Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Belladonna heard the door to the Eluvian room shut, and they slumped back onto their chaise, the lingering damp of Viago’s parting kiss searing against their forehead like a brand. Their chest heaved, and sweat clung to every inch of their exposed skin. They laid there for several long, hazy minutes, panting until they could catch their breath, mouth hanging open as they smoothed one wobbly hand through their wild hair.

            Maker. They would really have to piss him off more often.

            The argument had been a ruse, at first; nothing more than a cover in case someone was still listening. Then the door had closed behind them, and Viago had not released their hair, yanking them in close in front of him as they bickered, faces leaned close, heat rising – and then he had noticed where they had left their armor. They peeled themself off the now-damp couch, wincing as they stood and rubbing at the welted, hypersensitive skin of their ass. If the brutal spanking he’d given them had been meant to discourage the behavior, then he had utterly failed. As long as he kept reacting like that, they would never hang a piece of it up again.

            They padded around the room, collecting their hastily discarded clothes and dressing slowly. Their legs were sore and wobbly as they stepped into their pants, and they hissed out a little noise of pain as the tight leather pressed at their tender, aching inner thighs. Gods, he’d left them fully nude and limping, and the only clothing he’d fully removed were his gloves and his belt – a belt which Belladonna would have a very hard time not staring at when next they met, now that they’d been introduced. They could only hope the outlines of its medallions weren’t still printed into their ass when that meeting came, or they’d never be able to keep their eyes off them.

            Clothes in place, they peered down at themself in Varric’s shaving mirror, letting out a small snort at the sight. The remnants of their dark makeup ran in streaky lines down their cheeks, lipstick smeared wide around their mouth and across their chin and jaw. It was a good thing they’d looked, they thought as they paced to their wardrobe, rifling through until they found a clean handkerchief. There would have been little doubt what had really been going on behind their door if they’d come back through it looking like that. They returned to the mirror, rubbing the ruined makeup off onto the cloth. By the time they were through, their skin was half-red with the irritation, but all evidence of their rough handling was gone. They tugged the collar of their shirt up a bit further, hiding the bite on their neck, and their eyes settled on the little mark beneath their jaw, far too high to cover with a collar or scarf and too dark to disguise with a coating of pale powder. Their dry mouth prickled, and they swallowed, cringing a little at the tender pain in their throat.

            Well. Almost all evidence.

            They glanced around the room, cursing softly as they realized they’d never bothered to bring in a carafe of water. Their eyes fell on something they had not noticed earlier, consumed as they’d been in Viago’s attentions – a mug, sitting next to the note they’d left by the door. Their brows furrowed, and they approached it suspiciously. They did enjoy their mint tea, and forgot mugs in their room often enough that even in the few short weeks they had lived in the Lighthouse, they had needed to carry an armful of empties back to the kitchens more than once – but they were certain they hadn’t left one of them there.

            To their surprise, the mug was not empty at all. They raised the cold vessel to their nose, sniffing experimentally. Elfroot, certainly. A healing tea?

            They glanced at the door, though they were sure Viago was long gone, then took a small, tentative sip. The dark, earthy flavor of elfroot hit their palate first, mellowed by a floral honey – then came ginger and lemon verbena, rounding out the elfroot with a warm, pleasant taste. Elfroot, ginger, and lemon verbena – that was the sort of thing one gave a sick child to ease an upset stomach. Why was it here?

            They paused a moment, considering. The tea was stone cold, so it had been there for several hours, likely since last night, and the placement seemed fairly intentional. Someone had read their note and left them a healing tea?

            Elfroot, ginger, and lemon verbena. Nothing potent, but good enough for the healing of minor pains and the soothing of a sour stomach – exactly the sort of complaints one might have after a long night out with a lover and a bottle of wine. It was a surprisingly thoughtful gesture, given the team usually seemed to forget they existed any time they didn’t have need of them. It would have required knowledge of healing herbs, which meant it couldn’t have been Varric or Neve, and it tasted good, which meant it wasn’t Harding. Between the two remaining options, they suspected only one teammate had lived in the world enough to be able to guess at the need for something like this. Despite their lingering hurt, their lips twitched into a smile.

            Was this a peace offering, an apology? A toast to the morning after, from someone who knew from experience how tender one evening could leave a person? In any case, how Antivan.

Thirsty as they were, they gulped it down eagerly, finishing the mug in a few long, greedy swallows. After a few moments, they swallowed again, testing – and the soreness Viago had left in their throat had softened into a barely-noticeable twinge. They pressed their fingers into their clothed ass, though, only to make themself wince. Clearly, the mild brew had not been quite enough to heal everything. Normally, they would relish the leftover aches of a long night with a lover- but they had to go to Minrathous with Neve again today, and the last thing they wanted was her judgement, or worse, her coddling. Idly, they wondered if there was any more of the tea as they looped their finger through the mug’s handle, stepping towards the door.

            Belladonna felt a familiar twinge between their thighs as they began to walk. They frowned, adjusting their stride until it was comfortable and noticing, to their immense dissatisfaction, that that meant they were walking down the library stairs more than a little bow-legged.

            Well. It would have been embarrassing if they couldn’t cover it, but they certainly could. Dealing with a little bit of soreness was hardly out of the norm for them, and learning to hide physical discomfort was a part of every Crow’s training. The only person who could possibly notice was –

            Shit. Lucanis - the man who lived in the same kitchens they were bringing their empty mug to. He would catch the change in their gait immediately, especially given that he clearly already knew what they said they had gone out to do. They sighed, letting their legs shift a little wider as they walked across the empty courtyard.  There was no point in trying to hide the evidence now that that their story conveniently happened to be true; indeed, they were now doubly grateful for their particular choice of lie. First, it had provided an excuse to let Viago publicly pull at their hair, dangling them in front of Lucanis like a toy, which had proved far more thrilling than it should – and now, they had an excuse for that display’s aftermath. Even though he’d certainly have noticed the signs of rough sex on them regardless, between the note they’d left last night and Viago’s consummately performed disapproval this morning, now he’d be sure to assume they’d been left in such a state by whoever they had gone out to –

            Shit. Illario.

            Gossip traveled fast among the Crows, and the stories tended to get wilder with every retelling. With the scene the two of them had made, Belladonna would not be surprised if by now, there were fledglings whispering about how they had personally seen Illario bend them over the bar and take them right then and there. Besides, Illario had seemed more than eager to steal them away from Lucanis, convinced as he somehow was that the man was at all interested in them in the first place. Even if the rumor mill didn’t let him know they’d made a very public scene with his cousin, Illario might just tell him about it himself.

            Better to own it.

            They took a deep breath, then pushed the door of the kitchen open. They stepped into the room, glancing about and fighting the urge to cower when they saw Lucanis waiting by the fireplace, staring back at them. They swallowed, mind going blank from the unexpected intensity of the man’s gaze and the little throbbing pain in their throat.

            “Was this you?” they asked, cringing internally at their own still-rough voice and swallowing again.

            Lucanis simply nodded, face unreadable, and Belladonna shifted awkwardly, fidgeting with their collar guiltily and looking away.

            “Well, thank you,” they finished lamely, suddenly doubting themself and trying to hide the soreness in their walk as they made their way to the dish basin. They put the mug down with a quiet clink, then steeled themself, letting out a sigh and turning to face the man behind them.

            “No time like the present,” they had thought, and then, they told him the truth. They’d expected some reaction to the news that half of Treviso was gossiping about a torrid affair between his cousin and his boss, certainly – but Lucanis reacted like he’d been struck, stumbling back and pressing his fingers to his brow as if to soothe a blow. Perhaps he had been, as he recoiled and cringed at nothing the same way he often did when Spite gave him trouble. He didn’t look frustrated with the demon, though – he looked terrified, demanding to know if they were alright.

            “Of course I am. Why?” they had lied, smiling, because ‘no, my ass will be purple by nightfall’ seemed like the wrong thing to say when he had already asked once if Illario had hurt them. The joke might have been the better choice, though, from the way the man paled. Clearly, he hadn’t bought what they were selling.

            “He-” Lucanis began, but cut himself off with an odd, strangled noise, giving them another intense look. “Are you sure? Truly? You… look very ill.”

            Their face fell flat. Really? That’s what this was? Was he a child?

            They forced out a harsh little laugh. “I’m not hurt or sick, Lucanis. I’m just not wearing any makeup.”

            “No, that’s not-”

            “Listen, I’m fine. I was just bringing back my mug. So unless you feel like making more of that tea, I’ll get out of your hair.”

            “Why would you need more?” he asked pointedly. “Given you’re not hurt or sick.”

            The denial made sense, of course, but it stung all the same. He was willing to dispense some of the party’s herbs for a real reason, even one as benign as the threat of a hangover, but not simply because Rook wanted a cup of tea. How very Crow-like of him. How practical.

            “Of course, you’re right,” they replied through a false, forced smile, tone laced with a cheer that they knew sounded hollow. “How silly of me. We need to save the elfroot.”

            “Wait, Rook, that’s not what I-”

            Rook didn’t pay attention to the rest of his protest, giving him another perfunctory smile before turning and exiting the kitchen. As soon as the door shut behind them, they tucked one arm around their waist, hugging it into themself to hold back the childish hurt burning in their chest as they walked back up to their room.

            Gods, the man was maddening. What was any of that?

            It might have been low to get rejected by one man and go straight to his cousin, but it was hardly as if they’d planned it – not that he knew that, of course. But after his own games of hot and cold, what right did he have to be angry or jealous, no matter who their choice of partner was? He didn’t want them, and that was his right - why couldn’t someone else?

            Beyond that, he was a grown man and a killer for hire. He knew how to be a professional. Had the jab about looking ill really been necessary? Certainly, he couldn’t be that clueless. He had mentioned he’d done most of his jobs alone or with Illario before joining their party, but really, had he never seen someone take off their makeup before?

            They stilled in the middle of the library, brows furrowing as they followed the thought.

            If he’d truly never spent long enough with another person to see so much as their makeup come off, could that mean he’d never…

 No. Surely not. They guessed that he was at least a few years their senior, probably closer to Viago’s age than their own, and even if he wasn’t, he was a Crow. Being the First Talon’s grandson clearly hadn’t kept Illario out of seduction training, so why should it have done so for Lucanis? He couldn’t be wholly inexperienced. He’d simply been being an ass, or he’d simply tripped over his tongue. Given the refusal to waste elfroot on them, though, they thought the former was more likely than the latter.

            Well, let him throw his tantrum, then. They had work to do.

            They returned to their room and quickly dressed in their armor, buttoning their high collar over the marks Viago had left on their neck. They braided their hair and applied their makeup, taking care to pat an extra bit of their pressed powder over the lone mark below their jaw. As they’d expected, it wasn’t enough to hide the dark little love-bite entirely, but it was enough of an attempt to make it clear to their companions that the topic was not open for conversation. If nothing else, with the dark double flare of their eye makeup back in its usual place and a little bit of blush laid on their cheekbones, perhaps they’d be less terrifying to behold.

They took a slow, deep breath, summoning a bit of professional distance, and let their years of training fall back into place like a shroud. They held the breath until it burned, keeping their posture and face carefully neutral through the spreading pain. Satisfied, they exhaled, and then they got to work.

            First, they rapped hard on Harding’s door, waiting a few moments until the dwarf emerged, bleary-eyed, yawning, and still in her sleep clothes.

            “Up and at ‘em. You’re with me today; we’ll do breakfast in Minrathous. Be at the Eluvian in five minutes.”

            With that, they turned on their heel, striding across the courtyard and jogging up the stairs to Neve’s little study. To the woman’s credit, she answered the door almost immediately upon their knocking, and from her neatly brushed hair and daytime apparel, she had clearly been up for a while.

            “We’re taking your meeting with the Shadow Dragons today, so let’s get to it early. You have five minutes, and if you’ll take us wherever the locals go for breakfast in Dock Town, it’ll be my treat.”

            “That’s a deal I’ll gladly take. Lucanis should be ready to-”

            “Harding and I will meet you at the Eluvian,” Belladonna interrupted, a bit more sharply than they’d intended. Neve’s brows twitched together a bit, but she didn’t comment. “Five minutes.”

            They headed straight to the mirror, tapping their foot impatiently as they waited beside it. Neve arrived first, and the two stood in silence for the few more minutes it took Harding to appear.

            There was precious little of the party’s usual banter as they made their way through the Crossroads and to the Shadow Dragons’ lair, but still, Belladonna could not help but notice that for a supposedly secret band of revolutionaries, both their hideout and their Viper’s exquisitely detailed armor showed a laudable commitment to stylishness – and expensive taste. Despite their natural inclination towards suspicion, both the Antivan and the Crow in them had to respect the panache. When the masked man had sent them off to clear the group’s tunnels of darkspawn, though, their mind latched onto one particular word: Anvallenim.

            “Ancient Elven for ‘womb’,” they’d remarked casually to the women beside them, interest piqued by the oddity of their people’s language naming a Tevinter locale – but if one of them replied, they hardly noticed.

            “Shit,” they thought, angry at their own forgetfulness. They would need to use Viago’s lab once they were done here; they should have done so before leaving Treviso. They should have taken their potion two weeks ago – it was a good thing they’d gotten to Minrathous early. There would still be time to make what they needed after work.

            Not just darkspawn were plaguing the tunnels, as it turned out- darkspawn controlled by Venatori, as yet another of the many gifts their risen Gods had given them. Rook pressed their lips carefully closed as they destroyed the remains of the Blight-ridden Venatori encampment, gathering what evidence they needed for the Viper and burning everything else. They shot flame at the walls of crates and jars with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm, eager for the chance to watch something other than their pleasant morning as it went up in smoke.

            The job didn’t take long, really – but with the reek of Blight stuck in their nose and their body already screamingly sore from sleeping on a roof and fucking twice before breakfast, the elf was eager to get back to the Lighthouse long before the Viper had finished speaking. Of course, it had not been that simple; nothing was that simple anymore. Everything they did went on and on. The news that the First Warden was waiting for them and wanted to meet was good, though, enough so that it got their feet moving with renewed energy, eager to bring more experts into the fight.

            Finding the skewered victim of a demon on their way to The Cobbled Swan had been bad enough; yet somehow, meeting Jowin Glastrum had been worse still. They bristled at the man’s cheap barbs, though they were too well-trained and too proud to show it.

            Aloud, they chirped out a jaunty “Thanks!” when he provoked them with a jab about their attack against the Antaam – but behind their roguish mask, they seethed, resisting the urge to let their lips curl back over their teeth.

            “How the fuck does he know about that? Does all of fucking Thedas know about that?” they thought, raging, before catching themself, a long-ago lesson echoing in their head after it.

            “Never let a target provoke you - an angry assassin is a sloppy one. Stay cold, and you stay in control.”

            For all the efforts Viago had made to impress his own mental discipline on them, though, their emotions quickly flared again as the First Warden continued his diatribe.

            He wanted them arrested? They were the only Gods-damned person doing a fucking thing to actually stop all this, and he wanted them to rot in a cell in Weisshaupt?

            “That’s not gonna happen,” they snapped back, hand twitching minutely toward their mageknife in silent signal to their companions, urging them to press the advantage of surprise – but neither Neve nor Harding were Crows, and so neither woman noticed the tiny movement in the slightest. Suddenly, despite his poor mood that morning, they wished they had brought Lucanis. Taking on multiple heavily armed and armored Wardens with the Demon of Vyrantium at their side was doable; alone, it was near suicidal. Egged on by the man’s earlier reminder about the Antaam incident, they might have been tempted to try anyway – but no matter how ridiculous Viago’s earlier insistence that they’d somehow survive this contract might seem, they cared for him enough to at least try to make it through the day. So instead of surging forward, they sighed and eased back, hand falling to rest casually on the hilt on the weapon, but not drawing it just yet. Barely a few seconds later, they were quite glad they hadn’t, as Magister Dorian Pauvus swept in with a whirlwind of white leather and blackmail, and the First Warden had been leaving as quickly as the other man had appeared.

            Belladonna was inherently suspicious, particularly of Vints, and particularly of Altus and Magisters. They hadn’t taken too many jobs in Tevinter before their work with Varric, but none of the time that they had spent there had left them with a good impression of the country or its elite. Moreover, Neve clearly seemed to trust both the man and the other, former Magister who appeared at his side soon after, too, which, given their general dislike of the woman, should have been a mark against their favor. And yet, despite everything, they actually rather liked him – enough to let their mouth run more freely than it should. And yet, when they bluntly declared that they just needed the First Warden out of their way, Dorian did not balk. He did not back down from the bloody reality of their work. As a matter of fact, he agreed.

            They glanced at Neve as he replied, and her face, too, was set in cool, determined lines. She was not upset either.

            Perhaps they could work together after all.

            Though Dorian’s interruption had been a breath of metaphorical fresh air, bursting out the dark, musty tavern’s doors and sucking in a lungful of sea air was a much more necessary one. The scent wasn’t the same as Treviso’s, but it was better than stale beer and smoke. Belladonna hardly noticed as their two companions bantered behind them. Had they said something, had they initiated? They could hardly remember now.

            Gods, they could still smell the Blight on their armor.

            “I need to talk to Varric,” they blurted out, not facing either of the women. They set off towards the Eluvian, ignoring the little sound of protest Harding made before she fell into place behind them. If the dwarf wanted to lunch in Minrathous, she would have to do it on her own time.

            Once they arrived back at the Lighthouse, though, they couldn’t resist the desire to return to their room and put on something that stank less. They were certain Varric wouldn’t mind if they didn’t smell quite so awful when they spoke, and wasn’t as if he knew to expect them. He probably wasn’t even awake. If they went to Treviso first, they could even stop by one of the Crow’s many bathhouses, and take their first real soak since they’d left for this contract. They could get the Blight out of their hair and then deal with the rest of their business in town, and then talk to Varric. Perhaps the indulgence was selfish, but they always worked better while presentable anyway.

            They jogged up the stairs, gritting their teeth a bit to will themself past the door to the infirmary and to their own. They were needed to get the Blight off their body and armor before getting back to work, and that meant going back to Treviso for a bath, fresh juniper berries, and the supplies to care for their leather, no matter how much personal time they’d already taken. It was their responsibility; it was a safety risk not to do so. It was reckless of them to even consider going near Varric while still covered in something that could make him even more ill.

            They barged through the door of their chamber, wheeling towards the wardrobe – but froze, their eyes locked on the little table by the door.

            Another cold cup of tea, sat just where the last had been on the otherwise empty surface.

            Maker take him. What was this? Why deny them when they asked, just to bring some by to sit and go cold instead? Was this another jab, a vote of no confidence, a subtle implication that they would need healing after a normal day’s work – or was it an apology, an admission that he’d tripped over his tongue?

            They sighed, scrubbing their hands over their face. They’d thought it was an apology the first time, too.

            “To the Void with this,” they thought, stalking back out their door and down the stairs past a confused Neve and Harding, who were still lingering on the sofa in the library. They stormed towards the kitchens, mind swirling between thoughts.

            What was Lucanis’ problem? They could deal with his being an abomination, given he seemed to have it mostly under control, and the circumstances were hardly his own fault – but being unprofessional was another thing entirely. They had a contract, and an important one. Who was he to deny them the herbs which they’d picked or purchased most of themself? Who was he to insinuate that a single job or a single night out would leave them unable to work without his healing? They had been able to compartmentalize their own emotions while they were working, and he was supposed to be the better Crow between them. Why couldn’t he do the same – and for that matter, what right to hurt feelings did he have at all, given he was the one who’d lost interest overnight? What cause did he have to act so stung?

In the end, it didn’t matter. If their God-killer was too lost in his own impulses to do what he was brought on to do, then he could sit on his ass while they did it themself.

They flung the pantry door open, ready to confront him, ready to demand he either get his act together or get out of their Lighthouse.

The cot sat empty, and Lucanis was not there.

Their brow furrowed, and they ducked back out into the kitchens, glancing around and even checking the little balcony off the building’s side – still, he was nowhere to be found.  

            Fine. Fine. What he did in his off hours was not their business. Maybe he’d even left on his own, gone back to –

            They let out their breath in an angry huff as they walked back into the courtyard, abandoning the foolish thought before it reached its end. Whatever else he was, Lucanis was a Crow. He wouldn’t abandon his contract; even without an official Head of House or First Talon to enforce it, he knew what doing so meant. If he had tried, they would already know; as the only remaining member of his House, Illario would have showed up to take over the contract himself. Lucanis might have left, but it would not be for good.

            Unless…

            Despite their anger with the man, a chill ran down their spine.

            Had Lucanis left, or had Spite? The demon had seemed to trouble him more than usual that morning, but he’d had it under control when they left. Hadn’t he?

            “Did Lucanis leave the Lighthouse?” Belladonna asked the Caretaker, unsure which of the spirit’s many glowing eyes to focus on.

            “Yes,” it replied calmly. They paused a moment, waiting for it to continue, then sighed.

            “Where did he go?”

            “Treviso.”

            They felt their face go pale. If Spite had taken over and brought Lucanis to Treviso –

            “Was he-” they began, unsure how to phrase it to the spirit.

            “The Crow’s path was not determined for him. He went of his own free will.”

            “Ah. Okay. Thank you?” they replied, shifting uncomfortably under the Caretaker’s flaming gaze. The Caretaker did not reply, but resumed its usual calm, silent vigil behind its stall.

            They turned away from it, looking at the double doors of the library and balking.

            “Shit,” they thought, processing the information. “Shit.”

            Why did it have to be Treviso? He had as much a right to visit home as they did, of course, but the last thing they wanted was to look like they were following him. They had business in Treviso, business that could not wait. Now, it would look like they were running off after him instead of running their own errands.

Do your job and look the fool, or don’t do it and be one. What a day this had turned into – strange to think it had started so well.

            “Ugh,” they spat under their breath, balling their hands into fists as they strode back into the library. Neve and Harding both silenced and looked up as they arrived, faces wearing the same unspoken question.

            “I’m going to Treviso; I have business to attend to in town. I will be back by nightfall. If you have mission proposals for tomorrow, have them waiting in my chambers when I return. Outside that, the day is yours; you’re dismissed.”

            They did not wait for a response, continuing past the women and through the mirror. It did not take long to arrive at the Treviso Eluvian, frustration quickening their steps, and from the way the little crowd of fledglings milling about the balcony balked as they stormed through it, they could tell their expression must be murderous. Their lips pressed into a tighter line under the prickling weight of their stares, and they ground their teeth as they stalked into the Diamond’s rafters and towards the stairs to the ziplines.

     “What in the Maker’s name is that smell?” Teia complained as they passed, crossing her arms, and next to her, Viago mirrored the posture, face falling into his usual hard, disappointed glare. They froze in place and glanced down at their filthy armor, suddenly realizing that in their distraction, they’d forgotten to change into something less revolting before heading to the Grande Market. Ugh.

            “Blight,” they said through gritted teeth. “Minrathous is lovely this time of year, by the-”

            “Blight?” Viago repeated, interrupting, frowning more deeply as he did. “You were fighting darkspawn?”

“Yes, but-”

He cut them off with a frustrated noise, moving in to grab them by the chin and examine their face and eyes, then roughly shoved two fingers against their pulse. “Did you get hit? Any open wounds?”

            They rolled their eyes, sighing at the incoming lecture. “No, Viago.”

            “Don’t roll your eyes at me. Did anything get in your eyes, nose, or mouth?”

            “Besides the smell?”

            “Ugh,” Viago replied, seizing their wrist and dragging them along after him. “Idiot. With me, now.”

            “I’m fine!” they protested as he pulled them towards the ziplines.

            “I didn’t ask!”

            “Viago-” they began again, facing burning as they passed Heir, feeling the watching Crows’ eyes following them even as they disappeared down the stairs.

            “Shut up! Zipline, now.” He said, pushing them in front of him. They obliged, and he followed, grabbing their arm again once he landed. They briefly considered asking where they were going – but as he led them across one familiar rooftop, then another, the destination quickly became clear.

            They stumbled up the front steps of Villa de Riva behind him, trying not to make eye contact with the Crows at the door as they did. Once inside the doors, though, Viago paused for a single blessed moment, giving them a second to catch their breath as he began addressing the same elderly manservant who’d brought Teia to his bedroom door so long ago.

            “The Villa is closed to visitors for the night. Have the floors scrubbed everywhere they walk, and once they’re done with the bathroom, have it fully cleaned as well. Full masks and gloves, burn the cleaning rags and their sponge and towels. Do not touch anything with your bare hands.”

            The man simple nodded, clearly having spent many years dealing with his master’s insistence on sanitation, and Viago continued up the stairs, shifting his grip from their wrist to their bicep to help steady them up the stairs. He pulled them into his bathroom, guiding them towards the sunken tub with much less tenderness than he had the night they’d been injured.

            “Strip.”

            They raised an eyebrow at him, smiling despite his ire. “Well, Viago. I never. Going for three?”

            “Ugh,” he replied, shaking his head. “This is not the time. Armor off, and,” he paused, as if steeling himself to finish the sentence, “do not put that on my furniture.”

            “Are you telling me to leave my armor on the floor?” they teased, affecting a scandalized tone. “Who are you, and what have you done with my Talon?”

            “Healthy suspicion; I approve. I am telling you to keep your Blight-ridden armor off of velvet.”

            “Ah, there’s the Viago I know and love after all. Endlessly fussy about everything.”

            They expected him to snap back a jab of his own, but for a long moment, he simply stared down at them with an inscrutable look, something storming in his sea-blue eyes.

            “Especially you.”

            They exhaled hard, glancing away from the suddenly charged eye contact. He sighed too, then spoke again, voice gentler.

            “Arms out.”

            They complied, holding their arms out to the side and softly closing their eyes as he quickly, methodically stripped them out of the armor he had given them. In a few short moments, they stood in front of him in just their smalls and the thin undershirt they wore beneath their armor, and he paused before turning to the cabinet across the room and withdrawing a large, plush towel, leaving it open as he returned to their side. Rather than offering it as they’d expected, though, he began to bundle their discarded, soiled armor into it, wrapping the pieces up in the fabric and tucking it into his arms. 

            “I would have gotten you one as well, but given that I’ve touched your armor, you’ll have to do so yourself, after bathing. Drying with a contaminated towel would rather defeat the point of washing off the Blight. Don’t touch that handle,” he said, pointing at the open cabinet door, “Wash your face and hair first, carefully, in separate water than your body, don’t soak, and don’t let anything get in-”

            “My eyes, nose, mouth, or any other mucous membranes; yes, yes, I know,” they recited, having heard him recite the same protocol a thousand times for poisons. He glared, and they sighed, softening a little. “I’ll be careful, Vi.”

