend that he could still feel her holding him when he needed her most. She closed her eyes and fought against the ache surging within her. Just a little bit longer. She could break later. She needed to be strong, for just a little bit longer…
“Why do you hide. Rook? Still. At the end. No more secrets.”
The mage’s final shred of strength gave out at the spirit’s words, joining Lucanis in his tears. Her hands found their way back into his hair, and she peppered his face with tear-soaked kisses. His hands splayed out wide across her back and the back of her neck. It felt so real, their bodies, their goodbye.
“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” she cried, holding onto his face, her golden eyes muted with regret. “I… I just didn’t want you to see me cry at the end. I wanted you to know I was fine, so you knew that you would be okay.” He answered her apology with a soft kiss to her lips, chaste and full of sorrow. “I didn’t know that I would feel things so much more intensely now on this side of the Fade. The only thing keeping me from falling completely to despair is focusing on the greatest feeling of love I have ever felt. For you. From you. It is everywhere here and all encompassing- and it will see me through until I see you again.”
Lucanis registered her words, and a cold panic engulfed him. He sat back to stare at her as the feeling turned into sharp, agonising fear.
No. Not yet.
Even as tears glistened on her cheeks, she smiled at him and pulled him back to her, never complaining at the poke of his leathers as he clung to her desperately. She would endure it all and be thankful for every last second she had with him.
Spite crouched down and sat with his back pressed to hers, letting his head fall back and closed his eyes. She never lied. Spirits and demons felt things to their fullest degree. He was breathing in their anguish whilst being smothered by his own- but he would not leave them.
“Rook must always stay safe. Don’t fight without us here to watch your back. Wait. Promise.”
Rook sniffled and sighed, nodding at the spirit’s request.
“I promise.”
“Rook, Naera, I-” he started, wanting to say it once more, just once. But the words came out as sobs, Lucanis unable to say it, knowing it would be his last.
“Shh,” she cooed, her lips on his hairline, her tears trailing down onto his skin. “I know. I love you, too.”
The last thing he remembered before opening his eyes was the feel of Spite’s hand on his shoulder and the whisper of promises he didn’t know how to keep, but he would try.
---
They were found huddled in the corner of the make-shift morgue, Emmrich breaking the news to the rest of the team, one by one, when they searched for the couple. Taash rushed into the room first, not willing to believe that they could have lost another person they held onto so dearly. They were followed closely by Neve and Davrin, with Bellara standing back with Emmrich in quiet sorrow- allowing their friends to say their goodbyes first, they would get their time when they cleaned her up and prepared her for her final rites.
Taash collapsed at the sight of them, knowing too well the pain of losing a lover and friend. They cried out for their Tama, for Lace and for Rook, head in their hands as they wept and damned the world for never failing to take everyone they loved. Neve sobbed, cursing Rook, cursing him, apologising for things that were never her fault to begin with as she clung onto her sceptre so tightly her knuckles went white. And Davrin… could say nothing at all. His emotions were caught in his tightened throat from the tragedy that played out before him. The Warden fell to his knees and kissed his best friend’s brow and held her hand, knowing that between them, nothing ever really had to be said out loud.
Lucanis sat through all of it, listening but hearing nothing.
All he could comprehend was the dead weight of Rook’s body in his arms, her skin cold no matter how close he held her.
“... when we left the safehouse… three ogres attacked at once… she told me she was fine, didn’t tell me she had to patch herself up… she’d been blighted and didn’t want to slow us down. Or mire us in despair… worried that Lucanis would... would take unnecessary risks… I didn’t notice… by the time we got back, yes, the blight was cured - but I found she hadn’t healed herself completely. How could she have known what to look for? The internal bleeding… too much- too late… I should have noticed…”
Lucanis should have noticed.
He promised he wouldn’t fail her again and-
We will not fail our last promise. We will do as she asked. We must.
---
He did not know who had taken her from his arms; he could not remember how long he had sat on the floor of that room, surrounded by his friends, or when they had slowly filed out. He remembered looking down and she was gone, a sick sense of panic filling his lungs as he bolted to his feet and scurried out of the door- no direction in mind, just wherever she was. That was where he needed to be.
Lucanis was met by Emmrich, still sitting on the crate where he had promised to remain, the older man staring up at him with a deep-set frown and glassy eyes. The Crow looked around, the sky looking just as bright as when he had entered- how long had he-
“A day, dear boy. It has been a day.”
“And you’ve... you’ve been there the entire time?” he asked, his voice gravelly and hoarse from disuse and dehydration.
“And here I will stay, until you are ready, as I vowed to you... to you both,” he replied, his voice cracking at the thought of his dearly departed friend.
“Where is she, Emmrich?” he asked plainly, his arms lonely without the feel of her wrapped within them. “Who took her? Where- just, where is she?”
