Chapter Text
Spite pokes and prods and frowns when Lucanis waves him away. Something is wrong.
The dining hall doors slam open with a heavy, echoing thunk. The sound makes Lucanis jump, brow furrowing as he continues to cook. Flames lick the bottom of his pan as he flips the veggies. He’s got a tight grip on the pan and a tighter grip on his spatula. The ear-scratching screech of metal scraping against metal is drowned out by the hot sizzle-pop of oil frying his vegetables to perfection.
“Fenedis—she’s finally asleep.” Davrin barges in, dragging himself towards the dining table. Lucanis turns just long enough to watch him wipe a tired hand over his face. His chest and shoulders are bare, save for a sheen of sweat glistening in the fire light.
Neve laughs from the kitchen table, raising her glass of wine towards him. “And so, the brave warden returns from battle!”
“Yeah, for like ten minutes,” he chuckles.
“Davrin!” Rin looks up from her book, sitting across from Neve. “How is she?”
Davrin stretches his neck from side to side, meandering his way towards the kitchen. “Relentless, but I think she’s cooling off. Her heat should break by tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow morning? It wasn’t this long last time…Mine was only a few days.”
“Yeah well, Keeper always said heats and ruts were worse under stress.”
Neve hums. “Poor Bel.”
“Ooh, something smells good. Is that khachapuri?” Davrin asks.
Lucanis turns and finds him hovering close. Too close. He can smell the sweat on his skin.
“Warm and worn, like a campfire. Like the forest, after a storm,” Spite whispers where only Lucanis can hear him.
Davrin reaches for the oven door. Lucanis smacks his hand.
“Not for you,” he snaps. “You’re taking care of Bellara. You need something healthier.”
“Geez, alright.” Davrin backs off, frowning. He pauses, smelling the air again. “…Are you wearing a new cologne?”
“No.”
Davrin shrugs and wanders back towards the table.
The vegetables are just about done, but they need just a splash of oil and dash salt to be perfect.
The pantry door opens with a creek. Lucanis frowns at his vegetables. What did he just say?
“Not listening. Why? Why not?”
Immediately, Lucanis roughly scrapes his spatula against the pan, making it screech. Vegetables fly through the air and onto a plate. His boots stomp across the floor. The chair shrieks as he pulls it out. The cutlery clatters when he near-slams the plate down on the table.
Davrin meets Lucanis’s glare with startled surprise. He freezes, one hand on the pantry door, eyes wide like a startled halla.
“Eat,” Lucanis commands.
There’s a tense pause. It consumes the room until Davrin glances at the table and realizes what Lucanis has done for him.
“Oh. Thanks.” Davrin closes the pantry door and takes the seat the Lucanis pulled out for him.
Lucanis waits, one hand fidgeting with the ribbon of his apron, as Davrin cuts into the perfectly grilled steak and vegetable stir fry. The review is sure to be as perfect as the steak.
And then he catches Neve’s gaze. She stares at him like he’s gone crazy, and it dawns on him just how strange it is to deny your friend food, demand he eat something else, and then stand there waiting for feedback. So, instead of standing there, he turns on his heel and goes back to the kitchen.
He makes his hands reach for the small serving tray in the cabinets and then a small wooden board to go on top of it. He busies his hands with making careful slices into the blocks of cheese, forming small, bite-sized cubes. Each cube is placed neatly on the wooden board, arranged such that they’re easy to pick up without sticking to each other.
“Not right. It’s not right,” Spite says.
He arranges cheese carefully, because it must be perfect. It must be, because if the steak was not perfect or the vegetables were overcooked or the steak was under-seasoned or—
“Mm! Thish ish really good!” Davrin calls out, mid-chew.
Lucanis doesn’t bother replying, but his shoulders relax. It’s like a bit of fog clears in his mind, suddenly, and he can focus on the task at hand: a charcuterie board for Bellara; something easy to eat while she’s still dealing with her heat. The cheese is sliced quicker, then, and the sausage is quick to follow along with a handful of grapes to round out the plate.
The dining hall doors burst open again. Lucanis jumps, again. The frown returns to his brow as he nearly slices a finger off.
