Chapter Text
“No puedes ir en serio.”
“Si, si. No empieces. I'm not thrilled to see you either, Lucanis.” Silas doesn't give him a second to compose himself, walking backwards towards the exit, eyes intent on Lucanis. “Alas, we are both fucked, because I am here to rescue you, and once we're out, you owe me.”
He looks to Lucanis like he always has: glorious and despicable, white hair long and curly, framing his face like he's an angel of death, finally here to make Lucanis atone. His eyes, mismatched —one blind (thanks to him, thanks to Lucanis, a permanent scar and reminder and regret), one vibrant purple—, are as intense as a raging storm, and the blue lines of his Vallaslin somehow hide and enhance every one of his expressions, like they're a glass that can't decide whether it wants to make his feelings clearer or blurrier. Lucanis broods as Silas twirls and manages his staff around, clearly smug about the whole thing. He did always have a saviour complex. Lucanis follows, as he does. The woman that accompanies Silas doesn't fall behind, the heavy sound of her metal leg comforting for some reason (it sounds so much like Caterina's cane. He misses her so dearly).
“And who sent you, exactly?”
“Oh, you're not going to believe this one. Your grandmother! She was pissed at having me back home, you don't even know the half of it–”
“And who are you?” Lucanis cuts in, all too used even after years apart to Silas’ never-ending rambling. He tries to pretend his heart doesn't skip a beat at the mention of his grandmother, out there, waiting for him. How she will feel when she gets an abomination back instead.
“Neve Gallus, Minrathous detective. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Oh, you will be taking that back soon.” Silas grumbles. Lucanis wastes a precious second thinking about stabbing him in the face.
“I take it Rook and you know each other, then?” Neve smiles at him, raising her brows like somehow she knows more than he does. Lucanis rolls his eyes.
“Something like that.”
“What do you mean ‘something like that’–?”
A crowd of undead stop his words short, and despite everything, Lucanis finds it easy to fall in step with Silas, covering for him when he's left himself vulnerable in the mad glee that battle always brought up in him. Neve manages the enemies seamlessly, and the fight is over before it even begins. Silas immediately starts sputtering about the corpses and the Fade, and Lucanis swears he feels a headache coming.
He jumps in to actually explain the situation: the blood vial, Calivan. Zara Renata. Rook —and who the fuck gave him that nickname? He was still ‘idiota’ last time they saw each other— hums and nods, toying with his dagger even though his gaze pierces Lucanis as he speaks, and stutters, and backs away, focusing on Neve instead.
Spite, surprisingly, helps. He distracts Lucanis from Silas, brings his attention back to the task. He ravages sometimes, when Lucanis falters a bit after battle, but for the most part he helps them open the way, hissing in satisfaction when they destroy the vial of blood that kept Calivan's leash on them tight. They're out not an hour later. Calivan is dead, and Spite rejoices. Lucanis’ relief is so palpable that not even Silas finds it in him to rain on his parade.
His hesitant happiness is short-lived. Lucanis comes back home to find Caterina dead as well Her last contract for him, Silas tells him excitedly next to the fire at the Lighthouse he lives in with the rest of the team, being to help him in his fight against the two elven gods that roam free and have decided to take over the world by covering it in Blight.
Lucanis doesn't know what to do with it all, in the relative privacy of the Lighthouse's dining room, as he processes and Silas keeps piling information on him like it's nothing. There is so much to understand. There is Silas cracking a stupid joke when he really shouldn't have.
“Can you shut up for half a minute? Necesito pensar, and I can't do that with you parroting away next to my fucking ear.”
“And here I was, hoping they'd tortured the bitchiness out of you.” Rook doesn't blink, or stumble over his words.
Lucanis reaches for him before he knows it, pure instinct driving his hand, not gentle, though he makes sure to not open his stupid skull when he crashes it against the wall next to them, but he makes sure it hurts. His fingers grip at Silas’ hair, pulling until he's wincing. It always shut him up, a bit of pain.
“Drop it. These people might have no idea of who you are, Silas de Riva. But I do.”