            “Good,” he replied stonily, glancing at the floor. Then, more quietly, “Good. Enjoy.”

            At that, he turned and left, their towel-wrapped armor still bundled against his chest. When the door closed behind him, the elf huffed out a breath they hadn’t realized they’d been holding, pulling their remaining clothing off and padding softly towards the sunken tub. The last time they’d bathed here, their head had still been spinning in the aftermath of the blow they’d received from the Antaam, and to their great displeasure, their memories of that night had very quickly grown hazy. When he’d dragged them in here, they had rather hoped Viago would accompany them again, hopefully in a more appropriate amount of clothing, but while his departure stung a bit, it did make sense. He was notoriously paranoid about all things toxic, and Blight was clearly no exception.

            They spun the handles on, but did not stopper the tub. Instead, they swung their legs over the side and hopped down, screwing their lips closed as tightly as they could before dampening their hands and beginning to carefully, methodically scrub the dried gore away from their skin. Once they’d rinsed their hands and face enough times to be relatively sure nothing remained, they ducked their head under the faucet, scrubbing their fingers through their hair until the water ran clean. They rinsed their feet and stepped back, letting the water pour forth until no hint of blackened blood remained in the small puddle around the drain. Only then did they close the tub’s stopper, letting the warm water swirl up over their toes as they leaned in towards the grouping of several bottles and a sponge which sat on a little tray by the handles.

            Four bottles. Hadn’t it been three, last time? They weren’t sure, but –

            They pulled the cut glass stopper from the furthest of the bottles, lifting it and giving it a sniff. Just a hint of olive oil – a plain, neutral soap. They resealed it and smelled the next; this one was rich and sweet, smelling like candied nuts, cinnamon, and fine Antivan brandy. Their lips twitched down a bit, and they carefully set it back down, replacing the stopper with deliberate gentleness. They could have guessed who that one had been made for even if it hadn’t happened to be the very same scent as Teia’s perfume.

            On to the next.

            This soap, they remembered – it was the spicy, herbal one that Viago had preferred. They smiled at the memories it triggered, strengthened by the scent. They were inclined to pick it for nostalgia’s sake, but closed it and set it back, determined to give the final bottle a fair chance, too. It must be the newest one, given it was completely full, in stark contrast to the one beside it. They pulled the round glass stopper from its mouth and raised it to their nose, giving it a little sniff.

            Jasmine– strong jasmine; it must have taken their body weight in its blossoms to press enough oil to perfume the soap so heavily. A hazy little memory swirled forth, untouched in over a year.

            “Do you have jasmine?”

He’d remembered. They held the bottle up to their nose once more, smelling it again, then poured some into the water at their feet, inhaling deeply as the scent swirled up around them.

            The rest of the bath was sadly quick and businesslike – as Viago had reminded them, it was foolish to soak while they were still dirty, so they kept the water shallow and scrubbed themself clean quickly, then pulled the plug, rinsed the suds away, and stepped out.

            As they dried themself – feeling a bit sorry for the towel, given what Viago had said – there was a quiet knock on the door.

            “Come in.”

            The door swung open a fraction, and Viago entered. He’d changed clothes, from his armor to a close-cut jacket and trousers, notably ungloved and with a swath of black silk spread over one arm. “Did you enjoy your bath?”

            “You remembered.”

            He stilled a moment, then continued towards them.

            “Of course I did.”

            “When did you make that?”

            He shifted uncomfortably, stopping before the elf.

            “A while ago.”

            “I-” Belladonna began, then stopped as a familiar scent hit their nostrils, wrinkling their nose before continuing. “Why do you smell like alcohol?”

            “I was cleaning my hands,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “You were covered in-”

            “Yes, yes, Blight. I remember,” they interrupted with a sigh, wringing water out of their hair. It was very Viago, of course, and quite rational given the circumstances, but it was still never flattering to hear a lover had felt the need to sanitize their hands after touching you. He did not reply. The silence stretched on a beat too long, and the space between them began to feel awkward rather than intimate.

            For the Maker’s sake, he’d told them he loved them that morning. Viago making such an uncharacteristic admission simply because they’d asked should mean more than a tiny, necessary rejection. They had been the one to insist that the two of them keep things private, knowing that from him, business as usual meant coldness at its best and murder at its worst. Of course he had withdrawn, they had asked him to. Even as they’d tangled at the Lighthouse that morning, he’d been more distant than he’d been before they’d insisted on discretion. It had been hard, and it had been hot, and neither had left unsatisfied – but he hadn’t said their name once. He had called them ‘little dove’, and they had called him ‘sir’, and given the way he’d bent them over and shoved their face into the cushioned seat of the chaise to muffle their wails while he slammed into them, the only time he’d even looked them in the eye was with one hand fisted cruelly in their hair, fucking their throat roughly enough to leave it sore. When it was done, he had pulled out of them and righted his armor before their mingled sweat began to cool. He’d planted a slow, damp kiss on their forehead, told them to behave, and without another word, much less three more, he’d gone back home. That afternoon, in the Diamond, he’d shown no more care than he ever would have for them. It was more than he’d given to other de Rivas, perhaps, but they’d been his protégé for years. It was hardly out of character for him to fuss at them more than the rest, and there’d been utterly no affection in the way he’d yanked them along to be scrubbed clean like a soiled set of sheets. It was exactly what they’d told him they wanted – professional distance; business as usual.

            Why did it feel so hollow?

            “Were you careful?”

            “Yes, Viago.”

            “Did any-”

            “No, Viago.”

            He sighed, face falling into a familiar scowl as he took the garment drape dover his arm and held it out to them. “Drop the towel, take this, and come with me.”

            “Fine.”

            They turned away from him, facing the tub again as they shook out the robe and let their towel fall to the floor. There was a quiet hiss of breath behind them as their bare skin came into view, but they weren’t as interested in enticing him as they’d been before their bath. They slid an arm into a too-long sleeve, but he planted a hand in the center of their back, stopping them from pulling the garment over their shoulders.

            “Viago, I’m not in the mood right now.”

            “Nor am I.”

            His fingers trailed down their spine and over the curve of their ass, making them shiver as he traced over the patterns of bruises and welts he’d left there.

            “They’re already almost black. I - Maker, I broke the skin?”

            Facing away from him, they let their confusion settle on their face as they processed. He sounded horrified – why? While Viago had only been responsible for the last half-decade of their training, those five years had hardly been gentle ones. His lessons had led to more stitches, broken bones, and nights of poisoned agony than they could count, and that was when they went well. Even after they’d survived his teaching methods, the danger had hardly decreased once he had started to hand down contracts. The first time they’d pulled a dagger across a man’s throat and watched his blood spill out around their boots, he had been hidden in the shadows, watching too. Pain and death had dangled from his fingers for all the years of both lives that mattered most, and they had never seen him be so careful with either. Why should he be so upset by leaving a mark on them now?

“I bruise easy.”

            “Don’t make light. I hit you too hard.”

            “I wasn’t complaining.”

            “You should have been! This is too much for a work day, Belladonna. I meant to leave bruises, but these…” He traced a circle against their skin, following the perimeter of a tender mark.

            “I’m fine, Viago.”

            “No thanks to me,” he bit back, exhaling hard before lifting his hand to help ease the free arm of his robe over their other shoulder. He gently spun them to face him, eyes skimming over the column of skin exposed by the untied robe. “You’re sure you didn’t get hit? No other open wounds? You’re certain?”

            “None, I’m certain. I know what I’m doing.”

            “Good,” he said, looking away for a moment. His fingers twitched against their shoulder. “Regardless, if you wouldn’t mind…”

            Another day, they might not have minded his characteristic fussiness. After Lucanis’ herbal implication that they couldn’t make it back from the job uninjured, though, Viago’s refusal to believe that they truly had felt much more like infantilization than affection.

            They sighed, hands moving to tie the billowing robe around their waist even as they spoke. “Examine away, Fifth Talon. Just do it somewhere less cold.”

            His expression soured, a deep furrow forming between his brows. He stepped in, scooping them up and tucking them close to his chest as he turned and exited the bathroom. They turned their face away from him and crossed their arms over their chest, unwilling to give him the warmth he sought. Above them, he snorted, gripping them a little tighter.

            “Don’t pout when you’re naked. You look ridiculous.”

            Their sulky frown only deepened at the amusement in his tone. “I’m not naked. I’m wearing a robe.”

            That drew a full-throated laugh from him, and they could feel his chest moving as he shook his head at them. He easily swung open his bedroom door, locking it behind them before setting them back on their feet before the fireplace.

            “Disrobe.”

            They stared deadpan as he fought off a smile, no such mirth crossing their own face. “Ugh,” they finally announced, untying his robe and letting it fall off their shoulders. “You and your fucking puns.”

            His face pulled down into an infuriatingly genuine frown, and he stooped to pick up his robe and toss it on the bench behind him before beginning to carefully examine them for injuries, fingers ghosting up their ankle as he did.

            “You’re upset,” he murmured, one hand running down the back of their thigh and calf to feel for cuts or swelling before gripping at the shin to lift and turn their leg one way, then the other before placing it back on the rug. His touch moved to the other leg, and when they didn’t reply, he looked up. “Why?”

            “I’m fine.”

            “You’re lying.”

            “I’m-”

            “You’re lying, Belladonna,” he chided, growing louder as they deflected again.

            “I’m a professional, Viago. I can survive a single mission without you swooping in to make sure I didn’t get a papercut.”

            His hand froze at the top of their hip, and he sighed, standing.

            “Arms out.”

 His hands started at one wrist to move up one arm and down the other as they skimmed over their skin, testing. His touch smoothed over their breasts and down their ribs and abdomen, then, when it reached their hips again, he gently turned them away from him to check over their back and neck. Finally, his fingers probed through their dark, damp hair, searching for any wounds hidden by the locks. Satisfied, he closed his hands over their shoulders, leaning his forehead into the back of their head.

            “I know you are, and I worry anyway.”

            Their stomach dropped at the rawness in his tone, and they exhaled hard, turning their gaze towards the fire.  

            “What is this really about?” he asked, pulling on one shoulder to prompt them to face him. They resisted the guiding touch, keeping their face pointedly away from his.

            “They don’t trust me,” they said quietly, unwilling to put too much volume behind the words, even in private. “They don’t trust my leadership or my decisions. I still have to make all of the decisions, of course, but no matter what I choose, no one’s happy, and no one seems to think I can do a damned thing without needing healing right after.”

            “Why should they?” he asked bluntly, making them look back at him in affront. “Why should they trust you? You told me this morning that most of your team has only been with you for a few weeks. They don’t need to trust you; they just need to follow orders. Besides, you know better than to put any weight on faith you could gain so easily.” He paused a moment, then narrowed his eyes, continuing. “Do you regularly need healing?”

            “No!” they replied frustratedly. “I got hit in front of Lucanis once, and he’s never let it go. I didn’t take him along with me today, and he left a healing tea in my room for when I got back, assuming that I would need it! And you, acting like I was a minute from falling over cold just because I came through the Diamond in dirty armor. I don’t stumble home half-dead every night! I know what I’m fucking doing!”

            They cut themself off, cheeks flaming at the outburst, and turned their gaze back to the fire. Viago, though, was having none of it. He reached to gently grip their chin with one hand and braced the other on their shoulder, silently insisting that they face him.

            “I know you do. You’re a good Crow.”

            “Then stop treating me like I’m made of glass!” they bit back, unmoved by his affirmations and tender touch.

            “Belladonna…” he began, then sighed, dropping his hand to theirs and gently tugging. “Come here.”

            Their face stayed stony, but they followed him as he guided them to the bed and motioned for them to sit.

            “Still not in the mood.”

            “And again, nor am I. I am trying to fix my own mistake.”

            “I’m-”

            “Mine,” he interrupted, making them meet his gaze with a catch of their breath. “You’re mine, and I left you covered in bruises. Let me take care of what is mine.”

            “Too much, too fast,” some part of their brain cried, the eye contact suddenly feeling almost too intense to bear. The spike of anxiety they’d tried to smash down at his earlier declarations had sparked back to life from the possessiveness in his tone. It was so much, so soon; it was more than they could promise, more than they were sure they should have–

            And yet, despite themself, the ownership in words still set something deeper within them aflame.

            “Take me. Break me. Prove it.”

            “Yours,” they breathed, and the stern expression melted off Viago’s handsome face, making way for a warm, self-satisfied smile.

            “That’s right. Now, will you please sheathe your claws?”

            “Alright, alright. Don’t rub it in,” Belladonna griped, making the man before them chuckle.

            “I’m afraid that was rather the idea. Lie flat, please. Face down.”

            They complied, folding their arms under their head and reclining as they watched him walk over to his wardrobe and withdraw a jar. He returned to their side, opening it and leaving the lid on the bedside. In a familiar gesture, he held the jar so they could see the pale salve within before he dipped a thumb into it and rubbed it into the back of his other hand.

            “Healing salve.”

            They nodded, letting their eyes fall closed, and felt the bed dip as he moved to settle over the back of their thighs. A year traveling in the presence of two companions with neither the skills nor the desire to effectively do so dulled Belladonna’s own paranoia about poisoning somewhat, but the depth of care in his gesture still warmed their heart. He began to spread the balm over the bruises on their ass; gently, at first, as he watched the marks fade beneath the elfroot’s touch, then more firmly, making the elf let out a contended moan as his thumbs worked circles into the muscle.

            “Better?” he asked, a smile in his voice.

            “Perfect,” they replied, rubbing their face into their arms.

            He chuckled again, the sound low and rumbling, then continued to work in silence, his deft fingers chasing away the aches of endless days spent on the move. They allowed themself to relax under the touch, and soon, their breathing began to deepen and slow.

            “Are you falling asleep on me, little dove?”

            “No, and if I try, don’t let me,” they groaned, forcing their eyes open with a sigh. “I’m not done for the day.”

            “Oh? Then why return to Treviso?”

            “I needed to stop at the Grande Market. And come here, actually.” Viago’s fingers paused against their skin, and they stretched their arms out before propping themselves up onto their elbows so they could turn to look over their shoulder at him. “Not here here; the Villa. I need to use your lab.”

            “The lab is always open to you. What do you need from the market?”

            “Mild soap and leather balm, among other things. I didn’t have a care kit of my own at the Lighthouse, and well, you saw my gear. I meant to change before I came.”

            “Your armor is clean; I saw to it personally. When you’re ready, it’s waiting on a stand in my office. The staff should be done cleaning in there by now.” His fingers began to trail up and down the curve of their ass, no longer rubbing, just tracing light little lines.

            They rolled onto their side to face him more fully. “You cleaned my armor?’

            “Of course I did. Your armor’s secrets are my armor’s secrets. It had to be one of us, and you had to bathe.”

            Practical as ever. It explained his change of clothes; yet, the gesture was somewhat soured by his admittance that he was more motivated by paranoia than devotion.

            “Well, thank you.”

            “It was nothing. What else?”

            “Hmm?”

            “‘Among other things’, you said. What other things?”

            Their face colored at the question, and they glanced away. “Oh. Just something for a potion. Like I said, I need to use the-”

            “Whatever you need, I’m sure we have it.”

            “I’m sure you do, but it’s more effective fresh.”

            “It being?”

            They sighed, sliding out of his touch as they swung their legs off the side of the bed and sat upright. “Juniper berries.”

            For a horribly long moment, he sat silent, and Belladonna didn’t need to glance over to imagine the disappointed scowl falling over his face.

            “Are you making a preventative or an abortive?”

            They swallowed, feeling the embarrassment start to claw at their throat. “One of both, as a precaution. It was easy to keep track of the weeks on the road, but since the ritual, it’s all been such a blur-”

            “Enough,” he snapped, standing from the bed and heading for the door. “Stay here.”

            He shut it behind himself more forcefully than usual, and their stomach dropped. Their thoughts began to race, and they pulled their knees up into their chest as they worried. Viago was gone for nearly half an hour before his bedroom door flew back open again. Luckily, the sudden movement drew their gaze, as a moment later, there was a potion bottle sailing through the air at them. They caught it just before it would have bounced off their knees, and Viago spoke, sounding none too pleased.

            “There’s the preventative. It’ll last two weeks; next time, make another before then. The staff took your dirty clothes with the towel, so you can either go bare or borrow mine. You’ll have to roll the sleeves, but you know where they are. I’ll be in my office with your armor and the abortive.”

            “Viago-”

            The door closed.

            They let out a shaky breath, placed the potion on the bedside table, stood, and padded quietly to the wardrobe. In another circumstance, explicit permission to go home in his clothes would have been enough to soak a wet spot through smalls they weren’t wearing. But as they stepped into a pair of his underclothes and pulled one of his fine linen shirts over their head – then rolled the sleeves, just as he’d known they’d have to – it was shame burning low in their belly, not excitement. They knew it was irresponsible of them to forget; they were as angry with themself as he was. Having to admit to him the precarious position they’d put them both in was much worse than just handling it themself, though, and him handling it for them was even worse still. He knew they knew how to make their own potions; he’d been the one who had taught them the recipes. They had spent a full day making them before their first seduction contract, years ago, brewing batch after batch of both kinds until Viago finally decided he was satisfied. He’d pushed off the wall where he’d been leant, watching, he’d looked pointedly between them and the dozens of bottles, and then held he’d out the contract. When they took it, he’d scowled, snapped a parting warning, and stalked out, leaving them alone in the lab with his voice in their head.

            “I am sending one de Riva on this contract. I expect that one returns.”

            Now, years later, those words were echoing through their mind again, stinging in a way they never had at the time.

            Dispossessed of their usual inclination to snoop, they closed the wardrobe and returned to the bedside, snagging the potion off the table and heading for Viago’s office.  They gently knocked on the door, and though they knew he was within, it took him an unnerving amount of time to spit out a strained ‘come in’.

            He did not look up at them as he entered, busy pipetting the second potion from a large flask into two smaller vials. They walked quietly to his desk, stopping a few steps away. He did not break the oppressive silence, and they shifted uncomfortably on the spot. It felt horribly similar to when they’d been a fledgling, knowing whatever concoction he handed them was going to put them through hell – though this time, they were less scared by the potion in his hands than the expression on his face.

            Almost detached. Almost cool. Almost aloof, nearly unreadable. And yet, his jaw was set. And yet, his upper lip was twitching towards a snarl.

            They swallowed hard. Maybe he was going to poison them.

            Finally, he finished his task and glanced up, letting the anger he was fighting crash across his face when he saw the unopened potion in their hand.

            “You were supposed to drink that.”

            “Viago, I’m sorry, I just for-”

            “Ugh!” he hissed, slamming the pipette down against the desktop hard enough to snap it in two.  “Just drink it.”

            They did, skin crawling under the weight of his stare as they tried not to cringe too visibly at the potion’s bitterness. As soon as they place the empty bottle on the surface, he shoved one of the two smaller vials he’d filled at them.

            “And this.”

            Again, they complied, this time audibly gagging at the taste. Viago let out an irritated noise, returning his attention to the vial before him, rolling the cork in wax and then pressing it firmly into the neck of the bottle until he was satisfied with the seal. He laid it back against the desktop, leaning in to scrawl a name across its label.  He looked down at it for a moment, then righted the bottle and himself, exhaling hard.

            “You do realize,” he began, in a horribly acidic tone, “that a bastard cannot inherit.”

            “What? Vi, I wasn’t-”

            “Weren’t you? You admitted as much last night.”

            Their face colored as they remembered what they’d said, what they’d begged for as he pounded them into the statue’s back.  

             “Please make me yours. Please make it take. Please make sure everyone knows that I’m yours.”

            “That was,” they choked out, swallowing dryly, “That was just… heat of the moment.”

            “Of course,” he snapped back, crossing his arms over his chest. “And the twice after that? You never thought to mention that I shouldn’t-”

            “I forgot! I’m sorry that between getting my head cracked open, gaining two targets, moving into the Fade, and suddenly being tasked with assembling a team to save the fucking world, I forgot one thing that didn’t matter at the time.”

            “And yet it was easy to keep track of on the road. I’m glad your international tour was so eventful.”

            “It was easy to keep track of because I had nothing else to do at night. I was sleeping alone. Did you and Teia even wait a week?”

            He huffed, looking down at the desk. He shoved the sealed potion bottle towards them, then recrossed his arms.

“Take this one with you when you go. For the next time you forget.” His tone was cold, but the tiny retreats in his body language told them all they needed to know.

            “You didn’t, did you?” they asked, huffing out a bitter laugh. “Of course not. No wonder you made so much of this,” they gestured at the large flask between them, “making sure you have enough for us both?”

            His eyes narrowed, and his lips twisted down. When he spoke again, his voice was low, dark, and carefully level.

            “No. I made more in case it becomes clear that the first dose didn’t work.”

            He shoved away from the desk, turning his back and stalking towards the door, then came to a stop in the middle of the floor.

            “And Teia is always careful.”

He slammed the door behind him as he left. The sound faded, and the room fell silent, and all that lingered of the man who had loved them in the morning was the elegant handwriting on a little bottle of concentrated juniper, crying out “Bastard Killer”.

Chapter Text

            Lucanis paced back and forth through the pantry, Spite’s spectral form not an inch off his heels as he traced a dusty line over the stone.

            “Make. More. Won’t. More? Make it better?”

            “No, Spite,” Lucanis sighed, stopping and rubbing his fingers into his brow. “We already made more, and it won’t make it better.”

            His thoughts drifted to the cup of herbal tea currently cooling on the table by Rook’s bedroom door. Again, they had not been there to receive it, having already departed the Lighthouse with Neve and Harding in the fifteen minutes or so it had taken him to gather himself and boil the water. He’d nearly dropped the mug, the way Spite had screeched upon the realization that they were not there; that Lucanis had been left behind for the first time since he joined the team. He had not dropped it, in the end, but it had been a near thing, and his hand had trembled enough to slosh some of the liquid over onto the note they’d left there the night before.

            The stained missive was now burning a hole in his vest’s breast pocket, feeling heavier by far than it should. It was just a scrap of parchment. Just a note.

            A note they’d left before sneaking out to spend a night on the town with Illario, of all people, calling him an ‘old friend’; before being dragged home by Viago and –

            Lucanis swallowed hard and resumed his pacing.

            Whatever Viago had or had not done after Lucanis had fled from Rook’s threshold, the dark marks on their neck had been more than a few hours old. Whatever other bruises he had left on them, those had been from last night. But last night, they had gone out after Illario, who they had told him they had ‘barely done more than kiss’ – though even then, he had been able to tell they were lying.

            “Barely?” his mind chanted – or Spite chanted, perhaps, or both. “Barely? Barely? More than kiss?”

            They had kissed him – kissed Illario, of all the people in the world? They had done more? Worse still, they had gone out to do it alone, unarmored, unarmed; calling him an ‘old friend’ - how long had this been going on? When had the two even met? Lucanis had heard that Caterina had called the Talons and their Houses into Treviso in the wake of his own ‘death’; as his protégé, Rook certainly would have been at Viago’s side when he travelled from Salle, no matter where they’d been stationed at the time. Could it have been then, and might they have simply worked together while he was in the Ossuary? If so, why would neither have mentioned it? If their relationship was in any way professional, certainly one of them would have referenced a shared job, at least in passing. No, then, it could only be personal. Personal enough that they showed up without armor – so personal that they trusted him; him, the last person in Thedas that Lucanis ever would have thought could be worthy of a good heart. He raked his memory over each word he had seen the two speak around or about each other, suddenly finding horrid double meanings in almost every phrase.

            “I get one of you back…”

            “...already you want to leave again?”

            “…see? My cousin is all stomach, and no heart…”  

            “…whatever rumors you’re about to hear…”

            “…Viago stormed in and dragged me off… he always does.”

Maker, did it all add up? Had Illario been openly dropping hints at the connection all along, and he had mistaken it for his usual flirtatious banter? Had his moody departures from their shared table at Café Pietra and the Diamond’s rafter during their meeting about the wake not been Illario cracking under the pressure of the job, as it usually was, but rather under the strain of watching his cousin unwittingly make advances at his private lover? They could never have been together publicly, at least not for long, not even while he was presumed dead and Illario was likely basking in his sole heirship – neither Head of House ever would have approved of it as a serious match, and if they’d carried on together anyways, someone would have noticed. Yet clearly Viago had noticed something, if he knew enough about the pairing to disapprove and interrupt them. Not to mention that Illario had been visibly distracted during their meetings of late, laying on his charms a hair too thick, as if hiding something – a forbidden, hidden liaison with the elf at his cousin’s side, perhaps?

How hidden could it be if there were rumors, though? If Viago considered whatever the two had done last night ‘shaming his House in front of half of Treviso’…

“Go ask him,” Spite prompted, leaning in close to his ear. “Go ask Illario. Go ask him what he did to our Rook.”

Lucanis couldn’t deny it would be the easiest approach, with anyone but his cousin. Asking would make it clear he wanted to know, and Illario would run with that as long as he possibly could. He had never been shy about kissing and telling before, but he had a strong suspicion that was only because it had been so very obvious that he did not want to hear about it. If he knew that Lucanis was looking for details, he would very likely withhold them just to annoy him, doing whatever he could to make his cousin’s composure snap, the same way he had always done. How to ask without asking? He shouldn’t ask at all. He should let their private matters stay private, and address any concerns with Rook directly once he knew what he wanted to say. Or rather, how to say it- because once again, how to ask without asking? He hardly wanted to pose the question outright. If the answer was no, they would likely be horribly offended on their Talon’s part, and it would only increase the awkwardness between himself and his current employer.

If the answer was yes…

Maker, what would he do? The only thing to do would be to inform the First Talon and let her decide what action, if any, to take – but Caterina was in ashes, and there was no First Talon to tell. Until her successor was decided –

His blood ran cold.

Though of course, documents would still need to be located and read, and formalities would need to be respected, Lucanis already knew very well to which of her grandsons Caterina Dellamorte would have willed her position. Much sooner than he would like, the heavy mantle of First Talon would be dumped atop his shoulders, and this horrific situation would be his to investigate.

Maker, what would he do?

“Go! Ask! Illario! What would he do, what did he do, will he do what you won’t do?”

“Stop it, Spite,” Lucanis grumbled, shrugging away from the demon’s voice and letting his pacing feet carry him out into the kitchen. He could make another pot of coffee; that always helped him think. “You aren’t helping.”

“You aren’t helping! You’re too scared to help our Rook!”

“They are not our Rook!” he snapped back without thinking, then glanced guiltily around the room, hoping Bellara wasn’t in earshot.