“We’re back!” Harding announces.
“How’s Ferelden?” Rin asks.
“Eh, as good as it can be.”
“And your mom?”
“She says hi. Oh! And she sent us back with pie!”
“How is Bellara doing?” Emmrich asks.
“Shtill in heat,” Davrin says around another mouthful of food. “Should break shome time tomorrow.”
“Poor girl. It’s rather long this time, isn’t it?”
“What’s that smell?” Taash asks, taking a deep breath.
“Smells like…burning! No, not burning. Smoldering. Not burning, but almost.”
Lucanis pivots, grabbing the towel from his apron pocket. He opens the oven and pulls out the khachapuri just as Taash, Emmrich, and Harding take their seats at the table.
“Khachapuri,” he says.
“Sorry, could be me too,” Davrin says, staring forlornly at the khachapuri. “Haven’t had a chance to bathe in like two days.”
“Are heats supposed to be this intense?” Harding asks. “I barely noticed that anything was different during Rin’s heat.”
Lucanis places the khachapuri down on the table and Taash stares at him, suspiciously. They take another inhale and frown, but they don’t bother to comment on whatever they’ve picked out of the air.
“Well, my heats have never been too bad,” Rin says. “Some cuddling and a sleepover with a bit of chocolate is more than enough, though…I guess Bellara’s heats have never been this bad before, either.”
“I’m telling you; it’s the stress of everything. It’s getting to us,” Davrin says. “Just watch. Your next heat and my next rut are going to be just as crazy.”
Rin tsks at him. “Don’t say that! You’re gonna curse me.”
Lucanis stands there for a moment, watching his friends. The moment he sees Harding bite into the khachapuri and hum happily, his feet unstick themselves from the ground. He goes back to the kitchen, back to the charcuterie board. Grapes alone won’t do. If Bellara is too out of it to eat very much, then she likely won’t drink water. He should add melon for hydration. Just in case.
He selects a melon from the fruit basket—a bigger one, likely to be watery with a milder flavor—and cuts into it. His cleaver chops it in half with a loud thwack.
Taash hums. “So…it being bad is why it smells like you’ve been doin’ it?”
Emmrich chokes on a piece of khachapuri and Neve snorts into her wine glass.
“Yeah.” Davrin doesn’t seem bothered, though. “Heat sex doesn’t always happen when it gets ‘bad’, but this time, yeah.”
“How does that even work?”
“Are you asking me how sex works?”
“Ugh, no,” Taash huffs. They gesture to Rin and then to the door. “I mean, how do you get from cuddling and chocolate to doin’ it?”
Thwack! Thwack! The melon halves fall into slices.
“I don’t know,” Davrin says. “Just depends on the omega, I guess. Some of them just need hugs, and some of them won’t settle for anything less than a kno—uh…doin’ it.”
Taash stares at him, clearly still confused.
“What, elves don’t have heats in Rivain?”
“They do. But everyone’s also just doin’ it whenever. It’s not as big of a thing.”
“Okay, well…” Davrin sighs. “You know, Bellara would actually be way better at explaining this.”
Thwack! Thwack! The melon slices fall into bite-sized pieces.
“Well, you’ve got the basics,” Rin cuts in. “Elves are split into alphas and omegas. Alphas have ruts, and omegas have heats.”
“Yeah,” Taash says.
“Alphas and omegas tend to have opposite…natures? Maybe that’s not the right word.”
Davrin shrugs. “Eh, it gets the idea across. The old keeper’s tale goes something like ‘elves are very strongly connected to the fade, but mortal bodies weren’t meant to hold so much spiritual energy. Heats and ruts are just a physical release of all of that pent up energy.’ In practice, they just crank your insecurities and intrusive thoughts up to eleven for a few days.”
Lucanis feels a gaze on his back. Again, his eyes find Neve’s. She frowns at him—at the cleaver in his hand. The melon is cut, though, so he puts the cleaver down, exchanging it for a smaller paring knife. Carefully, he cuts the rind off of the melon pieces, fitting as many as he can on the charcuterie board and arranging the rest of it on a larger plate and seasoning it with chile and lime.