The elf looks back at him, blinking the pain away, and then there's a fist against Lucanis’ face. He feels it in his whole body, somehow, eyes immediately tearing up as his nose starts to profusely bleed. Lucanis, that has been knocked several feet away, brings up a hand to stop the bleeding and looks up, at Silas.
“You have no idea who I am, Lucanis Dellamorte.” His voice is venomous, and there's a bitterness there that calls to Lucanis like a song in his blood: it's a lie, Silas knows it's a lie. No one knows him better than Lucanis does, because no one knows Lucanis better than Silas does.
He's bleeding where Lucanis bashed his head against the wall, and breathing hard, hand still balled in a fist as he takes a fighting stance, wary of Lucanis. If this were any other time —when they were children and wanted the same dagger to train with (before whoever was in charge inevitably gave it to Lucanis, who got special treatment), when they were teenagers and arguing about who got to marry Viago, when they were in their early twenties and angrily making out in dark alleyways, or when they were in their late twenties and Lucanis blinded him to defend Illario's honor after Silas publicly beat him—, they would be swinging right now. Lucanis isn't usually one to get into fistfights —Silas is—, but there is nothing as satisfying as feeling Rook's skin break under his knuckles, or knowing that it was him who gave Lucanis a black eye or a heart shaped bruise. It's how they've always done things.
Not anymore. Lucanis leaves for the pantry, and doesn't turn back when Silas scoffs. The physical distance helps, like it did in the Ossuary. Lucanis suffers in silence, a permanent itch under his skin he can never scratch. Spite doesn't help now.
—
They are talking about whether they're going to have to kill Lucanis and all Rook has to say is ‘Oof. Awkward.’
Lucanis should've murdered him when he had the chance. The many chances. Whatever.
Spite heavily disagrees, “I want to talk to Rook!” Whiny.
“What does Spite think of all this?” Silas asks, aloof, hands sprawled over the backs of Neve and Bellara’s seats. He's as casual as if they were talking about the weather.
“He's throwing a tantrum.” Is all Lucanis has time to say before Spite is forcing on him a killer headache and a nosebleed. He's so much like Rook it actually makes Lucanis angry.
The elf perks up, tense as he focuses on the blood. Neve and Bellara immediately start fussing over Lucanis, but Silas stays quiet for possibly the first time in his life and watches. He lets them argue for a bit before he talks, his voice rising above the others even though he isn't talking any louder than they are.
“You're not sleeping alone until I can make sure you're not dangerous to us, Lucanis. Do with that what you will.” He turns, and leaves all of them behind, stupefied into silence.
It’s probably a few minutes of absolute nothingness before Harding mutters, “You two have some baggage, huh?” Bellara laughs, and Neve flashes him a pretty smile that makes his head spin. Lucanis groans, and makes himself more coffee.
He finds out a few hours later that Silas was not lying. When the Lighthouse decides it's nighttime, Rook comes to his door and barges in without a second thought, like all Crows do. They're not used to being invited in, so they don't bother asking.
He starts talking before Lucanis can even think about opening his mouth, “I will sit outside.” He turns away, and closes the door behind him. A second later, Lucanis hears his back hit the wood. He blinks. Spite laughs.
He gets up and heads towards the exit, opening the door as wide as he can, satisfaction running through him when Rook falls back, even though he stops himself before his back hits the ground.
“You're not staying here while I sleep.” Lucanis seethes.
“Stop me if you can.” Silas spits back, still not getting up from the floor, moving forward a bit and throwing his head back so he can look at Lucanis.
“Don't be ridiculous and leave before I do something we both regret.”
“Like what? Hit my head against the wall until I'm dead?” Rook muses, tone light and curious. The wound Lucanis left on his forehead is still red, not quite healing yet. “You can tell me all the ways in which you could kill me if it helps you sleep, Lucanis. I'm not moving.”
Lucanis bites the inside of his cheek and closes the door so hard he feels the walls rattle. He doesn't sleep that night, and he makes sure to step on Silas’ fingers the three times he comes out for coffee.
It happens again, and again. Night after night, Silas barges in, announces that Lucanis can sleep now, and Lucanis makes sure that he doesn't. Again and again.