“And. Whose fault? Whose fault is that?” the demon replied, flashing a wide, mocking smile before vanishing into a haze of purple smoke.

Lucanis rolled his shoulders back, releasing his breath with a hiss and stalking back into the pantry for his armor. He was not afraid – particularly not of Illario, of all people. He was a Crow. If he wanted answers, he could get them, his cousin’s antics be damned.

An hour later, Lucanis was still sitting alone at Café Pietra, and despite all his training, the man had begun to tap out an impatient rhythm against the side of his coffee cup. He had sent one of the fledglings loitering in the Diamond to fetch his cousin as soon as he’d ducked through the Eluvian. Had they not gone, or had Illario simply not cared to show up on time? The latter seemed more likely. The Dellamorte name still held weight, even if possession of their position as First Talon was currently in limbo. Yet even for Illario, an hour late was pushing it. Where could his cousin be?

His tardiness was annoyance enough without the silence it left Lucanis sitting in, Spite having chosen to remain maddeningly quiet and leave his host with nothing to listen to but the gossiping of the Crows at the tables around him. He tried pointedly to ignore them, willing the words away from his ears – but it was nearly impossible, given the way other assassins kept nodding and glancing his way before leaning back into their conversations with a giggle.

“…all over each other-”

“-yes, exactly! At the-”

“…Neri said that he had his hand on-”

“- oh, but did you hear what they…”

“-to their Talon?!”

“Yes! Then he…”

“-against the bar?!”

As if summoned, Illario appeared through the café’s door, and if Lucanis did not know him quite so well, the veneer of presentability his cousin wore might have been enough to hide the truth. But they were truly more like brothers, and Lucanis had been there to watch while Illario learned all the tricks he used now.

He wore his usual easy grin, but there was a wrinkle or two fewer at the corner of his eye than there would be when he cracked a genuine smile. He’d brushed thick lines of kohl around his eyes, but it wasn’t enough to distract his cousin from the redness in them. His lips shone with oil, but were chapped red beneath it, not stained to that color, and though he walked with an open, confident swagger, his left middle and forefinger were shaking like leaves by his side.

He had been out all night.

Lucanis narrowed his eyes.

            “Cousin, you hardly look happy to see me,” Illario called out, spreading his palms out in a questioning gesture as he approached and slid into the chair across from him.

            “You look like hell, Illario,” he replied, fingers already tightening on the handle of his cup. This was a mistake. He should never have come here, he should not begin to ask –

            “Ah, but I feel like heaven,” he countered easily, his smile widening. “Though I confess that I did enjoy my evening rather thoroughly. Is that why you’re here? Come to lecture me for staying out too late? That does seem to be going around.”

            Lucanis grumbled and glanced away, ignoring the quiet stream of insults Spite had begun to mutter at Illario from somewhere in the back of his head.

            “Oh?”

            “What, you haven’t heard?” Illario scoffed. “I assumed that was why you stopped by for this little chat.”

            “I stopped by to ask after any news about Zara. What are you talking about?”

            “Oh, poor Lucanis. Always the last to know,” his cousin gloated, crossing his arms behind his head and tipping his chair back onto two legs. “Every other Crow in Treviso has heard about my night with your Rook by now.”

            He feigned nonchalance, sipping delicately from his coffee cup. “Oh, that? They told me about it themself, so I know it didn’t go as far as you’re implying,” he began, taking another drink before deciding to push further. “Though what you left behind did make me wonder.”

            Illario only laughed. “Well, Lucanis. You saw that?”

            “It was hard not to, given the placement.”

            His cousin’s eyebrows shot up, and he shook his head a little, his grin broadening across his face into genuine delight. “So, your Rook lied to me about more than I’d thought – and well enough that I believed them! An elf after my own heart. Though for the record, even I have never taken my pants off for two cousins in the same night. No wonder Viago swept in to steal them away from me; it’s clear we two are bound to be inseparable.”

Lucanis ground his teeth behind the rim of his mug, one hand curling into a fist below the table as Spite began to pace agitatedly behind Illario’s chair.

“They are not my Rook.”

“Clearly,” Illario said with a snort. “If anything, after last night, they’re ours.”

Spite surged forwards in his mind, screaming for blood, and he inhaled sharply, turning his head away and screwing his eyes shut as he wrestled the demon for control, his fingers curling tighter, tighter–

The handle of his cup snapped into pieces in his hand, and the bowl of it fell to the table with an audible crack, dumping its contents out over the table. Illario shoved back in his chair with a loud noise of disgust, narrowly dodging the scalding liquid as it poured over the edge of the table where his lap had been a second prior – but it still splattered onto his expensive boots, staining the pale leather with dark, mottled splats.

Spite let out a bitter little chuckle before receding, giving up his struggle for the moment.

A staff member rushed over with a handful of napkins, tossing them down on the table to soak up the spill as Lucanis repeatedly apologized, cheeks flaming. When she’d finished her task and departed, Illario crossed one foot over the other knee, idly examining the coffee stains on his boot before looking up with a smirk.

“All this, and they thought that you didn’t want them.”

The words landed exactly as hard as his cousin had intended, and Lucanis felt an awful, acidic feeling spike through his chest.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, they didn’t tell you that part, did they? Well, I do hope that you finally did a good enough job between those delicious legs of theirs to disabuse them of that notion. Viago found us before I could get more than my nose wet,” Illario sighed, shaking his head in mock sadness, “and I would hate for them to think every Dellamorte would leave them unsatisfied.”

Despite himself, Lucanis let out an irritated growl, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Stay away from Rook, Illario. They deserve much better than you.”

His cousin laughed, raising an eyebrow. “You know, you’re the second man to tell me that today.”

He had a good idea, but still, he asked.

“Oh? And who was the first?”

            Illario paused a long moment before replying, a devilish glint shining in his eye.

            Mierda. In words or expression, he had said too much.

            “I think you already know.”

            Lucanis swallowed hard, very much wishing he still had a coffee to hide behind, but still too embarrassed by Spite’s earlier display to ask for another cup. Emboldened by the uncomfortable gesture, Illario leaned forward, pushing his advantage.

            “Tell me, Lucanis, how late did your Rook come home this morning?”

             He shifted a little in his seat, willing himself not to shrink away from his cousin’s gaze.

            “Not late at all. They’re a professional. They were back with plenty of time to still be on the job early.” Though their leaving without him had stung, he had to applaud the elf’s ability to show up and get to work even after a likely-sleepless night. “Why do you ask?”

            Illario smiled slowly, an awful, knowing, gloating smile that spread across his face by fractions until his lips parted over perfect white teeth.

            “Because we parted ways before midnight.”

Lucanis did look away at that, face scrunching for a moment as Spite’s displeasure at the trick pounded hard against the inside of his brow.

“I must say, House de Riva seems to run quite differently than Dellamorte,” Illario continued. “Caterina dragged me off and beat me plenty of times, but she never held my hand afterwards.”

“What?”

“When he found us, we split up and ran. I wanted to see if they’d slip the noose, so I came back this way and spent a little while perched up high, watching the Eluvian and enjoying some refreshments. Clearly, they had no such luck,” he drawled, snorting to himself before continuing, “though it rather seems they found another kind.”

“Shut up, Illario,” Lucanis snapped. “You should know better than to gossip.”

“Yes, Grandmother,” the man intoned, propping his still-damp boots up on the edge of the table. Lucanis made another irritated noise and stood, tossing a handful of gold coins onto the table before stalking out the café door.

 Viago had been holding their hand when they left the Diamond? That certainly wasn’t how they’d arrived at the Lighthouse – and he had never known Viago to hold hands with anyone, not even Teia. The man was notoriously averse to both touch and public affection. If he’d chosen to do so then, there had been a good reason, and given the spot the two would have had to pass through to reach the mirror, Lucanis was fairly sure he could guess her name.

Of course, it was just as likely that Illario had simply lied. 

He returned to the casino, and soon, he was approaching the woman in question.

“Lucanis! Good to see you. Decided to take some time at home after all?”

He ignored the question, posing one of his own.

“Teia, how early were you at your post today?”

Her cordial smile did not waver even a moment; indeed, it broadened - but her umber eyes chilled a degree. “No earlier than usual. Why so concerned with where I spend my mornings? Are you expressing a personal interest?”

“Please, be serious. Did you-”

            Teia’s gaze landed on something over his shoulder, and her attention visibly went with it.

            “Oh, thank the Maker,” she muttered under her breath, stepping past him. “Rook! You’re looking better.” She paused a moment, and Lucanis turned to look as the other elf approached. Their armor was noticeably clean and polished, and their hair was damp, pulled back into a single simple braid rather than the elaborate, bow-like style they usually favored. “And smelling better, I might add.”

            “Wow, Teia. With pickup lines like that, no wonder you’ve graced half the beds in Antiva,” Rook replied, caustic sarcasm dripping from each word.

            “Now that you did learn from Viago.” She glanced at the archway to the ziplines, then continued. “Where is he, anyway?”

            “Still at the Villa, I imagine,” Rook said, and Lucanis’ heart dropped like a stone.

“Again?” something inside him asked, though he was quite sure he didn’t want to know.

“Don’t be too eager for him to come back,” they continued. “He’s in rare form at the moment.”

            Teia looked them up and down, clearly surprised. “Oh? Did you turn out blighted after all? You seem remarkably well for it.”

            “Ugh, I wish. That might actually keep him away from me,” they groaned, rolling their eyes before looking back to the Talon with a frustrated sigh. “You know how he is; I can do no right. He can always find a reason to be angry.”

            “Oh, Maker. Again? Again?”

            “Ah, but like I said, he’s so much worse when you’re not here,” Teia said with an absurdly lighthearted laugh, pulling her fellow elf in to plant a kiss on both cheeks. “Treviso would burn to ashes without you, my dear- and all my favorite beds with it, I might add.”

            Did she - she couldn’t, surely. Did she suspect?

            “Don’t I know it,” Rook grumbled. “On both counts.”

            Finally, they glanced over at Lucanis, as if he hadn’t noticed the man’s presence at all up to this point. Their expression glazed over with open disdain, and when they spoke again, their tone was level and noticeably cool.

            “Lucanis. Why are you here?”

            “I -” he began, wincing a bit as Spite began to wail at the frostiness of their greeting. “I had to meet with Illario. Dellamorte business.”

            Rook’s face soured further still. “Naturally. Are you ready to get back to work now?”

            “Yes, I-”

            “Good. Then let’s get back to the Lighthouse. If you have a mission proposal for tomorrow, get it to me before dinnertime. I’ll be unavailable for the rest of the evening.”

            Spite swirled into shape in a bright purple flash, materializing beside Rook and planting his chin on their shoulder.

            “Smells like blossoms, and smells like… bushes. Sweet, but not enough to cover the sour.”

            Distracted by the demon’s ramblings, he realized he’d let the order sit too long in the air, and both elves were staring at him expectantly. He swallowed heavily before speaking. “Of course. Do you-”

            Rook walked straight past him, ducking through the broken window towards the Eluvian.

            Once they vanished from sight, Lucanis turned back to look at Teia, dumbfounded – only to find her glaring at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

            “What did you do?”

            “I didn’t do anything!”

            “Bullshit, Lucanis. I know what I saw. Go after them and fix it, now.”

            Feeling scolded and small in a way that he hadn’t in over a year, the man did as he was told, hurrying off to the mirror.

            They were only a few moments ahead of him, and hastened by an insistent Spite, it did not take long for Lucanis to catch up to Rook and settle beside them in the Caretaker’s gondola before it lurched away from the dock. The elf sighed heavily, wrapping their arms across their abdomen and looking away. He searched desperately for words, trying to fix this, wishing he knew what to do or say – but before that moment ever came, the boat rocked into place at the central island’s dock once more, and Rook leapt up, striding purposefully towards the Lighthouse’s Eluvian. Emotion and uncertainty still sitting like a stone in his throat, he chased after them as they stormed through the mirror and up the stairs towards their room, trailing a few steps off their heels and ignoring the questioning stares that Neve, Harding, and Bellara gave the pair of Crows as they passed. When they reached the door of the meditation chamber and Rook whirled to slam it, though, he acted on instinct, his hand shooting out to catch it by the edge before it closed enough to hide their face from him. For a moment, both of them stood frozen, hands just brushing where each had a grip upon the door’s edge. All at once, the spell broke, and the elf huffed out an angry breath and glanced off to their right.

            “Rook, I-”

            “Please, Lucanis. I would like to be alone. Bring me the proposal later.” They paused a moment, looking away again, then softly sighed, their shoulders rounding forward a bit as they snaked their free arm around their abdomen. When they spoke again, their voice was quieter; still strained, but most of its fire had gone out. “Thank you for the tea.”

            He swallowed around the soreness in his throat, giving them a small nod. “Think nothing of it.”

            They nodded back but did not speak, pulling in a slow, even breath and holding for a long moment before exhaling in the same all-too-familiar cadence.

            A basic breathing exercise, one every young assassin learned. It was an invaluable tool to help a Crow focus – particularly through pain.

            “Juniper under jasmine. Poison under the pretty. Pretty Rook has gone all sour!”

             Oh, Maker.

Maker. Again.

            “Well, I should really-” Rook began, but suddenly, Lucanis found his words.

            “Would you like another cup?”

            The elf’s shining purple eyes snapped to his, and their breath sucked in with a hitch.

            “I… yes.”

            Lucanis gave a nod of acknowledgment before continuing. “Would you prefer to take dinner in your room tonight?”

            “Yes,” they whispered, blinking rapidly.

            “Alright,” he replied almost as quietly. “Consider it done. I’ll tell the others to give you some space.” Rook only looked away in response, and Lucanis turned to depart.

            Cold, trembling fingers swept over his, locking them against the door with a feather-light touch. He turned to look back at them, his gaze lingering on their searing touch as they spoke.

            “Thank you, Lucanis.”

He pulled his gaze back up to theirs.

“Anything you need of me, Rook, you have only to ask.”

            Their fingers twitched a fraction tighter against his for a moment, and they exhaled a shaky, uneven breath before their hand slid off of his and down to the door’s handle. They straightened, rolling their shoulders back, and Lucanis swallowed once before pulling his own hand away, too. Rook gave him a small, tight-lipped smile, then gently pushed their door shut, leaving the man and his demon alone in the hallway once more.

Chapter Text

Night rolled out over the Rialto Bay, and Viago returned to the Cantori Diamond.

            He had always found it easier to work in the early mornings and late evenings, enjoying the rare quiet that fell over the casino during those times. Based on how his day had soured so far, though, perhaps he should have known he would find no such luck.

            Though the Diamond’s rafters were silent and still, Andarateia Cantori still sat at her side of their shared workspace, feet tucked beneath her as she scanned an expense report. For a brief moment, he considered turning around and simply going back home, as if any less distraction awaited him in his office there.

            “Ah, Vi. Done with our temper tantrum, are we?”

            Viago leveled her with a murderous glare. “Excuse me?”

            “What, you weren’t ‘in rare form’ today?”

            “You’ve barely seen me today. What offense could I have possibly given?”

            “Rook’s words, not mine,” Teia clarified, nonplussed. “Answer the question.”

            “Of course. Anything they can do to undermine me,” Viago muttered under his breath, beginning to gather his papers. “I am not discussing this. Good night, Andarateia,”

            “Oh, no, you don’t; I heard that,” Teia spat, standing and crossing to plant a hand in the center of the stack. “Talk.”

            “Absolutely not. Kindly move your hand before I choose to do so myself.”

            Her warm eyes narrowed, and when she spoke again, there was steel in her tone. “Threaten me in my own house again, Fifth Talon, and we’ll see whose hand flies first.”

            “I’m faster than you think.”

            “And dumber than you look.”

            “Ugh,” he spat. “Enough, Teia. I said no.”

            “I don’t care. I said talk.”

            Viago made another frustrated noise, tugging at his stack of documents for just a moment before leaping backwards on instinct at a sudden flash of silver.

            The heavy, wing-backed chair he collided with crashed to the floorboards behind him, and he slowly looked between his now-skewered paperwork and his former lover’s face.

            “Nugs died to make that parchment, you know.”

            “What a tragedy for the nugs.”

            A Cantori guard wheeled around the corner with his weapon drawn, summoned by the noise, eyes darting between the Talons before speaking.

            “Seventh Talon, are you-”

            “OUT!” both snapped, not looking at the man as he exited.  

            When they were alone in the rafters once more, Teia took a deep, even breath, withdrawing her dagger from the stack of documents and sheathing it.

            “Where are we taking this discussion, Viago?”

            He sighed, bending to right his toppled chair before speaking.

            “Your office.”

            “Fine.”

            He followed her through the familiar halls and staircases up to the casino’s penthouse. Once they arrived in her seldom-used private study, he shut the door behind them, then moved to gaze out a tall, arched window, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

            “So?” Teia asked.

            “What do you want to know?”

            She paused a moment, disarmed. “As much as you’ll tell me.”

            “I’m afraid that will be less than you’d like.”

            “I’ll take what I can get.”

            Viago let out a harsh breath, turning towards her a fraction, though he kept his gaze fixed on the border of her office’s fine woolen rug. “I made an error in judgment. Several errors, actually; ones which I will not be repeating.”

            “And that’s what has you so out of sorts?”

            “If that is how you choose to describe it.”

            “Viago, por la Sangre del –”

            “Ugh, yes; that, among other things.”

            “Those other things being?”

            “Private.”

            “We’re in private.”

            “Ask Belladonna yourself, if you’re so damn invested in what happens between us. This story is theirs to tell anyway.”

            The elven woman padded up beside him, eyes narrow. “What happened?”

            “What did I just say?”

            “Damn you, de Riva, just talk to me!”

            “Why? So you can both play me for a fool?”

            Teia recoiled, blinking up at him in shock; her face melted into something horribly close to pity before she spoke again.

            “Viago, they’d walk into fire for you.”

            He did not particularly appreciate the turn of phrase.

            “More likely, they would get distracted on their way to it and forget why they were there.”

            Teia made a sharp clicking noise with her tongue.

            “Cazzo, Vi, that’s no way to talk about a lover!”

            “They are not-”

            She cut him off with just a look, and he sighed heavily before continuing.

            “Ugh. Fine. Whatever else they are, first and foremost, they’re a de Riva. And for one of my Crows, they are a reckless, irresponsible, absolute idiot,” he snapped, “and when they walk straight into those Maker-damned fires, I have to put them back out.”

            “No, you don’t,” Teia said bluntly. “If they’re such an idiot, then let them burn, the same way you would with any other of your Crows.”

            “You know I can’t do that.”

            “Oh? And why not?”

            He swallowed, trying vainly to soothe his suddenly dry mouth.

            “Because I made an error in judgement,” he said quietly, turning back towards the window.

            “Oh, Vi,” Teia murmured. She reached out to lay a hand on his bicep, making him look towards the gentle touch and meet her gaze. “What happened?”

            “Not every secret is mine to share.”

            “Then only tell me the parts that are yours.”

            He glanced back out at the view of Treviso, the darkened city glittering beyond the rain-streaked windowpanes. “What happened to taking what you could get?”

            “I’m greedy. You should know that by now.”

            He sighed, looking down at her once more. “Will you share a drink with me?”

            Her face warmed into a small, mischievous smile, and she titled her head to one side. “That depends. Are you buying?”

            “It would hardly be polite for me to ask if I were not.”

            It took barely three minutes from the time Teia rang the bell for the junior Crow outside the door at the end of the hall to duck in, take their order, and reappear with the bottle, even with the descent she must have made to the casino’s cavernous wine cellars. The young woman wasn’t even winded when she returned, Viago noted with silent approval – as always, Teia trained her fledglings well. The bottle was still sealed, and Teia’s security near-impeccable; she did not fuss when he settled in next to her on the couch and began to test the glasses and wine for poisons anyway. With Caterina’s assassination so fresh on both their minds and the continuing search for traitors turning up nothing, neither Talon had quite so much faith in the Cantori Diamond’s reserves as they once did. Satisfied with the drink’s safety, he offered her a splash, letting her swirl it in the glass and inhale deeply before taking a small sip and nodding her approval. With her endorsement in place, he poured them each a respectable amount before bringing the bell of his glass to hers, letting them ring together in a wordless toast. He allowed himself a long moment to savor the wine before speaking.

            “This feels rather familiar.”

            “It does,” she agreed, “but you’re changing the subject.”

            “You could have had the decency to let me.” He took another sip, then shook his head. “I was a fool.”

            “Naturally. What was it this time?”

            He leveled her with a severe look. “You say that as if I make it a habit.”

            “Only in affairs of the heart,” she replied with an unbothered smile. “Which, if I may hazard a guess, is the subject you are once again avoiding.”

            “You are-”

            “Enraging, yes, I know. Talk, Viago.”

            He looked down at his lap, clearing his throat a bit.

            “I let them get too close. I let it cloud my judgment.”

            “What went so wrong? You both seemed happy with closeness this morning.”

            “That was this morning.”

            “Vi, it’s only been a few hours. What in the Maker’s name did you do?”

            “I didn’t do anything,” he snapped, and Teia dropped her forehead into her open palm, groaning.

            “Men, I swear; every one of you is the same. Fine. Then what did they do?”

            “Do you trust me?”

            “Of course I do,” she said without hesitation.

            “Am I important to you?”

            “Of course you are.”

            “Do you believe that there are ends for which I would manipulate, use, or betray you?”

            “Of course there are,” she replied, just as easily. “You’re a Talon, Viago.”

            “Then by your own metric, we may soon be calling Belladonna an equal.”

            “In every other metric, they already are,” she said severely, “But in that one, I think you’re wrong. They’re fighting to kill Gods because you gave them a contract. They aren’t about to betray you.”

            “They’re fighting the Gods because they don’t have a choice. That doesn’t mean they can’t find ways to use me to their own advantage.”

            “Of course they could, but it’s Bella. They wouldn’t.”

            “Everyone would, for the right advantage.”

            Teia made an exasperated noise, rolling her eyes. “And let me guess. You confronted them about this while they were at the villa.”

            “No, I saved us both from their own negligence while they were at the villa. Or, perhaps, from their own aspirations. Whichever it may have been, that the subject arose was merely the consequence of their… well.”

            Teia stilled for a moment, a knowing look coming over her face. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but then closed it again, brows furrowing. Her dark eyes narrowed at him over the rim of her glass, and her lips turned down with disapproval.

            “You were right,” she muttered, taking another sip of her wine. “You are a fool.”

            “Teia-”

            “A miserable, paranoid, self-important fool,” she continued, crossing one ankle over the other knee, “with near-terminal delusions of grandeur.”

            “Anything else?” he snapped, glaring.

            “Yes,” she said. “You are also an absolute idiot – and they look at you like you hung the stars in the sky.” The man beside her hissed out a breath through his teeth. “They’d do anything in the world just because you told them to. Whatever stupid thing you said, whatever stupid thing you did; Vi, go and fix it.”

            “I can’t,” he said bitterly, lips twisting. “They want to keep things discreet. I’m hardly honoring that wish if I make a public show of running after them every night.” 

            Teia’s eyebrows shot up and she choked around a sip of wine, uncrossing her legs and doubling over as she spluttered and coughed. Viago set his own wine down on the floor beside the couch and fell to a crouch before her in a sudden surge of panic, hands flying for the general antidote at his belt. She smacked at his shoulder with her empty hand as she turned to cough into the other elbow, waving him away.

            “Back, man, back,” she managed between splutters. “Maker, only you. I’m coughing, not dying.” With her airway finally cleared, she shook her head, looking down at him with an incredulous look.

            “Discreet?”

            Viago swallowed, feeling oddly embarrassed. “Well, that wasn’t their exact wording. But yes.”

            Teia barked out a sudden laugh, her mouth falling open as she shook her head again, speaking a bit more loudly than before.

            “And what part of this, exactly, do you think has been discreet?”

            His stomach dropped, and he looked away, clearing his throat awkwardly.

            “All of it, ideally.”

            She laughed again, and he shifted back onto his heel a bit, frowning.

            “Vi, you went home arm in arm this morning,” she chided quietly.

            “I escorted them back to their post, and we were not arm in arm when we arrived.”

            “And yet, clearly, you were seen.”

            Viago’s face darkened. “Excuse me?”

            “Oh, get off your knees and pour me more wine, Viago. I’m not about to keel over, and I’m still much too dressed for anything else,” Teia complained, patting the couch beside her. The man blushed, but complied, retrieving his own glass and refilling hers before sliding back into his seat. Teia kicked her legs up over his, resting her boots in his lap, and chuckled again when he stiffened at the contact. She swirled the wine in her glass, taking a slow, measured sip before speaking again.

            “Lucanis came to Treviso today, alone. He met with Illario right after you did, then came back here and asked me how early I was at my post.”

            “Lucanis already knew I escorted them home. We kept everything businesslike in company; we even argued behind closed doors for good measure. That doesn’t mean anything.”

            “Then why come talk to me after meeting with Illario, and not before?”

            “Why does the Demon do anything, especially after a year in that hole?”

            “Because there’s something he wants to know,” she replied easily, but there was weight in her tone. “He’s hunting, Viago, whether you like it or not. Something’s tipped him off.”

            He groaned, rubbing at his brow with his free hand.

            “All the more reason not to run after Rook like a lovesick fool.”

            She tilted her head to one side, smiling. “Is it really so much better to mope around the Diamond like one?”

            “Excuse me?” he said, hand falling to her ankle to push her off his lap.

            She pressed back against it, keeping her legs steady. “Viago, I know you own mirrors.”

            He scowled, taking a sip of his wine. “Now you’re making comments about my grooming?”

            “Certainly not, you’re as handsome as ever,” she replied, making him look away with a huff, shifting awkwardly under her feet.  “It’s a comment about your big, sad eyes, and the way they look off towards the Eluvian every time you think of them.”

            Viago spluttered, straightening in his seat. “I do not have big, sad eyes!”

            “Ah, but you do think of them?” she teased, planting an elbow on her thigh and leaning her head onto her open palm.

            “I- ugh,” he said, taking another drink to avoid saying more.

            She spoke again, voice quiet and gentle. “It’s showing, Viago, much more so since they’ve been home. I’m seeing it first, because I know you best. But people will start to notice if you can’t rein it in.”

            “So what do you propose I do, exactly? Cut off all contact? They’re one of my Crows. That would be more suspicious.”

            “Maker, idiot of a man. Why are the only options you can see a public relationship or no contact at all?”

            “When did I say I wanted a public relationship?”

            “When you said that they wanted discretion, and you looked like you swallowed a lemon.”

            “I…” he sighed. “What I want is irrelevant. They’re right. Between the Gods and the occupation, we both have more important things to focus on than personal distractions.” 

            “Are you focusing on the occupation? Or did you spend all of last night chasing them around Treviso and take them home after, then spend the rest of the morning threatening to murder a man for kissing them? Hm? Are you focused on the occupation, or did you spend your afternoon drawing them bubble baths and fussing over them and polishing their armor? If you’re going to pretend, pick a different premise; this one isn’t playing.”

            He stilled, then frowned down at his wine, blushing guiltily.

            “How did you know I polished their armor?”

            She chuckled quietly, a smile in her voice. “I’d know the smell of your leather balm anywhere. I’ve never found one in the markets that I liked so much.”

            He glanced up, feeling an odd twinge of pride. “I could make a jar for you, if you’d like.”

            Teia laughed again, lips drawing back over her teeth as she looked up at him from the cradle of her palm, brown eyes sparkling a bit from the wine. “See? I told you that it’s showing. You never used to be so sweet.”

            Despite himself, he smiled, taking another sip of wine to hide the expression, if not the warmth in his voice. “Or perhaps you simply give me too little credit.”

            “Perhaps.” She said, swirling her glass in her hand. “Or perhaps they’re a good influence. Whatever its cause, I approve of the sweetness. It’s a good look on you.”

            He paused, stiffening again. “Teia Cantori, are you flirting with me?”

            “Yes,” she replied easily. “Is it working?”

            “No, and you know that. So why are you doing it?”

            “Because I enjoy it – and because it may just be good for us both.”

             “Oh?” he asked, intrigued. “How so?”

            “You’re not as subtle as you think you are, Vi. You storm and scowl and pout about the Diamond whenever they’re not in Treviso, and disappear after them whenever they are. In the past week alone, you’ve followed them on missions, followed them on dates, followed them home, and dragged them to yours. Everyone already knew they were your favorite, but Lucanis can’t be the only one starting to wonder if there’s something more brewing there.”

            “Is this approaching a point?” Viago asked, scowling.

            “You’re obsessing, and it’s obvious. So, let me flirt with you while you stand there and glower,” she said with a shrug. “Maker knows you’ve done it before.”

            “Teia-”

            “I know it won’t be real. It doesn’t have to be. But the easiest dances are those that you’ve practiced, and we’ve been through that one quite a few times before. You’re wound tighter than a bowstring over them. When you inevitably snap, snap at me. Everyone knows that for us, arguing is one step below lovemaking; if it takes the suspicion off you and Belladonna, let people assume what they already want to.”

            “And what benefit would you get out of this, exactly?”

            “Like I said, I enjoy it,” she said with a teasing smile, “and Maker knows I need relief. No one else can argue with me quite like you, Vi.” The man beside her sighed, shaking his head, and her face softened into something genuine and unguarded.

“And, if you must know, it was nice to see you happy. If you have a chance at that with Bella, chase that, Vi, not them.”

His brow furrowed. “The difference being?”

Teia made an exasperated noise, letting her forehead fall into her palm. “Idiot, idiot, idiot man. What we see in you, I’ll never know.”

“You don’t know what you see in me?”

“Besides an irritation?” she countered, swinging her legs off his lap and sauntering to the door, glass dangling from one hand.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, hush, and pour yourself more wine. The longer we sit here, the better this story sells.”

She cracked the door open, calling to the fledgling outside the door at the hall’s end.

“Jenna?”

“Yes, Seventh Talon?” came the quiet, distant reply.

“You’re dismissed for the night. Have a good evening,” Teia said in a warm, sultry lilt, before purposefully closing the door and turning the lock with a loud, solid click.

He arched an eyebrow, but did as she had told him, pouring himself a tall glass of the wine. “Laying it on thick, aren’t we?”

“Not by anyone’s metric but yours, Vi,” she said, returning to the couch and settling in a bit closer than she’d been before. “Pouring a bit heavy, aren’t we?”

“You said I should sit here a while longer. Do you expect me to go thirsty?”

“Not at all. Is that a yes to my proposition?”

Viago chuckled, taking a sip of his wine. “You just locked me in here. You tell me.”

She tilted her head to the side, giving him a slow, familiar smile. “I’d say it’s a definite maybe.”

His lips twitched up into a smirk at the phrasing, and he raised his glass to hers once more, letting them ring together in wordless agreement.

            Three hours later, the Fifth Talon was snoring, slumped into the corner between the couch’s arm and back with his empty glass dangling precariously from a still-gloved hand. Teia stirred and smiled drowsily at the unusual display of fatigue, gently pulling the glass from his hand and placing it on the floor beside her own. Yawning, she settled back over his lap once more, pillowing her head into his chest and nuzzling into the warm, pleasantly-scented leather. Without waking, his arm wound around her, pulling her closer as he dozed.

            Four hours after that, the Talons peeled themselves apart, and separately, they descended to their shared work table – but not before a new rumor had begun to spread from the Cantori Diamond.

            The day passed without any visitors to the rafters, and true to her word, Teia rose to meet him every time he turned to her to bicker. He came to her with his characteristic venom, and every time, she found a way to leave him scowling, blushing, or, maddeningly often, both. By that evening, the Crows around them had started to groan at her overblown lines - and yet, at the end of the night, their table was clear and empty of paperwork, and both Talons had been more productive than they’d been in several months. 

            By the time they arrived at work the next morning – separately, despite the furtive wagers placed by hopefuls the night before – the Diamond’s new rumor had spread across Treviso, and talk of any other romances faded into the ether.

The two youngest Talons were circling once more.

Chapter Text

Belladonna spent one night curled into a ball, sipping at cups of elfroot tea and quickly retching them into a bucket as their insides cringed. The second cup made its reappearance, and soon after so did Lucanis, carrying a tray with a small piece of bread and a bowl of clear broth and insisting that they try to eat something. The smell of peppers and onions swept across the Lighthouse as the others indulged in a livelier meal, and combined with the nausea and cramping the morning-after potion had left in its wake, it was more than enough to turn their stomach against even the mildest meal. Thankfully, despite his earlier moodiness, he was professional enough not to balk when he returned for their dishes to find them slumped against the fishtank with a bucket of sick wedged between their thighs, one feverish cheek pressed up against the cold glass in a desperate attempt to anchor themself. He gently asked if they’d like him to call in the Dellamorte’s family healer; there were few things they would have liked less, so they deflected, saying they’d be fine and had simply tested a new poison for Viago. It had been true so many times before, after all, and with such similar effects. Lucanis had looked discontented, or perhaps simply unconvinced – but he hadn’t pushed any further. He’d whisked away their still mostly-full bowl and returned a moment later with a cold, damp rag and an empty bucket to replace the one between their thighs. In their pained, embarrassed daze, they hardly noticed that the assassin had returned until he was knelt by their side, pressing the soothing cloth against their forehead with careful, gentle fingers.

            They’d asked him to give them some privacy after that, and he had.

            The next morning, they’d slunk off to Minrathous with Neve and Harding again without ever stepping foot in the kitchens. They had wandered Dock Town with Neve and met with informants, then put names to the faces of murder victims for a discontented spirit of Compassion. They had resisted the urge to snap at Rana Savas when they’d checked in on her investigations to no more news than a lazy smile and a quip of “I’m sure you’ll uncover something,” sheathing the words that wanted to leap past their teeth, forcing out a broad smile instead of a bark of ‘you do it, you fucking live here’. Instead, they had kept their frustration at a quiet simmer until their team took on the oversized, lighting-hurling demon curled up inside a giant swell of Blight that had grown in a quiet corner of Dock Town. The fight passed in a strange, giddy haze. The damp ground sizzled and crackled with their own electricity and the demon’s in equal measure, and it took every potion the team had to keep Rook standing through the fight. By the end, they’d been panting and swaying on their feet, dizzy and dazed with loose strands of hair floating skyward from the residual static swirling over their skin – but they were giddy with the victory, letting out a peal of bright, breathless laughter before withdrawing their mageknife from the demon’s oozing skull and skipping back to their teammates’ sides, idly scrubbing gore away from their cheek. Harding looked perturbed, but Neve just patted them on the back, shaking her head in amusement.

            They’d answered with only a wide, delighted smile, and decided that they and Neve Gallus really might get along after all. Their good humor lasted nearly all the way back to the Eluvian, too, until they reached the Shadow Dragon’s hideout and overhead the two men arguing by the table. As much as they preferred to stay quiet when they eavesdropped, the themes of the disagreement were rather too familiar to ignore: trust given, betrayed, and lost; doubt and suspicion weighing more than affection in an organization with no room for either. They had only spoken to Tarquin briefly, once; it wasn’t their place to intrude – and yet, selfishly, they had anyway.

“Friends should trust each other,” they had said, not at all referring to the Viper.

            “It’ll be fine,” Tarquin had replied, “In a couple days, we’ll be fighting over who said sorry better.”

            That, too, had felt a little too familiar, but that was hardly the man’s fault. They had offered him a tight-lipped smile, and they returned to the Lighthouse, though they longed to run home instead. They went to their chamber without waiting for dinner, still tender-stomached from the past night’s unpleasantness, only to find another cold cup of tea and a piece of dark bread waiting on the table by the door. They ate and drank in the quiet of their room - chamomile tea, they noted, not elfroot this time - and when they finally laid back on their chaise and found rest, they did not dream of Viago de Riva or any of the words he had said.

            A day had passed without him, and their life had gone on.

            The next day, Bellara had wanted to find a way back to Arlathan, determined to check on some artifacts she had stabilized. Once they’d found a way through the Crossroads, though, Lucanis had lingered in the Veil Jumper’s camp, as none of them were sure what influence, if any, Spite would have on the magically-sensitive items. Perhaps emboldened by the privacy, Bellara spoke of her late brother for the first time, and Rook was more than eager to listen. They were the team leader, so it was their responsibility to help the others however they could, and the woman seemed to consider them a friend, so it was the least they could do – but some selfish, private part of them was also simply glad to have someone else’s guilt and sadness to stew over instead of their own.

            They had rejoined Lucanis at the camp and spent the rest of the day trying to help an anxious spirit find rest before the fear turned it demonic. Initially, they’d been worried of the man’s opinion on spending so long on the whims of a spirit when he already spent every moment bound to those of one. Far from privately annoyed, though, he’d seemed eager, and when they uttered a simple remembrance for the dead elves whose passings haunted the spirit, he bowed his head and folded his hands in quiet respect. Calmed, the spirit had slipped off into peace, and for the briefest moment, Lucanis laid his hand on their shoulder, giving them a little squeeze before turning to leave the makeshift altar. They stilled, blinking a few times as the touch tingled across their skin. They hadn’t expected him to approve. But then, were they receiving his approval, or Spite’s? Would Spite even approve of helping the distressed spirit, or would he leave it to twist into something malicious, as he had been twisted, once?

            The trio had returned to the Lighthouse, and, grateful for the help, Bellara made dinner. It was a light, simple soup of fiddleheads she’d gathered from the forest, but after their lack of a proper meal the previous day, it might as well have been sent straight from the Gods themselves. Rook put down two bowlfuls and the half-stale end of the previous day’s bread before anyone else had finished their first servings, profusely praising the cooking between bites. Bellara looked ready to burst with pride, flushing pink and wiggling happily in her chair as she ate, and Neve and Harding both chuckled and joked at the display. Lucanis, though, simply stared, face painted with something unreadable, the smallest crease between his brows.

            “Lucanis?” Neve asked, ever observant. “Are you alright?”

            He glanced over at her, shaking his head a bit. “Yes, fine. Spite is… being loud.”

            The rest of the meal passed quietly, and Neve and Harding offered to do dishes. Warm, full, and too exhausted to worry in circles, Rook had stood from the table with a lazy yawn and a smile, planted an affectionate kiss on each of Bellara’s cheeks, and thanked her for the meal once more before shuffling off to their chamber and slumping face-first onto the chaise.

            A second day had come and gone, and they had not run back to his side. The sun had still risen, the work had still been done, and as they drifted into easy, dreamless sleep, they felt lighter than they had since returning home.

            On the third day, it all fell apart.

            It had started with terror, and they should have known it would end with it.

            They had set out with Harding to meet with her Warden contacts, a foolish, hopeful spring in their step. They should have known something would go wrong when the Crossroads began to whirl with blinding snow, the usually mild Fade air replaced with bitter, biting cold. They should have turned around the moment Lucanis mentioned that even Spite had felt the chill. They wished they could have, afterwards, wished they had; wished they’d turned right on the spot and marched back to the relative warmth of their chamber and not forwards into what was coming.

            The Fade had twisted and spun around them, and they had begun to fall, and for one, horrid moment, they were certain death had come.

            They looked to Lucanis.

The world whirled once more, then went black. 

            They’d fought through the strange, half-spun reality of Solas’ memory. They’d watched him knowingly send his allies to their deaths, and the back of their neck had prickled at the thought that such a man might be looking through their thoughts even then, might be pressing against their free will.

If their team was all Crows, if they were a Talon, that would be one thing. The team they had was quite another, and they were not nearly so cool or qualified a leader. The Veilguard – besides Lucanis – wouldn’t understand that kind of practicality. They weren’t trained for it. They didn’t expect it. They didn’t know Belladonna, the poisoner’s protégé - they only saw Rook, the world’s latest hero. 

            They expected kindness, and in this, at least, Rook resolved that they would get it. In their embattled mind, they drew one firm line in the sand. They fought through the memory, and they got their people out. They stumbled back into the Crossroads shaken but unharmed – and still, they had not turned around.

            If they had, would it have made a difference?

            Harding’s contacts, Antoine and Evka, had pointed them after another Warden, a specialist named Davrin. The scout had looked up at them expectantly when it was time to split the team, shifting her quiver on her back.

            An hour or so earlier, they’d been sure that death had come. They had looked to Lucanis. The elf turned to him with a small, shy nod, and they set off after the monster hunter.

For a little while, it had almost been nice. Even in the blight-ridden Warden camp, they’d worked comfortably, close, staying side by side. When they’d heard something in the distance, it had been as natural as breathing to gently touch Lucanis’ shoulder, and the man had risen to attention behind them with a quiet, driving focus.

            And then, so quickly, it had all gone so wrong.

 The air stank and the land crawled with Blight, and both of the Wardens Davrin worked with were dead. Most of the griffons were stolen by the Gloom Howler, and the elven hunter was left staring at the little one waiting by his side as it let out a long, mournful wail.

He had agreed to join them anyway, and they all went into the Crossroads.

The others had rushed out to meet them at the Lighthouse’s Eluvian, and before a word was spoken, Rook knew tragedy had come.

A dragon in Minrathous. A dragon in Treviso.

“If we don’t stop that dragon,” Lucanis had begged, “People will die. Innocent people. Our people.”

He kept speaking, and so did Neve. Rook barely heard them, blood rushing in their ears.

“Our people.” Their stupid, slippery mind echoed. “Ours.”

They tried to say something, anything, to lead, but Neve cut them off before they really began. For once, their companions made a decision for themselves.

Lucanis turned and ran for the mirror. They froze. They watched him melt through its roiling surface, and all illusion of choice went with them.

Harding’s voice came, hazy in their ears. They spoke, hoping they were answering the right question.

“We help Lucanis in Treviso.”

The first thing they noticed were the screams. Then came the smoke, then the smell.

The Canal District, glowing orange as it crumbled into flame. The stench of blood and death, riding thick over sea air.

“Oh, no no no,” they’d choked out without thinking, “what’s it done to my city?”

Then, they’d started to run.

In hindsight, it was a minor miracle they made it through to their allies at all. Their head had whirled with panic and their heart pounded in their ears, a lifetime of training turning tail in face of the fresh kind of horror laid before them. They had very nearly fallen to the first group of Antaam they encountered on their way, unfocused and feral as barely-restrained fear left them. They had tripped down the stairs on their way out the building’s door. They had seen two Crows, silhouetted in the distance, and they’d scrambled to their feet so quickly, their boots had skidded over the blood-slick cobbles. One face had come into view, and then the other.

Lucanis, thank the Maker, Lucanis, there, alive. Teia, right next to him, looking upset but unharmed. Their heart had soared, the filth and terror around them melting back as their focus narrowed to a single, shining point. Belladonna’s eyes drifted up over her shoulder, to just behind her, where there must also be –

No one.  

Lucanis and Teia. Teia and Lucanis. No one else. No more, no less.

Giddy joy gave way to dread, and their soaring heart dropped like a stone.

Oh, Maker.

Oh, no.

“Where is he?” they wondered even as their feet approached. “Where is he? Where’s-”

“Rook. Good. We could use another Crow,” Lucanis said, sounding not at all relieved.

“Even though killing dragons is not exactly our specialty,” Teia added, voice equally drawn.

“Time to learn,” they said flatly, thoughts a thousand miles away.

“Oh, Maker, what happened? Where is he? Is he-”

Teia and Lucanis had begun to talk strategy, and all pretense of leadership slipped away. Belladonna let the Talon and the presumptive one speak, and when Teia spoke again, her tone made it clear she was giving an order.

“Draw up your courage. We will need it.”

As the ice dragon swooped down at them, though, it was not courage which pushed them forward. Ghilan’nain’s taunts echoed sharply in their skull, even as the Archdemon screamed.

“A pawn of the Dread Wolf.”

A pawn of the Dread Wolf?

Their teeth ground together, and their grip tightened on their weapon, and rage, as it always had, turned their fear to deadly purpose.

They were no God’s pawn; not his, and not hers. Before the end of this, they’d see both of them on the end of their knife.

Not that day, though. On the third day, they had failed again, just like they always did. They did not kill Ghilan’nain. They never got close. They didn’t even kill her dragon; both fled before they could put either down. Teia seemed relieved the beast had been fought off at all, but from the grit in Lucanis’ tone, his sentiments were much closer to theirs.

It was not dead. It was not gone.

The contract was not finished.

The thought rang loud in their head as Lucanis spoke in the distance, shame roiling hard in their stomach.

Next to them, Bellara quietly mentioned Minrathous, and the word snapped them back to attention. There were still things to kill. There was still work to do.

The moment they stepped through the Eluvian, the truth hit all too quick.

They’d come too late. They had failed, again.

The city had fallen. The Viper was blighted. Tarquin, so friendly just two days ago, had a mouth full of nothing but blame, and though the Viper protested, Rook knew Tarquin was right. They’d been distracted. They’d gotten scared. They’d been too shaky, too scattered, too slow; if they’d killed their heart and kept their head and focused on the job, then they would have been faster, they’d have killed both dragons, instead of failing to kill either. They’d have gotten there in time, Viago wouldn’t be-

Neve had told them to leave, and they had. What else could they do?

Solas came to them that night, denying them rest even in dreams, every piece of advice married to a question they wished didn’t have an answer. They’d accept the world’s judgment after all this, they’d told him, and in their own way, they had meant it. Dead heroes rarely argued for their own reputations.

            They had woken, and they had dressed, and they had done what he’d advised, trying to ignore the bile burning low in their throat as they addressed their team. A dragon hunter and a Fade expert, Solas had suggested – both good ideas, objectively. Wouldn’t Neve have advised the same, were she still at the Lighthouse?

            “Pawn of the Dread Wolf,” their mind echoed coldly, and they swallowed hard against something sour.

They had been promised a dragon hunter. A professional.

Taash was not what they’d imagined.

She was not expecting the Crows’ arrival any more than Rook was expecting her brusqueness and teenish dramatics. Clearly, the Qunari was an adult and capable of carrying her own weight, if Isabela had been willing to vouch for her – and breathing fire was hardly a common skill. But as they sat at the table with the pirate queen, the girl, and her mother – who, as it turned out, was the one who had ‘volunteered’ her daughter for the mission – it was not so much professional confidence that inspired them to take Taash onto the team as it was pity.

A Talon would have left her behind, they thought idly as they shuffled back to the Lords of Fortune base with the woman in tow. She never would have made it as a Crow. If she’d been a de Riva fledgling, her shitty attitude would have gotten her killed years ago.

Annoyance crept closer to anger, and Rook set off towards the fighting ring before they endangered an alliance before it began.

When they stepped into the Hall of Valor together, though, Taash’s other virtues came to light.

Belladonna did not like her; Rook respected talent when they saw it. By the second match, their opinion had begun to change. If the fire-breathing Qunari could fight like that against the Gods, they might deserve their place in the Veilguard after all.

By the fifth fight, they were all sweating, and a scarlet flush had begun to creep up Lucanis’ neck. He must be as hot in his dark Crow armor as they were – but when they wrenched away their cloak, tossing it on a chair beside Isabela before setting off towards round six, he simply sighed and rolled his shoulders before following at their heels.

Their muscles screamed with fatigue, and their skin slipped and crawled with sweat beneath their layers of leather. Every breath scraped inside their lungs like shards of ice – but so long as they fought, their mind stayed clear.

Darkspawn, Antaam, Venatori. It didn’t matter. Let them come. All they needed was something to hit. Fight or die, fight and live, the way a Crow should be, the way that made sense.

They signed up for a seventh round, and then again, for an eighth. They returned for the ninth, and Isabela practically preened, the feathered skirt of her armor quivering behind her as she shifted in place with excitement.

At some point, they’d begun to bleed. A blade had caught them on the cheek, and sweat and blood stung at the wound. The little pain spread as they smiled, and soon, they won again.

The last spirit dissolved into nothing, and Rook went back to Isabela.

“Ten?” she asked, eyes wide with delight.

“Ten,” they said, voice flat and cold.

“Rook,” Lucanis warned behind them, hand brushing their shoulder.

They shrugged out from under the searing touch, shaking their head with a hiss.

They walked to the ring.

A few minutes later, the crowd exploded into cheers, and they had won round ten. Their chest heaved and their hands shook, and they smiled, half-dizzy with exhaustion.

The crowd grew louder, reaching a fever pitch.

Screams rang in their head. They smelled bodies. They smelled smoke.

Taash clapped them on the shoulder, moving ahead of them towards the exit, and they snapped back into reality with a flinch. Lucanis paused next to them, glancing over at the motion, and they grit their teeth and followed the Qunari.

Two hours later, they were slumped in a wooden chair and something just beyond drunk, examining the new ring on their hand. They turned it one way, then the other, idly watching how the gold gleamed as it caught the firelight.

They’d never worn gold before. Crow jewelry was always silver.

Suddenly, the shiny bauble they had won felt far too heavy on their hand.

            It had been four days.

            Was he even alive?

Rook bared their teeth against the sensation crawling up their throat, kicking back in their chair and throwing an arm over their eyes.

They woke up sprawled across one of the Hilt’s tables, a hangover pounding at eyes and their long-discarded cloak spread loosely over their shoulders.

They choked down a healing potion that fought them with every swallow, and bit their tongue until it’d stayed down long enough to take effect. The pain behind their brow faded enough to not gag them, and they got back to work.

The fifth day, they chased lost Crow supplies, and they found mostly bodies. Beside them lay a note from Isabela – a note to Viago, addressed as such. They read it once before closing their hand around it. They took a deep breath, examining the fingers of their armor’s half-gloves. The pirate queen should be glad it had never reached him. They just knew he would have prickled at the familiarity.

They dropped the crumpled missive, and it caught in the breeze, rolling away across the sand.

Only one of the Crows sent to pick up the goods had survived – but the supplies were still there, and she promised to find her way back and deliver them. True to her word, when Rook returned to the Lighthouse that evening, there was already a letter waiting for them, confirming the woman had made it home. It expressed her thanks, and was signed Natale of House Cantori – and it made no mention of what they most wanted to hear.

Who was waiting, when she’d gotten back to Treviso? When she’d met her Head of House, had there been someone beside her? Had Viago been there? Was Viago alive?

They stalked to the kitchens and found a bottle of something cheap, ignoring Lucanis’ worried gaze. They went back to their chamber and collapsed on their chaise, and for the second night in a row, Belladonna got piss drunk.

            The next morning, they had woken fully clothed, curled onto their side next to a familiar bucket with a cup of cold tea waiting by their door.

            Maker, have mercy. They didn’t remember Lucanis coming.

            The thought alone was enough to send them reeling. Shame yanked hard at their stomach and they retched, hands darting for the waiting bucket.

            They spent an hour pressed against the cold tank glass, slowly sipping at their elfroot tea. They waited until the brew had settled their stomach enough to endure, and they slipped out their chamber door. They pretended they didn’t see the way Lucanis’ eyes darted to them even as Davrin actively threatened to kill him. They left their empty mug in the kitchen. They nodded blandly at Bellara and Harding as they chatted in the corner, but they didn’t interrupt. They gave Taash the welcome-aboard present they’d picked up at the Hilt, affecting a wide, friendly smile even as they prickled with annoyance at a look about the girl’s newly-opened room.

            Partly because the Lighthouse had put the Rivani next to Varric’s spot in the infirmary – could the Fade not tell that an injured man needed rest? – and partly because it had seen fit to give her an actual bed.

            Why didn’t they get a bed?

            Varric, for his part, simply told them not to panic. Selfishly, they’d curled their lip at the advice once their back was turned, thinking it was easy to stay relaxed from his bed.

            They had frozen in place in the hallway as the guilt for it hit them, and with a sigh, the day had begun.

            They had taken their two newest teammates out that morning, as both had errands to run. Belladonna had quickly learned that a Crow’s idea of an errand was quite different than an outsider’s; Varric had driven that point home early. Even still, Taash and Davrin’s ‘errands’ seemed much more like personal time than Veilguard business to them. Some part of them was annoyed at the pair’s banter, at their flippancy and ease – but then, Taash made them laugh.

            When was the last time they’d laughed?

            Six days ago, at the least. Maybe the dragon hunter wasn’t so bad after all.

            But still, really. Feeding the birds? Helping the weather-teller was noble enough, certainly. But why waste so much time on the way?

            And more than that, why stop to see her mother?

            Belladonna didn’t like her either, they decided. They’d warmed by a degree on her daughter; Shathann did not improve with further acquaintance. They prickled at her tone; at the way she talked about Taash. They disliked her imposition and her nitpicking on pronunciation.

            If they lived with her, perhaps they’d have spent hours feeding birds, too.

            Davrin’s errand to Arlathan had proved to be much more enjoyable.

            They’d never cared for Grey Warden stories as a child. They’d been an infant, and then they’d been a Crow. There had never been time for tales of knights in shining armor. Running through a dappled glade with the handsome elf and his griffon, though, it was easy to see why they appealed. He was capable, but kind, confident, but not cocky. Assan was adorable, and the air was sweet with the scent of long grass bent underfoot. They spent a warm afternoon hunting for gingerwort truffles, and mortal peril never came to call. Davrin spoke about his work with genuine conviction, and it was all so noble.

