Chapter Text
This was it. The final stand. Blighted Minrathous stood before them, infested with boils creeping onto the sides of the buildings, the darkspawn roaming the streets as citizens furtively tried to take refuge in the chantries and the Circle. Of course, only the wealthiest were guaranteed protection; the bodies of the slaves littering the ground as Tevinter legions and Grey Wardens, led by Surana and the Tevinter Knight-Commander, tried to hold back the onslaught of the horde. Rogue Qunari bands, infected Venatori, mercenaries – Elgar’nan was pulling no stops, every single vestige of power he could amass went into crushing Minrathous. For the first time in its history, it seemed like the capital of the ancient empire would be taken.
Rook’s eyes were dark as he surveyed the carnage spreading out over the city, his expression unreadable. Minrathous might not have been his hometown, but it was the city he lived in for the majority of his adult life, swore to protect in the service of Shadow Dragons. His compatriots were fighting on these same streets, bleeding and dying in a desperate attempt to stave off the disaster. There was nothing for it, either they’d kill Elgar’nan today, or Minrathous would fall, and with it, the Veil, and the whole world.
Lucanis wasn’t ready for the world to end. Not now, not when he finally found a reason to keep going that went beyond the chains of duty and the cursed bonds of family that would see him as nothing but a slave to their ambitions. And he still had his pride, and his contract, blades singing to plunge into Elgar’nan’s heart as they plunged into Ghilan’nain’s. The greatest assassination of them all.
“Whatever it takes,” echoed around the council room where their team was gathered. Strife announced that his scouts spotted Elgar’nan in the Archon’s palace, that giant floating fortress in the skies. There was no need to wonder about the fate of the previous archon, not now, when the hallways of the palace were running red with the blood of the members of the magisterium.
“There is a giant tendril of blight tethering it to the Divine’s manor in Hightown,” Strife said gravely, pointing out the location on the map.
“There are pathways that lead to the manor that the darkspawn might not know about,” Rook nodded pensively. No doubt the Shadow Dragons network, Lucanis mused, remembering his outings with Tarquin, their hidden rebellion permeating the city like a spiderweb. Now that the magisterium was decimated, Shadow Dragons had a real chance to retake the power from the Venatori… provided, of course, any of them survived and the world wasn’t plunged into demonic chaos. Charon Mercar managed to convince the Imperator to aid Shadow Dragons, and the full might of the Tevinter legions was marching onto the capital.
And they had other allies. The Watchers came from Nevarra, already raising their undead army with the corpses of slain Tevinters. Surana sent them a strike team led by Evka and Antoine, scouts and heavy hitters alike. Every Crow house sent their representative to support the new First Talon, silent shadows obedient to his command, Teia and Viago at his heels. Even Isabela brought her ragtag team of mercenaries, ostensibly to help fight the Qunari, their sworn enemies, though Lucanis had no doubt they’d be eyeing a great many artifacts of the Tevinter capital whose owners had suddenly been slain. The Inquisition forces, their Veil Jumpers and Bright Hand mages, as well as foot soldiers, were marching in, the letters from the Divine providing them passage. Hawke and her friend, the apparent abomination that sometimes went by Anders, and sometimes by Justice, was joining them. Lucanis was burning with questions about whether that was the same Anders who blew up the cathedral in Kirkwall all these years ago, starting the mage-templar war. There was still an open contract on his head, though here, in the heart of Tevinter, on the brink of the world's end, no Crow would be foolish enough to try to take that mark.
Solas was still their primary target, as without the dagger, there was no chance of killing Elgar’nan. A very reasonable consideration, but Lucanis could easily admit he didn’t give a damn about the dagger anymore. Solas hurt Rook, stuck him in a horrifying prison, made him lose all sense of reality, and made Lucanis and Spite think they lost their beloved forever. No sin could be graver. For that, Solas would die, and if it was in any way practical, suffer as much as possible before the relief of death could finally claim him. He didn’t give a damn that Solas was helping the Shadow Dragons; that lying bastard was just allying himself with mortals for his own selfish ends.
Their small group was once again aimed to infiltrate the palace and distract Elgar’nan as his temple burned and his foci were destroyed. But as they were slithering through the hidden passageways of the Minrathous underground, Rook suddenly raised a hand.
“This path is blocked. A cave-in. We’ll have to resurface and force our way through one of the gates to bypass it,” he announced quietly.
“It’s likely to be guarded by the Venatori,” Neve muttered, but there was nothing any of them could do at this point, the chaos spreading through the city.
They slipped out onto the streets and climbed up the nearby roof. That’s when Harding’s scouting abilities would be really helpful, Lucanis thought to himself, and cursed inwardly. Harding was dead, gone, no wishful thinking would bring her back. And they weren’t helpless, Strife right by their side, the grizzled old man watching the gates with narrowed eyes.
“It’s warded and guarded by the Venatori war mage,” he finally whispered, keen elven eyes seeing further than any of theirs. Or maybe it was the experience.
“The ward can be dismantled,” Emmrich smiled thinly, and Lucanis nodded:
“And the mage killed before she even has a chance to notice us.”
“I’ll guard your back,” Strife nodded to Emmrich, and added quietly, “Always.”
“The rest of you, stand back. The less noise we make, the better,” Lucanis murmured, blades already bared, as Rook looked at him sharply.
“You sure you don’t need help?”
“Venatori mages are my favourite target,” he smiled, Spite’s blood thirst slipping through, elongating their canines, making their eyes glow with purple lights. A favourite target, and the most pleasurable kill. Lucanis rarely took as much delight in fulfilling his contracts, but this wasn’t just work anymore. Would never be.
While Emmrich and Strife were approaching the ward, Lucanis silently took flight, even their wings dark, muted instead of the usual purple shimmer. The warmage was alert, scanning the ground before her from the high balcony with watchful eyes, but, just as so many before her, she didn’t think to look up. His senses were honed, recognizing and unraveling the protective ward aura around her, seeing the slightest chinks in the arcane shield that surrounded the mage. Crouching on the wall above her, Lucanis picked up a needle from his holster with nimble fingers, careful not to touch the tip, braced himself, timing the slightest flickers of the protective aura around her as Fade rippled, and threw the needle exactly at the tiny open window when the shield wavered. The warmage whirled around, sudden pain in her neck making her alert to the attacker, but the exquisite mixture of the paralytic and magebane had already taken root in her bloodstream, poisoning the veins, turning her movements sluggish and uncontrolled, her magic wild and unpredictable. The mage made a valiant effort to cleanse the poison from her blood before using it to fuel her spells, but she was too late. Lucanis descended like a vengeful wraith onto the Venatori, plunging a blade into her neck, right where the needle pierced her. The mage fell with a gurgling sound, bleeding out, just as the ward on the gate below ruptured; Emmrich’s attempts to dismantle it were successful.
Another perfect assassination, Lucanis congratulated himself, standing over the corpse of the Venatori warmage.
Quickly, their group went through, the chaos on the streets enveloping them as the deadly hunt began. Before they even had a chance to dive into another passageway, a giant crack could be heard as a club of a ginormous construct hit the walls of the nearby houses.
“Juggernaut,” Neve whispered as they watched in awe the lyrium warrior laying devastation onto the group of Wardens and Isabela’s mercenaries.
“We have to help them!” Taash and Davrin yelled in unison, joining the fray before Rook could say a word. It was probably a suboptimal strategy; they should have concentrated on getting into the Divine’s manor as soon as possible, but there was nothing for it now as Lucanis slid out of the way of the falling debris. They wouldn’t be able to pass before stopping the juggernaut anyway. With widened eyes, he watched Taash run up the arm of the lyrium construct, axe swinging wildly, as they jumped in a wide arc. Taash was growing more and more reckless, Harding’s death no doubt hitting hard, and Lucanis could only hope the Qunari warrior wasn’t planning to join their beloved in that suicidal display. It seemed Taash did manage to lodge their axe in some vital control crystal, at least, as the juggernaut’s movement started slowing down, before stopping completely, as the warrior leaped off, Davrin’s blade clearing off the approaching Qunari as Taash recovered from the rough landing.
“Rook, we have to move!” Lucanis yelled urgently, and their group rushed in to the opening of another hidden passage that was supposed to take them closer to the High Town and the Divine’s manor. Taash and Davrin would have to catch up later.
The dark, dank corridor was still intact and undetected, though ominous cracks spread out through the stone. They emerged amidst the blighted, pulsing fistules, rot and decay cloying, almost overwhelming, as giant tentacles spread around the tall buildings. High town was imposing, majestic in all its glory, but now lay in ruins, precious golden gilt tarnished, artful mosaics destroyed. A loud bang and blinding light of a thunderous spell roared through the street as they rushed towards the giant tentacle, a familiar figure flying through the air before crumpling against the nearest wall, the pulsing Arcane barrier barely managing to kill the momentum before every single bone was crushed and the fragile human body turned into a bloody paste.
Ashur wasn’t looking good, bloodied, skin streaked with Blight veins, and motionless as his chest barely moved with labored breath. Enraged Tarquin yelled profanities at the tentacle reaching for the mage, running at it with just a blade and purging smite. Neve added a ray of blistering cold to help him as Rook rushed to Ashur’s side and immediately tipped a healing potion down his throat. Another wave of energy, light green mist, struck at the tentacles, finally making them retreat.
“Did we win?” was the first thing Ashur asked, blinking heavily as he regained consciousness, flesh barely knitting itself over his split temple, still bleeding sluggishly.
“You are lucky your head’s so damn hard,” Tarquin exhaled, rushing to Ashur’s side, immediately offering him another healing potion. Shadow Dragon’s leader, Blighted and sick as he was, must have already been on the death door before the battle even started, Lucanis realized with dismay, and still stepped onto the battlefield, determined to protect his people.
“You are still alive,” Rook muttered unnecessarily, muted, subdued, as he watched Ashur choking on the third health potion in a row, and then a bottle of diluted lyrium mages used to boost their powers.
“Thanks to Solas,” Tarquin winced, obviously as unhappy to be in the Evanuris’ debt as the rest of them, “He’s been the only thing between us and Elgar’nan.”
“Has he, now?” Rook asked darkly, and then turned towards them all, “Stay with Ashur, I’m going to talk to Solas.”
With rising horror, Lucanis realized that the green mist from earlier had not come from Ashur, