Rook
After her companions split up and went their separate ways, Rook sighed in her chair, rubbing her forehead, exhausted after the recent events. Lavellan, the only one who had stayed by her side, looked at her regretfully, while hugging herself, as if she were cold, as if she had seen something in Rook herself that had plunged her into herself.
—It's exhausting, isn't it?
Rook watched her, not knowing what she was referring to, looking up at her in confusion. Lavellan averted her gaze, looking into the distance, without focusing on anything, immersed in memories that only she could see.
—Leadership. That everything falls on you, that everyone expects a word from you. You, who have never been anything more than a separate piece, suddenly become the Queen, destined to be able to make any move— her hand took the imaginary chess piece, making an abrupt gesture, as if knocking down a smaller pawn—. Everything in your hands, but one more piece that can be sacrificed and that must be sacrificed, to save the king.
Lavellan stared at her intently, causing Rook to swallow nervously at that intensity, at that speech that seemed made for the elf.
That speech that only showed what Lavellan had been and what she was.
A leader. A ruler.
The Inquisitor.
—Don't let them knock you down, Rook.
Then, Lavellan set off, exiting through the main double door, leaving her alone, with the noise of the astrolabe above her, perennial. Rook exhaled the air she had been holding, without realizing it, after hearing the Inquisitor speak so mysteriously, so eloquently that it made everything stop around her, almost without knowing it.
—Good grief, she's intense— Rook shook her head, with a lopsided smile, unable to prevent amusement from sinking into her, for a moment—. The worst thing is maybe that I like her, despite all her secrets— she muttered to herself, still shaking her head.
Weaver murmured in agreement, causing her to laugh aloud. Rook got out of the chair, patting her legs, determined.
—Well, let's stop wasting time. I have to find a place to meditate… or whatever I need.
She turned around, observing the room, deciding where to go, while starting to whistle a tune. Then, she headed towards the stairs that went up, where the infirmary was, thinking that she would have more success finding a free room there, knowing the size of the Lighthouse.
Even at worst, she could bother the dwarf by going to the infirmary once more.
At that moment, just when she was starting to climb the steps, something caught her attention causing her to turn around abruptly.
She rested her hand on the wall, curious, while her eyes didn't stop analyzing the curious wall, which seemed to have stains, remains of something.
Dirt?, she said to herself, scratching it a little.
No, not dirt, she realized. It was paint. So that was…
—Murals? —she whispered, curious.
Indeed, there were some worn murals, painted on the wall, of which it was impossible to decipher what they had been in the past. Rook inspected them carefully.
—They seem to be scenes, representations of something…—she murmured, tracing the lines, tracing those pieces that came off to the touch.
She realized that there were several of them, spread throughout the room, with the same wear as the one in front of her.
Did Solas know how to paint? Curious facet of the god.
In the end, to paint one needed empathy, emotions to reflect on a canvas, simply to feel.
And Solas… Solas didn't seem to feel anything. He was only in search of his goal: the destruction of the Veil.
In the end, hadn't he broken his own heart in the process, a heart that had belonged to a white-haired elf, with eyes that could now only see sadness and hatred in the world?
Shaking her head, she separated from the wall, thinking that they wouldn't be that important if he hadn't bothered to take care of them, seeing the severe wear of the paintings.
Knowing that, for once, perhaps she was approaching the truth with that thought.
A few steps further on, she noticed a new room that she hadn't seen before, previously covered by those withered roots.
The Lighthouse was changing, she realized, looking around.
It seemed more alive. Happier. There were fewer dead roots and she even seemed to see some leaves on those stems, as if they were reviving.
In the end, it was going to be its own entity.
She entered the room, curious about this fact. After crossing a small corridor, she came to a wooden door, which she opened, peering into the room. She whistled, surprised.
It seemed like a meditation room. It was decorated by different paintings and had a cabinet leaning against one of the walls. On the back wall, she had a huge wall made of an aquarium and in front of it, she had a huge green armchair, where her travel bag was resting and, next to it, Solas' dagger, this time off, silent.
—My stuff— she murmured to herself, approaching the suitcase and opening it, seeing its contents—. Neve or Harding must have put it here— she looked around, observing the room with curiosity—. Let's see, it's not bad either. Any room is fine for me, really.
Taking out her most comfortable clothes, courtesy of the Crows, she changed, hanging her armor in the closet, not without giving it a little wash with a cloth she always carried. She placed all her things scattered around the room, decorating the space a little, which seemed that nobody had touched for centuries, using the few small tables and dressers that were there. In the middle of the move, she noticed one of the paintings, which seemed to have a throne drawn on it. She stopped, for a few moments, to look at it.
That throne… it's like she'd seen it before. But she didn't know where. She shrugged and continued with her task. After an hour and a good cleaning, she sighed with satisfaction, looking at the room, more orderly now.
—Perfect—she said, proud of herself.
Finally, she placed one of her most valuable possessions on a piece of furniture that was behind the armchair, her newly named bed. Her reflection looked back at her, with those strange eyes that characterized her. She touched her favorite tattoo, of the many she had on her body. It was very light blue, and accompanied her silver eye, almost as if the color of the iris had spilled onto her skin.
It was the only thing she had allowed to be done on her face when she had been required to get the vallaslin at the age of majority. And she would never regret having rejected it.
Those gods would never define her. Never. She looked at herself fixedly for a few seconds, thinking about that. Then, she realized something.
—Wow. Lavellan's eyes look a lot like mine—she said, in a funny murmur.
And that made her think about the Inquisitor once more.
