Chapter Text
Rook was born on a cloudy night on a carefully planned birth, an expensive hospital that stank of antiseptic and silken sheets that probably stuck uncomfortably against their mother’s skin. With a huge gap of thirteen years with their sister, the already remarkable Jane Shepard, to whom they couldn’t be more different, sharing only their green eyes - of different shades, because the Maker likes jokes - both siblings practically screamed their differing parentages, in Rook’s first memory, the only thing shinier than the sun was the near blinding spark of Jane’s red-match hair, then, their hair was the most curly of browns, as dark as ironbark, Jane’s ears were round like stars and theirs were long and pointed like a rose’s thorn.
And yet, that was the before, after that it was all pain and suffering, the long, sorrowfilled years that Rook spent away from their family made them even more different, their hair lost color due to stress, painful scars ran through almost every limb and speck of flesh, a testament to years of survival. When they came back home, blighted and broken from the inside out, only the Joining could extend their life, the bitter taste of the Archdemon’s blood sometimes still lingered in their tongue, after surviving the Ritual, Rook still took a couple of months to reach out to their mother, terrified of what her reaction to a broken child might be.
And yet, their mother and sister loved them, Jane, now 23 years old, looked at Rook with utter and raw relief, pain shadowing the shimmer of her poison ivy eyes, at that time, they were a child holding multitudes of pain that would destroy even the more seasoned of soldiers, sometimes, they truly believed that it was only the Maker’s love and Andraste’s flame that kept them going - and maybe some of that tenacity the First Warden always spoke of. - Their mother’s first hug after years of beatings and needles picking and prodding being their only contact with others, felt as if Her Grace herself had wrapped them in their veil, warm and cozy, protected, safe.
It was foolish to think, even then, that it would take only a hug, but little them believed it for a moment, the therapies, both physical and psychological came later, they went through professionals like knives on butter, the weight of what have been done to them hung heavy in the air, amongst the wardens who had taken it to themselves to help raise them and their family, pill after pill, method after method, it wasn’t until Rook was thirteen that the Wardens and their mother managed to make contact with the Citadel’s most prepared clinic, the Adaia Center for Abused and Exploited Children, originally made for young survivors of Batarian slavery, the Adaia catered to all hurt youth, children like Rook, some older, others younger.
After that, it felt like life would be an endless cycle of killing darkspawn, downing a bunch of pills, going to therapy and visiting a hundred doctors to deal with the physical consequences of the Horrors. Rook’s life took rhythm, they made friends, they studied hard and listened to the older Enchanters about their technique, they practiced, they made efforts to get better. The great shadow of their tormentor, slowly faded, though never disappeared, even as Rook got older, the consequences of what have been done to them still affected their daily life and the things that they could do, the scars ran deeper than marks on their flesh, they were engraved in the core of their being, their very soul.
And yet, they persevered, refusing to actually give their torturers satisfaction, to make them believe they broke Rook down, they endured, tried to rebuild themself and putting each piece back together where it belonged, even when it was a little crooked or a little cracked, like a sturdy ceramic bowl sloppily put back together with dreams and drug-store glue, functional even if it could barely hold any soup, even if it was meant to be filled with said soup. This carefully built process crashed and burned like cheap fireworks when news arrived in Weisshaupt, one very cold morning, cold even for the Anderfels, then-Captain Anderson stood quietly and solemnly amongst their Warden brethren, pity and sadness in their eyes, weary, Rook had approached the older man that day.
At fifteen-years old, only five years after the start of their journey to heal, it was all for nothing, as Anderson, with a heavy hand on their shoulder and barely contained pain in the deep notes of his voice told Rook that their greatest idol, Skyllian Blitz hero, Admiral Hannah Shepard’s pride and joy, Commander Jane Shepard had died in the depths of the Heavens, a thousand suns away from their small home in Hossberg. In that moment, Rook was small, still ten, the blight burning their veins, the needles still fresh in their arm, unsafe, alone, so terrifyingly alone, that day, after years of proudly not having any episodes, Rook exploded, a hurricane of cries and screams, desolate, abandoned, Jane had held them like a rock, kept them up, gave Rook hope.