Emmrich stood up, a soft groan escaping his lips as weary muscles moved for the first time since he had bid their friends farewell half a day ago. “Rest assured, Lucanis, Vorgoth and Myrna had taken her with them to the Lighthouse with Bellara. They will begin the clean up and place the necessary spells and wards upon her whilst we help arrange-”
“The Lighthouse? Thank you,” he replied curtly, turning from him abruptly to head toward the eluvian, which he prayed hadn’t been destroyed. He could hear the mage rush after him to catch up, and a twinge of guilt ran through him, but he could not linger there and wait another moment. He had a finite amount of time until they took her away from him completely and-
Lucanis. It is just flesh. She has gone.
“Spite, grief is different for everyone,” Emmrich explained to the demon kindly. “Some need to be there for every part of the process, to see their face to the very last, to learn to let go. Others cannot bear to see the form of their loved one without their soul and refuse to take any part in the final rites. It is a highly personal matter, and it would be best to allow Lucanis room to do as he needs.”
But his pain fills us both. Spite only wants to help. Rook asked for Spite to help, Lucanis.
“Would both of you stop talking about me like I’m not here?” he bit out, increasing his pace at the sight of the mirror.
You were not speaking to us.
“Perhaps it is best if we leave the discussion for later, Spite. Or perhaps, come to me later... Lucanis may appreciate some quiet.”
It is nothing but quiet; that is the problem. We no longer hear her voice.
“Spite-”
It is something he refuses to accept.
“Mierda, Spite-”
It is much darker, this world, without her in it. Harder for him to find his way-
“SPITE!” he growled, rounding upon the spirit so menacingly it gave it pause. “Listen to Emmrich. Shut. Up. I don’t want to hear it. No one wants to hear it.” Lucanis glared at him before rushing through the eluvian, sprinting toward the path to the Caretaker to lead him back to Rook.
Emmrich let out another sigh and turned to the spot where he could hear the demon muttering quietly, a wave of empathy crashing over the mage. Death was so brutal for both the living and spirits to understand; he would have given anything to have carried their pain for them. “Forgive him, Spite. He tasted a life that could have been, and it was torn away from him all too soon. It may be dark for a time, but we must stand by him to light the way- even if he is not yet able to see it.”
---
Lucanis could not-
Why did it...
Why... Why?
He stood in front of the door. Her door. And it would not open.
No matter how he tried to pry it open, push on the handles, look for any hinges he could remove, or bash his body into it... nothing. Another dead end to her.
The fury that spurred him on was like none he had ever felt before. It surpassed the rage he felt when Illario’s betrayal came to light, or the desperation and craze that overtook him when she was imprisoned in the Fade. But there was no one left he could fight, nothing he could beat back; and he would not find any succour banging against a Fade-born door.
The others had been quick to aid him, Davrin running into it with him to force it open with brute strength. Neve and Bellara examined it closely to determine if there was anything to magically ease the door apart, and Emmrich had attempted to reason with the Caretaker spirit, asking if there was something they could do to grant Lucanis access.
“No, Dweller. His needs are met.”
Lucanis was hunched over, his hands on his knees, breathing hard and throat dry- unable to speak. Too many thoughts raced through his mind as he tried to understand why this was happening, the assassin catching the warden’s eyes from where he sat on the floor, neither able to provide any answers. Taash joined them when there were no other options and motioned for Davrin and Lucanis to move back. They inhaled deeply before releasing one of the mightiest bursts of fire they had seen, the violent rumbling of the doors, evidence of the ferocity of their assault, though no one could see past the plumes of smoke.
When the air cleared, the door remained whole without a mark. Lucanis stumbled to stand beside Davrin, both men silent as Taash joined them.
“Thank you, Taash,” Lucanis uttered, slowly accepting that he would have nothing and nowhere he could feel close to Rook again. What was one more thing to add to his losses, for he had already lost it all.
“It’s alright. I knew it wouldn’t work anyways,” they replied, shrugging half-heartedly, fiddling with one of Lace’s old archery gloves in their pocket. Davrin frowned and looked up at Taash, his confused look silently asking them how they could have possibly known that. The Qunari shrugged again and pulled their mouth into a detached, mirthless smile. “Because I tried to burn down my entire room when Lace died.”
The two men stared at Taash, one unable to find words to bring them comfort, the other with too many to relate.
“Then... then why try at all?” Lucanis asked no one in particular, his voice hollow as he took one last look at the door. He didn’t even know why he wanted to go there; her body lay in Emmrich’s room to prepare her for her final rites - there would be no fooling himself that by sitting in there, she would come back like she did after Tearstone Island. Rook was gone. Nothing in that room changed that.