            Maker, why couldn’t that be what they wanted?

            Was the man they wanted even still alive?

            They returned to the Lighthouse and headed straight for the kitchens, not quite sure why they’d come. Harding, though, seemed fairly sure.

            “Hey Rook,” she teased, “Looking for something?”

            Belladonna had ground their teeth, and they’d gone to smooth things over with Lucanis.

            If they’d made a drunken fool of themself, he was good enough not to mention it. In fact, he didn’t mention the past night at all.

            “The Crows cannot thank you enough. I cannot. Treviso stands.”

            He’d kept speaking, but they’d stopped listening.

            Their mind was made up.

            On the seventh day, Belladonna went home.

            If he was gone, they had to know. If they went back, someone would tell them, surely.

            They took Bellara and Lucanis, played the leader, like they should – but as they walked the narrow catwalk above the Cantori Diamond’s card tables, their heart hung heavy in their throat.

            And when they turned the corner, he was there.

Healthy. Whole. Alive.

            They nearly tripped over their own feet at the sight of him standing, waiting just where he should be – and then, Viago had spoken.

            “There’s an interesting letter there, Rook.”

            Not even a fucking hello.

            The note was from an art merchant, addressed to Dearest Viago, telling him to come by, to bring Teia.

            Lucanis was a foot off their heels, so they kept their voice level even as their teeth ground.

            “An art merchant has information about the Antaam?”

            Viago talked, telling them to find the woman. Teia teased, and without pausing, he had countered.

            Rook glanced between the pair, fighting hard to keep suspicion off their face.

            Not here. Not in public. Not in front of Lucanis. If it showed for even a moment, he would know.

            They swallowed, once. Then they got to work.

            Mistress Trella was barricaded in her own gallery, it turned out, yet another target of the Antaam.

            “I hope dear Viago can make next week’s exhibition,” she’d purred as they turned to go, and suddenly, they wished that they’d left her that way.

            They’d slunk around the market, and followed their leads, only to find no stolen art at the end of it. They returned to question the merchant they’d overheard, and found nothing but an incriminating note.

            They’d been noticed. They’d been played.

            Right in front of Lucanis.

            They ground their teeth, and they set off to the spot the note had detailed.

            They fought off the traitors and found the information – and Lucanis, Maker damn him, was such a good Crow.

            “We must go to Teia and Viago with this as soon as possible,” he urged, and Rook knew he was right. When a good Crow gets valuable intelligence, they report to their Talon; they circle back to the nest and wait for updated orders.

            “Agreed,” they replied, though the word burned against their teeth.

            They’d reported back to the Talons, and they’d been dismissed without so much as ‘farewell’.

No “well done today”. Not anymore.

            They sent their companions back to the Lighthouse, and they slunk off to Villa de Riva. It had been a full week, after all.

            They made enough contraceptive potions to last for a full year, and an extra in case one of them broke. They stuffed them into a rough cloth sack that they’d stolen from the fledglings’ quarters, and though the sun had dipped below the horizon, they still managed to leave before Viago got home.

            They didn’t want to speak to him. They didn’t want to see who he brought home. They didn’t want proof of what was already clear.

            They returned to the Lighthouse just after the others had finished their dinner, and dragged themself back to their quarters to find that the proof had come to them regardless.

            Another letter had come from Treviso, waiting on the table by their chamber door - where on a better night, a cup of tea might be. The paper was cloying with perfume, and the note was addressed to Dearest Rook. The title alone made their teeth grind; soon after, so did the contents.

            “A wonderful thing: the Crows have recovered some of the Trevisan artwork stolen by the Antaam! Viago and Teia told me all about it when I had them over for dinner.”

            Viago and Teia. Teia and Viago. Together. Over for dinner.

            No wonder he’d been out so late.

            “He let you feed him?” they thought bitterly, though they knew it likely wasn’t true. They’d sat close to Viago through many formal dinners without seeing him eat a single bite. Yet something venomous within them spun the image all the same: him at Teia’s side, laughing like he really meant it. Taking a strawberry from her delicate fingers, taking a sip of her wine. Taking a kiss. Taking her home.

            They had not thought themself jealous, a week ago.

            A week ago, they had not thought him cruel.

            They left the letter where it lay, and walked slowly over to their chaise. They sat down in its center, feet flat on the floor and hands laid lightly on their thighs. They inhaled. They held.

            The breath caught in their throat, and something they’d believed in died.

            A sudden, shuddering sob broke its way free, and they crumpled onto their side, curling their knees up into their chest and bawling into the smooth leather. They wound their arms around their legs, trying to hold themself together in any way that they still could.

            Viago had said that he loved them, a week ago – and whatever his reason, Viago had lied.

Chapter Text

Davrin, angel that he was, had tried to make them forget. Maybe with another Warden, it would have worked, too.

They’d done their best to keep their crying muffled – but evidently a griffon’s hearing was as legendary as the rest of its qualities. Assan had whined and scratched against their door, and when they’d finally pulled themselves off the couch to go and let him in, they found his keeper behind it, too. He’d been lounged casually against the wall, arms crossed and a bottle in tow, and then wound one hand free, raising the rotgut and one eyebrow.

            The first half of the bottle had done what he must have hoped it would – made them laugh and forget about their troubles while he lavished them with hunter’s tales. They’d flushed and giggled and lit up with pleasant warmth, and they’d even begun to enjoy the way the man’s knee bumped against theirs.

            And then, of course, it had to fall apart.

            “There we go,” he’d murmured as he’d reached out, smoothing back a lock of hair that had shaken free. “Laughing, how I like you. No one should ever make you cry.”

            They’d looked away, swallowing hard.

            “You’re sweet.” They wished they were somewhere else.

            “I’m honest,” he replied with a smile, moving a warm hand to their cheek and turning their face towards him. “That’s the least you deserve.”

            Their lightened heart dropped into their stomach, and Rook looked down at their knees. What would be the fastest way? What would make him go?

            A low blow, they had decided, then began to sniffle, affecting a hitched, hiccupping breath.

            It was hardly their best performance, but he wasn’t a Crow, and it worked.

            “Wait, no,” he said, recoiling in alarm. “Rook, I’m sorry, I-”

            “Just- just go,” they’d whined, hiding still-dry eyes behind their hands. Davrin was decent, noble, sweet; he did as he was told. He stood, leaving the bottle beside them, and without saying another word, he’d left the room with Assan drooping sadly at his heels.

            The door closed behind him; in their mind, they counted to ten, faking a few more muffled little cries. They reached ten and glanced furtively up at the doorway before pulling their hands away from their face, straightening with a weary sigh.

            He had tried. They hadn’t lied – he was safe, he was sweet – but that wasn’t what they wanted. They lifted the bottle he’d left with them, taking a long, sloppy sip. They hissed out a breath as the whiskey burned its way down, and they began to consider.

            They didn’t want sweet, they wanted Viago – who clearly did not want them any longer. They didn’t want safety, they wanted Lucanis – who probably never had.

            Tender kisses and kind words from a good man wouldn’t chase that want away. They wished that they could; it all seemed so much easier. They drank again, no longer cringing at the taste. An imprudent, prideful feeling began to swell behind their brow, and their lips curled downwards.

            Viago had lied to them at least a thousand times before this. It wasn’t that he’d lied; it was the one he’d chosen. They should have known better than to think they could hide their feelings for long; it had certainly only taken a year because they’d been so far from Treviso. Had they ever fooled the Fifth Talon at all? Had he known they were hopelessly smitten with him from the moment they’d returned to the Diamond?

            He must have. Otherwise, why pick that lie? Normally, when his paranoia struck, he would just poison them into line. Why pick that lie to bring his protégé to heel unless he knew how bad they wanted to believe it?

            They sucked down another deep drink of the whiskey, then exhaled a harsh, bitter sigh.

            There were traitors in the Crows, and they still had not been found. Belladonna had been away for a year, on a trip deep into Tevinter. They were a mage. They were an elf.

It made sense for Viago to clean house; to pick up and examine and polish each of his Crows until any falseness gleamed under his eye. Being the favorite had meant he’d let them in - by fractions, but more than any other. Being the favorite meant he’d shared one or two of his secrets, and they could never have their own again.

He had needed to know for sure that they weren’t compromised. He had needed to be certain they would talk, would tell him anything, and Maker damn him, they had. Clearly, his act had worked as intended; he’d dropped it by the same evening. He’d gotten the assurance of loyalty that he wanted, and he’d abandoned all pretenses of affection.

They would have just taken a truth serum if he’d asked them to. They wouldn’t even have been mad if he had dosed them. It would have been so much easier.

Why did it have to be “I love you”? Why did that have to be a lie?

They didn’t raise the bottle to their lips, but their head swirled with a rebel heat all the same. They pressed one hand to their forehead, hissing out a breath and narrowing their eyes.

How dare he?

How dare he?

Their lips pulled up into a snarl, and without thinking, they rose from their chaise. One hand curled around their lyrium dagger, and one around the neck of the bottle.

He’d become a Talon by being willing to be cruel, and they were his very best student.

They’d stalked into the Diamond with their weapon in hand, ready to show him that they’d learned. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, their mind was completely clear. No passing thoughts, no future errands, no worries about the Evanuris; nothing came and nothing went. They felt almost as if they were floating, gliding forward down the catwalk with a singular sense of purpose.

They’d turned the corner, and he had not been there.

They froze in place, suddenly anchored in reality. Cold, gnawing shame crawled deep in their gut.

Why had they come here? What were they doing?

            Their hand trembled on the lyrium dagger. They blinked once, then again.

            “Rook?” a youthful voice said from beside them. “Rook, are you alright?”

            “I…” they began, shaking their head sharply before looking over at Jacobus, who was leant against the railing with a few other fledglings. “Yes, I’m fine.” They glanced back at the empty meeting table. “Where’s Teia?”

            The boy snorted, looking up with a smirk. “Upstairs with Viago. They’ve been ‘doing paperwork’ for the last three hours, with strict orders that their ‘focus’ remain uninterrupted.”

            Belladonna snorted too, though the sound lacked Jacobus’ mirth. Their fingers twisted tighter around the loop of the lyrium dagger.

 “Ah, young love.”

            Jacobus let out a guffaw at that. Their gaze snapped back to him, and he quickly glanced downwards, shuffling a little in place. The anger they’d felt a moment ago simmered back towards a boil, and they sucked a slow breath through their teeth. They reached for calm, for reality, for any distraction, and glanced between the other fledglings standing nearby.

            Qunari girl. Tall, thin, white hair braided to the skull.

            Human boy, ten at the oldest. Nothing special. Shaking.  

            Elven boy, short, though clearly older than the human. Thirteen, maybe, with scraggly ginger hair, and nervous eyes that darted away when they –

            Their eyes narrowed. They knew that boy, and they were certain that he remembered them. He gulped, audibly, looking desperately between the faces of his friends.

            “You. You’re a de Riva, aren’t you?”

            “Yes! I am- I mean, I will be. I’m just a fledgling, not a real –”

            “Clearly,” they spat, shutting him up. They glanced back over at Jacobus. “You said Teia and Viago will be busy for a while?”

            “A while at least,” he confirmed with a nod.

            “Good,” they said, “Then it won’t be any bother if I take my meeting here.”

They turned their venomous gaze back on the fledgling de Riva, and smirked at the sight as he cowered.

“Which means you get to deliver another message for me.”

The boy’s lower lip began to tremble.

“Please – I mean, yes, I will. Yes. Of course. What, er, what’s the message?”

The elf rolled their eyes at the boy’s stutters, wondering briefly why Viago kept him alive.

“We have unfinished business; meet me at the Diamond. I brought something sweet.”

The fledgling sighed in tangible relief at the innocuity, nodding a few times too many.

“Got it. I can do that, no problem. Where am I going?”

Belladonna’s eyes twitched a hair narrower, and the boy’s eager smile disappeared.

“Villa Dellamorte.”

They perched on the table with their legs tucked beneath them, and they were a bit past tipsy by the time Illario arrived. He had outdone himself that night, they thought, wearing a black silk shirt and crisp trousers instead of his favored blue ensemble, and he’d left his neckline open even lower than usual. His eyes were ringed with smoky makeup and his full lips glistened with oil, and he, too, had a bottle in his grasp. Whiskey, it seemed, and contained in cut crystal, so it was the expensive kind, too.

“Bella mia,” he purred as he approached, pulling one pale hand into his own and bringing it to his mouth. He ghosted his lips over the back of their hand in a restrained greeting before slowly turning it over and pressing a deep, smoldering kiss into their palm. “What have I done to earn such sweet company?”

“You know, Illario,” they sighed as he continued, lavishing his lips over each knuckle, “I don’t love to be called Bella.”

“I called you beautiful,” he murmured against the veins at their inner wrist, pressing a kiss there before he continued, “which is nothing but the truth. It’s hardly my fault that you were named after your virtues.”

They let out a quiet, girlish giggle, and they felt Illario smile.

“So, Rook. I haven’t forgotten our unfinished business either. It’s hardly befitting of our station as Crows. We should attend to it.”

“I’m lucky to have a colleague so attentive, Illario. But come here, have a drink with me first. We both know this will be a lengthy mission. No need to go off half-cocked.”

“I can assure you, there’s very little chance of that,” he replied in a low, unamused tone, settling into Viago’s chair. They scooted towards him on their knees, and he pulled his seat in close enough to be positioned nearly between them. He leaned in to reach past them for their bottle, letting the other hand roam up their inner thigh in easy swirls. He took one sip of the whiskey that Davrin had given them and immediately pulled a sour face. He regarded the bottle with a brief, offended look, then turned and lobbed it over the rafter’s railing and into the bustling casino below. There was a distant crash and a flurry of surprised shouts, and Belladonna laughed again.

Illario planted his own bottle on the table’s edge between their thighs, and with a tilt of his head, he spoke.

“Now, Bella. Shall we talk strategy?”

“Yes, please. Let’s.”

He pulled the round, faceted stopper from the bottle, and after a moment’s loaded pause, tucked the cold glass beneath the top of their wide belt where it wouldn’t roll off the table. He trailed his fingers just underneath the garment’s edge, and when he reached the center of their abdomen, he tugged them closer, passing over the bottle.

“Ladies first.”

They poured a long, luxuriant drink into their mouth, tipping their head back to swallow. He leaned in to press a wet kiss on the skin between their shirt’s open buttons, and they leaned over him, close enough to whisper.

“You promise?”

“Yes,” he hissed, pulling their face towards his. They craned to meet him, but with the table’s elevation, their noses barely touched, little more than their breath hot against each other’s faces. He growled, low and frustrated at the denied contact, then wound his free arm around their ass and yanked them down into his lap. They squeaked out a little noise of surprise, but it was muffled before it began.

Illario’s lips caught theirs with more heat than they’d expected; without thinking, their hips began to roll. He caught their lower lip between his teeth, tightening just to the point of pain. They huffed out a needy breath, squirming as his fingers trailed up their side. He pulled back and took a steady sip of his own whiskey before dipping back to their mouth, swiping his tongue along the seam to encourage it open. They parted their lips, and he pressed closer still, letting the searing alcohol roll from his tongue to theirs. They moaned into his mouth and then swallowed with a gasp, threading their fingers into his hair and pulling it loose of its bun.

“If that’s your way of asking if you can pull my hair,” he said between kisses, “then know this is my way of saying please.”

He planted the bottle onto the chair between them, trapped between the two Crows’ thighs. They made a noise of displeasure, tugging at his hair hard – and when his head fell back and his hips bucked up, the motion ground the faceted glass bottle against their –

“Oh,” they breathed, forehead falling against his. They rolled their hips against the texture of the bottle and suppressed another whine.

“Careful, Rook. We’re in the middle of the Diamond,” he teased, even as he pressed his hips up to deepen the pressure.

“Teia will forgive me,” they moaned, closing one hand into a fist at the back of his head. He let out a choked, needy sound, and his hips thrust closer involuntarily, grinding the bottle against them hard enough to make them curse.

“Of course she will – but will Viago?”

“Why would I care?”

Illario chuckled and nuzzled into their neck, ghosting kisses over their pulse. “Oh, dear. What did he do this time?”

They stilled in his lap for a fraction of a second, and quickly settled on a half-truth.

“He got between me and the man that I want.”

“Oh?” he said, clearly intrigued. “And what did he say about me?”

“Who said that it was you?”

“He did,” Illario whispered into their ear, teeth grazing over its sensitive tip. “When he threatened to kill me for so much as looking at you.”

“He said you were unworthy,” they whined, eyes fluttering closed as he began to rock his hips in a slow, deliberate rhythm, grinding the faceted bottle against their apex. “That you didn’t deserve – ah, oh – me. He made me swear you’d never touch me again.”

“Remind me not to rely on your word,” he teased, nipping at the tip of their ear. They moaned, wriggling against him, but Illario abruptly straightened, hips falling back against the chair as he sat right. He pulled the bottle from its place between their thighs, ignoring the needy little whine that they made, and he took a slow, smug drink.

“I fear we’re getting off-topic,” he said far too coolly, as if his chest wasn’t also heaving with lust. “We never did talk out our strategy.”

They wrenched the bottle from his hand with a frustrated sigh, taking a sip of their own. “What strategy?”

“Rook, beautiful, please pay attention,” he drawled. “The strategy for our mission. Or do you intend to leave this business still unfinished?”

“I’ll finish it as many times as you’ll let me,” they muttered before another drink.

“I believe you – but that’s not a strategy.”

“Illario, what is it you want to hear?”

He chuckled and pressed a sweet kiss to their ear, soothing the spot he had previously bitten.

“How do you want me to fuck you, bella? Hard and fast? Sweet and slow?”

            “Hard and fast,” they echoed in a broken, needy whisper. “The harder the better.”

            “I could hurt you,” he warned, though he sounded more than willing.

            “Please do. Fuck, please do.”

            “Your wish is my command,” he chuckled darkly, dipping to gently suck at the side of their neck.

            “Leave marks on me,” they said. “Ones I can’t hide tomorrow.”

            “Mierda, Rook. Yes. Gladly yes. Anything else?”

            “Anything. Everything.”

            “That’s not a real answer,” he chided, stilling his teeth over their pulse.

            “It’s the truth,” they whined back, throwing their head back to press their neck up against his mouth. “Anything. Everything, twice. I won’t say no, and if I do, keep going.”

            He swore against their skin, then bit down. They wailed, wanton and loud, their fingers locking in his hair and their hips rolling.

            The Diamond’s rafters went quiet around them, but neither of the pair cared to notice. Illario locked one strong arm around their waist, hoisting them back onto the tabletop and leaning down above them. Instinctively, their leg rose to wind over his waist, pulling his body closer to theirs.

            “You’re sure?”

            “Yes.”

            “What else?” he whispered, dragging his arousal against theirs. “How do you want to come for me?”

            “Fucking hell, Rio,” they moaned, leaning up to claim a desperate, messy kiss. “Can I call you Rio?”

            “Don’t you dare call me anything else - answer the question,” he growled, punctuating his words with a roll of his hips.

            “You tell me,” they keened against his cheek. “You decide. Make me come the way you tell me to, or don’t let me at all.”

            He swore again, then took a breath to collect himself, drawing back by a fraction.

            “Maker’s Breath, Rook. Is anything not on the table?”

            They paused, considering, and the truth bubbled out.

            “Yeah, a table - or a couch, for that matter. I want to do this in an actual bed.”

            Illario let out a low, rumbling laugh, leaning in to run his nose along their own.

            “I know of an empty Villa we could use.”

            A sudden, awful, delightful thought came to them, and Belladonna cracked a wicked smile.

            “Rio, how well do you climb?”

“I didn’t,” Illario panted, hands braced on his knees as he fought to catch his breath after the scramble up the villa’s side. “Realize. That you. Lived. Here.”

“I don’t,” they replied. “Never have. My room’s at the villa in Salle. We’re just visiting.”

“Through somebody’s balcony door?”

Belladonna easily picked the simple lock on one door’s handle and pushed, and yet found it firmly sealed. They jiggled the handle again, as if to confirm it had truly released – but while the open lock rattled uselessly, the door itself stayed fast.

Fucking Viago. Of fucking course. Only he’d put multiple locks on a balcony.  

They took one step back, then planted their boot through the window pane beside the handle. They toed away loose pieces until the opening was wide enough, then carefully reached through, flipping each of the locks in their way and swinging the shattered door open.

“No,” they said, turning back to Illario with a smile. “Through his balcony window.”

“His?”

He followed them in, and they swept one hand through the air, lighting the candles and hearth fire with a gesture. “Take a wild guess.”

Ilario stopped in place, his mouth falling open by a degree.

“He’s going to kill me.”

“Probably,” they agreed, plopping onto the bench at the bed’s end to pry off one boot, then the other.

“He’s going to kill you.”

“Eh, I’m a fast runner. Come on,” they said, standing up to head for the wardrobe. “Let’s see if he’s got anything fun in here.”

They flung the doors wide and pulled open a familiar drawer, pulling out random vials to scan the labels.

“What are you looking for?” Illario asked, eyes flicking judgmentally over a pair of Viago’s smallclothes.

“Couldn’t tell you. I’ll know it when I see it.” They continued searching, muttering names under their breath as they went. “Foxglove and Forget… Up and Adder… Have a Nice Trip…”

They turned to Illario, holding the third vial aloft. “Want to hallucinate hard enough to spill all your secrets, then spend three days vomiting blue?”

The man’s lips pressed into a line. “Not particularly.”

“Good choice. Can’t recommend it.” They returned the vial to the drawer, continuing the search. “Why is that one even in here? Huh, anyway. Healing potion, healing potion, healing potion… Three Sheets… another Up and Adder… oh, you miserable idiot, Vi, it’s not going to happen again…”

They huffed out a frustrated noise, slamming the drawer closed – but when they did, an odd, hollow sound caught their attention, pulling their gaze back to the drawer. They quirked an eyebrow, easing it open once more, and this time, they gently probed along the underside.

Their fingers landed on a small latch, and they pressed it towards themself, triumphant. They slid the unshackled drawer a little further out than it would come before, revealing a velvet-lined compartment behind the false back.

“Here we go, alright…”

Belladonna pulled out the largest bottle, glancing over its label.

“Easy Does It.”  They passed it to Illario, who turned it over in his hand.

“What is this?”

“Lubricant, I imagine,” they said, reaching for another vial.

“Pillow Talk.”

That one they put back, resisting a glare. That potion’s story had made it to most of Antiva by now. They reached for the next.

“Please and Thank You.”

That one they handed over.

“Liquid manners?”

“Rather the opposite,” they said, then continued rifling through the bottles.

“Long-Term Assignment.”

They looked over, meeting Illario’s gaze.

“How much time do you have for me, Rio?”

“The rest of my life.”

Maker, the heat in his voice…

They handed the vial over. He stepped closer as he took it, his hand lingering on theirs. He wound his arms around their waist, perching his chin on their shoulder to look into the drawer with them. They withdrew another bottle, holding it where he could see the label.

“Like an Animal.”

He made a low humming sound against their neck, reaching out to pull the bottle from their hand. “If your Talon’s love potions are half what they claim they’ll be, I may just be forced to respect him.”

“Let’s not go that far,” they muttered, and Illario laughed. He pulled away, moving to deposit his handful of bottles on Viago’s bedside table. For a moment, they just watched him, appreciating the view of his ass. Then, they reached out once more, turning a final vial label up.

“Bastard Killer.”

They swallowed carefully, keeping their breathing level – then suddenly, absurdly, they laughed.

“Well, well, Teia. Not so careful after all,” Rook spat under their breath, tone more vindictive than even they’d expected.

“What was that?” Illario called from the bed, yanking off one boot.

“Nothing, caro,” they replied, putting the bottle back.  They let their hands fall to their double belt, loosening the straps until it and the sashes beneath it fell to the floor with a few dull thunks. They turned and walked towards him, unbuttoning their shirt as they went; the garment slid away and they fell into his lap.

His strong arms closed to pull them against him, his silk shirt soft against their skin. He leaned up to catch them in another bruising kiss, then began toying with the end of one braid. He unraveled it with quick, deft fingers, then moved to the other; a moment later, he smoothed his fingers through the hair at their crown, brushing their hair fully loose. Instead of closing to a fist as they’d expected, though, he splayed his fingers wide, cupping the back of their head and drawing back from their kisses with a satisfied smile.

“You should wear your hair down more often. You look incredible right now.”

“Right, of course,” they griped, pulling their arms from around his neck. “I’m half-naked in your lap, but its my hair that looks incredible.”

“That’s not what I said, although it does. I said you look incredible. You look incredible in armor, you look incredible in clothes, you look incredible half-naked,” he said hungrily, pressing a trail of kisses along their collarbone even as they pushed lightly at his shoulders, “and you’re going to look incredible when you’re stretched around my cock.”

“I’ll just have to take your word for it, won’t I?” they said, standing from his lap. Illario’s hands fell to the buttons of his own shirt, but his eyes stayed fixed on them as they moved to the nightstand. They dropped the lyrium dagger on the table before peeling their leather pants down, taking their smallclothes with them. They tossed both aside, and Illario let his eyes wander, roving over their naked skin with shameless appreciation. They smiled and uncorked the aphrodisiacs that they had chosen, holding each bottle up as they spoke.

“This one,” they said, gesturing with ‘Please and Thank You’, “makes all sensations more intense, but mostly pleasure.”

“This one,” they lifted up ‘Long-Term Assignment’, “will keep us at it for hours.”

“And this one…” they said, holding up ‘Like an Animal’, the one Illario had chosen. “I’m not actually sure what this one does. I’ve never had a contract that required it.”

They raised it to their nose, giving it an experimental sniff. “Smells floral.”

Illario shrugged out of his shirt, revealing smooth bronze skin. “I’ll try anything once.”

“Now that’s a toast.”

They raised each of the vials to their lips in quick succession, letting the potions blend over their tongue. They were much sweeter than Viago’s brews usually were – clearly tailored to another’s tastes and not his own. They pushed the bitter thought away, leaning down to kiss Illario once more. His lips opened for theirs, warm and willing, and they repeated his trick from earlier, letting half the liquid swirl into his mouth. They downed their share with a self-satisfied smile, feeling a rebellious droplet escape the corner of their mouth. Illario swallowed with a groan and dove forward, nearly frenzied, to lick it away. Suddenly, though, he pulled away from them, standing and storming across the room.

“No.”

“What? Rio-”

“Don’t take my word for it,” he said, hoisting Viago’s standing mirror off of the floor. “See for yourself.”

