Lace was dead.
Neve was missing.
Varric had been dead the whole fucking time.
Gilraen was seething. She wanted to be, anyway. She wanted so desperately to feel anything aside from the numb isolation that she had put herself in.
She had gone through all of that, only to come out with more losses than she could imagine. Varric was a shoulder to lean on, especially before her parents had moved into the Lighthouse with her, and especially now with her mother and father helping Evka and Antoine more often than not with efforts in Lavendel to keep the darkspawn at bay. In their absence, she'd regularly go see the dwarf. To talk, get advice, a laugh or two. Hear some more salacious stories about her aunt. Her mother was the Hero of Fereldan. This wasn't Fereldan, but her mother's fighting spirit hadn't waned with her age and the entire world was facing the danger that this had posed. She felt the pull, trusted her daughter enough to face whatever was coming up. She didn't blame her parents for helping one of their allies who desperately needed it.
It's not like she had wanted to see anyone when she got back, anyway. She sat still long enough to hug her parents, shed a few tears into her father’s leather armor and have her ear cooed into in soothing elvish from her mother before she excused herself to her room, promptly barricading the door. She wasn't in the mood to be coddled. Her entire world had just been turned upside down, she didn't need pointless words that wouldn't solve anything. She isn't sure what she needs, but it wasn’t that.
She couldn’t face Lucanis and Spite. She knew the minute she looked into their eyes she’d snap. Privately, she hoped that they would forgive her. She knew they'd never be mad at her for taking her space but... gods, three weeks. They must've been distraught. Lucanis must not of gotten any rest, and Spite had to of been a handful. It was enough for her to feel guilty, but not enough for her to move the dresser. She needed this, whatever... this was. Right? Her mind drifted, feeling floaty and detached from the rest of herself. She eventually floated back to the issue at hand.
Ghilan’nain was dead, but at what cost? What would it take for it to be enough? For all of this to be worth it? Her skin crawled with Lace and Neve's screams as she sat in her room, door heavily barred with dresser she had shoved in front of it reminding her that she put herself here to wallow alone. It had to of been there for hours at this point. No doubt everyone heard her moving it. No one certainly made to stop her. She wasn't sure what she would've done if they had tried.
Briefly, she registered in her mind that she was surprised Spite hadn’t forcibly shoved the door open by now.
She had been gone for three weeks.
It had only felt like a couple hours to her. Two hours, going over her regrets and being forced to come to terms with the loses it took to get here. Two hours, building up seething bitterness for Fen’Harel. He had lost the right to his name.
Two hours, worrying over her boys. Two hours, worrying about her parents and Taash, who had grown to be like a sibling to her.
Two fucking hours of her life, to have three weeks of it taken from her. How dare he? How dare that bastard take this from her, shape her into a willing pawn on his chessboard and throw her away when he deemed her usefulness complete? Who gave him the right?
A bitter sting crept into the corner of her eyelids. She blinked, stubbornly doing her best to deny them the ability to fall. Doing so, to her, would admit defeat. To let Fen’Harel have this one last victory over her. She was a Dalish elf first and foremost who would not let the Dread Wolf win, but she was now also a Crow. Crow's don't cry over their loses. Crow's don't show weakness when it matters most - or at all. Heir had beat that into her, and admittedly, her own upbringing wasn't really much better. Shew as an honorary Cantori. Gilraen Iveani Cantori did not admit defeat.
...
She wasn’t sure how she was going to face her team.
Thud.
What would she say to them to make any of it okay? Did she even remember to thank Emmrich and Bellara for working around the clock to pull her free? Did she even look at Lucanis and Spite once? Did she even check to make sure that Taash was okay? She knew they took a pretty big hit in the battle. What if something happened to Taash?
Thud. A vague groan.