He brings the large plate of melon to the table, and that seems to soften Neve’s frown.
“For omegas, it manifests as a lot of…fear and isolation,” Davrin says. He looks at Rin as he speaks and she nods along, affirming his words. “Omegas are usually the strategists and leaders in a Dalish clan. They’re the ones who bring the clan together and really build the community. So, in a heat, all of that is flipped. All that planning turns into anxiety, and their affinity for community becomes an instinct to withdraw.”
“On the other side, alphas get really angry and aggressive,” Rin says. “Alphas are a clan’s warriors and hunters. They protect and provide. In a rut, all of that looks more like needing everything to go a certain way or be a certain way—”
Lucanis moves to the table to start clearing plates as his friends finish their food. He smacks Davrin’s hand as it moves towards the khachapuri. Davrin grumbles at him, pouting as Lucanis takes his plate away.
“—getting angry over the littlest things—”
The dining hall door slams open for a third time. Lucanis tenses, startling at the noise. The plates in his hands clatter and jostle, nearly crashing to the ground. Assan comes rushing in, holding one of Manfred’s arms in his mouth. Manfred isn’t far behind him, chasing the griffon in a feeble attempt to get his arm back. The hissing and squawking are grating.
Lucanis turns towards them sharply, hands gripped tight on his pile of plates, and a sharp word on the tip of his tongue. It’s only when he sees Neve frowning at him again that he realizes he actually cracked one of the plates in half with just his grip.
“—or just generally being needlessly aggressive.”
Furiously, he dumps the dishes in the sink and turns the tap on to scrub them clean. The plates clang and clatter even louder as he washes them. He scrubs until the plates are shiny, until he’s managed to splash soapy water on the counter and down his apron. He scrubs so hard that he cracks another plate.
Taash frowns. “So…the hugs or sex?”
“Are ways to make the heats and ruts less bad,” Rin says. “You get rid of an omega’s fear, anxiety, and isolation by making them feel protected and provided for. Being there physically, like with hugs or sex, is excellent reassurance that someone cares.”
Taash nods. “And it’s not a coincidence that alphas just so happen to excel at those things?”
“Exactly,” Davrin says. “Though, it’s not uncommon for omegas to help omegas and alphas to help alphas, too.”
“Speaking of…” Rin looks to Davrin. “Should I take a shift with Bel so you can bathe?”
“Please.”
Rin laughs and stands. “Let me go check on her, then. I’m sure she wouldn’t appreciate waking up alone.”
Davrin shakes his head.
“Stop,” Lucanis barks.
On command, the whole room pauses, looking to him suddenly. Their stares burn holes into his skin, but it’s not important. What matters is the food. Bellara needs energy to burn out the last of her heat and Rin will too, now. But…Rin would be better off with a full meal, something more well-rounded than cheese, meat, and fruit.
Ideas for marinades float around in his head as Lucanis takes the charcuterie tray and marches it over to Rin.
And then he stops, pauses.
“Sweet but subtle. Like a garden of roses. Like starlight sparkling in the night.”
It must be a perfume, or the scent of her soap. They’ve spent hours, days, weeks, months together, yet Lucanis has never realized how nice Rin smells. Spite has spoken such compliments hundreds of times: She smells of roses and starlight. Perhaps it is just Lucanis’s failing, then, that he never realized how wonderful roses and starlight are.
“Lucanis?” Rin asks, startling him.
He’s standing in front of her, he realizes. He’s still holding the tray. Stiffly, he holds it out to her.
“For Bellara,” he says. “She needs to eat.”
She frowns and he realizes that their friends are all staring. Or rather, he knew they were staring, but he realizes why. He realizes that he shouted.
Why did he shout?
“Because of the smoldering.”
Lucanis frowns to himself. What smoldering? Nothing has burned.
“Are you alright?” Rin asks.
“I—yes. Just a bit tired.” It’s a lie, but he’s not sure what the truth is. “And Spite is talking non-sense.”
Spite huffs. “You are non-sense! Three days of non-sense!”