Oh.

He set the mirror down by the side of the bed, angling it so that it was facing them, then moved past it, joining them once more. They shivered in anticipation, sighing as the feeling thrilled over their skin.

“How long will sweet Viago’s little concoctions take to kick in?”

“Sweet Viago?” they echoed dubiously, letting out a snort. “Clearly, for you they already have.”

“Oh, but not for you?” he asked, nuzzling against the tattoo on their sternum.

“I was poisoned every day for five years, including namedays,” they said with a roll of their eyes. “Give it a couple minutes.”

“Mm,” he said, trailing kisses over their chest. “Good thing we have all night.”

They hooked their leg over his hip, flipping them so they sat atop his hips. He threw his head back against the pillows as they slid down his body, teeth catching at his waistband. They lightly tapped the exposed button on one side of his hip, silently asking permission.

“Yes, please,” he whined, fingers threading into their hair.

“Please?” they repeated, voice taking on a lilt from amusement and lust. They slipped the outside button free, sliding the half-loosened waistband to the side to pause on the one it had previously covered.  “I already want you, Rio. You don’t need to beg.” They popped the second button, then licked a whisper-light line onto the skin that they’d revealed, letting their breath ghost over it as they spoke.

“But I’m not going to stop you, either.”

They hooked their fingers under the edges of his remaining clothes and slid his trousers and smallclothes down to his knees. He whined again, the muscles of his stomach flexing as he fought not to squirm. They let out a breathy laugh against the still-damp spot on his flaming skin, leaning to trace their teeth over the visible curve of his hipbone before pressing a soft, chaste kiss to the head of his weeping cock. They spread their knees a bit and pressed into one elbow, stabilizing themself enough to bring one hand to meet his in their hair.

“Come on, now. Don’t be shy,” they murmured, licking a drop of precome away as they tightened their grip over his. He groaned, locking his fingers in a painful, perfect fist at the crown of their head, then groaned again at the feeling of them smiling against his cock.

Rook sunk down until their nose pressed into his smooth, waxed skin, the head of his cock hard against the back of their throat. They hummed a little sound of approval, letting themself drool around him as they stayed still. He made a broken noise and rocked in place a little, still fighting for control of himself.

They weren’t sure what the potion he’d chosen would do – that much had been true. But they’d spent long enough in his labs to know Viago’s naming conventions. Every quippy little title held a kernel of truth.

How long would it take for his control to break? How long before he fucked them like an –

Illario let out a deep, animalistic growl, fingers tightening further in their hair. They glanced up through their lashes to find his head had risen from the pillows, and his darkened eyes were locked on them, pupils blown wide with lust. They smiled around him, making a sound that might have been a chuckle, had it been unobstructed.

That long.

He dragged them upwards by the hair, then shoved them down again, canting his hips up to drive himself deeper into their throat. Rook relaxed their jaw and enjoyed the ride, making obscene little mewls and drooling around him as he fucked their mouth. Just as his hips began to stutter, though, he wrenched them off with a snarl, sitting up to flip their positions. He broke away just long enough to kick out of his clothing, then yanked them down to the mattress by their hair. The other hand dropped between their legs, rubbing hard circles over their clit. Just as they began to rock against him, his touch dropped downwards, toying at their entrance.

“Fuck, you’re already wet for me. How are you so fucking perfect?”

Two fingers slid inside, and Belladonna ground against them and keened. He withdrew them barely a moment later, hand flying to his mouth. He made eye contact and messily licked their slickness from his fingers, making wet, obscene noises of pleasure.

“I knew it. I knew it. Fucking amazing.”

He grabbed their knees and shoved them out to the mattress, then dove down to finally catch them with his mouth. Both Crows moaned in unison, Illario’s grip on their legs tightening. He closed his lips and sucked, hard, breaking away only when they wailed. He licked a wet, sloppy line over their oversensitive clit, making another low noise of pleasure.

“You are so fucking perfect,” he said, dragging his nose and chin against their cunt before looking up at them, face a mess, “and I am going to fucking ruin you.”

“Yes,” they gasped, rocking up as much as they could with their legs pinned. “Yes, fuck, Rio, please.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

He planted a messy kiss on their clit, laving over it for just a moment before releasing their knees and lunging up to their mouth; lips and teeth crashed together with a snarl. The taste of them both was sharp against their tongue, and so, so close to divine. Their skin felt like it was on fire with pleasure, every touch so impossibly good.

They wanted him to ruin them. They wanted it to hurt.

He wrapped one hand around their throat and dragged them sideways, forcing their head to dangle off the edge of the bed- and forcing them to look straight at their own upside-down reflection, wide-eyed and red-faced in the mirror.

The other hand closed around their ankle and hiked their left leg up over his shoulder, dragging his cock against their entrance. They whined, trying to lift their head to look at him, but he forced it back down.

“Watch,” he commanded, squeezing tighter for a moment, “Watch the way you break when I start fucking you.”

They locked eyes with themself in the mirror, and Illario pushed inside. He started with quick, shallow thrusts, not meant to soothe or ease but to deny. They both knew it wasn’t enough; they needed more, they needed –

He thrust into them fully, hard, and Maker, break they did.

Their eyebrows drew up and they bit their lower lip; their expression was needy, wanton, pathetic –

“I told you. See? Incredible. You were made for me.”

He turned his head, sucking a mark into the inside of their ankle. He broke away with a pop, then bit at the spot, beginning to move.

            ‘The harder the better,’ they’d told him at the Diamond.

Who knew he was such a good listener?

            They wrapped their right leg around his waist, panting reedily past his grip on their neck. He bit at their leg again as he fucked them, an inch or two higher than he had before, and they screwed their eyes shut with a whine.

            The vise on their throat released for just a moment, and they lifted their head to suck in a greedy breath – only for his palm to land hard against their cheek instead, sending their face reeling back towards the mirror. His hand closed around their neck again, fingers and thumb pressing hard into their veins.

            “I told you to watch,” he spat, their head already beginning to pound from the lack of blood flow. “You’re going to come like this, and you’re going to see it.”

            They tried to call out his name, but with the angle of their neck, it came out a cracked, broken sound. His lips closed on the inside of their calf, and his hips snapped against theirs.

            “Is this why you came to Treviso tonight? Just to fall apart around me?”

            “Yes,” they squeaked, the word chased by a needy cry as he slapped them again.

            “Liar. What was it? What world-shaking business are you leaving undone so you can get fucked by me instead?”

            He eased his grip by a fraction, letting them drag in a breath. They huffed out a laugh, meeting his gaze in the mirror.

            “Hah- I was going to kill Viago.”

            His hips ground hard into theirs, stilling for a moment.

            “You’re lying.”

            “Am I?” they asked, biting at their lower lip and rolling against him.

“Fuck,” Illario swore, leaning closer and driving himself deeper. “You were fucking made for me.”

“Rio-”

“Why?”

“Heat of the moment,” they whined around their lip, fighting to keep their eyes open.

“Fuck.” The hand that had been at their throat fell to their clit, rubbing hard, messy circles as he increased his pace. Belladonna began to yelp and mewl with every thrust, and he released their ankle, arm winding over their leg to cradle the back of their head and bend them nearly in two. The change in angle made them let out a wanton cry, wailing as he thrust painfully deep.

            “Yes, Rio, just like that-”

            “I’ll help,” he said, cutting them off. “Let’s do it together. We can kill every miserable piece of shit who’s ever told us no.”

“Fu-uuck,” came their reply, a broken, needy whine. He pressed their thigh up into their chest, catching them in a rough kiss. Between his fingers, the new angle, and the aphrodisiacs pounding through their veins, they were hurtling towards their peak fast. “Rio, Rio, please-”

His fingers locked shut against their skull, ripping their head back down to face the mirror.

“Come for me. Watch yourself come for me, and I’ll put a knife right through his fucking throat.”

Belladonna came with a scream, eyes locked on their own reflection. They were fucked-out and teary-eyed, a whoreish blush spread across their cheeks.

And Maker, he was right. They looked –

“Incredible,” he growled, dragging his mouth over the leg pressed against his face.

“Rio, bite me.”

His mouth fell from their calf to their shoulder, his teeth locking down hard enough to make them wail in pain. He came with two more bruising thrusts, driving deep as he spilled himself inside them.

            They whimpered under the pressure of his body and mouth. So much, too much, not nearly enough –

            He released his jaw with an appreciative sound, leaning back just enough that they could watch in the mirror as he ran his tongue over his bloodied teeth.

            “Maker, every part of you is delicious.”

            They let out a chuckle, but with the angle of their neck, the breath caught in their throat. They began to choke and splutter in his face, and Illario pulled a sour face and swiftly pulled out, sliding their leg off his shoulder and flipping them onto their stomach. They braced their hands on the edge of the bed and hacked for a moment, feeling Illario tracing little circles on their ass as they tried to get their airway clear. Once their breathing had leveled, they scooted back so they were fully on the bed again, then propped themself onto their elbows and looked back at him, smiling sheepishly. He lounged beside them on one side, still tracing slow circuits across their naked skin.

            “There you are. For a second there, I thought that I’d fucked you to death. I must admit, it was very good for my ego.”

Belladonna raised an eyebrow, grinning lazily. “Have you fucked someone to death before?”

“Not literally. But there’s a first time for everything.”

“You know, I was actually thinking the same thing,” they drawled, pulling their knees up under their body and hoisting their ass into the air. They looked back into the mirror, tilting their head on their hands, then made deliberate eye contact.

Illario’s blue eyes were nearly eclipsed by his pupils, and his mouth had fallen open by a fraction - probably due to how he’d begun to pant.

“You’re… not lying.”

“No. I’m not.”

He surged to his knees behind them, thumb running over their hole. “Really? Never?”

“Never had the pleasure. But if you’re not interested…” they teased, only to gasp as his thumb pressed hard against them.

“Not interested in being the first inside your pretty little ass? You’re out of your mind.”

“Well, arguabl- ooh,” they said, their smart remark dissolving into a whimper as he leaned in to meet them with his tongue.

He licked one slow, hot line up over them, then circled their rim with the tip of his tongue. Their forehead fell to the mattress and their fingers clawed into the coverlet, and they let out a high-pitched, needy sound they were quite sure they had never made before.

He licked over their quivering hole in hot, fluid lines, one hand pulling their cheek to the side and the other falling to rub at their still-sensitive clit. They were suddenly, acutely aware of how empty their dripping cunt felt, and Belladonna’s hips bucked unsteadily under his ministrations, body unsure whether to pull away from the unfamiliar sensation or to press closer for more.

Illario’s grip tightened on them, his manicured nails biting into the pale skin as he yanked them back towards him.

            “You’re not going anywhere, Bella,” he growled, leaning up to bite a hard mark into their ass cheek. “You’re all mine tonight.” They moaned at his words then seized fistfuls of the blanket as he spat at the top of their cleft, letting his saliva drip slowly down over their hole. His little finger began to pump in and out of them in a quick, steady glide that was not nearly what they wanted, needed, if they had to, they’d beg –

            They reached behind themself and slapped his hand away, making eye contact over their shoulder.

            “No fingers, Rio; just fuck me. Please!”

            The hand they’d batted away landed hard against their ass, and they let out a pained, needy whine and collapsed onto the side of their arm, body twisting beneath him. He leaned in behind them, close enough for the heat radiating off his perfect bronze skin to tickle the small of their back. With all the aphrodisiacs burning hot through their veins, that alone was enough to make them buck and grind against his cock, any fraction of space between their bodies unbearable.

            “It’ll hurt more if we’re not slow. You’re that desperate to let me desecrate you?”

            “Yes. Like you wouldn’t fucking believe. Do your worst, Dellamorte. Please.”

            He pulled back with a low, dark noise, slapping their ass again.

            “How were you going to do it?”

            “Huh- ah!” they cried out as his hand fell against their reddening skin.

            “Pay attention,” he spat, other hand coming down hard on the cheek he’d previously left untouched. “How were you going to kill your sweet Viago?”

            “With a knife,” they whined, rocking against him. “My- the dagger, the one that I left on the bedside table.”

            “Mmm,” Illario replied noncommittally, pushing away and standing. He stepped over to the nightstand, gathering the bottle of lubricant and the dagger. Their eyes widened a fraction as they watched him approach, twisting away to scramble onto their rear. “Change your mind already, Bella?”

            “Illario-”

            He stalked back towards them with a dark, predatory look in his eye, tossing the lube onto the bed beside them.

            “Do you trust me?”

            “No.”

            “Good. Fear will make it more fun. Now get back on your knees.”

            Their eyes twitched narrower in suspicion, and lighting began to pulse along their hand on instinct. 

            “Fuck, that’s sexy. I’m not going to kill you for no reason. I’m not you, after all.”

            “Bold way to talk to a cold-hearted murderer,” they snapped, pulling their legs beneath them.

            “But you’re only one of those things, I think,” he replied, kneeling on the bed to join them once more. He flipped the knife in his grip, letting the blade rest in his palms with the handle facing them. “Here, then, cara. Show me your cold, cold heart.”

            They snatched it from his outstretched hands, electricity retreating into their palm although their scowl didn’t lighten.

            “I’m an assassin, not an idiot, Illario. It takes a hell of a lot more to provoke a heart like mine than you.”

            “Pssh. No, it doesn’t. All it takes is Viago.”

            They surged onto their knees, point of the lyrium dagger flying to the hollow of his throat. His hand locked around their wrist before they ever came close to connecting, keeping the blade hovering an inch or two from his umber skin.

            “Careful, little Crow. I think your mask is slipping.”

            “Keep his name out of your mouth,” they spat, wrenching their wrist and the weapon away.

            “Fine- if you can keep it out of yours,” he taunted, his free hand moving to massage their ass. “Don’t say it once. Don’t think of him once. Don’t wonder why he and Teia have shut themselves in her office every night for a week, and ask yourself why he wants her instead of you.”

            Their lips twitched back into a snarl at his goading – and yet, his words hit their imagination exactly where he’d intended.

            “Every night for a week?”

            They slapped him, palm landing against his cheek with an echoing crack. He made no attempt to stop them, simply laughing and shaking his head lightly after the blow.

            “I get that a lot.”

            Their fingers locked in his loose hair and they dragged him in for a violent kiss, teeth and lips clashing together. A moment later, they yanked him back again, chest heaving with angry pants.

 “I can’t fucking stand you, Illario.”

            His lustful eyes somehow darkened further still, and he tilted his head away from their grip, deepening the pressure on his hair. He glanced up and down their naked form, gaze lingering greedily on the puddle of his come that was dripping out of them onto Viago’s blanket.

            “That’s alright. I like you better on your knees.”

            The elf scoffed out a frustrated noise, releasing his hair. “And you think this is how you’ll get me there?”

            Their hand drew back for another slap, but as soon as they moved, so did he. His right hand flew up to catch theirs, yanking hard across their body and twisting them roughly onto their stomach. They cried out in pain and indignation, writhing against him, but he had both their wrists pinned against the mattress and his knees pressed up behind theirs, keeping their smaller body tucked snugly under his.

            “Yes,” he purred into their ear, then licked a wet, wanton line up to its point.

They screwed their eyes closed and jerked their face away; they hissed and spat and struggled against his weight, despite the way the heat of his breath on their skin made them shiver with frustrated arousal. He dragged their arms together to meet above their head, forcing the dagger out of their grip and closing one hand around their much slimmer wrists.

            “Or I can let you go. You can gather up your clothes like I’m not running down your legs, and you can go back to the casino where he’s fucking her. You’re beautiful, and so am I; we can find other lovers to ride out these potions with. But isn’t it unfair, Bella, how the Talons are so sharp?” he murmured, nipping at the back of their neck. “He can embarrass you, belittle you; he can send you from Antiva. He can give you a job that’s bound to kill you and keep using you however he likes; he can drag me from between your legs and make you swear to stay away - and at the end of the day, he still goes back to her.”

            They grit their teeth and snarled, fixing their face into a glare, unwilling to let the hurt they felt show. Undeterred, Illario released their wrists so that he could straighten, trailing one hand down their back and over the curve of their rear, stopping to splay across their hip.

“You don’t have to let him own you forever. You were so close to getting away.” His fingers slid off of their hip and onto the handle of the lyrium dagger. He trailed its point over the swell of their ass, making goosebumps chase across their skin. “What made you change your mind?”

“He – fuck – wasn’t there,” they answered, cursing and clawing into the covers as they felt the blade bite a thin line into their skin.

“Because he was –”

“Upstairs fucking Teia,” Rook interrupted, letting out an angry, aroused hiss as he swept the knife’s point upwards, bisecting the little cut he’d left before. “Rio-”

“That’s right. He was upstairs fucking Teia,” Illario agreed, pressing a soft kiss over the wounds. “Just like a Talon, really. They constrain us and condescend to us, demand to control every moment of our lives… and when you were finally ready to make him pay, he didn’t even the decency to die. It isn’t fair, bella. You should get to twist your knife.”

He illustrated the motion with a flick of his wrist, tracing a stinging circle onto their ass with the lyrium dagger’s point. 

“But you know that, don’t you? Because the second you realized you couldn’t get to him, you called for me instead. You went straight to the man he forbid you from having, and you fucked me in his bed, just to prove you could hurt him somehow.”

He pressed the dagger’s point into the opposite side of their ass, slicing one shallow line, then another across it. They screwed their eyes shut again, keening at the sensation and the needy ache between their legs.

Cool, slick oil dripped into the cleft of Belladonna’s ass, and they rocked back against his erection with a needy whine.

The tip of the lyrium dagger dragged in a circle over their cheek, and the tip of his cock dragged heavily over their hole, messily coating them both in the lubricant. They heard the sound of a knife whipping through the air, and opened their eyes just in time to watch the lyrium dagger plant into the center of Viago’s upholstered headboard. Illario’s now-empty hand fisted in the back of their hair, dragging them up onto their palms and forcing their face towards the mirror.

“Time for an answer, Belladonna,” he growled, meeting their gaze in the reflection as he thrust against them. “Do you want me to let you go, or do you want me to ruin your pretty little hole? Who are we putting first, him or you?”

They could tell what he was doing – they might not have his seduction expertise, but they were still an assassin and not a fool. He was playing them. He was saying all the things that he knew would work best, winding them up with just his words until they’d fall apart at the suggestion of his cock. Maker take him, it was working too well, wet, ready, and impossibly needy as the trio of potions had left them– and they weren’t above the same trick.

“You,” they cried out, pressing desperately against his heat. “Fuck me, Rio. Don’t you wanna be first for once?”

Illario let out a nearly inhuman sound, yanking back on their hair as his hips snapped forward. Belladonna let out a broken, pitchy cry, wailing as he pressed hard into their ass.

“Fuck, you’re so tight. And you’re all fucking mine,” he snarled, rolling his hips in close, shallow circles.

It was tight, almost unbearably so; the hot glide of his cock riding right along the line of pain and pleasure. Belladonna yelped and whined with every aching thrust, eyes wide and desperate as they watched his face in the mirror. Sweat glistened over his perfect, polished skin, his plush mouth hanging open to let him pant. His expression was painted in open, undiluted pleasure, wrecked little blinks and quivers crinkling the skin around his eyes, and there was a genuineness to his smile they were quite certain they’d never seen before.

For all his legendarily libertine reputation, all it took to break down Illario’s walls was to actually make him feel wanted. Maybe the two of them were made for each other.

Belladonna let out a frustrated growl at the sheer vulnerability, and the sound pulled his gaze back to theirs in the mirror. They rolled and bucked beneath him, stretching their back into an exaggerated feline arch and dragging their nails hard against the bunching, shifting coverlet.

“Gods, I told you to fuck me, Rio. Is this the best you can do? No wonder you’re nobody’s first choice.”

The unguarded look in his eyes burnt away into something darker, and he dragged them backwards by the hair, slamming their ass flush against his hips and burying himself to the hilt.

Belladonna let out a scream at the perfect, agonizing fullness, writhing desperately against the grip on their hair where it kept them pinned firmly on his cock. His other hand fell hard over the cuts he’d left atop their ass cheek, making them cry out and roll their hips into him anew.

“Taunt me all you like, Belladonna. I’m proving your point, aren’t I?” he said, voice tight as he began to pound into their ass at a punishing tempo.

“I’m nobody’s first choice – but neither are you,” he purred cruelly. “And that’s all you are to him, isn’t it? A pretty little nobody, so far beneath his boots, he doesn’t even know that you’re here. You’ve let me breed you and bleed you and break you, in his bed, and still, he hasn’t noticed you at all.”

 “Hah, I – fuck – you think I don’t know that?” they snapped back with equal venom, baring their teeth in a mocking smile. “The Crows bought me; I was always a nobody. You were born to be something special. What the fuck is your excuse, Rio?”

He let out an angry growl and twisted his fingers in their hair, driving forward in a mean, merciless thrust – but the pained wail it pulled from the elf’s lips quickly dissolved into peals of bratty laughter.

“Oh, no. You don’t have one, do you? You – oh, oh, fuck! – you can’t even say I’m wrong?” Rook mocked, tone triumphant and cruel despite the way they dripped and mewled. “Oh, poor Rio. What are you gonna do? You can fuck me like you hate me, but you’re still nobody, too.”

“You have no idea how wrong you are,” he growled, slapping their stinging, bloodied ass, “but you fucking will.”

“Oh yeah? Do you think you’re going to be First Talon? That’s just pathetic.”

“No more pathetic than the noises you make,” he spat, thrusting hard to draw another one out. “No more pathetic than you look right now, letting me ruin your virgin ass because a bastard broke your heart.” He punctuated the words with another bruising stroke, yanking hard against their hair to pull their attention back when their eyelids slammed shut at the sensation.

“Look at you. You can’t say that I’m wrong, either.” He released his grip on their dark locks and let his hand fall to their hip, pace accelerating as he laughed cruelly under his breath. “Go ahead then, bella puttana. Close your eyes and pretend he cares. I bet that you’ll even say his name when you come.”  

“Not gonna fucking happe– oh, fuck.”

They moaned as he leaned close to circle their swollen clit, their eyes screwing shut again at the nearly painful pleasure. The heat of his polished skin pressed up against their back, his balls slapping hard against their achingly empty cunt, the stretch, the incredible weight of his cock pounding into their ass like they were made for him – Maker take him, they were going to come so fast –

“Rio,” they whined, nails biting messy holes into the silk sheet peeking out from under the blanket. “Rio. Rio, Rio, Rio…”

They chanted his name like a fledgling’s mantra, fighting to stay grounded without opening their eyes. As long as they didn’t stop saying his name, they wouldn’t forget it, wouldn’t give in and pretend that he was the man they really wanted –

“Very good, Bella. You’re pretending so well.” He pressed a kiss between their shoulder blades as he fucked them, rolling their clit under his fingers, then pinched the hypersensitive bundle hard. “I can barely tell how badly you want him,” he mocked, rubbing cruel circles over the spot as they wailed.

“I don’t – oh, oh, oh my, Rio, Rio, Ri, ohh –”

“Come on, pretty whore. We’re both so close,” he growled, tension audible in his voice as he fought to keep up his pace. “Just fucking say it.”

“No! Fuck, please, Ri, Rio, please.”

“Close. You’re so close. I’m gonna make it so good. And all you have to do is say it.”

His fingers circled faster and faster, that perfect, unbearable pulse in their belly growing harder to fight –

“No, no, I don’t want to, just – fuck, Rio, please!”

He slapped their dripping cunt and leaned close beside their ear; his breath impossibly hot against their sweat-slick skin as he spoke.

“Come on. Tell me. What’s his name?”

He twisted his fingers over their clit once more, pressing down hard against the pubic bone –and with a gush and a wet, wretched whimper, they shattered.

“Viago, Viago! Oh, ohh, fuck, his name’s Viago,” they wailed, tears springing from their eyes as their orgasm crashed through them. Illario released a sound between a chuckle and a moan, hips snapping arrhythmically against theirs. He grabbed their chin with sex-slick fingers, pressing their cheek up against his as he came. He pulled out the moment he was done, making them gasp and whine at the sudden emptiness – and the feeling of his spend, trickling out of their gaping hole and all the way down to their cunt. He planted a soft, cloying kiss onto their cheek, then drew back enough to whisper in their ear.  

“You look pathetic.”

He sat up, and their eyes snapped open, landing on their own reflection.

 Their face was flushed with sex, sweat, and shame, with loose hair plastered against their brow; their lower lip was swollen and dimpled with the crescent marks of their teeth. Fucked-out tears trailed down their reddened cheeks, and they were drooling – and behind them knelt Illario, an intolerably smug expression on his face as he ran his fingertips up and down through the come dripping out of their ass.

He was right.

They should get up and leave. The longer they stayed, the worse it would be. They already looked pathetic. They felt pathetic.

He pressed two fingers into their aching cunt, slowly fucking his leaking come into them, and despite themself, they let out a wanton moan.

Gods, it was pathetic, but it felt so fucking good.

“You know, I think I hate you, Illario.”

“Aw, Bella. I hate you, too.”

He smiled at them in the mirror’s reflection, and Belladonna snapped. Their palm shot forward, and with a feral growl, they sent a blast of magic straight into the standing mirror, shattering its silvered surface and sending it flying backwards onto the floor.

They twisted under him, turning onto their back, and yanked his face down to theirs.

“Good. Now shut up and fucking prove it.”

Chapter Text

Viago de Riva awoke with a groan, shifting against a pile of rumpled parchment. He slowly sat upright, hissing at a twinge in his back, and rubbed blearily at his face.

            Ah, cazzo. He had slept at Teia’s desk. Again.

            He pressed his gloved fingertips into his eyes, trying to scrub the weariness away. The eager sunlight pouring through the arched windows behind her couch told him it was already well into the morning – and yet Teia hadn’t risen for work yet, either. She was curled up on the couch with her head pillowed on one arm, and the last field report she’d been reading the evening prior had drifted out of her hand and onto the floor beside her empty glass of wine.

            Viago stood, letting out another disgruntled noise as he stretched his arms out above his head. A few joints creaked and popped at the movement, stiff as he was after yet another night of bad sleep. He swallowed dryly, cringing at the sour, stale taste of last night’s red still on his tongue. Why didn’t the two of them ever hole up with some paperwork and a bottle of water?

            He walked over to the sleeping elf, crouching by her side and speaking in a low tone.

            “Wake up. We have work to do.”

She made a discontented sound and rubbed her face into her inner arm, scrunching her face to press her eyes further closed. Despite his sore back and generally poor mood, Viago smiled, chuckling a little before reaching out to shake her shoulder.

“We’ve missed breakfast.”