—
Lucanis dreads calling Silas over to ask him for a quick visit to Treviso. He does it even so, because there really is no other option, and he can't even be relieved when Rook says yes, because that means they have to spend time together. Lucanis hates it. They go through the Eluvian on their own, no Bellara to soften both of their jarred edges or Neve to cut through the tension that gathers around them like a cloud of doom.
He's glad when Viago and Teia come into view, and even more so when Rook wanders away to catch Jacobus in a half-hug, half-stranglement tussle that gets a smile out of the boy despite everything. Lucanis turns, heart stuttering, but this isn't what they came here for, so they have to cut the reunion short and be on their way.
He missed his city so much. It's markets, it's people, the twilight light that covers it in what is almost a dream-like haze. He used to think that he would never see it again, never walk along it's rooftops and canals again, never drink the best coffee in Treviso or taste it's foods again. It is only thanks to Rook that he gets to do all of those things now, and he isn't sure how to deal with the gratefulness and the resentment, every emotion too big for Lucanis to successfully hold them all at once.
“Let's stop around the market before we go to Café Pietra.” He asks, voice more fragile than he meant.
Silas doesn't even look at him, he tilts his head and hums in agreement loud enough for Lucanis to hear, walking about a meter ahead of him. He has to work to catch up with Rook since they were teenagers, like adolescence set a ticking clock in him that he hasn't been able to stop racing against, but he stops a few steps away from the market entry, turning to Lucanis and patiently waiting, which earns him a frown and an odd look. As always, Silas doesn't seem bothered by it in the slightest.
It's a good thing that all thoughts get away from Lucanis as soon as he is a step from the entryway. The smells of spices and warm food catch Lucanis off-guard, making his mouth water, and then he's hit by another wave of smells, subtler this time, incense, perfume, sweat, happiness.
He recognises with a pang that the last thought comes from Spite, who says the word tentatively. Lucanis thinks he nods, and then he looks up to watch the dancing lights around the market, the warm flickers of candlelight and the magic lamps of every color that paint the Treviso market ground like they're watercolour. There's more greenery than he remembers, the vines that he recalls as unremarkable now overtaking the scenery, adding a certain homely look to the place that brings Lucanis comfort.
He's snapped out of his awe when a shoulder bumps into his. The gesture isn't rough, but it isn't exactly sweet, either. Lucanis looks at Silas, who steps away until they're at a safe distance from each other again and doesn't smile still but juts his chin forward to get Lucanis moving. He listens without pushing, stumbling forward awkwardly.
“I…” his voice falters, and Lucanis coughs, properly embarrassed now.
“Got a shopping list?” Silas murmurs, and Lucanis shouldn't be able to hear him in the middle of the chaos and the loud ringing in his ears, but he can, tuned in to the sound like a radio that never changes from a certain station.
“Yeah. Actually.” He answers, relieved to have something to do with his hands as he fumbles for it. Rook circles around Lucanis like a vulture, hands behind his back. He feels dizzy and overwhelmed, but the rugged paper underneath his fingers grounds him when Lucanis gets a hold of it. He takes a quick glance, not really needing to read it to know what's on it now that he's more focused, so he starts walking without a word, knowing Silas will follow.
He gathers everything they need at the Lighthouse quickly, but he stops here and there to make small talk with the shop vendors that he's known all his life and try some samples. Rook doesn't complain even once, but he stops harshly when Lucanis grunts and tilts his head towards the exit.
Silas scowls and turns to walk away. Lucanis goes after him with a sigh, resigned to the silence as the elf gets further and further away from him, until he's in front of a shop. Lucanis can't see what they're selling from where he is, but then Rook is turning back and walking towards him, twirling in his hand what is very clearly a Wyvern-tooth dagger. He can't keep his mouth from falling open, and Silas looks down at him from the top of the steps, smiling wolfishly at Lucanis.
“Getting something for everyone except for us? Sending a message, are you?” And then he throws the knife at him. Lucanis catches it with ease, and then he looks back up at Silas, who is already coming down the steps. “Well, take that as a welcome gift. Welcome back gift? I suppose Caterina can't kill me for giving you one of those now.” He muses absentmindedly, out loud, walking away from a stunned Lucanis, who still holds the dagger like he can't believe it's real.