But you want to pretend, even just for one more day. To smell her. To see and imagine her there with you.
Spite’s words rang true, and Lucanis did not have the strength to deny it or beg for him to shut up. He just nodded and stood up straight, the fight in him stolen by a closed door.
“Because sometimes you just need to see things burn. And sometimes, you need to see things to really understand,” Taash replied softly, playing with the ends of their braid.
“Understand what?” Davrin asked, as Assan stared at the door with the same sad eyes as Lucanis.
“That there’s no changing it. We remain. And they’re gone. No matter what we do. And that we should not burn away without them, it is not what they would want.”
Lucanis nodded, not really hearing what his friend had said. He patted their arm and reminded himself that he just needed to focus on moving his left foot, then his right foot, then left again- ignoring the Caretaker as it said something to him- swearing at the spirit in Antivan. He knew it wasn’t their fault. It was no one’s fault. But they were the easiest target, and he needed a target. Something. Maker help him. He just needed something.
He opened the pantry door and sighed. The room no longer felt cosy, or safe or warm; his haven from the world was gone. Lucanis took a deep breath and gripped onto the rim of the doorframe, por la sangre de hacedor; it smelled like Rook. He was already losing his mind, crashing faster than he thought, believing it would have been at least a week before the hallucinations crept in and his tenuous grip of reality failed him once and for all.
Lucanis.
The First Talon opened his eyes to look at the demon, eyes blurry from exhaustion and tears that refused to come.
Lucanis. Look.
Dark brown eyes focused on his doppelganger and gestured a silent question to him. What. What do you want? He decided to humour the spirit to give him some peace when he realised what he was staring at.
The same green he had been surrounded by not so long ago. Smooth and plush and inviting. His dingy little cot was gone. Replaced by the day bed she... they... had shared. His feet tottered toward the couch, his hands reaching out in front of him like a desperate babe hoping to reach their mother before they fell. And fall he did, hard, on his knees as he touched the leather almost reverently. Lucanis’ breath shuddered as he saw a small satchel at the other end of the couch. Clumsily reaching for it, he sat on the ground and held the bag on his lap, recognising it instantly as Rook’s. He had stared at it for weeks while she had been missing; he knew every small tear and loose stitch it had.
He could not open it.
Why... are you scared?
“It... It’s her things.”
No. Yours, now.
Lucanis felt a sharp stab slice through his chest. He knew Spite did not mean any harm, but each reminder that she was gone would always cause him pain. No matter how much time would pass, of that, he was truly certain.
He unbuckled the bag and carefully pushed back the flap to open it. Lucanis did not recognise the stuttering breath he let out or the whine that slipped past his lips as he pulled out the nightshirt she had worn with him. He pressed his face into the cotton and took in the deepest breath he could manage, the dam of his emotions strained against its bounds, the surface roiling with tumult nothing could quell. It smelled of her soap, her skin, a scent that drove him mad whenever she would walk by him or lulled him to sleep during their one night together in each other’s arms.
He wanted to lose himself in the scent but panicked when he realised that it would not last, that he shouldn’t disturb it too much, too soon, or it would be gone too. With practised motions, he quickly folded up the shirt and laid it on the couch carefully before sitting back down to look further into the bag. There were letters, one addressed to all of them, to each of their allies, to Isabela and to... Illario. He wanted to crush it, throw it into the fire, but he would not dishonour her like that. Whatever her final thoughts were for his cousin, she spent her final days by hisside. His fingers shook as he carded through them to find his once again... did he dare to read it now? Could he ever? He shook his head when the bile began to rise into his throat, the acrid taste a warning that he understood.
Not yet. Not ever.
Lucanis was about to set the bag aside when he felt one last item rolling around in one of the pockets. He felt around for the opening and pulled out a jar. He almost threw it against the wall once he read the label. It was the same honey and lavender balm he had thought to pick up in the Minrathous market all those months ago. It was the same one she used. It would have been the perfect gift, and he-
The jar rolled across the floor, the soft tinkling of the glass along the stone the only sound he could hear apart from the screaming in his head. He rubbed his fingers along his palms, the bottle covered with residue from the cream itself from Rook, undoubtedly handling the bottle with her hands still wet with the stuff- always in a hurry to rush out and save the day. He brought his hands to his nose, and the memory of her touching his face from their night together came back as if he were just there, the smell of the honey and lavender permeating his senses even then. With the last of his strength, he dragged himself onto the couch, in the same position he had woken up with her, and he fell asleep with his face in his hands and her shirt beside him.
---
He woke. Though he did not want to.
Rook’s shirt had fallen to the ground, tossed off during his fitful sleep. Lucanis swore and wiped off any dust or dirt it may have picked up and folded it before storing it away in her satchel. He cradled his head, his whole body shaking from his knees bouncing on the spot, too much anxious energy pooling in his muscles. He had to do something, otherwise he felt like he’d explode.