“We always miss breakfast,” she grumbled into her elbow.   

“And whose fault is that?” he teased, giving her another shake. “Really, now, it’s already midmorning. Let’s go, Teia; up and-”

“Start my day with a pun, and I’ll kill you, Viago” she interrupted, opening her eyes and sitting up to point a finger in his face. “I’ll kill you, and I swear I’ll make it hurt.” 

“Ah, good. You’re awake. Come on, time for work.”

He pulled back, but Teia reached out towards him, hand cupping his cheek to stop him. She rubbed her thumb back and forth over the swell of his cheekbone, lips quirking into a mischievous smile.

“Teia…” Viago warned, unsure what else to say.

She withdrew the touch, pausing a moment – then popped her thumb into her mouth and reached for him again, scrubbing at the same spot. He made a disgusted noise and pulled away, but she leaned forward with him, refusing the distance.

“Ugh, Teia, get off of-”

“Oh, stop struggling, you idiot, you have ink on your face!” Teia argued, scrubbing at his cheek faster, and reaching out with her other hand to grab at his shoulder. With the way he scrambled backwards, though, her hand planted on nothing, sending her careening off her couch and directly into him. Her weight knocked him off his heels and both Talons fell backwards.  They landed in a tangled heap, Teia splayed across his lap.  

Viago froze beneath her, his hands braced on the floor and his chest heaving beneath the weight of her palm. For a moment, she didn’t move either. Her warm brown eyes darted between his eyes and mouth, and she inhaled heavily, wetting her lips.

“Teia…”

What else should he say? He should say no, certainly. He should –

She closed her eyes and swallowed, then exhaled with a rueful smile.

“You have ink on your face,” she said quietly, rubbing her stained thumb on her pants before dampening it again. She reached for him, but stopped before making contact. He assented with a huff and a roll of his eyes, and Teia smiled softly before reaching out a little further. She gently cleaned the rest of the ink off of his cheekbone, then paused, sitting back a bit.

Before he knew what was happening, she dove back in, pressing a quick kiss to the spot she’d polished. Just as quickly, she withdrew; she stood from his lap and held one hand out with a wry smile.

“Come on, Viago. We have work to do.”

            The Talons descended to their usual workspace – and it was immediately clear that someone else had used it in their absence.

            Boot prints. Dusty boot prints, in the middle of his damned – Teia’s damned – table, sitting right beside an uncapped bottle.

            His eyes narrowed. He had no proof who the interloper had been, but he certainly had a suspicion. Teia approached the table, hands planted on her hips, and Viago followed, watching as she lifted the bottle in one hand. She stared down at it for a second before speaking.

            “One of the Dellamortes was here,” Teia murmured before looking up at him, sounding puzzled. “But why bring this?”

“What makes you say that?” Viago asked. “The Diamond serves its own whiskey.”

“Not out of Caterina’s crystal decanter, we don’t. This should be – well, she used to keep it in her office.” She looked back at the bottle, frowning as she set it gently on the table.

“Which one of the Dellamortes was here?” she asked loudly as she turned around. Viago’s brow furrowed, and he turned, too – just in time to join Teia in watching the fledglings lurking by the catwalk scatter from their view like startled birds.

            All except one – a short, skinny, ginger-haired elf boy that Viago had considered killing more than once before. He was left reeling, frozen in place head with his head whipping one way, then the other as he watched his friends flee. Realizing he was abandoned, he slowly turned on the spot, staring up at the approaching Talons with a terrified expression.

            “Why did everyone but the de Riva have the good sense to run?” Viago thought sourly as he strode up to the boy.

            “The Seventh Talon asked you a question,” the Fifth snapped disapprovingly, fixing his fledgling with a glare.

            “Um, it was Illario Dellamorte, ma’am – I mean ser – I mean, Seventh Talon.”

            “Why have I not killed you?”

            “Illario?” Teia asked, wrinkling her nose. “What brought him here?”

            The fledgling gulped, looking at the floor.

            “…idid?”

            “What was that?” Teia said loudly, crossing her arms.

            “…I did?”

            “You did?” Viago repeated angrily.

            “Only because I was told to!” the boy squawked, eyes wide as saucers. “I was sent with a message; I didn’t just ask him-”

            “Sent by whom?”

            He looked away.

            “…belladonnade-”

            “Speak up, damn it!”

            “Belladonna de Riva,” he said, beginning to tremble. “Told me to tell him to meet them here, last night.”

            Viago pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a sudden headache coming on.

“Did they say why?”

            “Something about unfinished business? But, uh, they didn’t stay long, and I-”

            Viago pulled his hand away from his face, looking down at his fledgling with a murderous glare. He grabbed him by the front of his shirt, yanking him upwards roughly enough to pull the short boy off his feet.

            “Quit babbling and get to the point. The two of them met here, yes?”

            The fledgling nodded excessively, cringing away from his Talon’s ire.

            “Was this meeting professional in nature?”

            “Uh- it didn’t seem-”

            “Quit. Babbling.”

            “No, Fifth Talon,” the boy stammered. “It was mostly kissing.”

            “What?”

            “Kissing,” he repeated, face pale. “And drinking. And, uh, some biting, I think?”

            Viago’s grip on the boy’s shirt tightened, and he raised him a fraction higher. The fledgling flinched reflexively, kicking uselessly into the air, and it did nothing to improve his Talon’s mood.

            “You said they didn’t stay long. They meaning who, exactly?”

            “The both of them. They… talked for, I don’t know, twenty minutes? Then they left together.”

            “Together?” Viago hissed. “And went where?”

            “I don’t know, Talon, ser!” the boy whined, voice pitched high. “All I know is they went towards the ziplines.”

            “You didn’t follow them?”

            “Was… was I supposed to? No one told me-”

            “Why haven’t I killed you?” Viago thought distantly, screwing his eyes shut in frustration before continuing.

            “What are you going to see if you don’t look, you moron?”

            The boy gulped again, but then brightened, wiggling hopefully.

            “Well, but, I did see them again! Here! In the Diamond! Belladonna came back on their own, bright and early this morni-”

            The rest of the word dissolved into a terrified wail as Viago growled and spun in place, stepping forward to dangle the useless boy over the edge of the catwalk. His grip was already loosening on his shirt when Teia barked out his name.

            “Viago!”

            He closed his fist once more, jaw tight as he looked to her and spoke.

            “Andarateia.”

            “Viago de Riva, you have been told, absolutely no splattered Crows before-”

            “Chance,” he snapped to the man behind her, interrupting. “Do you have the time?”

            Chance Candide chuckled and reached into a pocket, withdrawing an obnoxiously ornamented gold pocket-watch.

            “Just after 10:30.”

            “Ugh,” Viago replied, turning towards Teia and tossing the boy back onto the catwalk at her feet.  “Fine, then. You feed the thing.”

            He looked down at the shaking, horrified fledgling, who stared up at him with glassy eyes.

            “Congratulations. You’ve been reassigned to House Cantori. Have your things out of my Villa before nightfall.”

            Viago stormed past Teia to their sullied table, planting his hands against its edge and exhaling heavily. A moment later, the woman followed him, then spoke in a hushed, urgent tone.

            “You’re slipping.”

            “I-”

            “No, Viago. You’re slipping. You never used to be the type to kill the messenger.”

            “And? What do you propose I do, exactly? Should I do nothing at all?”

            “You should go home and relax, Vi. Take a bath. Get some real sleep. Maker knows we haven’t been getting enough of that lately,” she said, pitching her voice louder towards the end.

            Over her shoulder, Chance let out a muffled laugh.

            Viago sighed, scrubbing at his weary eyes. He looked down at her with a small frown, his voice barely above a whisper.

            “Why would they do this? Why with him, of all people?”

            Teia let out a quiet exhale, her lips twisting.

            “I can’t say that I’m sure, Vi,” she said just as softly. “But if you wanted to hide behind a lie, wouldn’t you pick one everyone would believe?”

            “What do you mean, everyone would – it’s a terrible match! It makes no sense!” he snapped back from behind his hand, much louder than he’d intended. Behind Teia, Chance chuckled again, then coughed into his fist at the sight of Viago’s glare.

            “Well then, it’s a good thing they went home alone then, hmm? Sounds like it’s not a match at all,” she replied more quietly, reminding him to lower his voice as well.

            “In the morning! They were out with him all night, who knows what they –”

            “Once you have your head on right, go to them and ask them, Vi. Talk to them – or talk to him, if you think he will give you the truth.” She snorted. “I know which one I’d choose.”

            “Teia-”

            “Viago, get out of here. You haven’t slept in your own bed in days, and you look like you’re getting a headache.”

            He exhaled harshly, face creasing with displeasure – but Teia only laughed softly, eyes sparkling with a private smile.

            “I knew it. Go on, Vi. Go home.”

            Viago turned the handle of his bedroom door and stalked inside, and distracted as he was rehearsing the lecture he’d be giving his lover in a few hours, it took two full steps before he realized something was wrong.

            Why was his bedroom so cold?

            He squinted into the morning light, the sight before him taking a moment to process even once clearly visible. His brain spun uselessly as it tried to make the scene make sense.

            How, exactly, of all the doors on all the fine estates in Treviso, had some petty thief chosen that of the Fifth Talon’s bedroom for their nightly smash and grab? He had been sure there wasn’t a single criminal in Antiva dumb enough to case a Crow’s house, much less his house. Certainly, it couldn’t have been another Crow who had broken in – the shattered glass glinting at him from the floors confirmed as much. A Crow would have known better - a Crow would have done better, not left the evidence of their trespassing scattered across the stone. The broken glass, the still-open wardrobe – no, this was clearly the work of a thief in the night, not the measured effort of an assassin.

            Viago took another step into the room. His brow furrowed.

            His standing mirror smashed to pieces by the bedside, far from its usual spot.

            Every candle burnt down to its fixture; wax splattered over the surfaces below.

            Potion bottles on the bedside table – bottles in familiar shapes, so they must be from his own collection.

            His coverlet, rumpled and shoved mostly off of the bed.

            His headboard, pockmarked with stabs and long scratches.

            His sheets, stained with oil and blood and –

            Viago shuddered, fighting the urge to gag.

            Oil and blood and come on his sheets.

            Oil and come and blood, on his lilac silk sheets.

            “Who?”

Normally, he’d suspect Teia, but she’d been sleeping close to his side all night – and even then, he knew she’d never really go so far as to bring someone else back here. Then who?

             The crudely broken window suggested an outsider’s transgression, not a Crow’s – and yet, what petty thieves would have been able to make the climb?

            And yet, there were lurid streaks of browning blood dried into his sheets. They splayed over the pillows and criss-crossed over the flat of the fabric tucked around the mattress. They repeated in an oddly regular way, in fact; even smeared and muddied as most were, he could follow overlapping patterns almost like a row of o’s and x’s.  

            Viago swallowed hard, forcing his eyes up and away from his defiled bed.  They landed on his nightstand instead, and without thinking, he paced up to the table.

            Four bottles, all of them empty – three drank, and the largest one mostly spilled onto his linens, if the wide oil stains marring them were any indication. Viago glanced over the labels, frowning. If whoever had been there had taken all three of them, they’d have been driven half-homicidal by lust, which, perhaps, explained the state of his bed. He trailed his gloved fingers over his own handwriting, tracing out the name of “Like an Animal”.

            He’d never had a contract that required it. He’d only even tested it once, and had reacted so strongly that he’d holed himself up in his office and drugged himself into unconsciousness to keep from stalking into the Diamond and taking Teia right over the railing. He’d woken eighteen hours later face down on the stone floor, sore, sweaty, and with a noticeable stickiness saturating the crotch of his trousers. Or rather, Teia had woken him; she’d come to investigate his unexpected absence from work and been all too amused at the state in which she’d found him. So amused, in fact, she insisted that he keep a bottle in their love potion collection simply as a reminder, even though he was sure he’d never let her talk him into trying it together.

            So again, he’d be inclined to think it was Teia who’d been here – but it couldn’t have been, and he knew that. So who –

            He set it down and backed away, gritting his teeth against the nausea which surged at the sight of his defiled bed. He sucked in a deep, shaky breath, smoothing a hand over his hair and turning on the spot, and tried to summon some composure. He released it, no less shakily, and started across the room. Someone had gone through his wardrobe, had rifled through his potions and clothes; everything would be discarded, but still, he should inventory and see if anything else had been taken.

            He felt something round grind under his foot, and every muscle locked as one. A grenade, perhaps? It might have broken already, might be leaking gas, acid, poison…

            He pulled his weight back by fractions, tensing for the burn or the choking cloud – but neither came. Viago’s brow furrowed, and he knelt to examine it, still carefully holding his breath.

            He lifted the little orb into the light, turning it one way, then the other. Further examination revealed that it was heavy rock crystal, now marred with a crushed, flattened side where his weight had ground it into the stone. Beneath the rounded top there was a short, solid stem – not a grenade, then, but a fine, faceted stopper, the kind used to seal up an equally fine decanter.

            Oh.

            Oh.

            Horror and heartbreak burnt up his throat like cheap whiskey, and a few desperate steps later, Viago de Riva vomited over the side of his balcony.

             He demanded six things once he could speak again:

            An inkpot, a quill, and a stack of parchment; a bottle of red wine. A pyre, built and lit in the courtyard beneath his balcony, and a woodcutter’s axe.

            It was less than thirty minutes before Teia smelled the smoke.

Still prickling from the attack on Treviso, the scent caught her attention more than it usually might – enough to draw her out onto the balcony by the ziplines, peering across the skyline for its source.

She couldn’t see his Villa from the Diamond, and yet, just from the direction, she knew.

Not ten more minutes after that, she was running up the stairs of an unusually empty house, heart racing at the crashing sounds echoing from above.

            She so rarely saw Viago in just his shirtsleeves these days; in another moment, she might have commented on it. Instead, she froze in place, cringing at the sight before her from her spot in the open doorway.

            Half the furniture in the room had been reduced to kindling, and the rest was well on its way to it. Broken glass glittered around a shattered mirror; his wardrobe stood open and empty, its doors torn from the hinges and the drawers missing. His discarded cuirass lay in one corner by some scattered papers and a knocked-over inkpot, though he still wore his gloves; the bedside tables and his mattress were already absent entirely. The bedframe had been hacked into several pieces, with the headboard mangled nearly past recognition.

Viago swung the axe in a wide arc over his head, splitting apart a section of his destroyed bedframe. He dropped the axe to the floor beside him and gathered a few splintered pieces into his arms, then strode off to his balcony and tossed them towards the fire below. He seemed not to notice her as he walked back into the room, moving to the fireplace to take a long swig directly from a bottle sitting on the mantlepiece.

She made a disapproving sound, and Viago glanced up for a moment.

“Andarateia.”

She took a step into the room, balking a bit before she spoke.

“Why?”

The man before her didn’t reply. Instead, he reached up to the mantle once more, then tossed a small object her way. She caught it easily, turning it over in her hand. It only took a moment before recognition struck; the awful weight of it came in the next.

She closed her fist around the stopper, swallowing hard.

“Viago-”

“Don’t,” he said severely, taking another drink and staring into the dead ashes in the fireplace. “I’ll deal with… this. Them.”

“With an axe?”

Another swallow, then a too-brief pause.

“Perhaps.”

She waited a beat before replying, choosing her words carefully.

“May I advise against it?”

“You may not.”

Teia’s face fell further, and she sighed, pocketing the stopper before slowly approaching his side.

“Come back to the Diamond, Vi.”

“No.”

“There’s no point in-”

“I’m not done here.”

“Oh yes, you are.”

 Viago planted his bottle back on the mantlepiece before starting towards her with an expression that almost had her reaching for a knife.

“Is that so?”

Teia backed up a step, breath catching in her throat.

“Viago, I –”

Several things happened in quick succession.

One gloved hand caught the side of her neck, the other seized the edge of his bedroom door and slammed it.

He pushed her back one step, then another, shoving her back against the door hard enough to knock the air from her lungs.

His lips crashed down against hers in a hard, selfish kiss; more teeth than tongue and utterly clear in its intention.

            She let out a small, surprised noise and grabbed a fistful of his shirt to pull him closer, her body responding to him in an instant before her brain could think the better of it. Viago’s fingertips tightened on her neck to a bruising degree; her senses came back in a rush.

            She planted both palms against his chest and shoved as hard as she could, sending Viago stumbling backwards away from her. They froze like that for a moment, a few paces apart and panting, glaring at each other across the silent room.

Teia swore quietly in Antivan, shook her head, and spoke.

            “No. Not like this.”

            “Teia-”

            “Don’t. Don’t apologize. Just…” The words died off into a tired, frustrated sigh.

            Viago stared out at the smoke swirling up past his balcony, swallowing hard. He didn’t look back at her as he spoke, yet the words came all the same, in a voice that was shaky, hesitant, small – shattered in a way that she had never heard before.

            “Teia… get me out of here.”

            The woman released a lungful of air she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, then stepped towards him, cautiously extending her hand. He staggered forwards, both arms reaching out with trembling fingers, and she closed the distance to gently take one hand, then the other.

 She pulled him out of his ruined bedroom, then pulled him out the front door, her motions slow and tentative in the way one might treat a wounded animal.

She pulled him into a carriage, then into her arms, letting him rest his head against her breast as his breath and body shook.

She pulled him up the stairs to her penthouse; pulled his sweat-damp shirt from over his head and helped him out of his boots. He seemed half-dazed as she undressed him, barely present, even as she peeled away his gloves. She pressed him back against the bed and encouraged him under her covers, and to the credit of both the man and his training, only then did he allow himself to cry.

Incandescent rage scorched up Teia Cantori’s spine, though she soothed her fingertips across his brow all the while. His damp, red eyes fell closed after an hour, and she slipped out of the room and down the hallway.

She pulled out a stack of parchment, and she wrote one letter.

She sent it off into the Fade, settled into her chair to wait – and in the searing silence of her office, she began to sharpen a knife.

Chapter Text

Lucanis had never grown particularly attached to any of the Crows he’d called colleague. They were few enough in number at the best of times, and there were even fewer among them for whom he’d spare much thought once the mission was done. Rook had earned a place in that number much faster than he’d thought could be possible.

He’d been worried enough that they had stayed out all night, especially after Davrin mentioned over breakfast that they’d been crying in the few moments they’d actually spent at the Lighthouse the evening before. A breakfast which Rook had slept through, to nobody’s delight, but particularly not his or Spite’s.  The demon had howled, screamed that they should wake them up and get them ‘away from all the grey’, but Lucanis had simply grit his teeth and taken joyless bites of quiche. He could hardly begrudge them the chance to catch a nap before heading out for the day, particularly given how unsettled the most probable reason for their fatigue left him. Bellara had mentioned as she shuffled in that she and Rook would be headed to the Grand Necropolis of Nevarra that day to recruit the Fade expert she’d corresponded with. They’d certainly need the rest if they wanted to be at their best.

When they did awaken and limped their way, squinting, to Bellara’s quarters, pounding weakly on the door before stumbling in and staying there for the better part of an hour, he worried even more.

 When they’d emerged with Bellara on their heels, the woman’s face was painted plain with such painful concern that his pulse began to gallop in his ears.

What had happened?

            Spite’s rage prickled wordlessly along his mind, and he rolled his shoulders back, his nose wrinkling and his lips twisting down. What had happened to them, to leave them limping and Bellara so scared? What had been done to them, and by whom?

            Neve was saying something, but he didn’t hear it over the pounding in his ears. Having noticed she was being ignored, the detective sighed frustratedly and threw up her hands, turning to walk away. Lucanis was distantly aware that he’d been rude, and that he would have to apologize – but he barely spared her back a glance as she disappeared into her room.

He was so tired of seeing them limping.

Rook only made it a few steps more before the Caretaker floated forward, holding a folded missive aloft with one long, spindly hand.

Rook had smiled at it, at first. They’d brightened at just the sight of the handwriting, flipped it in their hand, and cracked the seal there in the courtyard. That smile had dropped in barely a second, leaving them scowling down at the parchment. A moment later, their lips twisted again, with a horrible lack of genuine joy and far too much open disdain –

And then their chin had pulled up, and their eyes had landed on him.

They’d passed the letter off with precious little ceremony. They’d asked him to handle it while they were in Nevarra, claimed they were already running late, and that he’d do a better job of it anyway, and then they turned on their heel and departed before he even had a chance to reply. Spite liked the brusque dismissal even less than Lucanis had, bristling and begging for the assassin to let his wings free so they could catch Rook before they left, wrap them up and not let them go until they were right again.

Lucanis very nearly agreed. In the precious moments he spent debating with the demon, though, the party of two had made it through the mirror. Then it was Lucanis’ turn to spit and bristle, muttering under his breath about the demon’s constant, potentially disastrous distractions as he lifted the letter in his hand to examine the seal.

He saw the soaring avian sigil of House Cantori, and his brow furrowed.

That couldn’t be right. Why would Rook frown at a letter from Teia? Everyone liked Teia, despite the obvious danger her often-false friendliness belied; it was a large part of what made the woman so incredibly deadly. Even Caterina liked her – had liked her, he mentally corrected, his face scrunching further – he suspected more than she’d ever truly liked him or Illario.

The last time Lucanis had ever called the First Talon nonna, he’d been twelve, and he had been met with her cane’s swift correction. He’d kept his head high after, of course, made sure he didn’t whimper, and he had gone all the way out to the servants’ kitchen garden before he spat out his last baby tooth. Most importantly, he had not made the same mistake again.

Teia called her by the same endearment quite often, and the harshest response it had ever earned from Caterina was a frown while she let the woman kiss her on both cheeks. The last time he’d seen her talk to Rook, Teia had greeted them in much the same manner. If the two were friendly enough for such a gesture – one which she notably had not also extended to Lucanis – then why?

            Davrin’s door squeaked when it swung open. Lucanis had noticed that quirk of the Warden’s Fade-appointed quarters the day after he joined their party, and he was certain that he’d have noticed it the same night if the fighting in Treviso hadn’t left both him and Spite tired enough to sleep uninterrupted through any noise at all. The same long squeak rang out then, giving Lucanis sufficient warning to glance up at the approaching man before the elf saw him – and to step backwards out of the way of his much-more-quickly approaching griffon. He reached down to affectionately ruffle the beast’s feathers before looking up to his master with somewhat less cheer.

            “Where’s Rook?” Davrin called across the courtyard, from a much further distance than might usually be considered polite.

            “I’m sorry?” Lucanis replied at a normal speaking volume, as if he couldn’t have heard the man quite well even before Spite’s influence.

            “Where’s Rook?” the elf repeated a little louder, from the same spot.

            Lucanis feigned a small frown, shaking his head. “I’m sorry?” he echoed, tapping twice on one ear.

            Davrin sighed with visible frustration before descending the stairs from his quarters and approaching to a much more conventional distance for conversation. He crossed his arms and spoke.

            “Where’s Rook?”

            “Already on their way to the Grand Necropolis.”

He followed the Warden’s gaze towards the library’s double doors, frowning at his own words. Already long since on their way, with how long he’d spent standing there not reading that letter. He mentally chided himself for his distraction, dissatisfied with his own lack of discipline. If they had been a target he’d let slip so far from his reach, he likely wouldn’t catch up with them again for weeks or more.

“Hmph,” Davrin replied. “Damn.”

With that, he turned and departed, Assan following at his heels. As soon as his boots hit the stairs, he began to mutter under his breath, low enough that Lucanis wouldn’t have heard him without Spite’s assistance.

“Little fucking demonic Antivan bastard, couldn’t hear a fucking ogre coming if it didn’t shout–”

“Davrin, please!” Lucanis chastised loudly, affecting shock. “You’re going to teach Spite bad manners.”

The Warden shot a baleful glare over his shoulder before he slammed his squeaky door, and Lucanis smiled for the first time since he’d realized Rook wasn’t coming home for the night.

Alone once more, he glanced back down at the letter, and his smile disappeared just like the intendent recipient. With a firm exhale, he flipped it open, scanning the surprisingly short missive.

“Belladonna-”

Belladonna?

Lucanis turned the letter over, confirming that Teia’s familiar hand had scrawled “Rook” across the back. He righted the page, began again –

Belladonna.

They’d worked together for how long, lived together for how long? Two weeks, longer? He’d made them dinner, taken them to his favorite café in Treviso; they pulled him from the Ossuary. He was supposed to be one of the best Crows alive, and he hadn’t realized they were using an alias the whole time?

“Rook. Isn’t Rook?” Spite inquired, stretching over his mind with a tangible confusion.

“I… don’t know,” Lucanis admitted. “They’ve always called themselves Rook around me. Everyone does. I had assumed it was their name.”

Spite was obviously dissatisfied with the response, sending an uncomfortable prickle skittering up Lucanis’ spine.

“Rook. Isn’t. A plant.”

            Lucanis sighed, rubbing at his eyes and feeling his lack of sleep much more than he had a few minutes ago.

            “No, she didn’t mean ‘belladonna’ like the – oh, never mind.”

            He glanced back down to the letter, finally reading the rest of the message.

            “Belladonna-

            Come and see me today, would you? I’ve received information which calls into question where certain Crows’ loyalties lie.

            Cordially,

            Andarateia Cantori, Seventh Talon”

            A shiver ran up Lucanis’ back that had nothing to do with Spite, and despite the fact that the letter had not been intended for him, he was struck with a feeling uncomfortably similar to when Caterina would summon him by first and last name. Leave it to Teia to strike fear into a master assassin’s heart with just the omission of nicknames – there was a reason he counted her among his colleagues and not among his friends. 

            Once could be coincidence; twice was clearly intentional. He knew quite well that Teia’s smiles and warmth were often just a means to an end, but still, the icy tone of her private correspondence with Rook – Belladonna – came as a surprise. Not because Teia had been friendly with them, but because they’d been so in return, complaining about Viago as if they genuinely trusted Teia’s unspoken confidence. Given what he’d seen of Viago’s disciplinary style so far, Lucanis doubted they’d risk saying a word against him unless they were sure that it wouldn’t be repeated. Then again, they’d spoken freely enough when the two of them were at Café Pietra together- but then again, it had been the very next night that he had followed them back to the Diamond just for Spite to start screaming that he could smell their blood on Viago’s hands. Did they not fear his punishment, or had they simply given up on avoiding it?

 He hoped it was the former, but memories of his own Talon told him that the latter was more likely. Suddenly, Lucanis felt an absurd, inappropriate gratitude for the fact that Viago had stopped carrying his ornamented walking stick at some point during his imprisonment.

            He finally caught his own wandering mind, letting out a frustrated noise and rubbing at his eyes again. Distracted, again.