His affection for Silas comes in waves, as does the bitterness. He tiptoes the line like a tightrope, and he falters with every step. Unsure and unworthy. Unable to move on, unable to let go.
He remembered. He remembered Lucanis’ obsession with this specific knife, and that his grandmother would never let him have one. He remembered. He remembered, he remembered, he remembered-
“Lucanis, can you move? Illario is going to kill us.” Silas’ voice cuts through his thoughts with ease, and Lucanis genuinely can’t keep himself from rolling his eyes. He needs to focus.
Rook is right, though. Lucanis sheathes the knife around his hip and struggles not to reach for it every 5 seconds, but the walk to Café Pietra is a small one, and he can hear Illario’s complaining even before he can see him.
“Finally! I was starting to think that you weren't going to show up– oh.” Illario's smile falls when he sees Silas, who makes no attempt to hide his own smirk as he walks over to the table, followed closely by Lucanis. Illario composes himself, though distaste curls his lip. “You brought the pet with you. Or are you the pet now?”
“Illario.” Is all Lucanis says, and it's unclear even to himself whether he's begging him to stop or commanding him to.
“Fine, fine, cousin. Have it your way.” Illario smiles at him, and everything in Lucanis hurts.
The moment is interrupted by Harper, a gorgeous lady who has worked here for as long as Lucanis remembers.
“Lucanis! I am so glad you're back, boy. Some coffee for you, young man?” She smiles, the wrinkles around her eyes familiar, and Lucanis smiles at her as he nods, noticing Silas’ mouth opening in the corner of his eye. He talks before Rook can, “Also, some cioccolata calda for the pretty elf over here, Harper, if you would? Illario's acting like a child, so he might want one, too.”
“Just a cappuccino for me, Harper.” Illario mutters, head in his hand, and the woman laughs and pats his back before walking away.
“Stop brooding.” Lucanis spits harshly once she's out of earshot.
“Oh, I'm sorry, are you the only one allowed to brood now–?!”
“Caterina did a terrible number on both of you. How did you end up so whiny?”
“Shut up, Silas.” Both Dellamortes chide at the same time, sending each other dirty looks when they realize. Rook raises his hands in defeat, and they wait as they make awful small talk for the potential listeners that might be around to leave and for Harper to finish setting their drinks on the table. Silas thanks her in a sweet voice that makes Lucanis physically recoil, but then she walks away and the conversation is moving.
“Zara wouldn't stay here, not with you out for blood!”
“How can anyone be so stupid? Yes, she would, if the Crows protecting her are here!”
“There are no traitors among the Crows! Silas, reason with him, would you? He's being paranoid.”
“I think he's right, actually. Both about how stupid you are and the traitors.” Silas muses, taking a careful sip of his chocolate as Illario curses to himself, “I think Caterina would be disappointed to see you clutch your pearls like this at the mention of a leak. Didn't she beat the “don't trust anyone” lesson as hard on you as she did on Lucanis or what?”
“My cousin here can always blind the eye you have left, de Riva. Thread carefully.” Illario's voice is cold.
“You’re lucky I like this chocolate, Illario, because I really feel like dumping it over your fancy clothes then bashing this mug against your big head.”
“Can you two give it a rest? Both of you.” Illario snaps his eyes to Lucanis, bewildered that he's not getting immediately defended.
He gets up, dramatic as ever and then storms off while muttering something about a leash. Lucanis sighs, but doesn't follow, and Silas lets out a low whistle before humming bemusedly to himself.
“Did you pick that one up from him? Pretty elf?” He mutters, clearly trying to hold back laughter, the corners of his lips twitching.
“You know you're pretty, Silas.” Is all Lucanis says, sipping on his coffee as Rook breaks and gives in to his giggling.
If it weren't for the fact that Rook is immune to all the poisonous substances that Lucanis currently has access to, he would poison his chocolate.
—
The dream isn't nice.
It doesn't matter that the light is orange and pink and purple and that it washes over Treviso like a blanket of comfort during the cold months of winter. It doesn’t matter that the water sparkles, the last sight of the sun losing shape in its reflection, that it's hypnotizing to watch. It doesn't matter that it smells like the market, and every intake of breath feels like light over his lungs.