Ensuring his letter stayed safely on his side table, Lucanis picked up the stack and went to task in delivering them, sliding them under Neve and Davrin’s doors, shoving their allies’ letters wordlessly into the Caretaker’s hands. He tried to leave Bellara’s letter behind without a fuss, but she was headed to the kitchen when she noticed what he was holding. Her amber eyes filled with tears, and her bottom lip wobbled before she yelped and covered her mouth, doing her best not to make him feel worse than he already did.
She thanked him and sheepishly went back into her room, Lucanis lurking at her stoop for long enough to hear her cry openly as she read her letter aloud. Foolishly, he had hoped that hearing Rook’s kind words would have been enough to bring him to tears, but nothing came. Just a heavy weight pressing against his hollowed chest, bearing down on him.
A quick knock on Taash’s door had him handing the letter over and receiving a brief nod of thanks, knowing there was nothing they could say at that moment to ease whatever emotions he was... or was not... feeling, much to his relief. His final door was answered by Manfred, the spirit showing remarkable compassion, not greeting him with his traditional happy screeching but merely stepped aside to allow him passage. He chanced a look to see if she would still be on the marble but was grateful to see that the other Watchers had since taken her to begin the final preparations.
“Manfred, who is at the- oh. Lucanis, my dear lad, come, come. Sit,” the professor welcomed, ushering him to his desk as Manfred pushed the spare seat to allow them both to sit together.
“Not necessary, Emmrich, I am just here-”
“I insist, Lucanis,” he interrupted, unwilling to ignore the chap of his friend’s lips; the man was probably beyond dehydrated. He did not recall seeing him take any refreshment upon their return to the safe house or the lighthouse; the poor man was probably subsisting through sheer will alone. “Please, take a seat. I know you prefer coffee, but I feel that some tea would be better suited for you right now.”
The Crow did not have the will to fight. He sat. He waited. He drank. Emmrich was right- he did prefer coffee. Lucanis went to pull out the letter from his vest pocket and explain the reason for his visit when Emmrich broke the silence first.
“My dear Lucanis, I must beg your forgiveness for not finding you and telling you earlier, but after my examination, I had to honour her wishes.”
Lucanis looked up at him as he took a long sip of tea, large chocolate eyes fixed on Emmrich. For the first time since meeting the assassin, the professor felt uneasy.
“Forgiveness? Her wishes? What wishes?”
“When we realised there was nothing to be done for her, she made me promise not to tell anyone right away- that I needed to let her stay with the fallen because it was too soon to end everyone’s revelry. She said the sweet victory everyone fought for, spilled blood and sacrificed for, should not be cut short because another soldier died from their injuries-”
“But she was not just any soldier!”
“I know. I said this to her and she smiled at me, and held my hands, telling me that she did not want to force anyone to say goodbye when she herself could not bear to do it.”
“But me Emmrich, you should have told me!”
“I tried, Lucanis! I begged her to see reason, but she would have none of it. Kept telling me that you would find her in time, knew it in her bones, that yours was the only face she wanted to see in the end. She wanted to remember everyone happy and laughing and… Lucanis, it was the one selfish wish she had throughout the entire time I’d known her- how could I refuse?”
Lucanis thought about Rook, looking up at him with that resigned look on her face, large golden eyes beseeching him to do one thing for her, and he knew he could not hold any grudge against her or Emmrich. He nodded listlessly and thanked him for the tea before taking his leave, suddenly too tired, anxious energy gone, replaced by a longing to curl back onto the couch and forget the world.
---
...Rook... Rook?!
He knew that scent anywhere. It was not the same as the shirt. Or the couch. Or the jar she left. He would know her from anywhere.
Spite leapt up and commandeered Lucanis’ sleeping body; he did not think he would be mad if it meant they could see her again, even for a moment. His wings were out, not trusting the assassin’s legs to move fast enough to catch her already fading presence. The cat-bird squawked at him and he hissed back, warning it to keep quiet, but it continued to screech out and took flight after him to his great irritation.
It didn’t matter. Nothing would stop him from getting to Rook, not even a horde of darkspawn on his heels.
Spite burst into the Lighthouse and flew toward the Eluvian room. He knew he was right! She must have come back to check on them but returned to the crossroads, the shimmering mirror only inches away-
A strong grip took his ankle and pulled him back, the demon cursing as his chest and chin slammed into the floor. The demon smacked his palm on the stone and bared his teeth in fury. Who had pulled him away? Took away his chance to follow her? He spun around and snarled at the sight of the muscle elf, standing with his fists on his hips and looking down at him.
“You can’t leave, Spite.”