The casket was empty, her body was missing and when Rook tried to convince their mother that they could find her, she had shut them down, held them and told them they would work together on this new low Rook had reached. With a hand on polished wood, the box empty like an insult, they were forced to let go and keep on with their life, suddenly the bowl wasn't sturdy and it looked more like a tiny plate, made of porcelain instead of ceramic, with chipped paint and a hundred new cracks, incapable of even holding a single biscuit, to Rook it felt like starting over. It was sometimes overwhelming how nobody wanted to stop and try to reason with them, now suddenly snappier and angrier than before, Jane’s death marked a dark chapter in the lives of many, and the second darkest moment in their existence, all that other people saw was a pissy teenager when they expected a crying big-eyed youth, even in their victimhood, Rook refused to be what others wanted them to be.
Rook had a string of rebellions and fights with their fellow wardens, Anderson and their mother, it had gotten so bad that the First Warden even yelled at them, in their years together, where the man looked over them as his own, he had never raised his voice. It was then, when in the ripples of their own storm that gentle Davrin told Rook they could not keep going like this, in his soft voice telling Rook that the pain would get them before the Calling could even get a chance.
Ashamed, they had begged for everybody’s forgiveness, something nobody wanted despite their thousand mistakes, the people who loved Rook had made them a new bowl, the pieces still shattered, the paint almost gone, but they took it with scarred hands and a hopeful sigh ‘I can do this,’ they had whispered to themselves and to little Rook. Certainly, the happiest and most agreeable was young Stormwing, their first friend, their true companion and soulmate, when the Hero of Ferelden had discovered the Griffons for the first time, he shaped the Order into the true heart of Thedas’ - and later Earth - greatest warriors, their breeding was careful at first, and under the renewed care of their former friends, the bond was rebuilt, centuries after, Stormwing became the brush for the bowl’s new glaze since the beginning.
The griffon nuzzled away the worst of their pains and with his feathers cleaned the most pitiful of their tears, his wings a warm hug around their destroyed soul. His eyes were blue like the fabric of their armors, with bright, iridescent white feathers that shone under the pale anders sun, his beak a soft grey, one of his ears had stayed floppy, when they had met, Rook had just done their joining, still a whelp, the Aerie handlers thought it would be good for both them and Stormwing to begin their bond since their childhood, it was that day that with their face still covered in stitches, a small griffon cub was placed in their lap, like their heart had found its other half, as if the bowl now had a spoon.
This new bowl somehow felt sturdier than the last, and with a renowned chance, they tried to keep getting better, and it worked, the paint was different this time, sometimes the clay of the bowl still felt wet but Rook was trying, desperately wanting to be better, to feel better and it was all looking up until a new confusion besieged them. Like a cruel joke - and mostly because they were evil - Cerberus had insulted Rook beyond their elvenness, by bringing back in cold fashion their beloved sister…and making her work for them, it was uncanny, outrageous, Jane would never do that, would never side for a group of people that constantly campaigned for the exclusion of Earth’s other races in the journey to the beyond, at seventeen, the bowl had not broken in smithereens, but a new long crack parted it in half.
Their first conversation was messy, though it was more like an exchange of screams and, after some time, it was Rook yelling at a projection of their first hero and then hanging up in anger that was followed by a frankly, pathetic stream of emails, Jane desperately trying to solve the rift between them and like a massive cosmic joke, Rook had been shipped to the Citadel to kill some off-the-rails blood mage and his druggy templar lover - the actual order was capture, but they don’t really do catching well - at the same time Jane was trying to stop some stupid kid from assassinating somebody while having no training.
It was then, in the mother of all uncomfortable encounters, that Rook was forced to make peace with their older sister, the hurry and desperation she spoke of when talking about those Reapers upset all of Rook’s warden principles, the very heart of their oath, to protect from the end of the world no matter what. That night they understood each other, but Rook had chosen to not forgive for a bit, a quiet privilege they decided to allow themself to have while slowly rubbing new, wet clay over the crack in the bowl.
