Work Text:
“You have no idea what you have done.”
Rook comes to standing up, an incredibly disorienting feeling that has him stumbling in place for a moment. He looks around, completely thrown for a moment as he sees greyscale ruins instead of the vibrant, explosive colors of the ritual site. His head is throbbing.
The ritual site. Varric. And that voice, was that–
“Solas?”
Rook feels all the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and he whips around with a gasp to see the other elf behind him, brows furrowed in a show of anger. That’s fine, Rook’s got plenty of his own anger.
“I know exactly what I did,” Rook snarls, his own eyes narrowing as he points an accusatory finger at Solas. “I stopped you from destroying the world.”
“I was not destroying the world!” Solas snaps, the words coming out almost petulant. Rook stumbles again as the ground shifts underneath him, pulling back and yanking him away from Solas as it moves. There’s a rift between them, now, and peering over the edge reveals the same expanse of nothingness that surrounds the floating rock the two of them are standing on. It feels familiar, this space, like he’s dreaming. He glances back up as Solas continues speaking. “You disrupted my ritual, and the magical disturbance pulled me here, into the Fade.”
Duh. Of course it’s the Fade. But this isn’t any part of the Fade Rook can recall being in, not in any of his many times here as he dreamed or during his research as a Watcher. The energy here is different, eerie and oppressive. He rolls his shoulders uneasily as he glares at Solas. “Ok, that’s why you’re here. Why am I here?”
“Your physical body is unconscious, but the drops of blood you shed at the ritual site was enough for a tenuous connection.”
Solas takes a breath, likely about to continue speaking, but Rook cuts him off quickly. “Blood magic?!”
Rook stumbles again, dizzy, as the terrain around him shifts and twists once more, sending him spinning to face Solas again, who has appeared behind Rook on another, separate structure.
“I abhor the use of blood magic!” Solas snaps, eyes narrowed. “And had I the power to control you, I would've already used it.”
Rook furrows his brows, Solas’ anger making his own flare. “What, so you hate it because you can’t use it right now? Did that not sound ridiculous and hypocritical before it came out of your mouth?”
Solas appears on the other side of that ravine once more, arms held placidly behind his back, a perfect contrast to the barest hint of a twitch Rook can make out on his brow. “I did not bring you here for petty squabbles.”
Rook crosses his arms, already thoroughly sick of the conversation and the other elf entirely. “Alright, so you brought me here to talk. What are we talking about?” Rook listens with, in his opinion, fairly admirable patience as Solas drones on about the Evanuris, their gods, because apparently one crazy elven god wasn’t enough to have on Rook’s plate, two more need to be piled on as well. He listens as Solas explains how the Evanuris turned to the power of the Blight when Solas rebelled in order to stop him, and for that reason Solas trapped them. Rook listens quietly right up until Solas pins the blame for Solas being trapped and the blighted elven gods being free on Rook. “Uh, excuse me, thanks to me? Which one of us was the one doing a big evil ritual to free them?”
Another flash of anger crosses Solas’ face, along with sharp disgust. “I would never free them! I was ensuring they wouldn’t escape their prison.”
Rook can once again tell by the way Solas still has his mouth open that he intends to continue speaking, but Rook once again doesn’t particularly care. “You were tearing down the Veil. The thing that keeps them trapped, along with all the demons you also set loose. So you did in fact free them.”
The ground shakes, and Rook has to crouch slightly to keep himself balanced as the very earth beneath him attempts to send him toppling to the ground.
“I had a plan.” Solas practically spits the words out, eyes narrowed in very visible anger that stays on his expression this time, rather than skittering away into the neutrality he seems to always attempt to force.
Rook scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief as the shaking ceases and he rises to meet Solas’ glare with one of his own. “Yeah, of course you did. Varric always said you’d have some grand explanation about how none of this is your fault.”
“Varric…” Solas says the name seemingly involuntarily, with the first bit of true emotion beyond anger and annoyance. There’s genuine grief there, and regret, and maybe if Rook were talking to anyone else or feeling a bit more charitable, he’d care about those snippets of humanity. But right now, Rook is scared for his mentor, and pissed, and he can still feel Varric’s blood on him, and he doesn’t really care how sorry Solas is about stabbing Varric through the chest.
“Yeah,” Rook snarls. “He said that’s your style. Clever little half truths to let you convince yourself you’re doing the right thing. Varric tried to talk you down anyway, and now he’s hurt, because of you.”
“Varric is…!” Solas hesitates then, and his expression is one Rook can’t quite read. Rook squints, trying to determine what that flash of emotion is, but trying to decipher it makes the steady pounding behind his eyes kick up into an unbearable throbbing. He blinks, hard, trying to dispel the pain and fuzziness for the moment, but when he looks to Solas once more, whatever expression he had is gone. “Varric is quite practiced at shading the truth himself.”