“Spite and Lucanis. We go. Rook was here. She came for us.”
Muscle elf shook his head and crossed his arms, but the angry look on his face turned softer.
“She’s gone, Spite. She can’t come back, it’s not possible where she is now. I’m sorry.”
“I promise you, Spite. If you could be together, I would be the first to help you. She was my friend too. I know what you and Lucanis meant to her.”
Spite stared up at him for a moment, the demon’s face crumpling as the eerie purple glow receded and Lucanis’ brown returned, the man touching his chin gingerly as he came to. He looked around and sighed, shaking his head as he sat up, resting his forearms in front of him on his bent knees.
“Spite was sleepwalking again,” Davrin explained, crouching down to meet the assassin’s eye. “Sorry if you got hurt, I just didn’t know how else to stop him from flying out into the Crossroads.”
Lucanis waved away his apology and accepted his hand to pull him back to his feet, hands sweeping away at the dust on his pants automatically, even though he didn’t care if he was covered in dirt. Spite was standing in front of the Eluvian, his shoulders slumped, muttering quietly to himself.
“Listen, if you ever need to talk or just head out and feel some grass under your feet, I’m right here-”
“Thank you, Davrin,” Lucanis said, voice tight and attention still on the demon.
She was here! I don’t care what the muscle elf says!
Davrin looked between Lucanis and the Eluvian, assuming that Spite was rattling off something to him. “Like I said, I’m always right here for you. But, I can see that you might have some things you need to settle with your... well, anyway, I’ll leave you both, uh, to it.”
If we go now, maybe we can still find her-
“Spite...”
I know I smelled her, felt her with us!
“Spite- it... I was dreaming. Maybe we... maybe we were dreaming.”
Me? Dream?
“I don’t know. Or maybe you could see what I was seeing and- the point is, I dreamed that she came back, that she... that she never left and...”
No, it was not just a dream. I felt her! Stop. Saying. No!
Spite rushed toward him in a burst of anger, a flurry of fade touched feathers falling behind him as he darted forward to get into his host’s face.
Rook. Rook should be here.
“She should.”
But she’s gone. We lost her.
“...We did.”
... She was my favourite.
Spite dropped to his knees in front of him, all withered and listless in his despair, and surprisingly, Lucanis felt completely in sync with something he once was so at odds with. It was strange to think that this spirit was the only person in the world who understood what he was feeling. He could almost hear Rook approve of their newfound connection.
“She was mine, too.”
---
There was a funeral, he believes.
He remembers a speech by Isabela, stories of the scrawny elf she found on a Tevinter galley, barely 13 years old and too feisty to be a slave, how could she not take her on board and see what the little chit could make of herself? There were words from Emmrich, Evka and Viago too. Thankfully, they had known he could barely find his own voice, let alone try to voice what he felt for Rook. Lucanis had no inspiring words for the masses of people who gathered for her. What was he supposed to say? Rook saved him, and then her kindness was repaid by being blamed for Treviso’s ruin, and then running off with her best friend and only realised his folly when she was stolen away and trapped in the Fade? She didn’t deserve to be remembered like that. She was a hero. She was his hero.
There was... a pyre. The flames were so large he was sure he was watching Elgar'nan fan them himself. And then there were people. Too many people. Speaking to each other. Speaking to him. Talking about her and swapping fond memories of her and consoling each other through their pain... He saw Illario, his eyes were rimmed red, and he looked like the proper picture of a man who had lost the love of his life, unlike him, shut down and emotionless. Feeling everything and nothing at once. His cousin met his eyes, and for a second, it seemed as if he were going to get up and talk to him. Lucanis shook his head and walked into the nearest empty room.
He was going to be sick.
---
The urn seemed out of place on his side table, beside his teapot and her letter, but there was nowhere else. Every time he left the room, it was like he was turning his back on her and leaving her alone. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he couldn't help himself. The things in the pantry were the last of what he had of her.
A soft knock on his door broke him free of his reverie, his latest string of disjointed daydreams of her cut short with the call of his name.
“... Lucanis? Lucanis, are you awake?”
“Yes, Bellara. I am.”
The door creaked open slowly, as if the elf was allowing him the chance to take it all back and pretend he was asleep, or perhaps she was scared that he was going to yell at her, not that he had ever raised his voice around her, let alone ather.
“Sorry to disturb you... But I was... I was talking to Strife and Irelin and wanted to know if you wanted us to perform the same ritual as we did with Cyrian,” she asked, her hands behind her back, eyes locked onto the beautiful urn- the Mourn Watchers finding one with the exact shade of her hair.
Lucanis thought for a minute, and whilst Rook was an elf, and knew a lot about their culture and heritage, she was not Dalish. She was often in awe of what she learned from Bellara, but never quite connected with any of it, just fascinated like the rest of them. “That is... a lovely thought, Bellara. But, I do not believe that Rook would want that... unless, it would aid you and the Veil Jumpers?”
