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Oddly enough, the Lighthouse has proven to be more of a comfort than anticipated. Though, Lucanis supposes almost anywhere would be preferable to an underwater prison. It isn’t too difficult to be less repellant than the Ossuary, but their sanctuary in the Fade feels… free. Devoid of whatever awaits him back home in Treviso. Whatever repairs must be made. Whatever planning must be done. Whatever infighting will occur upon filling the position of first talon. Whatever thoughts will be had when he returns an abomination.
They will. Know. There is no place for. Us.
Groaning, he pushes the balls of his hands against his eyes.
Two days. He has gone two days without sleeping.
Spite grows more restless as the days go by with no word on Zara’s whereabouts. The fear of what the demon will do when Lucanis eventually does need to rest grows even faster.
We made. A deal!
His hands drop to his sides. “You act like I do not know that,” he mutters as he leans against the rail of the side of the balcony overlooking the courtyard. The foliage that has managed to somehow thrive and the impressive stonework of the Lighthouse reminds him of home. Of the gardens back at the villa. Of late nights hiding amidst the cherry and nectarine trees, wishing for nothing more than one more bedtime story of wyverns from his mother. Of the rare summer afternoons when he and his cousin were allowed to be children and play amongst the plant life. Of long mostly silent walks with his grandmother as he and the weather both grew colder.
Caterina.
Gone.
It’s difficult to process. He doesn’t believe he really has. Not yet.
At least Spite has busied himself about the balcony, so he can’t mock the grief that won’t even fully bloom.
“How goes the brooding up there?” Spite’s sudden perk of interest feeds the frown on Lucanis’s face as he looks out in the direction of the voice. Nothing but grins and soft features are returned from the ground. Rook. She is an oddball, and Lucanis isn’t entirely sure what to make of her. She is firm and commands the attention of every room she is in. That much is to be expected from a Lord of Fortune with any sort of direct relation to the Queen of the Eastern Seas herself. He can’t help but glower at the thought of having to cross paths with Isabela’s distaste for the Crows, but that is a bridge to be crossed if they come to it. Rook herself has a kindness about her that contrasts with the firmness he has been privy to. Something gentle in her way of dealing with the sometimes manic ramblings of Bellara. Supportive in her ability to ride along any strange rock-filled adventure Harding suggests will be of help. Witty and quick in keeping up with whatever sharp left turn Neve discovers.
“Make yourself at home,” is what she told him upon his arrival. Wherever he wanted. There’s freedom in this place. That’s how she made it feel. Made them feel. Comfortable.
She doesn’t think twice about Spite even when two of her previous companions are rightfully concerned.
“Okay, but did you see the wings? The backflip?” She wasn’t quiet when talking to Bellara as they left the dining hall. “Incredible! Then he just–” The doors slowly swung shut, but he could just make out enough movement from her that appeared to be stabbing or perhaps punching? He couldn’t be sure. Bellara laughed at whatever Rook was proceeding to do as the last sliver of light from the courtyard still showed through the closing doors. “The technique! What a–” He shook his head, almost relieved to not hear whatever came next, but there was a whisper of a smile on his face nonetheless.
“I am trying to… to think.” Mostly, he’s trying to keep Spite occupied by the wisps that wander around, but with anyone else around, there’s little to no chance of that happening. Oh. She is. Sweet. Trying to get. Close. But we are wrong. She knows. He inhales sharply as the demon awaits her arrival at the top of the stairs she’s climbing.
Her hair is entirely inefficient for a warrior. Long unruly red curls flying free down her back. They dance in the breeze and somehow never faze her when she's hurling an axe into the back of a Venatori mage. Only when she bursts a blight boil from close range does it seem to bother her. A look of disgust never ceases to grace her face when she scoops gunk out of her hair. Given all the horrors that face them, it’s a little comical. Right now, though, she’s approaching with a softness in her features. One that comes bearing gifts if her full hands are any indication.
“Looks more like brooding to me, but whatever you say,” she quips, shoving a glass of wine in his direction. In her other hand, she precariously holds another glass and what appears to be a makeshift sack made from cheesecloth. “But Harding made dinner, so I know you’re running on too much coffee and sheer force of will.” She takes a sip of her wine, holding the cheesecloth parcel out to him. “Eat.”
After a brief moment of hesitation, he accepts the bag from her. The loose knot she’s tied is flimsy and easy to unravel. While this was likely done on purpose for ease of reopening, he commits this to memory in the event they will need any sort of fastening by means of knot tying in the future. Within the confines of the bag, he finds several slices of cheese that vary in size and thickness–cut quickly and haphazardly–, half a small loaf of bread, and an apple.
He stares at the food for probably longer than is appropriate. Compared to the stale sand-covered breads and other questionable gruel that was tossed to him at the Ossuary solely to keep him alive until their experiment was complete, this is practically a gourmet feast. Cheese and wine and fruit. None of which he ever thought he would be able to experience again. He considers the food before him, thinks about handing it back to her, but instead sets it on the railing in front of him to fish out a very uneven slice of cheese. “Harding is very… nice,” he says finally. The cheese itself is firm when he bites into it. Sharp. Salty. Something to savor.