There’s something there, something in that moment that Rook missed, but thinking about it makes his head ache, and while he’s not about to admit it aloud to Solas, he does evidently have more pressing matters at the moment. “Okay, whatever, so those things that got out. You said they were gods?”
The ground shifts again, spinning and yanking back, and Rook has to lower himself enough to place a steadying hand on the ground to keep himself from hitting the stone face first. Stairs form beneath him, forcing him to have to look up as Solas continues speaking from his now higher platform.
“They said they were gods. Blighted, tyrannical, sadistic gods, that took all my power to imprison millenia ago. But I am certain you will be fine.” He sounds haughty, looking down his nose at Rook as he speaks.
Rook forces himself to his feet, stomping back up the stairs to put himself on even ground with Solas once more. “Yeah, coming from the guy who put us here in the first place, that’s real helpful. What are you, the elven god of sarcasm?”
“Lies, treachery, and rebellion, actually,” he snarks, like he doesn’t damn well know the question was rhetorical. Like he can’t help himself when the opportunity to seem superior presents itself. “Depending on the story. I have no way of helping as things stand anyhow. I do not have my ritual dagger, nor access to my network of eluvians. I can only offer what I know.”
“Right, because I’m just chomping at the bit to take advice from, quoting you here, the elven god of lies, treachery, and rebellion.”
Solas actually smirks. “Depending on the story.” The smirk drops quickly, and Solas’ expression turns severe as he continues. “Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain are your problem now. This is your responsibility.”
Rook opens his mouth to continue arguing, because again, he is not the one that was performing the ritual that set them loose, but before he can get so much as a single syllable out, his vision goes black, and with a sickening sensation of falling, he is violently pulled to awareness.
Rook sits down heavily on the couch in his room, aching all over and more tired than he can remember being in a long time. He’s grateful for the additional help they’ve managed to secure already, and hopefully Harding’s Grey Warden contacts will add some much needed Blight fighting expertise, especially after what they saw in D’meta’s Crossing, but it’s been a long day, and the last thing Rook wants to do right now is go talk to Solas.
But they need insight into the gods, and loathe as Rook is to admit it, Solas is their best shot. And Rook is the only one that can communicate with Solas. So he has to. He owes it to all of them, with how badly he’s already messed things up. He rubs at the bridge of his nose, wondering how he’s supposed to even contact Solas. Does he just go to sleep? Gods, he hopes not, sleeping has been hard enough for him lately, he doesn’t need the added nightmare of Solas being there too. Maybe if he just meditates? He’s never been big on it, much as the Watchers tried to force the habit, but he remembers the basics.
He opens his eyes and is greeted with greyscale ruins and a bizarre feeling of weightlessness despite being on the ground. And the sound of Solas’ voice echoing through the Fade.
“Back so soon?” he jeers, and Rook doesn’t even need to turn to face him to know there’s that unbearably smug quirk to his lips. “It must have been worse than I thought.”
Rook faces him unflinchingly. After all, of the two crumbling platforms they stand on, Rook’s isn’t the one made up of a prison of regrets. “Hello, Dread Wolf," he sneers, because if the literal ancient god can have an attitude, then so can he.
He sees Solas’ eyes narrow in irritation, and has just enough time for the victory to sink in before he speaks up once more. “Ah, but perhaps I am mistaken and you are here to tell me my concerns were unfounded. I am, after all, remembered as the god of lies, treachery, and rebellion.”
“Depending on the story,” Rook finishes, in a deliberately insulting impression of Solas’ much deeper voice. “Yeah, I remember, can we skip the whole you being insufferable routine and get to the point?”
Solas’ smug smirk remains fixed in place as he glares viciously at Rook. “Yes, I find many are unwilling to continue conversations that involve admitting they are wrong.”
Rook rolls his eyes, rubbing at the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to ease the throbbing in his head. He is way too tired for this. “Spend a lot of time talking to mirrors, I take it? You’re the one that’s so insistent you can be helpful, so can we talk about what the gods are planning now?”
Solas turns to the side to pace along the edge of the crumbling island, expression turning contemplative. “You realize you, as a mortal, are asking for knowledge no mortal has ever held. What makes you right to lead this fight?”
Rook stubbornly refuses to acknowledge how many times he has asked himself that same question ever since that night at the ritual site. How many times he’s asked himself that question as he sits with Varric in the infirmary, keeping him company because that’s the least he can do, since it is Rook’s fault he’s stuck there. Or how many times he’s asked himself that as he talks to Harding, eyes cutting up to the still healing cuts and bruises, watching the way she strains to keep herself steady as she stands. He knows better than to show weakness when cornered by a wolf.