Lucanis’s mind races, trying to recall the past few days: Rin and Davrin had to cut a mission short, hauling Bellara back to the Lighthouse due to her heat that came on quite suddenly. He ran to fetch extra bedding and linens for Bellara’s nest, then got an eyeful of Bellara’s breasts and Davrin’s…everything. He helped Rin brew a few stamina potions and make some soothing salves. And then…
Then…
Everything gets hazy from there.
Rin’s hands brush his as she takes the tray. The soft scent of roses and starlight calms his concerns—perhaps he doesn’t remember everything, but he’s sure he has taken care of his friends, at least.
“Well, maybe Spite will let you get some rest?” Rin says, speaking to the space around him. “You’ve been cooking and cleaning non-stop for days.”
That’s right, he fed them. He’s kept the bedding washed, and potions and salves stocked. He hasn’t stopped because Rin still has missions to run and Davrin is busy taking care of Bellara. Someone has to take care of them, too. He can. He did. For days.
Days? Has it been days?
“Yes. Rest is…You should rest,” Spite sounds…concerned?
Emmrich hears it too and frowns. It’s rather uncharacteristic for Spite.
And then the scent of roses and starlight starts to drift away. Lucanis leans forward, almost chasing it, but—
“No! Rook said to rest!”
His arm flinches, almost shaking Spite off where he grabs Lucanis’s arm. Almost. But Spite is right—Rin is right—he should rest.
“Right, yes,” he turns back towards the kitchen. It’s a mess, frankly. The dishes may be clean, but there’s soapy water absolutely everywhere, and bits of cheese and melon rind left on the cutting board. “I’ll just clean up, and then I’ll get some rest.”
That seems to be enough for Rin. She nods and leaves him to it, turning to take the tray of food to Bellara. She takes the roses and starlight, too.
The rest of the group takes that as their cue to disburse as well. Sanity is restored, friends are being taken care of, and—
“Lucanis, why don’t I take care of the clean up?” Harding asks. She reaches for the towel on the counter. “You’ve been working so hard and—”
“No!” Lucanis snaps. He snatches the towel just before she can grab it. He clenches it tightly, like she might try to take it.
Why did he do that?
“I mean…I can handle it. It’s just a bit of clean up.”
“Yeah, but—”
Somewhere behind him, Neve clears her throat.
“…sure,” Harding says, relenting suddenly. “I’ll let you handle it.”
His hand relaxes and he frowns to himself. He nods. He should apologize, but he just nods. Regardless, Harding backs off, leaving him alone in the kitchen with the mess. Lucanis’s frown deepens. How did he let it get like this?
“The smoldering!” Spite insists. “Listen to Rook! Rest now.”
He waves Spite away. Cleaning won’t take long. The mess is quickly resolved with a rag and a mop and bucket to hold the pieces of broken plate. The others leave him to it, their voices and footsteps filing out of the dining hall one by one.
“Davrin,” Neve says, somewhere near the door. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
Finally, with the mess out of the way, Lucanis can rest.
Well, after he’s made a marinade for the chicken. It’ll only take a few minutes, and then he can rest. So, he pulls the spices from the rack and measures them carefully. A teaspoon of this and a tablespoon of that are thrown into a bowl. Then, he goes for the chicken in the ice chest—Rin will want the thigh. She prefers dark meat.
Spite tugs at his arm, but Lucanis shakes him off again. This won’t take long.
“Ha! That’s funny,” Davrin barks. “I think I would know if—”
He quiets suddenly as Neve whispers something into his ear.
Thwack!
With one precise chop of the cleaver, Lucanis severs an entire chicken thigh and leg from the rest of the bird.
Thwack!
And with another, he separates the leg and thigh.
The thigh meat, however, does not want to come off of the bone. It clings, awkwardly. The meat is still a little too frozen for the delicate cuts required for proper deboning.
Spite hovers in the periphery of his vision, watching him carefully, warily almost.
“Think about it,” Neve says.
Davrin is quiet for a moment, but his gaze presses against Lucanis’s back. “Huh.”
Neve whispers something else.