It was only a matter of time before his focus lapsed during a fight, before his half-broken mind failed him when it counted. If he didn’t get some proper sleep soon, he’d be a dead man walking. He opened his eyes and looked back down at the letter for only a moment before refolding it and tucking it away inside his vest.

            Nothing soothed a worried mind like work, after all.

            Once appropriately armed and armored, he set off through the Eluvian. Though he knew none of the other companions could hear Spite’s ravings, he was still glad he was traveling alone that particular day. The demon was in rare form, rapidly oscillating between growling threats against Lucanis, Teia, and the unconfirmed source of Rook’s limp, and making increasingly frenetic demands for them to follow Rook to Nevarra rather than doing as they’d been told.

            “They’re a Crow, Spite, and they gave us a job,” Lucanis hissed as he approached the mirror which shone with a rippling image of Treviso. “They won’t be happy if we turn back up without it done.”

            This argument, at least, Spite seemed to find no fault with. He settled into a begrudging silence, and Lucanis stepped through the mirror.

            He approached the table where Teia and Viago usually worked, but found it absent of them both. A quick word with one of the nearby fledglings pointed him to her office, where she’d evidently been for most of the day. He headed up to her private floor of the casino, and finally, more hesitantly than he expected, Lucanis knocked on Teia’s office door.

“Come in.”

He heard the ring of steel on stone before he saw the proof – but indeed, there Teia sat, her boots propped on the edge of her fine ebony desk and a whetstone in her hand.

The Seventh Talon looked up from the knife she was sharpening and scowled.

“Lucanis. Why are you here?” she asked, her voice colder than he’d ever heard before.

He swallowed, trying not to shift uncomfortably on the spot.

“Rook had other matters to attend to today. They asked me to come and speak with you in their stead.”

Teia made a scoffing sound, sitting up straight and tossing the dagger onto her desktop.

“Of course they did.”

She did not invite him to sit, and so he did not. He stood, deliberately remained still, and waited for her to continue, but after a long, awkward moment, he grew uncomfortable with the silence.

“So… you had something you wished to discuss?”

            “I did. For Rook.”

            “Ah.”

            “And I didn’t realize you were in the habit of running their errands.”

            “I –” he began, surprised by the rancor in her tone. “I am not. As I said, they–”

            “Yes, yes, I’m sure they had an excuse. They always do.”

            “I beg your pardon?”

            Teia only made a displeased sound, flipping through a stack of papers before shoving one out towards him.

“Here. We don’t have a definite location on Zara, but we’re nearly certain that she’s still in Treviso. Viago and I have had Crows watching every boat and carriage that’s left the city since the attack. We’ve even searched the trade caravans’ wagons; there’s been no sign at all. That report goes into more detail. Unless she’s used her blood magic to turn herself invisible, she’s still in Treviso somewhere.”

            Lucanis stepped forwards and took the report with a humorless chuckle.

            “She can use her blood magic to do many things, but as far as I know, that isn’t one of them.”

            “Then Viago and I will find her, Lucanis. You’ll have your revenge.”

            “Thank you, Teia,” he replied with a tight smile. He paused a moment, almost managing to keep in the question that he could feel Spite pressing into the back of his teeth. “Where is Viago, by the way? I didn’t see him on my way up.”

            “Sleeping,” she said, her tone suddenly sharp. “Why?”

            Sleeping? If there was anything he knew of Viago, it was that he was particular – about art, about appearances, and, Lucanis would have assumed, about punctuality. Yet the day was already dipping into its golden hour. If Teia was lying for him, he doubted she’d choose one so unflattering, and in all the years they’d been acquainted, he had never heard her voice be quite so chill. Clearly, ‘sleeping’ wasn’t quite the whole truth, either – clearly, something was wrong.

            “Just curious.”

            “Mmm,” Teia replied, sounding unconvinced. “Should I tell him you stopped by?”

            “Ah, no. That’s alright. Like I said –”

            “Just curious,” the elf repeated before Lucanis could, tilting her head and smiling an obviously false smile. “And where’s dear Rook? Whatever matters they had to attend to must have been very important indeed, for them to take precedence over a Talon’s summons.”

            Lucanis hadn’t considered that. Ignoring a direct summons from Caterina was an idea so ridiculous to be laughable, and in all his years among the Crows, he’d never been summoned by a Talon other than his own.

When she put it that way…

            “They had a meeting with a potential ally in Nevarra,” he said, his voice feeling strangely hollow.

            “How lovely,” Teia cooed. “You may go.”

            The man gave a small, polite nod and turned for the door, almost relieved at the dismissal.

            “Oh, Lucanis?”

            He turned back to Teia just in time to catch a small object she had thrown his way.

            “Do tell your cousin to be more careful.”

            Lucanis stepped out of her office before even glancing at it, feeling rather eager to be anywhere else. He cleared the first flight of spiraling stairs then stilled on the landing, finally taking the time to look down at the object in his hand.

            Oh, fucking Illario.

            Caterina had only ever poured drinks from the decanter to which it belonged on truly special occasions. Once, when he’d made the rank of Master Assassin, another after he returned from the job that earned him his prescient title. Once when Teia became Seventh Talon; once when he’d brought back the news that the final member of House Kortez was no more.

He’d never seen her offer Illario so much as a sip of that hallowed whiskey. He should have known better than to fool with it, much less take it out of the Villa; he shouldn’t be touching her possessions at all, her ashes were barely even cold –

            And he’d damaged it? One side of the chiseled orb at the top of the stopper was ground nearly flat, as if it had been rubbed against a file.

            Fucking Illario.

            Lucanis had half a mind to storm straight into Villa Dellamorte and slap him, or shake him, or maybe smack him up and down a hallway or two and demand that he finally act with some sense. It had been too long since the two of them had a good row, even before the months he had lost to the Ossuary. When had the last one been? Caterina’s birthday, four years ago now, or had it been longer still?

            “Yes. Good!” Spite crowed, tangibly excited at the idea of a good fistfight. Lucanis, on the other hand, froze in place in sudden horror. He was allowed to want to beat up Illario – what else was a brother for, really? – but the idea of Spite getting involved…

            Lucanis took a deep, steadying breath before he continued down the stairs to the Crow’s little base in the rafters. Before passing through the Eluvian, he scanned the crowd of fledglings loitering by the railing until he found the one who reminded him least of Illario, then pulled her aside.

            “Take this to Villa Dellamorte, give it to the man at the gate,” he said, holding the stopper out to the girl. “And tell him to tell my idiot cousin to be more careful with Caterina’s things.”

            The young Qunari glanced at the little chunk of crystal with a sudden look of alarm upon hearing who it had belonged to, then nodded once and pocketed it carefully.

Good, then. She’d take the job seriously. She really was nothing like Illario.

Lucanis returned her gesture, offering one curt nod in thanks before walking away and melting off into the mirror.

The journey back through the Crossroads was largely uneventful, and Lucanis might have even considered it peaceful if not for Spite’s increasingly excited chatter as the pair of them grew closer to the Lighthouse once more.

“Tell Rook! We did it! Job’s done! Tell Rook!”

“Yes, Spite,” Lucanis muttered under his breath as he passed through the Eluvian room and jogged up the few stairs to the door there. “We’ll bring the report to Rook as soon as possible, but there’s no guarantee that they’re back from –”

“They are!”

Spite hooted with joy and materialized in front of him, darting through the closed door before him. Lucanis huffed out a tired sigh before following the demon up the stairs towards Rook’s room. Rather than go where he’d expected, though, Spite skidded to a stop an archway early – one which had previously been obstructed by the Fade’s impenetrable vines, but which now stood clear and lead to a short hallway with a single door at its end.

The Lighthouse had opened a new room. Rook’s mission must have gone well.

Lucanis felt a strange surge of pride as the realization struck – and Spite clearly agreed, a deep satisfaction and the echo of ‘our Rook!’ wrapping warm around his mind like an embrace.

He shook his head hard, trying to clear the sensation.

“They are not our Rook,” he thought pointedly, scowling into the empty hall as he followed Spite’s hazy frame closer to the door. He saw the demon’s mouth open as if to say something more – but at the sound of voices from within the newly-revealed room, Lucanis’ hand shot up to his lips in a silencing gesture, and miraculously enough, Spite obeyed, even if it was only so the demon could eavesdrop for himself.

“As a healer, I do make it a point not to lecture, particularly in situations such as these –” an elegant male voice began, his tone a bit pointed.

“And you know, I’m really getting that impression,” Rook grumbled under their breath. He doubted they’d meant for the healer beside them to hear it; even with his own unusually good hearing, he wouldn’t have caught it without Spite’s help.

“–but you must consider safety in such matters. I pass no judgment regarding anyone’s personal tastes,” the man coughed a bit before continuing, “but you’ll be far less likely to experience this sort of irritation if you’re a bit more mindful of the, ah, order of operations, or at least make sure your partner is cleaning up in between acts. And if you plan on making this sort of thing a habit, might I at least encourage you to sanitize the knife first?”

            Lucanis’ feet and hands suddenly felt much further away than they had a moment before.

            “So, about the not lecturing…”

            “My apologies,” the man conceded, his voice gentling as he spoke. “You’re quite right. Let’s get back to the point of this visit, shall we?”

            “Please,” Rook replied. “Are you done with…”

            “The examination? Yes, but please wait a moment longer before getting dressed. The cuts on your rear are already quite infected. I’ll need to apply a salve before the potion seals them or they’ll leave some very nasty scars.”

            Lucanis swore he heard Belladonna’s breath catch. Quiet footsteps crossed the room, and then there was the sound of a few drawers being opened.

            “Happily enough, I happen to have appropriate healing agents already prepared, though I must confess I’d assumed they’d be used for combat-related – “

            “Happily indeed,” Rook interrupted in a clipped tone. “Far be it from me to rush the healer...”

            “Ah, I’m sorry, I’ve made a dreadful habit of thinking aloud. The dead rarely complain about the noise, after all.”

            The footsteps crossed the room once more, this time accompanied the quiet clinking sound of glass hitting glass.

            “This salve will clear out the external infection; I’m afraid it may sting.”

            Lucanis heard another sharp intake of breath, and Spite began to bristle with frustration, his copy of Lucanis’ face scrunching into an exaggerated scowl.

            “All done, you can dress again now. These potions will handle the internal side of things. Drink one now and one tomorrow night, and refrain from–”

            “Rook’s hurt. Rook’s scared!” Spite hissed, bending into an exaggerated, almost feline posture as he paced back and forth in front of the closed door. “Hurt the one who hurt Rook!”

            Lucanis did not have time to reply, even in thought, before the voice he’d heard before cut in again.

            “Have you had any signs of a haunting here lately?” the man asked Rook, sounding perturbed.

            “No, why?”

            “My ability to converse with the dead extends to spirits as well. It sounds as if you have a rather… protective house guest.”

            Whatever reply Rook offered the necromancer, Lucanis didn’t hear it. He turned and bolted out of the hallway, away from the man who had just torn away the last scrap of privacy he’d had left.

            No one else had been able to hear Spite. That had been his one solace in living with so many strangers with a demon ranting in his head – that no one else could hear his constant chatter. It would be annoying at best and unprofessional at worst, not to mention often deeply embarrassing. For their newest companion’s first impression of Lucanis to be Spite’s possessiveness towards Rook…

            The assassin slammed through the pantry door and drew the simple bolt behind him, though he knew the action was mostly symbolic. The lock was much too flimsy to keep out a truly determined attacker.

             Lucanis collapsed onto his cot and let his pounding head fall into his hands, feeling an uncomfortable kinship with that useless lock.

            For every bit of information that he had been able to gather, he’d gotten twice as many more questions, and all he could be certain of in the end was that very many things were very wrong.

            He could just ask them. He should just ask. If things were as bad as they seemed…

“Why would they tell us?” Spite muttered from his spot on the floor, despondent.

“We don’t. Even get to know. Their name.”

Chapter Text

            Belladonna moved through the next days with an odd sense of distance, as if they were the reflection on the Blight-soured puddles past which they walked and not the person watching themself moving through the ripples. Even when they crossed paths with the First Warden once more – even when they met the Inquisitor – none of it really sunk in. None of it made their heart race, not with anger, and not with excitement. They’d paid enough attention during their seduction training to be able to act their way through – it wasn’t so hard, really, to paint on a smile and say the right things and lie to yourself and pretend, whether it was underneath someone you loathed or in the Maker-forgotten wastes of international politics. But only in brief moments of battle, with their heart pounding and muscles screaming and danger on every side, did they feel like the body they piloted from the Hossberg Wetlands to Minrathous, past swells of blight and hooded Shadow Dragons swinging gently in the warm breeze, truly belonged to them.

            The closest they came in those in-between days to feeling like a person and not a hamstrung marionette was when Spite tried to take Lucanis into the Crossroads. They’d gone to talk to him about something – something inane, something stupid, like them, and which like them had been forgotten at the first distraction – and they had found the pantry empty. Instead, their search around the Lighthouse had led them to raised voices, which had in turn led them to the Eluvian room. Spite had been surprisingly easy to subvert, in the end – but the moment or two they’d spent pinned under the demon’s glowing gaze had been the longest they’d felt alive in far, far too long.

            When Davrin came with word that darkspawn were moving towards Weisshaupt, the news came as a sickly welcome sort of relief. Finally, real action, finally, real work; something that could consume them and remake them as they were. They readied their team, and though they did so begrudgingly, even consulted Solas. As much as they despised the man and the connection he’d forced upon them, they weren’t fool enough to discard his years of experience fighting the Evanuris. They knew as well as the rest of the team did that this would be their best and likely only chance to strike at Ghilan’nain directly – if victory came at the cost of taking Solas’ advice, it was a price they were willing to pay.

            Rook had thrown themself forward at wave after wave of darkspawn - always forward, straight forward, never retreating beyond a moment’s dodge before flinging themself back into the fray – and after their days and weeks of desolation and distraction, the all-consuming assault was even somewhat enjoyable. The singular feeling of being so close to their goal drove them with a near-invasive intensity: this was the moment they had been working for, this was why they were here – get Davrin close enough to kill the Archdemon, get Lucanis close enough to kill Ghilan’nain. Today, they would cut down one of the remaining Evanuris, and bring the battle so much nearer to being won. 

            They’d been willing, just as Davrin was, to do what was needed no matter the cost. When it had come to taunting Ghilan’nain with the lyrium dagger in the hopes of drawing her attention and archdemon down, they had been sure the cost would be their own life. Not too steep a cost, but still, a dearer one than they’d expected, even if the risk was one which they’d long since acknowledged.

            They’d said they weren’t going down without a fight, and they had meant it.

            They’d looked down at the weapon laying there in their palms – cold, still, so unassuming, like any other dagger – and tried to steel themself to their fate.

            “And now I die,” they’d muttered to themself, as if saying the truth aloud would make it easier to accept. Maybe it did, in some small way, as they’d stepped forward and held the dagger aloft and in the nightmarish fighting which followed. Some things, like death, or betrayal, or falling out of love, simply couldn’t be avoided. Perhaps that certainty helped them fight like there was no tomorrow, knowing that for them there likely wouldn’t be.

            They’d taken the Archdemon down, somehow survived to see it – survived, as it turned out, just to see all the efforts of their team and a thousand dead Wardens turn out to be for nothing.

            Davrin killed the Archdemon, and then Lucanis missed. He wounded Ghilan’nain, true, left her bleeding and screaming in indignance and fear at the proof of her own new mortality, but she’d batted him away like a toy. He didn’t kill her. He missed.

            He failed to kill her, but he survived – even landed on his feet – and immediately turned to make another strike. Fate had given them one chance, though, and did not deign to give another, as the sores of Blight surrounding them began to rage and swell along with the barely-injured goddess’ temper. Rook grabbed Lucanis by the shoulder, spun him around, and ran, barely making it through the fortress’ Eluvian before the tendrils of pursuing Blight shattered it forever shut.

They had asked the impossible of him, and they’d known it from the moment they’d seen Ghilan’nain’s spectral face among the clouds. Frankly, they were more surprised that Davrin had succeeded in killing the Archdemon – not to mention done so and survived – than they were that Lucanis had fallen short in his. Taking down the Archdemon had been a miracle in its own right, and they’d done nothing to deserve one, let alone two.  Even if Lucanis had been at his best, his chance at Ghilan’nain would have been a nearly-impossible shot; with Spite constantly nipping at his heels, it was nothing short of hopeless. Some prideful part of their mind had chimed in with a low, bitter whisper, noting that his demon’s distractions hadn’t been enough to keep Lucanis from successfully playing them for a fool. They were inclined to indulge it, beaten and bloodied as they were, to chastise and cajole and shame every inadequacy upon which they’d all set eye – but when the team milled to a stop in the library, looking to Rook for guidance, for the leadership they were supposed to be able to provide, that fire to yell and lecture that should have come so easily just simply wasn’t there. Instead, they’d turned, blank-faced and silent, and trudged off towards the kitchen in search of something even they couldn’t have named.

            They’d rifled through the shelves there with shaky, unfocused hands, bumping and clinking together a few small jars of spices in their half-daze. They absently lifted and examined a few boxes and canisters, staring at their labels for a bit too long and without ever really reading the letters there, then quietly placed them back upon the shelf. Their search for something picked up in speed, gaining an anxious freneticism that only worsened their tremble. Their breath began to accelerate as their eyes darted to and fro across the shelves, trying to figure out what they were even looking for, unsure if it would be found here at all –

            “Rook.”

            An unexpected voice so close behind them was enough to make them startle, even though its tone was quiet and gentle. They yelped in shock and spun in place, backhanding a stout jar of dried pepper flakes straight off of the shelf in their haste.

            Lucanis closed the distance in one long step, catching the jar before it could shatter across the kitchen floor. He slid it back into its place upon the shelf with an odd, pinched look upon his face. Suddenly aware of how close the other assassin was now standing, Belladonna quickly glanced away over his shoulder, noticing for the first time that the rest of their companions had followed them into the kitchens as well. Their breath caught a little in their throat, starting to quicken once again as their looked between the gathered party’s faces, all painted with varying levels of sorrow, anger, and pain.

            Of course they’d followed. What else would they do? They needed their leader, always needed their leader, even when their leader was ready to –

            “Rook.”

            Lucanis’ voice came again, no louder than before, but with enough insistence to pull their attention back. Their eyes snapped back to his, but lingered there barely a second before they fell to the floor.

            “Sorry, that was –”

            “Would you like some honey in your tea?”

            Belladonna’s breath hitched for a second time, and they opened their mouth, ready to protest – but when they looked back up at Lucanis’ face, the look in his eyes was so Gods-damned sincere that just this once more, they could let themself believe it.

            “I – yes,” they breathed, hardly more than a whisper. They swallowed hard to clear the embarrassing lump of emotion in their throat before continuing.  “That would be nice.”

            Lucanis gave them the smallest smile, and he even had the decency to make it look real.

            “Mint or el–”

            “Elfroot,” they interrupted, their voice suddenly small once more.

            Another smile, a fraction wider, and even warmer than the last.

            “Alright,” he said, moving past them to the kettle, and that perfectly-performed affection carried like music behind his voice.

            “He’s good at being warm,” Belladonna thought a bit absently, settling into their chair. “When he wants to be.”

            It was only a few minutes before he placed a gently steaming mug into their hand, murmuring that it would be hot. Sitting in the almost-silence of the kitchen under the weight of their companions’ stares, it had felt at least twice as long as the fight through Weisshaupt Fortress. So Rook blew softly over the mug and sipped at the contents immediately, scalding their tongue just as Lucanis had warned them not to do. The pain was just as grounding as the herbal tea itself, though, and between the two they might even summon up the composure to approach the topic looming over those circled around the table.

            Harding broke the silence before they could, likely thinking she was doing them a favor. She rattled off a report from the Wardens, along with a few benign platitudes, for all the good they’d do the team or the blighted bodies who would never hear them. The dead didn’t need their respect, nor did they benefit from their pity. They had needed Rook and their team to do better, and in that, they had already failed.

            The mention of his fallen peers had been enough to start Davrin on the topic, and what little promise of retribution they could offer wasn’t enough to ease his mind, nor were Bellara and Emmrich’s attempts at positivity. Instead, the Warden doubled down, speaking aloud the thought which they hadn’t been cruel enough to give voice –

            “We missed.”

            It was clear to all of them that Davrin’s ‘we’ had been a thin disguise for ‘he’ – clear enough that Lucanis, at least, wouldn’t let it rest at implication.

            “Say what you mean, Davrin. I missed.”

            Harding tried to stop the impending argument, but Davrin was undeterred. He made no effort to deny that he blamed Lucanis for Ghilan’nain’s survival – and went so far as to suggest to the team that he couldn’t be trusted, that Spite was sabotaging his host more than any of them might have guessed. Even if the point he raised was one which they too had privately considered, something in the way he spat the words demon and Crow at the assassin seated at their right hand – like they were slurs, like either was something he should be ashamed of – had Rook fighting a wolfish urge to bare their teeth. 

            Bellara spluttered out the start of some diversion, but Lucanis interrupted the attempt before it could bear fruit.

            “And you, Warden?” he purred, threat heavy in his tone even as his voice melted into something lilting and soft. “What about the blight that runs through your veins? The same blight that Ghilan’nain commands so effortlessly.”

            Despite themself, Rook almost laughed. Instead, they swallowed the sound down and hid behind a long sip of their elfroot tea, fighting against the inappropriate twitch still threatening the corners of their mouth. Davrin should have known better than to play manipulation games with a Crow. Lucanis was already in the lead, and if Rook let him, he would win. A somewhat biased part of their mind was inclined to let him, just so they could get to see how it would go. They’d never seen Lucanis shift so fully into his role before, never heard that sweet poison in his tone, and unlike Davrin, they were now quite aware that they were watching the Demon of Vyrantium at work.  This was the Crow who they had been promised, and of the two souls inhabiting his body, Spite was not the one Davrin should fear.

            “He’s good at this,” they thought proudly, almost cracking another smile – but as much as they wanted to watch Lucanis do what he did best, letting their team members tear each other apart for sport was hardly what a leader would do. So instead, they’d let out a heavy sigh and fixed their face into a scowl, interrupted Emmrich’s attempts at peacekeeping, and brusquely declared the argument at an end.

They had no talent for lecturing, it seemed – theirs lasted barely a few lines – but in the end, it was enough to keep the debrief from ending in a fistfight. The team shuffled out to their respective rooms without incident while Rook sat silent beside Varric, sipping slowly at their waning tea. As if sensing the reason for their reticence, the dwarf waited until they were alone in the kitchen before bringing the topic back up more personally, thus letting them voice the worries they wouldn’t share in wider company. With him, unlike with the rest of the team or almost anyone else in the world, they could still speak freely, like a person and not a carved figurehead. All the others needed something from them – their time, their help, their assurance and advice and attention – but all Varric ever asked of them was their friendly conversation, and unlike the others, he would listen, too, and offer them the sort of counsel and comfort the rest were so eager to take but never give. At least there was one member of their team upon whom Rook could still truly rely.

            “Start with Davrin and Lucanis,” Varric had suggested, and rightly so, it made the most sense: start at home, smooth things over, make sure the two men didn’t turn their blades on each other in the Evanuris’ stead. If taking his advice also happened to be a very reasonable excuse for Rook to do exactly what they’d wanted to do anyway… well, after the day which they’d had, and all those undoubtably still to come, perhaps they could be allowed that much indulgence.

They stood from the head of the empty table and drained the last of their tea, then headed to the pantry door.

            Lucanis didn’t seem thrilled to be back in their company, and they hadn’t expected him to be. After a failed attempt on his target, it was only natural for an assassin to be frustrated, and they doubted that Lucanis was very familiar with that sort of disappointment. It was enough that he didn’t simply tell them to get out, even if he pulled away with every word. Neither gentle teasing nor the honest admission that they were simply glad that he’d survived the day were enough to truly break through the man’s ill humor – but they hadn’t expected them to be. Still, he’d admitted that he’d been distracted, which even if obvious, was more than they’d expected, and even shared some of the doubts that their failure had provoked – which was far more honesty than they ever would have dreamed to ask from him. He knew as well as they did the risk that came with every word of truth uttered between Crows, and yet, he’d trusted them with the sort of vulnerability with which they could ruin him, if they so desired. 

He'd trusted them. More so than a threat ever could have, that put them on edge, and they retreated to their chamber to consider.

            Belladonna couldn’t deny that the idea of ruining him appealed to certain injured parts of their heart and mind. If they whispered even a word of Lucanis’ uncertainty into the right ear, other Houses – perhaps including their own, they realized with an uneasy thrill – would see his weakness as opportunity and not hesitate to strike. It had been a war of succession which had nearly laid House Dellamorte low, not all that very long ago – and now they were rudderless, leaderless, falling apart from within, and their best hope for stability and survival was an abomination wracked with self-doubt. While, of course, the House employed countless Crows outside the direct family, none of them would ever be considered for purposes of succession. If any of them had so much as dreamed of aspirations towards their Talon’s rank, Caterina would have somehow heard of it and ordered their throat cut before they had the chance to wake. It would have to be Illario or Lucanis, and between the two, Belladonna thought it was fairly obvious who both their grandmother and the living Talons would prefer, no matter how much Illario seemed to think the opposite. 

            The elf grimaced and rolled their shoulders and neck, trying to shake off the uncomfortable distant feeling and the guilt. Maker, but they knew how to pick them…

            No, Caterina would never have chosen Illario to be her heir as First Talon, not while she  knew Lucanis was still alive. Perhaps if she’d lived long enough to find out that he’d been possessed, she might have reconsidered, but even then, given her options, Rook doubted her choice would’ve changed. It was clear from the moment they’d first met him in the debrief before the Ossuary job that no one in the room respected Illario. Even if his grandmother had granted him the rank and power he so obviously craved, he’d never be able to keep it. No one would want to follow him; the Houses would turn against him and each other, and he’d be one of innumerable dead within in a year.

            Lucanis would become First Talon, or House Dellamorte would fall. The scales of power sat in an impossibly fragile balance – and for some unfathomable, idiotic reason, he had freely given them a weight to place where they may. He had trusted in them.  

            Why in the Maker’s fucking Grace would he do something like that? Had he forgotten that they were a Crow too?

            What did he want from them?

            Nothing of value that a Crow gave ever came without strings – where were these ones meant to lead?

            They quickly found that those strings pulled the same direction they always had – back to the half-electric feeling pulsing through wet cobbles, back to the pitch and swell of the Rialto Bay; back to the very heart of it.

            Treviso.