The rest of the Reaper War was a blur, while the people considered the Wardens to be crooks and paranoid lunatics, they had become the most effective asset Earth had against the song of the machine gods, eerily similar to the tune of the Blight, Rook fought as a battlemage in every corner of the galaxy, even in Denerim’s final showdown, where their sister barely survived, for a long while, Jane was asleep, her body still recovering from the throes of the War, her lovers faithful at her side, whatever opinion Rook ever had of both men was shadowed by their quiet - and sometimes awkward - support of them, sometimes it was praying together, sometimes it was just sitting across one another.
When Jane awoke, and the Mass Relays began to be reactivated, the galaxy got back on its feet, the hum of urban and rural life slowly amped up, and Jane got married, running away with her boys - and her still stupid stepson - to the Citadel, their mother following behind, and Rook, forever chained by the Blight, stayed in the Anderfels, in Earth, visiting their family every once in a while, with Jane, everything was a grand event for their mother, absolutely everything. She had forced some of the most influential arcanes and Orlesian designers to make Rook a shining uniform, with griffon wings on the tail of the coat, a tight vest and equally tight pants, marching ceremonial boots to match, lyrium linings in the embroidery, looking like a warden from a child’s fairytale.
Their sister’s dress was even greater than whatever Rook wore, her jewelry even more, their mother had even besieged her sons-in-law tailor appointments to design everything in her fashion, and Rook just obeyed, went with the flow of whatever put a genuine smile in her mother’s face, like tiny specks of silver glitter in the bowl, slowly simmering a different soup beside it, unlike all the other soups but also very much like the very first soup, the one where their father was in. After the wedding, new, wailing and squishy things were added into the soup, with tiny claws they reached over Rook’s face, pudgy and adorable, eyes black like the void of the Maker’s heart.
Now the bowl was warm almost everyday, and their step-nephew became more like a partner in crime, a friend that felt like they were supposed to know him from another life, but met just now. Kolyat was less stupid now, and more driven, a young promise, a rising star in the business of war and crime of the Milky Way galaxy, he liked sweet cocktails and spicy foods, his jokes were rancid and foolish, but they made them smile either way, they met up every time Rook visited their family, his younger siblings always at his feet, playing innocently, cloaked by his warmth, by their parents. Useless jealousy sometimes took hold of them ‘had someone protected me like that, maybe I would have been different,’ though it was an insult to their mother, these feelings swarmed them from time to time, unavoidable, the direct aftermath of their pain.
Rook’s bowl was not ready to be fixed yet, but the soup that awaited the bowl was dreamy, heavenly, the Maker’s reward for ages of sorrow, for their blood and their suffering, Rook yearned for the day the soup could stay in the bowl and not slip through small, seemingly unnoticeable cracks, now, four years later since the defeat of the Reapers, two after the wedding and a year after their nephews were born, Rook stared at the shining noon sky of New Lothering. Anderson had acquired a comfortable ranch to enjoy his retirement, this upcoming Summerday marking the little ones’ first time on Earth, and their family’s first visit since Jane’s recovery, Andrew, for his part, was devouring a small fruit native to Kahje that his fellow drell enjoyed, while his brother enjoyed the warm sun at his father’s lap - even playfully nipping one of his spurs once, because apparently he’s at that age, - his green eyes closed in childish bliss.
It made Rook smile through the harsh truth; the rising darkspawn raids, the song of the depths becoming louder, the possibility that the last, and most dangerous of the Old Gods would rise, the whispers of Lusacan awakening kept Rook from sleep, it made their nights a torture, the dread of the Blight crushed and squished their stomach, terror in its most naked. The only true reason they had even managed to catch their family in the ranch was due to the fact that Rook was in Ferelden as a favor to Prime Minister Cousland, whose dread could only equal that of the wardens at the face of a new threat, one that lingered, one that stalked in the dead of night.
Their staff had been placed against the frame of the front door, and yet Rook had not dared to do as much as knock or go inside, a familiar sense of foreignness painted their very movements, staring quietly towards the garden, where their nephews and brother-in-law laid in the grass. As they moved their head, through the net in the door they could see as Thane quietly moved about the kitchen, Jane probably nearby, and for a while, Rook just stared, even as their sister came into their view and her husband placed a sweet kiss on her cheek, even as she left for the garden.