She sat on the chaise, legs folded criss-cross under her as she stared ahead at the aquarium wall, eyes glassy and glazed over. Hands resting limply in her lap as she sluggishly churned over what to say, what to do, when it was time to face her team. Her family. What would it take to kill Elgar’nan? Her family? Her mother didn’t deserve to be fighting another blight in her lifetime, not when she had near singlehandedly ended the Fifth Blight twenty-one years ago. Gods. None of this was okay, and she was furious that everyone in this Lighthouse and outside of it were now trapped into this wicked game. They had lost so much. She wouldn't blame her team if they hated her. She knew. She knew they didn't. It's foggy, but she remembers tears being shed when she was finally pulled from the Fade. They forgave her. They missed her.
They loved her.
Thud. A scrape, followed by muttered insults and harsh breaths of why is the dresser so heavy, and labored puffs of air. A flap of wind.
The door opening.
Gilraen picked at her nail bed while chewing on her lips. She had more calls to make. The fate of the world was on her shoulders. Her's. She was just a Dalish girl from the south, how was any of this her problem? She wondered if sneaking away to Antiva was worth the teenage freedom in an act of rebellion. She wondered if, going off of Aunt Mioluvun’s reports, she’d be dead or holed up in Skyhold regardless of what she did. The door closed again, and a scrape followed behind it. The room fell silent.
Gilraen didn’t flinch when strong, calloused hands gently gripped hers, pulling them away from each other. Blood coated the foreign hands from where her nails were bleeding. She blinked, her normally vibrant blue eyes were dull. She gazed up at the person in front of her, unblinking.
“Varric is dead.” A statement, numb and devoid of emotion. Reciting it, like it was ancient fact, not an earth shattering revelation she had all of a few hours ago.
“I know, bellezza.”
“Neve is missing.” She continued, as if the person never spoke.
“We’ll get her back.”
“Lace is dead.” She parried, blinking once. Her eyes cleared somewhat and a form appeared to her. A man sat on the chaise next to her, warm eyes, sharp edges.
The hand’s only squeezed hers tighter.
She took a deep, shuddering breath in. One tear escaped its confines, rebelliously rolling down her cheek as if to taunt her. You can’t ignore me forever, it seemed to say to her. The hand reached up and gently swiped at it, easing it from its brief existence. Soaking into the hand, defiant almost. I’ll catch you, it translated to her mind. She looked at the hand, blinked, and they solidly came to form. Scars littered those hands, tiny nicks here and there that told of a life full of danger at every corner.
Lucanis has hands like these.
She traces her thumb across one of the more prominent scars on the hand holding her left one, feeling the subtle bump where the tissue didn’t heal quite right. Like it was done in a rush by a boy who didn’t have time to slow down. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
It’s one of her favorite scars.
“How many?” She asks the hand, turning it over to trace the lines in the palm. Reverently. Like she's asking for forgiveness and begging for salvation in the way she gently traces a nail along the distinct lines. It's soothing. She didn't worship, never has, but she would worship daily if it was as relieving as this was. A balm to soothe her frayed soul.
“How many what?” It asks her back, quiet, calm, like it was speaking to a wounded animal.
“What will it take?” She replies, following the curve of the thumb, trailing back down to the wrist. “How many more people will I lose?”
The hand remains silent. She nods, as if that’s all the answer she needs. Maybe it is.
“I’m scared.” She says instead. Gilraen blinks, and a lap comes into focus. Arms, resting on strong lean legs. Clothing rumpled, like they haven’t been tended to, or like they were askew from physical labor.
Her hallucination is being strangely weird in how it wants to comfort her. Maybe she still had a bit of fade left on her skin. Maybe she was never really rescued at all. Gilraen closes her eyes and takes a shuddering breath, desperately trying to keep other tears at bay.
“Leonessa.” The lap says to her, utterly and impossibly gentle and full of grief and her heart skips a beat. Huh.
The hand reaches up slowly, telegraphing its every movement as a finger rests under her chin, tilting her head up to look upwards at something. She stares, but everything blurs. Gilraen blinks again, watching as the world fills in the details that she missed. Lucanis’ face comes to focus, expression both impossibly soft and utterly heartbroken at the same time. His eyes are tinged magenta at the edges of his iris, and she knows that both of her boys are here, waiting for the fall.