“Should be criminal what she does to those poor potatoes, though,” Rook agrees while taking another sip of her drink. She turns to perch herself on the railing beside the sack of goodies to more properly face him. The light that shines in the Fade passes through her hair like firelight. Warm and orange in its glow. His eyes fall back onto the now open cheesecloth bag. “They weren’t any better today so you know. I’d count myself lucky for missing them if I were you.”
A small smirk picks up at the corners of his lips. “I was telling Bellara that such things shouldn’t even be possible to do to potatoes,” he explains, lifting his glass to his lips. “Not that you treat poultry any kinder.”
She arches a brow, but a grin spreads across her face no less. “Ah, well, it didn’t kill you, right?” she challenges. “If it didn’t kill you, it couldn't have been that bad.”
“No, but that is only because I had the mind not to eat it.”
Nearly choking on a mouthful of wine, she hoists herself up off the rail. His knuckles go white on the stem of his glass. Only after she applies a few hefty smacks to her chest does he realize she’s laughing. At his comment. A very bizarre experience indeed. He smiles despite himself. “Self preservation,” she coughs, giving a thumbs up in his direction. “That’s what we like to see on this team.”
Oh. She’s fun! Lucanis does his best to smother his grimace. When they were imprisoned, there was something comforting in having someone that wasn’t a guard speak to him even if it was a demon demanding to be released. In the last few days, he finds himself less thrilled with the commentary as it usually regards the team he has found himself contracted to work with. I like Rook. Rarely, Spite refers to anyone by name. There are usually vague descriptors used in the place of monikers. Chatty elf. Detective. Hat. Dwarf scout. Rook, though, was simply Rook or her. For whatever reason that may be.
He almost wishes she would leave him to his solitude. With no one to shout at him about, Spite usually grows bored and stalks off to mutter nonsensically in a corner somewhere. However, there is a comfort in Rook’s presence that Lucanis can’t quite bring himself to dismiss, though who really is to say that he wouldn’t feel the same comfort from pretty much anyone after a year in solitary confinement with a demon. Let me. Talk to her! The frown he has been desperately trying to bite back has grown exponentially.
“Spite, settle down,” she scolds as if it were a natural course of action. She sips her wine and returns to lean against the railing. “Let the poor man have a moment’s peace for the love of the Maker.” Her tone is cool and even, unfazed by something she could not see or hear. He watches her, slightly baffled, as Spite manifests beside her. The demented shadowy version of himself grumbles incomprehensibly, skulking and sniffing around the halo of curls on Rook’s head.
Smells like. Lemons and blight.
“You are very tolerant of a demon,” Lucanis comments before he breaks off two pieces of bread. One for himself. One for her, which he places a piece of cheese on to hand in her direction. Spite sneers in response. “Cierra el hocico.” A growl is presented, but his demon stalks off. After a year as unwilling yet close companions, there was no need for pleasantries or formalities between demon and host.
She gladly accepts the bread and cheese. “Demons were spirits once,” she replies. “He’s lost something of himself by means of corruption or torture, which I’d say is hardly his fault.” To speak so plainly of demons and spirits is odd to him. It is as if they don’t spend their time plotting how to take down spirits, blight, and demons. “Back home in Rivain, we tend to be a little more–” Nodding her head back and forth, she chews on her words along with the cheese and bread, “–open-minded about spirits, I s’pose.”
Imagining Spite as simply a spirit and not… what he has become is a task Lucanis can’t quite grasp. She eyes him as he mulls over what she said. There is a twinkling in the sea of her eyes he isn’t able to name. Something curious. Something mischievous. He clears his throat as he brings his gaze back to the food on the rail. “And those who are possessed by them,” he adds without looking back up at her. His cheeks are warm even if the temperature in the Fade is mildly cool, though not uncomfortable.
Silence passes through the air around them. He misses the breeze and gentle cooing of birds here as much as he did in the Ossuary. Just some semblance of real life would sate him instead of existing in this ethereal plane. Perhaps this is all him finally breaking under the pressure of deep waters. There was no grand escape. There are no blighted gods. Just him finally cracking after a long hard fought year of torture. Spite finally betrays him and takes over his body. His fingers grip onto the rail to brace himself. Eyes squeeze shut. He takes a sharp breath in and holds it in his chest.
A hand lands softly, tentatively on his shoulder. “Hey,” Rook speaks quietly. Opening his eyes, he finds he is still in fact at the Lighthouse. She is still beside him, now standing from the railing. Clear eyes the very shade of the sky he so longs to be under hold his own. “I take care of my team.” Assassins are not generally known for working in teams nor did they rely on others to care for them in any capacity. Elven gods also aren’t usually trying to destroy the world by unleashing the blight. Unprecedented times call for unprecedented measures.
Her touch falls from his shoulder at his lack of response. “I’ll leave you to your thinking then I suppose,” she sighs, a bit dramatically. He nods, scoffing at her flair. She provides him a close lipped smile as she pads off toward the stairs, only glancing over her shoulder when she’s taken the first step. “I know it’s hard… grieving alone.” A pause rattles through her generally joking disposition. Clouded sadness passes through her eyes. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.” The light returns to her face with an exaggerated frown. “In the room with the couch.” He chuckles despite himself. “‘The Lighthouse will provide what you need.’” She waves her arms around in the air as she descends. “What a load of shit.” Her steps and murmured ramblings fade with distance. The doors below him creak open and shut as she returns to the library.
And Lucanis is alone again.