“Well, look who it is!” the voice of the now retired Admiral Anderson scared the young warden out of their reverie, from the old man’s arms, a series of grocery bags hung, filled with food and fresh ingredients their brother-in-law could probably use right now, after shyly offering to carry some for the man, he smiled, ear to ear, the crow feet around his eyes stretching in happiness, the dread of the Blight grew in their heart, whatever joy their family could make them feel had faded, only terror remained in place. The old man guided them inside the home, and Rook was now in a position they did not want to be; greeting their family members while keeping the song in their poisoned blood quiet, they gave Thane the most awkward hug they had given him to date - which he noticed, and tried to inquire about before Rook ran away - and uncomfortably moved around the house to the garden, as to greet their mother.
Their mother was there too, having arrived while Rook froze like a halla in headlights when Anderson had caught them skulking around, she sat in a chair made of heartwood, slowly rocking, one of her younger grandsons in her lap and no sign of Kolyat whatsoever - he had sent Rook a small email, something about crazy people and chopped limbs, normal in their line of work, - her green eyes burning a hole in their chestplate, where the shining regalia of the Wardens was engraved, the griffons and the Joining chalice in polished silver “Hi, ma” they had quietly offered, a small, frank smile adorned her face, her fair skin tanned from the sun, young Gabe in her lap, his claws trying to tear the entirety of Rook’s sleeve. At the babe’s insistence, he was handed to them, his fringe nuzzling their neck and his tiny legs swinging in utter happiness of seeing the warden.
To be detached from one’s family was normal amongst the Grey, human, elven, dwarf or Qunari, they all had an oath and sometimes that oath meant to be away from those most loved, their newly built family was dastardly important to Rook, a balm in their shattered soul, but the call of the Order mattered above anything else, to defend from and destroy the Blight even if they all had the sinking feeling that Lusacan’s death would not destroy the Curse. Gabe tried to also nip Rook, who lacked all of Garrus’ hard plates and was all squish that his baby fangs could break into, the terror of the blight even touching his mouth terrified them for a short moment, until Garrus actually nipped at the baby.
Which surprised Rook, to say the least “Is that normal?” they asked, wearily, a little scared maybe, Hannah Shepard smiled, all knowing “Predator species still have some hunting impulses even after millenia of evolving, so the biting phase in turian children actually has to be handled this way” her words left Rook feeling foolish, especially after their brother quietly giggled at their expense. In beyond where the rocking chair was placed, their sister sat quietly in the grass while Andy made an absolute mess of himself with that fruit - that apparently stained everything purple, which sounded like a fun laundry load - and squirmed as she attempted to clean his face with a baby wipe, his green scales covered in fruit goo and his clothes no longer the pale blue they clearly used to be.
He squealed very loudly as he saw Rook and of course, chanted their name like a Chantry Hymn while clearly wanting uppies “Uncle Rook is not giving uppies while you are covered in purple young man! Look at that shiny, shiny, grey warden coat, you want uncle Rook to spend a lifetime in the washing machine?” the baby clearly had no idea what half those words meant as his mother said them, but no uppies and Uncle Rook in the same sentence upset him like it was the end of the world and Lusacan was actually in their backyard, his cries could probably be heard all the way to downtown Lothering as their sister lifted him and clearly carted him towards a bath, his pudgy arms still stretched toward Rook, with a kiss on their cheek and an apology, their sister went away.
“You are being weird,” the turian behind them commented with suspicion, sure he had been a detective in C-Sec but he also had sucked at his job, was Rook being that obvious? “I have solved cases you ass, stop thinking outloud” with their hands crossed behind their back, Rook ignored to the best of their ability whatever he was trying to pry out of Rook’s mouth, this was not a warning that was given yesterday, the Wardens had told every single Earth leader about the possibility of the galactic strife awakening Lusacan and bringing the darkspawn horde into the surface, everybody, especially the council and their Spectres, had ignored said warnings.