It's beautiful, and it's not real.
Like Silas, and his warm lips under Lucanis’ own. The low laughter that escapes him as Lucanis grows more conscious of himself and pushes to kiss him deeper, starved. It's not nice. It's not real. His hair is silky soft as Lucanis runs his fingers through it, his skin smooth then scarred where Lucanis caresses his thumb over his waist again and again. He bites him, hard, his twisted feelings bubbling up, and Silas lets out a little moan.
Lucanis doesn’t push away, because he doesn't have to breathe, not really, because it's a dream and it's not real and it doesn't matter how good it feels. He has to wake up at some point. He has to wake up now, and forget this ever happened.
He comes back to himself with a jostle, and he blinks as he realizes he's holding a dagger against Silas’ neck, pressing him harshly against the door of the dining room, his free hand grasping hard his hair to pin him in place, and he looks down to find Rook holding a knife; except he doesn't press it anywhere near Lucanis, angling it away so there's no way to draw blood, partially hiding it behind his own leg, his other hand gripping Lucanis’ ruffled shirt.
Spite was going to kill him, and Silas was going to let him.
He's breathing heavily, and Rook, who has his eyes closed, head resting on the wood, on his tiptoes so Lucanis’ grasp on his hair doesn't hurt as much, only says, “Please, I can't kill him.”
He thinks it's still Spite. Lucanis lets go of the knife like it burned him, untangling his fingers from Rook's hair —silky soft, just as it was in his dream—, backing away with shaky legs. Silas opens his eyes, and he gets to see him realize he just said that in front of Lucanis in real time, his ears and cheeks going pink as he huffs and looks the other way, immediately running his mouth like neither of them heard him, “See? It's a good thing I'm here while you sleep. Though I think I like Spite more than you. He's more… straightforward about things.”
“He was going to kill you.” Lucanis whispers, horrified, heart pounding in his chest like a hammer.
“No, he wasn't.” Silas scoffs.
“I was going to kill you. My hands were going to be the ones to murder you.” Lucanis looks down at them like they're an alien to his body, guilty of unspeakable crimes. He can see them shake like a leaf, and figures that's why the ground feels unstable underneath him. He thinks Silas calls his name, but Lucanis feels like he's underwater. He thinks he might vomit.
He survived getting kidnapped by Venatori and having a demon forced inside him, and for what? To escape and find his grandmother dead? To fail at the one task she left for him? To bring more danger to his cousin, the only family he has left?
To kill Silas, the one person who hasn't once shied away from Lucanis? To suffer waking up to find his hands bloody over the corpse of the only one who knows him?
The ground is suddenly much closer than it should be, and Lucanis figures he has fallen. He looks up, dizzy, to find Silas on his knees, his eyes frenzied. Lucanis can't hear him over the sound of his heartbeat and hyperventilating, but he can tell what Silas is saying. Luca. Luca. Over and over again, like a prayer. The room spins, and Spite howls somewhere inside him, confused, aching. He shuts him down with the angriest snarl he's ever left out in his life. He feels rabid.
Lucanis only comes back to himself when two ice-cold hands cover his face. He notices something off about them, an odd texture, but his brain is too battered to figure out what it is. His breathing is still too fast, rugged and heavy, and he's getting so little air he can feel every one of his thoughts slip away, but in the chaos of his spotting vision, Silas is softly murmuring to him. Lucanis can't quite make out the words, but the sound is soothing enough, and it helps him calm, little by little.
“Eso es, you're doing great, Luca. Just keep breathing. Perfect.” Are the first words he actually gets to hear, and Lucanis’ goes from tense as a bow string to deflating balloon in seconds, melting under the praise as his breath evens out, deepening more and more with every honeyed word that falls from Silas’ mouth. He doesn't question it when the elf uses the end of his sleeves to wipe something off Lucanis’ face, too comforted to really care.
His traitorous hands shoot up to grasp at the man when Lucanis feels him shuffling away, but there's soft fingers caressing over his calloused ones, Silas’ voice cutting through the static in Lucanis’ head, “I'm going to get you some water, Lucanis. I'll be just a second.”