Lucanis clicks his tongue. He ignores the feeling of frost staring to spread over his fingertips as he digs into the meat of the thigh to grab at the bone. Carefully but quickly, he practically sheers the meat off of the bone—ripping it when he needs to.
It’s not as pretty as he’d like, but with a huff, he finally has all of the chicken he needs for the meal.
The bone gets thrown in the bucket full of broken plates. Lucanis throws it hard. There’s a satisfying crack of more porcelain breaking.
Spite’s hand reaches out for him again, but Lucanis shoots him a glare and Spite backs off, looking bewildered.
Davrin sighs. “Well, when you say it like that, yeah…”
“So,” Neve starts. “Should you…”
“Yeah…So much for bathing…”
Carefully, Lucanis mixes the meat with the spices, making sure not to let any spice spill out of the bowl. He works the marinade into every crevice of each piece, until all of the chicken is covered. It all combines into a beautiful dark orange-red coat over the meat that he can set aside.
Now for the vegetables and—
“Hey,” Davrin says, approaching the kitchen. “I thought you told Rook you were going to rest?”
Lucanis frowns as he pulls out a clean baking sheet. He’ll roast some brussel sprouts in the oven. It only needs a little olive oil, salt, and pepper—flavorful, but not so much as to overwhelm Rin’s palate.
“I just need to finish prepping the brussel sprouts,” Lucanis says.
“Lucanis…”
Davrin reaches out but Lucanis shakes off his hand before it can even touch him. “It will all cook in the oven at once. Then I’ll rest.”
“Why don’t you let me—”
Thwack!
Lucanis pushes on the knife too hard. It slices down the middle of the bunch of brussel sprouts, slamming onto the cutting board. Davrin jumps, and Lucanis clicks his tongue. Now some of the brussel sprouts are cut unevenly.
“Don’t distract me!” Lucanis snaps. “I can handle this.”
Behind him, Davrin sighs, but he’s quiet long enough for Lucanis to get all of the brussel sprouts he needs off of the bunch.
“When was the last time you ate?” Of course, he doesn’t stay quiet.
Lucanis doesn’t answer.
The brussel sprouts are placed in a bowl and washed, rinsed clean of any lingering dirt and impurities. Each one is carefully inspected, rinsed, inspected again, and then placed in a second bowl.
There’s a tugging feeling at his mouth and then at his jaw, like it’s trying to move on its own. It’s strange but familiar. It’s also not as important as picking off all of the dead or wilted brussel sprout leaves.
His vision turns a hazy purple just for a split second.
“Coffee. Yesterday.”
Lucanis frowns. That was his voice, but he didn’t say that.
“Right. Thanks, Spite,” Davrin says. “Lucanis, why don’t you let me do that—”
Lucanis whips around. How many times does he have to say it? “Is no one hearing me? I—”
“—while you have something to eat?” Davrin speaks over him. “How are you going to feed Rin and Bellara if you pass out because you haven’t fed yourself?”
Lucanis pauses. There’s sense in that. He’s gone for longer without food, but is there really a reason to?
Slowly, Davrin steps towards him, one hand offered to him. Spite hovers behind Davrin, practically hiding behind him. “We will make sure our friends are fed.”
The scent of campfires and petrichor fills Lucanis’s senses. It’s stronger than it was before, though Davrin isn’t standing as close. There’s something else that lingers under it, too. It’s faint, whispered on Davrin’s breath and lingering on his skin
“Ink on paper. Jasmine and endless questions.”
Bellara.
Lucanis nods, and puts the knife in Davrin’s hand. “Cut each brussel sprout in half. Toss them in oil and salt, then spread them on the baking tray and put them in the oven.”
Davrin nods back, then jerks his head towards the dining table. “Eat some khachapuri.”
For just a second longer, Lucanis lingers in place, watching Davrin take his place at the cutting board, carefully slicing up the brussel sprouts. He does a fine job, good enough to reassure Lucanis that he can actually sit and eat.
Then, he practically inhales what remains of the khachapuri. By the time he’s done with it, Davrin has the brussel sprouts sliced, seasoned, and searing in the oven, and he’s started on the next round of dishes.
“You should rest, too,” Lucanis says. “Didn’t you want to bathe?”