“We haven’t seen each other in months and you’re bugging me already, piss off!” Rook playfully delivered a small tap to his upper arm and promptly hurried out of the garden before he could actually interrogate them, doing nothing short of running away from their family through the front door, despite their name being called numerous times. Running a few miles to where Stormwing rested, their chest heaving with the strain of their cowardly run, they huffed in and out big gulps of air until their lungs were filled and their heart was calmer - but not quiet - their mount nuzzling their face, worried “I’m fine Stormy, just a bit of a wuss” with soft scratches to his beak, the griffon went back to his slumber and Rook to their original path: the mayor’s office.
With a 45 minute delay, they rendezvoused with their fellow wardens, Davrin stood beside Antoine, his skin shiny with sweat and a beautiful smile in his handsome face, he nodded toward Rook as they joined their line up “I take it that you promptly ran away like a little mouse, no?” the orlesian amongst them quipped, and Rook gave themself the grace to ignore him, even as everyone else laughed quietly at their expense. The Wardens knocked softly against the old wooden door, where the mayor’s secretary, a charming young man, guided them towards her office, even if he didn't seem like it, the warriors behind him smelled his fear, with a strong hand, Moroc patted his forearm “It’s gon’ to be alright, lad,” the dwarf said, his raspy voice from smoking two packs a day “We the Grey are here, we will protect you” as the young man left with tears in his eyes, the griffons of the Anderfels stood in the mayor’s office, she was a tall, slim woman with a crooked nose, behind her, a string of military decorations painted her walls.
“Wardens!” the woman said, with relief in her voice “You would not know the week Lothering’s had, those monsters come out at night, last Thursday, they took two of our girls with them, can they be rescued? What can we do?” With a weary exchange of looks amongst the Grey, Antoine spoke in his silky Orlesian tilt “There is little we can do for them, we must focus on the defense of the town and the nearby farmsteads, do you have shelters from the Reaper War?” and just like that, they manage to redirect the woman’s former panic into a familiar stream of militaristic strategies, fearing an actual advance of the Horde, or Maker forbid, the appearance of Lusacan, a curfew was to be set, soldiers to be spared at the traffic entrances and forest entries, regular police patrols around the farms and at the insistence of the Maker’s champions, a meeting with all citizens to discuss the reality of the darkspawn incursions.
Half of these people had never seen a hurlock, let alone all of the other monsters that could be created from the Blight and from the hands of the Magister Sidereal, who knows what beasts could the Watcher of the Night be making in the Deep Roads? they had encountered his monsters before, and they were incredibly difficult to destroy. Some of the citizens could barely hold a hunting rifle, what could they do against a pack of shrieks or an Ogre? In a world that had forgotten the Blight since the rise of space travel, what could their ignorant people know of fighting the armies of evil? clutching their staff in their fist, the Alliance had doomed their people the day they tried to erase the danger of the darkspawn.
With a heavy sigh, Rook imposed an order on themself; to be honest with their family and tell them was what to come, their loved ones saw the Blight as a thing that happened, a danger from far away, their eyes were set in the stars while the warden’s were in the soil, in the trees and in the people that lived on Earth, with expert softness, Davrin wrapped his fingers around theirs, squeezing and grounding Rook in the now, their eyes meeting his, brown like the earth in which the flowers bloomed and the halla ran, placing his forehead against theirs, quiet, understanding. Nuzzling his nose with theirs, Rook gave his hand one last squeeze before setting into the path towards Anderson’s farm, the sun threatening to set down, with both the blood of those innocents and Summerday a few hours away.
Heavy, resigned footsteps accompanied them in their short walk, this time they did not knock, they did not stare nor wait, they closed the door behind them as the sun settled in the fereldan sky, over the Frostbacks, their family laughed and rejoiced, the smell of warm food and sweet milky soup welcomed Rook into the dining table. This time, Andy did reach and this time, despite it being dinnertime, he was clean and in a soft mint green onesie, his small hands latching onto Rook’s curls and in the process of ripping their hair clean off to leave them in shameful baldness “Andrew! Don’t pull on your uncle’s hair!” Jane scolded, prying his hands off their hair and placing him back on his high chair, where he stayed with tears almost leaving his big eyes, Rook lending him a pinky he happily held.