She shook her head and stuttered a quick succession of no’s, hands fluttering in front of her. “Oh, this isn’t for us. This was meant to help you.”
Lucanis blinked. Him? Help him? There was no helping him.
“I appreciate the thought, but I will... survive. You do not need to burden yourselves further.”
Bellara huffed and stepped forward, her lips pressed into a thin line. “You are not a burden!” she said, cheeks reddening with emotion. “ You are our friend. Just like she was. You matter to us.”
He nodded and did his best to look contrite, sitting up from the chaise to address her properly. “My apologies. Of course. I know and I do thank you... It’s just Bellara, there’s nothing to be done. I just want to be left alone, with what precious little I have.”
A moment of silence passed between them before she gasped, hitting her palm with her fist, a light shining out from behind her eyes for the first time since before Tearstone Island. She drew closer to him, her hands reaching out for the urn, only stopping short when Lucanis put his hand on it protectively. Bellara paused and tipped her head slightly in apology, her excitement getting the better of her.
“Would you... Would you be open to us honouring her another way?” she questioned, waiting for his nod before proceeding. “There’s a craftsman in the Jumpers who can infuse anything into his glasswork. He was a city elf, and there was a woman, a human woman he loved, but she was struck down... her family cremated her as well and saw fit to give him some ashes for him to remember her by. So instead of keeping her locked away or sending her out on the next strong wind, he decided to create a medallion with her ashes to wear, to keep her close to his heart, always.”
Lucanis understood where she was going with it, but-
“Don’t say no yet! He can do this for anything. A statue. A worry stone. A hilt of a knife.”
The Crow stilled at the thought of it. A piece of her would remain with him, never to be left behind. He could wear it in his armour, just above his heart.
“We could bind it to any blade you would like…” she trailed off, mistaking his contemplation as indifference. “Or, you know what, I’m sorry- this was probably a really stupid suggestion, forget I said anything-”
Lucanis picked up the urn, his thumb brushing along the fine porcelain. He could almost hear Rook laughing, asking him if it was more about his thing with knives? He almost smiled. The Crow passed the urn to his friend, who held it with such care he thought it could have passed for an ancient Elven artifact.
“No, not at all, Bellara. I... I would actually love that. The knife sounds beautiful, thank you.”
---
Sleep evaded him. Or he evaded sleep. He wasn’t sure which was more true.
The dreams were too much, too real, too vivid, too forced, too faint, not enough. Never enough. Every time he woke up, he was bitter that he was taken from her; even a fake Rook was better than no Rook. Thus, his descent into crippling dependency once more, too many cups of coffee a day and too few flickers of sleep. At night, the pot was never empty, never cold. And neither was the spot on the couch beside him.
Neve joined him every night, with her haunted eyes and a cup of coffee in hand.
They never spoke, only ever reached out for the other’s empty cup to refill and return to their seat in a silent vigil. Quietly doting upon their grief in the only way they knew how, by blaming themselves. For losing a best friend. For losing a lover. For losing the first person in both their lives, that made it alright for them to hope again.
You know I think about how Lucanis might have scars from being trained by Caterina (who we know physically abused him) like, scars on his back being a big one. Either from that damn cane or God forbid some other tool she used...
And the first time he sees Crow Rook with their top off, he realises they don't bear any scars like that.
Like I imagine, all Crows have some scars from their trainers. It's brutal training. But Rook doesn't have them. Just the usual scars from battle, but nothing on their back like what he has.
in the way I READ Viago and Rook's relationship. I want to think he never actually struck Rook with the intention to torture. Because he couldn't bring himself to.
Viago was definitely a hard-ass training Rook. (And in my Canon he kept pushing her off buildings so she'd learn to land on her feet lmao) but he never tortured Rook.
Lucanis realising not just how much Viago cares about Rook. But maybe rethinking how necessary Caterina's treatment was.
Hey did you know that you can’t escape fatphobia even after death? The article talks about how these donated bodies are used for first year anatomy students to study the body, and how the 'perfect' body for that should be 170-180 pounds.
Quick question, if fat bodies are not accepted as potential cadavers for medical students to study on then what are the consequences for that?
Fat people are dismissed medically and are told to lose weight before even getting a chance to be examined. While alive. Then are rejected for further study after death. How many people died and will die because medical professionals are missing potential problems that could be diagnosed?
he waits in the car with a walkie talkie while they investigate and if things break bad they call him in. as soon as he enters everything stops floating around/trying to kill the hunters and he rolls his eyes and goes back to the car.
he’s not bluffing. i can’t emphasize that enough. he 100% believes that the hunters calling him in is either a prank, to make him feel useful, or because they’re spookable cowards who panicked when a book fell.
he stays because the money is good and he can play his gameboy in the car.
i fucking love this so much. it’s like having a service animal but instead it’s a guy named steve who owns more cargo shorts than the Gap continuously baffled by why he keeps getting befriended by goths.