“Do you see anyone else? We had a leader, but he’s indisposed right now,” he snips, tilting his head to capture Solas’ gaze, “so somebody needs to step up.”
Solas chuckles derisively. “And something is better than nothing, hm?”
“It stopped you, didn’t it? And it prevented a civil war, back in Nevarra–”
“With the undead nobles, yes,” Solas cuts in, turning to face Rook properly once more. “I’m familiar.”
Rook bites back the irritation rising in him, difficult as it is. Word of the War of the Banners has spread, but he isn’t particularly eager to hear some smug prick retell it to him as if it wasn’t one of the worst days of Rook’s life. “Someone did his homework.”
“You helped Varric pursue me for over a year. It would've been foolish to not look into who was hunting me.”
Rook steps forward himself now, uncaring of the seemingly endless drop between them as his feet brush the edge. “Then you know that if something needs done, I’ll do it.”
Solas gives Rook a once over, smirk losing some of its bite as he speaks. “I suppose I was not so different when I started my own rebellion.” Every part of Rook rankles at the implication that the two of them are even remotely similar, but he manages to bite down on the instinct to argue as Solas starts finally saying something useful. Useful, and awful, because it’s Solas so of course it has to also be awful. The gods are planning to unleash the Blight, because apparently the Blight already in the world is just a fraction of it, and they want to release the rest of it.
And that’s where Rook can’t keep biting his tongue. “Wait, hold on, Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain were elves once too, right? So why do they want to blight the world?”
Solas sighs, face puckering up some as if he’s just swallowed something sour. “It is my fault. I–”
“I could've guessed that.”
“As the Dread Wolf, when my rebellion against them started to spread, they grew frustrated, and then desperate. The Blight has corrupted them completely. They do not see it as a danger, only as another source of power.”
“Great,” Rook drawls, sarcasm thick in his tone. “Okay, so what are they gonna need to free the Blight?”
Solas gives him an assessing look, eyes lingering on Rook’s hip. “They will need a method of piercing the Veil. They will likely seek to recover my lyrium dagger.”
Oh. Duh. Rook unlatches the ring from his belt loop, spinning it around his finger absently and noting the way Solas’ eyes lock onto it. “Well, they’re gonna be pissed, ‘cause we already got it.”
There’s definitely something masked underneath it, but Rook is reasonably certain the relief on Solas’ face is genuine. “Good. That will buy you time then, as they will have to make their own.”
Rook’s shoulders lose just a little bit of their tension. First bit of good news he’s heard all day. “Alright, you said they’d need two things. The Blight’s the first, what’s the second?”
Solas smirks, gesturing to the empty space around them. “What does any god require? Followers.”
Rook sneers. “Yeah, I don’t think the elves are gonna bend a knee to these freaks just because their ears are pointed like ours.”
“Agreed. They care little for elves, regardless. They will find their followers among those hungry for power, tyrants and bullies desperate enough to agree to their terms for a hint of power. Hunt them, and they will lead you to Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain.”
Rook smiles. “Go piss off some morally bankrupt assholes. I can do that.”
Solas also mentions the eluvian in the Lighthouse, the Vi’revas, confirming for them that it should be able to take them to any other active eluvian. Rook has full faith in Bellara. They may have just met, but he can tell how smart she is, and she seems to have been working with ancient elven artifacts for a long time. She’ll figure it out.
“There is one last thing, Rook.” If Rook didn’t know any better, he’d say that’s remorse on Solas’ face. “When you speak with Varric, tell him I regret what happened.”
All at once, Rook’s burning anger comes flooding back into his system. He remembers first waking up in the infirmary, terrified that Varric would be dead. He remembers how short lived his relief had been, to see Varric alive but then to see how awful he looks. Deep, heavy bags under his eyes, entire body shaking even just to sit up, and still more upset that he can’t be out in the field helping. Rook opens his mouth to retort, feeling the ugly snarl stretching across his face, but before he has a chance his vision goes white and he comes to gasping in his room.
He takes a moment to sit there, trembling with anger and no way to let it out. He grips the edge of the couch tight enough his knuckles turn white, releasing a long exhale and watching the air fog from the chill. Looking down, he sees frost clinging to the ugly green fabric of the couch from where his fingers are digging into it. Rook stands up, pacing a few laps around the room until he’s calmed enough to touch the door handle without freezing it. He usually has much better control over his magic, but he’ll cut himself some slack in this instance. He’s pretty sure none of his professors ever had to deal with Solas.
Once he’s ready, he makes his way to the infirmary. Even if looking at him makes his heart hurt, talking to Varric always makes the weight of the world pressing down on Rook’s shoulders feel a little bit lighter.