With all the eyes on them due to their sudden entrance, the warden shifted uncomfortably in the wooden chair, baby still attached to their finger, looking directly into their mother’s gaze, they declared “the Darkspawn might actually perform an aggressive offensive today, it is expected of all citizens and civilians to make their ways into the former shelters provided during the War to shield themselves from the invading packs” while Hannah clearly did not believe it to be this dire, she got up abruptly, ending Rook’s speech like the mountain of influence she was as amongst scared whispers and uneasy stares, she directed her family on the Wardens’ orders “I hope you and your brethren know what you are doing, senseless panic helps nobody” and with that last, burning stare, the admiral left, leaving Rook standing in a nearly empty house, the shuffle of movement around them freezing in the moment.
Rook hears them, feels them, the darkspawn sing in their blood like they sing in theirs, in the olden times, the beasts were unable to tell between warden and monster, the peek into their hivemind was what had given the Order advantage since their creation. Heavy in Rook’s blood is the call of the darkspawn, whose pace they can feel miles away “You have to hurry!” they scream “They are near! Hurry the fuck up!” All else was done mechanically, as they settled into the familiar hum of battle, escorting their family like any other civilians towards the shelters, the people looking confused, desolate, terrified of a monster they only told tales of. Downtown Lothering was a flurry of people, screaming soldiers and weary wardens, “something is wrong”, their blood and heart screamed, something was very, very wrong “Davrin, fuck! something’s wrong!” Before he could even answer an ogre tore apart the soldiers at the town’s entrance, tearing in a bloody whirlwind through the town, those who had not made it in time crushed under its feet.
The beast roared, greyish skin already tainted with the blood of those it had killed in rampage, around it, a pack of hungry Hurlocks roared in amusement, locking eyes with their fellow elven warden, Rook held close their staff, light seeping between their fingers, they were a diverse group; Antoine was an excellent marksman, while Moroc and Davrin were incredible close combatants, Rook was trained for both magic support and actual head-on attacks, easily managing to remain or alternate in both positions. Coordinating with only looks and the movement of fingers, the wardens agreed; Antoine and Rook would take on the pack while the other two wardens would focus on the heavy hitter, this way, should more packs come, they could be easily neutralized by both of them.
A barrier, to make them last longer, Rook’s long grocery list of spells were easily combined with the artful skill of the sword, with a talent for both killing and magic, the Grey Wardens decided that young-them would be trained in the most dynamic and ancient of all specializations: the Arcane Warrior, shortly after their Harrowing, they quickly picked up the new styles they were teaching them, at fifteen, the Wardens gave Rook two priceless gifts; their sun shaped-focus staff, where the golden wrapped in beautiful curves around the ironbark and a hardy silverite sword, similar to the elven styles, slim and long, a flat blade and a diagonal tip.
The sword, Fate, craved blood - Rook was pretty sure it was cursed - a fireball and some chain lighting later, accompanied with the frenzy of Antoine’s bullets grazing their hair and shoulder pauldrons filled their heart with a familiar feeling of joy, rushed adrenaline filled their veins as Davrin and Moroc subdued the Ogre, with a swing of his mace, the dwarven man crushed the leg of the beast as to make it bow and give the young elf a chance to rip its head clean off with two swings, the dark blade tearing through the flesh of the beast, covered still in the fire of Rook’s mana. Wardens used all sorts of weapons, bullets were not always as effective with the monsters as swords, maces and daggers were, the projectiles lacking some unknown force or determination, Antoine reloaded his Mantis and cocked it again towards the entrance, bathed in Darkspawn guts, Rook still was weary, something was still wrong.
“Rook, you’re worrying me” Davrin said, loudly and hard, his eyebrows scrunched in an uncharacteristic angry frown he really should only have in certain, more enjoyable situations for the both of them, still in rush from the adrenaline, it is as if they are short of words, huffing a bit from the fight, a strange quiet filled the scene of what was supposed to be a darkspawn raid, invasions and attacks were constant, as the beasts acted as animals with no leaders. Davrin, almost fully catching what Rook was trying to say from the very beginning, stared open mouthed at Moroc “Fuck!” he screamed in terror “I think the-” whistling in the air, a howling rush of air besieged New Lothering.