StopNCII.org is operated by the Revenge Porn Helpline which is part of SWGfL, a charity that believes that everyone should benefit from technology, free from harm. Founded in 2000, SWGfL works with a number of partners and stakeholders around the world to protect everyone online
Do you think authors sometimes don't realize how their, uh, interests creep into their writing? I'm talking about stuff like Robert Jordan's obvious femdom kink, or Anne Rice's preoccupation with inc*st and p*dophilia. Did their editors ever gently ask them if they've ever actually read what they've written?
Firstly, a reminder: This is not tiktok and we just say the words incest and pedophilia here.
Secondly, I don't know if I would call them 'interests' so much as fixations or even concerns. There are monstrous things that people think about, and I think writing is a place to engage with those monstrous things. It doesn't bother me that people engage with those things. I exist somewhere within the whump scale, and I would hope no one would think less of me just because sooner or later I like to rough a good character up a bit, you know? It's fun to torture characters, as a treat!
But, anyway, assuming this question isn't, "Do writers know they're gross when I think they are gross" which I'm going to take the kind road and assume it isn't, but is instead, "Do you think authors are aware of the things they constantly come back to?"
Sometimes. It can be jarring to read your own writing and realize that there are things you CLEARLY are preoccupied with. (mm, I like that word more than concerns). There are things you think about over and over, your run your mind over them and they keep working their way back in. I think this is true of most authors, when you read enough of them. Where you almost want to ask, "So...what's up with that?" or sometimes I read enough of someone's work that I have a PRETTY good idea what's up with that.
I've never read Robert Jordan and I don't intend to start (I think it would bore me this is not a moral stance) and I've really never read Rice's erotica. In erotica especially I think you have all the right in the world to get fucking weird about it! But so, when I was young I read the whole Vampire Chronicles series. I don't remember it perfectly, but there's plenty in it to reveal VERY plainly that Anne Rice has issues with God but deeply believes in God, and Anne Rice has a preoccupation with the idea of what should stay dead, and what it means to become. So, when i found out her daughter died at the age of six, before Rice wrote all of this, and she grew up very very Catholic' I said, 'yeah, that fucking checks out'.
Was Rice herself aware of how those things formed her writing? I think at a certain point probably yes. The character of Claudia is in every way too on the nose for her not to have SOME idea unless she was REAL REAL dense about her own inner workings. But, sometimes I know where something I write about comes from, that doesn't mean I'm interested in sharing it with the class. I would never ever fucking say, 'The reasons I seem to write so much of x as y is that z happened to me years ago' ahaha FUCK THAT NOISE. NYET. RIDE ON, COWBOY.
But I've known some people in fandom works who clearly have something going on and don't seem to realize it. Or they're very good at hiding it. Based on the people I'm talking about I would say it's more a lack of self-knowledge, and I don't even mean that unkindly. I have, in many ways, taken myself down to the studs and rebuilt it all, so I unfortunately am very aware of why I do and write the things I do most of the time. It's extremely annoying not to be able to blame something. I imagine it must be very freeing. But it ain't me, babe.
Anyway, a lot of words to say: Maybe! But that might not stop them from writing it, it might be a useful thing for them to engage with, and you can always just not read it.
Props to OP for answering so gracefully, but I'm not going to answer gracefully. It is more important than ever to call out fascism whenever you see it -- especially the quiet, soft, poisonously insidious kind that Anon is practicing here.
Anon ostensibly wants to know: "Do authors realize that they're writing about things that some people might find disturbing, horrific, upsetting, repulsive, or simply just TMI?" (Yes, obviously they know. Authors are not stupid; that's usually a requirement of the job (not always. But usually).)
But what Anon is actually asking is, "Why don't authors stop themselves from doing a Bad Thing? Why doesn't anyone else stop them?" The assumption underlying that question is: "Surely if they realized that they were doing something disgusting, they would stop immediately." Even more covertly implied: "I think writing about certain things automatically taints you with moral degeneracy--that is, it marks you as a possible or potential criminal."
To that I say: My friend, writing is just thoughts copied onto paper, and thinking is not a crime. Only actual actions can be crimes. What does it matter what other people think about? Literally so what? Why do you want people to be stopped from thinking about those things ("did their editors ever gently ask them...")? Why do you care? Do you feel that an author should provide a list of justifications and excuses before it's permissible for them to write about something? Why? And who do you think should be in charge of that? The government???? YOU???????