Davrin almost drops a plate.
“Yeah, but…uh…Emmrich, Harding, and Taash are probably doing a post-trip wash-up.” He speaks with his back to Lucanis, but his voice is calm and steady. “I’ll let them finish up first, and then I’ll take a long quiet bath.”
He flashes Lucanis a warm smile when he finally turns, drying his hands on a towel. His gaze drifts towards the corner of the room. “Besides, I think Neve still needs me for something.”
Lucanis looks to the couches in the corner. Neve is there, perched on the couch with a nearly-finished glass of wine in one hand and a tight smile on her face. It’s when Neve makes faces like that when Lucanis knows he should be worried, but Davrin seems unbothered. His smile is still warm.
It must be fine. Or at least, Davrin can handle it.
He watches, though, as Davrin joins Neve and she whispers something, using her wine glass to cover her mouth.
“For now,” Davrin tells her, just loud enough that Lucanis can hear some of it. “Should probably…Emmrich…more salves.”
More salves? But isn’t Bellara’s heat nearly over? They made more than enough potions and salves for her, he knows it.
Lucanis frowns, glancing at the clock. Twenty more minutes until he can take everything out of the oven.
“—Rin?” Neve says.
“We…careful…” Davrin tells her.
Bread. Rin likes toasted bread.
Lucanis goes to the pantry to retrieve one of the loaves he bought earlier in the week. It’s a little stale, but the bread is easy enough to revive with a damp towel over it in the oven for a few minutes. In the meantime, he readies another pan, heating some butter until it starts to melt.
The revived loaf becomes fluffy slices, lightly seasoned with salt and herbs, before he places them in the pan to sear. It’s a careful process, toasting just enough of the bread to give the outer layer a nice crisp, but leaving the rest of it soft.
He plates two of the slices for Rin and takes another for himself. The rest of the bread is pan-toasted and stacked on a plate on the dining table. The others will come back for a snack eventually.
“Her room…imagine…pantry?” Davrin says.
Neve snorts into her wine glass.
By the time Lucanis has finished cooking the loaf, the chicken and the brussel sprouts are ready. He pulls them out of the oven, arranging them carefully on Rin’s plate beside her bread. The leftover oil and drippings go into the buttered pan with a bit of flour and salt. It takes only a few minutes for it to form a savory gravy that Lucanis drizzles over the chicken.
Carefully, he sets Rin’s plate down on the table, finding cutlery and a napkin to set alongside it. The cup comes last, filled with just water so that she can rehydrate, but he also starts chopping up some chocolate for a cup of cioccolata calda, just in case she wants that instead.
Neve sighs. “So just—”
The dining hall door creaks open. Lucanis frowns and whirls around.
It’s Rin.
“Rin! Hey, you—”
“Rin,” Lucanis barks, cutting Davrin off.
Rin’s head turns on a swivel, confused and a little startled.
“—we need to talk—”
“Come eat.”
Davrin and Lucanis speak over each other again. Lucanis glares in his direction while Rin continues to look between them.
“Let me talk—"
“Come,” Lucanis commands. His voice sounds strange. It echoes off of the walls, but he’s doesn’t think that he shouted.
Rin startles at the sound of his voice, but she obeys, stepping towards him even as her confused frown deepens. At the same time, Spite backs off from him, looking at him like he’s grown a second head.
“No!” Davrin shouts. He stands up, reaching out for Rin, rushing towards her.
Davrin’s voice sounds strange, too—the same kind of strange. There’s something about it that’s foreign but it resonates though Lucanis. It compels him, drives him. It sounds angry. It sounds afraid.
Lucanis reaches Rin first. He pulls her towards him, then behind him, dragging her by the wrist. He keeps one hand firmly on her wrist like that, so he knows she’s safe. The other hand finds the dagger hidden in his boot. He brandishes it, gripping it tightly.
But where’s the threat? Where is that which drove Davrin to anger? To fear?
His eyes shift around the dining hall, watching the shadows for any sudden movements. The air is still. The room is quiet. There is nothing there.
Nothing but scent of roses and starlight slowly wrapping around him.