The sky turned red, either from the blood coating Rook’s eyes and hair or from the deep red-black of Lusacan’s scales as it soared into the nightsky, its maws closed imposingly, the soldiers around them, who had rallied bravely during their fight with the initial packs stared at them as if they could stop the demon in the heavens above them “B…Blessed are they who stan-stand before the corrupt,” a young woman said between tears “and d-do not falter, blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the Just!” Rook barely turned their head towards the praying woman before the Archdemon opened its maws, a rain of hellish fire fell upon a Lothering that had been born from the ashes of one destroyed by the archdemon Urthemiel, reduced to pieces and burning planks by yet another of the Old Gods.
Grabbing the girl by her hand, Rook barks “Let’s get a move on!” As the wardens regain their composure, the soldiers follow, faltering, through the falling buildings as Lusacan burns through downtown and the main plaza, never stopping, the young warden and their companions tear through remains, either of people, animals or homes. Above them Lusacan pursued the warriors of the Grey, big as the Grand Cathedral with eyes red as the blood it had spilt already, as red as the fire it spouted, as red as the flesh of those burning under its fire, its maws filled with a thousand fangs, wings as big as Denerim’s Palace, Rook hears the young woman cough, overwhelmed by the smoke of burning flesh.
“Not now, mate!” they say, overwhelmed “C’mon! you can make it, I know you can, don’t you dare give up” Rook can’t see Davrin, the others or Stormwing, but they trust with their heart that they are alright, that they made it, the black and orange smoke blinds them, they looked behind them, ready to direct more orders toward their companion, only to find themselves holding only an arm, detached and burned at the shoulder. All that had been left of that terrified young woman remained in Rook’s hand, horror overtook them, by the Maker above, what can they do? as the monster of all monsters soars through the sky, they hold the only remains of a dead person, somebody who latched onto them with hope that they would manage to save them.
As more smoke and death fills the air, Rook stuffs the arm in their sash, tearing the fabric of their coat, and wetting it with the water in their canteen, wrapping it tightly around their mouth and nose, they run like that night they aimed for freedom, away from the pain and the blinding white lights, their shins burn with effort, their eyes teary from the smoke. Rook follows their heart, follows the pull of their instincts, only a couple of meters away they see the outline of Davrin’s frame, a man they could recognise everywhere and anywhere, an outline their eyes and soul know, he stands at the entry of one of the shelters, the closer Rook gets, the more their lungs burn, the more their body fights the movement, sloppily and almost fainting, they fall into the other young warden’s arms.
Clean air floods their chest, with the doors locked, the arm falls off their sash, as they drop to the ground, Davrin barely holding their head before it hits the hard floor, the telltale strong steps of their mother’s feet resonates in the air, followed closely by the ever imposing walk of Commander Shepard. Jane wore her armor, and so did their mother, and for a moment Rook was not a warden, but a blighted child laying in the cold Wetlands snow, with their face mauled and open, poisoned blood trickling out of them in liters, for a moment the women above them were not their mother and sister, but Evka and Marzia, the wardens that gave Rook a chance with the Joining, for a moment, Rook is a little child who had just escaped torture “Help me,” they croaked “I want to be a Grey Warden, I want to live, Help me!” their hands felt cold, their body too, they squirmed as men wrapped their arms around them.
Like prison, like hell, Rook is back and they never got away, there are a man’s hands around them, holding them down, there is a needle in their arm, all of it was a cruel dream, a whisper of what could have been “No, please!” the dream can’t go away, so beautiful that they even loved, they had mum and big sister back, it can’t end, it has to go on forever “Please, I’ll be good, so good, I promise” there is no burning pain as there should be with the injections, they feel nothing, they feel sleepy, floating, somewhere between being and not really.
Rook faints with a plea for mercy still in their tongue.