Waiting to catch her.
She stares at him as she slots the pieces together. The hands looked like Lucanis’ because Lucanis is actually sitting here. She wasn’t hallucinating a lap, he was here and had somehow wriggled his way into her room. Her eyes flick back and forth between both of Lucanis’, and briefly she wonders why she ever thought a dresser would stop not only the First Talon, but also a demon possessing a man in love. A demon in love. One who had fought for three weeks to bring her back. She hadn't even realize she had been gone for that long. She's still furious about that, but it's softer now. Muted. It still hurts, but her boys are here to help her, and maybe that's all she needs. Maybe she just needs to be held, to be loved, to be reassured it was all going to be okay after all. That losing Lace, Varric, and Neve would somehow make it... No. No, it would never be okay. She had made her peace with that, but gods it hurt.
“Luca?” She whimpers, watching his face melt out some of the tension she didn’t realize it had been holding, exhaling raggedly as he seems to slump, ever so slightly. He smiles at her, hand reaching up to gently hold her face and nods. “Spite?” She asks, in the same broken voice. She knows he would never be far behind, of course she knows. It’s more of a plea rather than a question. Just to confirm. Just to be sure.
She has to be sure.
“We’re both here.” They say back to her.
Gilraen shatters.
She hefts a sob, throwing her arms around their neck and crawling into their lap. She can feel the way they sag in relief, all too eager to scoop her up and hold her as close as she needed. As close as she wanted to feel safe and secure and protected.
“I want him dead, Luca.” She sobs into their shoulder, breaking even more at the hand that gently rubs up and down her spine to soothe her, feeling her body rock as they gently sway side to side but make no indication of wanting her to stop crying. The other hand holds her waist in a vice grip, two different actions but feeling like one. It felt like she was allowed to shatter more. Air her grief. Show her rage. Maybe they were waiting for it. “Fen’Harel. Elgar’nan. I want them both dead.” She bites out, rage easily able to worm its way into her heart now that she was able to feel it again. The warmth felt like an old friend, gave her something grounding. Gave her a purpose. Varric. Lace. Neve. Countless others. They all deserved rage for what happened to them. It never should've happened.
“We promise you, bellezza, we will kill them for you.” Lucanis replies, squeezing her tighter. His voice has a sharp edge, a borderline growl really. A deadly threat and an impossibly heavy guarantee lacing his words. Like he’s sure. Like it was no question. Never directed at her, and it soothes the ache and grief in her chest a fraction. “Keep you safe,” Spite does growl out, his arm clutching her tighter, as if he could meld Gilraen into their soul if he tried hard enough. “Kill Solas. And Elgar’nan.”
Gilraen hiccups, feels like she wants to crawl into their chest cavity just to be safe and protected, and wails. She hears the shift against the chaise, the flap of air as Spite’s wings materialize, cocooning all three of them in a protective barrier. Her fist’s ball up in Lucanis’ clothes, holding him impossibly tighter, and wonders if she’ll ever feel safe again. She's getting blood on Lucanis' clothes, but she can't find it in herself to care. Surely this is not the first time that Lucanis has gotten blood on his clothes. She's fairly certain one or both of them would fuss at her for worrying about it.
She doesn’t think she will.
But here, as close as she could physically be without splitting Lucanis open and crawling inside to hide from everything, with Spite’s wings shrouding all three of them in feathers and a soft purple glow? Lucanis’ strong arms locked around her, one around her waist and the other around her shoulders? This is close enough. This is home and safety. She wails and wails, running herself ragged and making her throat hoarse in the process. She slumps, spent and limp, into their waiting arms as they kiss whatever they can reach without shifting Gilraen from the cocoon of safety that she had built for herself. It's not enough, truly, to mend all the damage caused and all the grief she has. Nothing, she thinks, would ever be enough. They have gods to fight tomorrow though, a ritual to stop, and a world to save.
It will have to be enough.