To any person reading this post: If the above questions are personally upsetting to you, if you find yourself huffily thinking something like, "Well, I care because it could normalize--", NOPE, STOP RIGHT THERE. 🚩🚩🚩🚩🚩 This is a big red flag: You (much like the Anon) are exhibiting some early warning signs of Fascism, and that is not something to take lightly in the current political climate. There are some drugs you shouldn't experiment with even once, and fascism is one of them. Repeat as often as needed: THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS THOUGHTCRIME. WE DO NOT LIVE IN GEORGE ORWELL'S 1984.
But we already talk about thoughtcrimes now and then, don't we? I can't remember seeing someone talking about crimestop (also from Orwell's 1984):
In the Newspeak vocabulary, the word crimestop denotes the citizen's instinctive desire to rid himself of unwanted, incorrect thoughts (personal and political), the discovery of which, by the Thinkpol [Thought Police], would lead to detection and arrest, transport to and interrogation at Miniluv (Ministry of Love). The protagonist, Winston Smith, describes crimestop as a conscious process of self-imposed cognitive dissonance:
The mind should develop a blind spot whenever a dangerous thought presented itself. The process should be automatic, instinctive. Crimestop, they called it in Newspeak. . . . He set to work to exercise himself in crimestop. He presented himself with propositions—'the Party says the Earth is flat', 'the Party says that ice is heavier than water'—and trained himself in not seeing or not understanding the arguments that contradicted them.
Moreover, from the perspective of Oceania's principal enemy of the state, in the history book The Theory and Practice of Oligarchical Collectivism, Emmanuel Goldstein said that:
Crimestop means the faculty of stopping short, as though by instinct, at the threshold of any dangerous thought. It includes the power of not grasping analogies, of failing to perceive logical errors, of misunderstanding the simplest arguments if they are inimical to Ingsoc, and of being bored or repelled by any train of thought which is capable of leading in a heretical direction. Crimestop, in short, means protective stupidity.
Read that twice, and then reread the Anon's question. Translate it through that lens: "Why," says the Anon, delicately disgusted, "are these authors not practicing better crimestop? I practice it all the time. Why aren't they?"
Great question, Anon. Why AREN'T they? Turn off your crimestop and give it some real thought.
(Hint: If the answer you come up with is "Because they are moral degenerates" or anything in that neighborhood, you are unfortunately still doing fascism. Try again. If you have tried several times and the only answer you can manage to come up with is a still a synonym of "moral degeneracy" then this is above my paygrade and I would recommend talking to a trusted grownup, a therapist, a spiritual leader, or possibly your least-online friend.)
I also think it's somewhat reductive to be like "X keeps showing up in a writer's work, therefore they must be obsessed with X". Maybe they are, especially if they keep shoehorning in something really specific, but often it's also just... the simplest and most direct way that they know of to explore something. Fantasy is saturated with depictions of killing and violence; is every fantasy writer obsessed with killing? No. Violence is a very direct and simple way to include conflict with high stakes that you can fill with tension and excitement. Fantasy is also chock full of slavery. Are fantasy writers super into slavery? No. Stories are about power and power differences. Putting a protagonist in chains or giving them an enslaved bodyguard or tangling them up in a slave revolution is a very direct and simple way to explore that dynamic. Authors will usually repeat the tricks that they're used to, and that work. So fucking many of my stories hook the reader with a random inexplicable corpse. So many of my climaxes are like "actually that super special power/big conspiracy/grand prophecy that this entire quest has been about? Fake. Whole thing was a lie this entire time and what's actually going on is something completely different. You've got half a chapter to adjust."
Maybe a writer keeps writing about incest because he actually likes to explore romantic relationships between close family members. Or maybe he keeps writing about incest because he wants to frame the situation as disgusting, and he knows that incest disgusted most of his audience the last three times he wrote it.
Somebody once commented on a post when reblogging from me, and I'm paraphrasing, "Nobody assumes that I really must want to put wasps in people's eyes bc I'm a horror writer, but as soon as character genitals get involved, I must be revealing my secret desires."
I’ve texted their hotline before. It was super helpful and even if it hadn’t been the amount of time you’re there can be enough to let your urges fade and stay safe.
But yeah in Denmark we used to have gender separated dedicated small islands for different groups of "moral degenerates" (a mix of various criminals, sex workers, rebellious youth, mentally ill and intellectually disabled people) where they were locked up in work camp like environments potentially indefinitely (or in some cases until they agreed to full sterilization) with the clear purpose of keeping these groups out of the gene pool in the name of eugenics...
And if I remember correctly Denmark was one of the countries performing the most lobotomies corresponding with population size. Denmark has an absolutely horrendous history with psychiatric ableism and eugenics, we just didn't have the global cultural influence of the US at any point
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