She was mysterious. Distant. Very different from anyone she had ever known. According to Harding and according to rumors, she had heard that she was a memorable person, sympathetic and kind, who supported and defended any injustice. Her judgments had always been controversial, sitting on her throne in Skyhold, but no one had ever accused them of being unfair.
They said that she was even more powerful than Divine Victoria, although eight years ago, the Inquisition became the personal bodyguards of the latter, being absorbed almost entirely by the Chantry, although it was still performing the functions that corresponded to it:
That of punishing criminals and protecting the innocent.
But now… She had the impression that she was a ghost of what she once was. Even Harding lamented for her lost friend. And that made her drift her thoughts towards another elf, strongly linked to her.
What had happened between Lavellan and Solas, who had once loved each other, to change their personalities so much?, she thought, remembering the god's attitude, so distant, so sarcastic.
Totally different from what Lavellan had told her.
She sat on the armchair, looking at the fish tank.
Because Solas was another case apart. She turned the hand mirror in her hand, thoughtfully.
An immortal elven god, who was not untouchable. Serious, sarcastic, without a hint of kindness in his whole being, and willing to do anything to resolve his plans.
Did the Inquisitor have such bad taste? Hadn't there been much more decent people to fall in love with?
A giggle reached her ears, floating in the air. Rook looked at nothing, somewhat annoyed.
—Yeah, yeah, maybe that's not the point.
Weaver laughed at her, once more. He stood in front of Rook, being nothing more than a haze of magic, transparent. Rook watched him fondly, as she had done for so long.
Since she was very young, Rook shared a special connection with magic. Her threads were unique in the world, threads that connected with any being in this world, allowing her to see their memories, break their lives if she wanted, know how to locate them, until they died by her hands, undoing that thread, each one of a different color to her eyes.
It was a dangerous power. A power that only Weaver could help her control. And she had taken his name to honor that debt. The Weaver would not exist without this mysterious presence, without this almost spirit that always accompanied her, like a moral subconscious.
Although, really, she couldn't say that he was a spirit. She couldn't say what he was, in general. When Rook asked him about this question, Weaver only laughed, with that deep voice, which seemed masculine, so characteristic of him, but without answering her.
As if he had a secret to hide. And he really was a free presence, who spoke to her when he wanted, inside her mind, who appeared when he felt like it, knowing that only she would see him, unless he allowed himself to be seen, as he had already done before her companions. Rook sighed, exhausted, returning to the topic that corresponded to her, before Weaver appeared.
—Tell me, Weaver, why do you think it's like that? Why do you think Solas and Lavellan have changed so much?
Weaver sat next to her. His shape was not defined, but he was definitely taller than Rook, surpassing her by a head.
—Who knows, little one—he said, with mystery in his voice. Rook just huffed, amused.
—It's impossible to get an answer out of you, as always, right? —she asked him, looking at him with her eyes enthroned.
He laughed again, without answering. Rook smiled at him lopsidedly and looked at her mirror. Silence settled between them.
—Have you become what you wanted, Rook? —Weaver murmured to her, moving slightly closer to her.
Rook averted her gaze for a second towards Weaver, but averted it back to the mirror, thoughtfully, but with a whirlwind of feelings rising in her chest.
—I don't know, Weaver. There are times when I see myself and think that I still have a lot to improve in myself—She looked at the ceiling, sadly, returning to those intrusive thoughts that always tormented her—. If I'm a non-binary person, why do I use female pronouns? Why do I like to dress more "like a girl"? —she said, putting quotation marks with her fingers— Doesn't that make me a woman?
—Is it that to be non-binary you must have a dress code? A strict way of expressing yourself? —Weaver approached her. A shapeless face approached hers. She could almost feel a ghostly breath, but Rook was so used to his closeness that she didn't flinch.
—Heaviness. Pain. Guilt. You feel all that with intensity because you think that nobody will love you like that ever— Weaver picked up what seemed to be a lock of his hair, as indistinguishable as everything else—. But there are already people who love you, Rook. I love you.
Rook clapped her hand in the air, going through it, trying to hide the tears that had begun to spring into her eyes, hearing him.
—Oh, shut up, you're making me sentimental!
Weaver laughed and hugged her tenderly, surrounding her with those ghostly arms. Rook felt nothing physically, but her heart warmed inside, causing her to close her eyes.
Weaver was one of the few constants who had supported her among so many years of resentment, of rejection among others, of incomprehension. He might not be more than a spirit or whatever, but she knew that without his presence she wouldn't be there today.
Of that she was sure.
He stepped away, giving her space, while she wiped away a few tears. She picked up the mirror, which was left floating, and placed it in its place.
—Remember Rook, you are not what you see, but what you transmit—he reminded her, once more, with that tone so his, so mysterious.
Rook nodded, smiling at him. Weaver turned towards the fish tank, in silence. But he spoke, once more, after a few seconds:
—And about Lavellan and Solas…— he stopped abruptly, raising his head and tilting it, as if he had heard something. Rook frowned, seeing him with that strange gesture.
—Weaver? —she asked him, doubtful of what was happening to him.
—I have to go, Rook. Don't worry— he said goodbye to her and disappeared into nothing, leaving a small mist, which vanished quickly. Rook just blinked, confused, at the abrupt farewell.
—What the hell? —she asked the air, as if someone was going to answer her.
Without warning, Weaver reappeared in front of her, giving her a death scare, causing Rook to place a hand on her chest, with a deep inspiration.
—And one more thing. Right on the table in the center, to the right, there's a room that you should show Lavellan. It's a circular door that opens as soon as you place your hand on it.
He disappeared again, leaving Rook more confused than before, while her heart didn't stop beating, with the scare still in her body.
Fuck.
Someday she was going to give this strange spirit a piece of her mind. And she would be very, very satisfied.