So, he's Lucanis again. His exhausted mind feels petty about it, but he manages to be grateful when Rook, true to his promise, only goes away for half a minute to retrieve a glass of water, using his magic to get the water as cold as possible —because Lucanis never drinks lukewarm water. Ever—. It runs over his numb throat like a salve as Lucanis drinks, and his eyelids feel heavy, but his pulse rushes in his ears, and there are drums of war echoing just under his skin.
“You're sleeping even less than you were before, Lucanis.” Silas starts, but Lucanis interrupts, setting down the glass with a heavy thud.
“Spite could have slashed your throat if I had woken up a minute later. Your hands were free. You had a dagger. So, what the fuck is wrong with you?” He looks Silas dead in the eyes, and scoffs when he can't hold his gaze. “What did you think was going to happen if you let me murder you?” He spits the words like they're venom, and Rook, on his knees, grows smaller and smaller. “Did you even think? For a second?”
“I– Spite wasn't going to kill me.” His voice wavers, and the end of his sentence is drowned out by Lucanis, who roars out, “You don't know that!”
Silas flinches more when Lucanis raises his voice than when Lucanis smashes his head against a wall. He tries to breathe, to not let panic overcome him, but he's opening his mouth before he's finished thinking, “He's a demon. What if I had woken up at any point during your fight? If I hadn't been able to recognize you? What if I killed you?! Do you really not understand–?!”
“Lucanis, it's fine, I'm fine, can you please–?”
“I would've never forgiven you.” Lucanis whispers, and Silas shuts his mouth so hard his teeth make a horrible sound as he recoils, looking at Lucanis like he actually stabbed him. “Do you hear me? You aren't doing this to me.”
“Lucanis, you can't ask me to kill you–.” Lucanis snaps his hand forward, grabbing Rook by the jaw with a lot more strength than strictly necessary to drag him down to Lucanis’ level, mere centimetres away from his face. He digs his fingers into the flesh as hard as he can, and still it feels like he can't show the weight of his anger.
“If I wake up and find you dead at my feet, I'm going to personally ask Davrin to feed Assan my intestines while they're still inside me, am I making myself clear?” He's not joking. He knows Silas can tell, because his eyes get teary as he nods, very slowly, movement restrained. Lucanis lets go of him, sure Rook's going to have bruises of the imprint of his fingers all over his jaw and face later, and he drags his hand across his face, exhausted.
“Get out of my sight, por favor.” Is all he can muster.
Silas walks away with only a quiet “Good night” behind him. Lucanis gets his glass of water —not as cold as he'd like anymore— and drags himself to the pantry bed, using up all the energy he has left.
His eyes are immediately filled, his throat tight, and Lucanis doesn't do anything about it. He makes sure to stay awake, and he blinks the tears away quietly until it’s time to get the day started.
—
Lucanis asks Bellara to call everyone else out for breakfast, and it doesn't take more than a couple minutes for most of them to get to the dining room. They set the table in relative silence, still half-asleep on their feet, and once everything is ready, Harding heads out to get Rook –they always wake him last, giving him as much rest time as possible–. When she comes back, eyes somber and head hanging low, Lucanis knows it's going to be bad.
He wasn't wrong about the bruises. They're clearly hand-shaped —Lucanis’ thumb on the left side of his face, his other four fingers and the vague, red imprint of his fingernails to top it off, the shadows going down and around the curve of his jaw where Lucanis gripped him— and so purple they completely hide the traces of Vallaslin that reach Silas’ chin, even though it's color is a dark blue that's hard to overpower. Davrin drops his fork when he sees him. He can hear Bellara yelp and Taash give a low hiss that's universal for ‘that must have hurt like a bitch’.
“What the hell happened to your–?”
“Shut it, Taash.” Silas barks out, voice biting and bitter. The whole room holds its breath, all of them —except for Lucanis— surprised at the elf's outburst. It's unlike him to be this harsh with them, but now that Lucanis looks past the horrible bruising, he can tell that Rook hasn't had a great night overall.
There are blue, dark eyebags hanging under his eyes, which look bloodshot, even from a distance. Besides the obvious, without the long-sleeve shirt he wore yesterday, he can see multiple bruises along his arms, and when Rook grabs a plate, Lucanis catches a glimpse of some gashes along his palms, like he grabbed someone's knives, multiple times. Lucanis knows whose. He's nauseous again. He turns around, hands bracing the sink as his legs stop feeling reliable in holding him up.
The knowledge that Silas did not look like this last night while they were having dinner hangs over the room like a heavy burden. Lucanis doesn't move closer to the table, hiding away in the kitchen while he cleans utensils and whatnot. Breakfast is dead silent behind his back.
“I'm not taking any of you today. If the gods move, I'll be in the Wetlands, if they don't, you don't know where I am.” Rook says, and the stunned silence is broken once more by the sound of the door opening and closing. A few more seconds go by.
“Is he fucking kidding—?!” Taash’ voice is complete and utter disbelief.
“He's going to die. Oh my god. He's totally going to die.” Bellara immediately panics.
“Do you guys think he will notice if I follow him?” Harding mutters.
“I'm a Veil jumper! I can definitely follow him in secret.”
“Okay, but we need to move now–.”
“No one's following Rook.” Neve's voice that cuts Harding's off, and the chaos subsides. Lucanis looks over his shoulder, just enough to see her as she talks and no one else. “He can handle himself. If he isn't back by nightfall”, she moves her hands around, signalling ‘nightfall’ as in ‘whenever the light in the Lighthouse shuts off’, “then we can go looking for him. Give the man some privacy, for fuck's sake.”
Lucanis turns around properly while he busies his hands with a towel —good way to hide his fingers twitching, he found that one out when he was just a boy—. Harding bites her lip, looking towards the door with an unsettled frown, and Bellara sits beside her with her arms crossed, worried stare fixed on the floor. Taash growls and spits some fire on the fireplace, and Emmrich stays silent as a tomb. Neve is still finishing her breakfast, unbothered, but Davrin, of all people, bores his gaze into Lucanis, all too knowing.
“It was you.” He bites out, and everyone turns around to watch. “You did that to him.”
“Don't.”
“Oh, I'm going to.” Davrin gets up, his hands gripping the end of the table so hard Lucanis hears the wood creak. “I'm sick of you not facing any consequences for the things you do, Crow.”
“Oh, spare me the self-righteousness, Warden. You–.”
“I trust Rook with a lot of things, Lucanis. You aren't one of them. I told you, once if you go berserk, I will kill you. So, what was it? Did you do that to him awake? Or did your demon take over?”
Lucanis chokes. Davrin isn't done yet.
“I somehow don't know which one is worse. You know, that is the first time I have seen Rook run away from a fight, and it's because of you. Because he didn't want to put the blame on you.”
“That's quite enough, Davrin.” Emmrich cuts in, voice unshakeable.
“Are we really going to let him get away with this?” Davrin whips around to look at the rest of the team, and they all look around each other, then back at Davrin, then Lucanis, then each other. It would be amusing to watch, if Lucanis could focus on anything besides the tightness in his throat.
The silence stretches. You could hear a needle drop, or cut the tension with a knife. Spite starts to say something with a mocking tone, and Lucanis feels such blinding rage that he turns around and bangs his head against the wall closest to him without a thought He makes a mental note to apologize to Silas, because that hurt. The pain makes him see white, and he's sure the wet warmness running down the center of his forehead and down his nose is blood, but Spite shuts up, and that's all Lucanis cares about. He never wants to hear him again. Behind his eyes, there's Silas, saying “Please, I can't kill him”.
Taash is suddenly there to catch him when he stumbles back, and he realizes then that everyone is arguing now. Harding and Bellara have teamed up against Neve, sniping and snarking about how they should've gone after Silas before he became untraceable while she tries to get in their heads that Rook needs some alone time, and meanwhile, Emmrich and Davrin argue about Lucanis and Spite and their nature or whatever. His head hurts so bad.
“ENOUGH!” Taash yells, and their voice drowns all others with ease. “You guys aren't helping. I don't have healing magic, and we're out of potions, so I need one of you fuckers to shut the hell up and fix Lucanis up before Rook comes back and kills all of us in cold blood.”
Lucanis doesn't get to see the reaction his companions have to the speech. He blacks out.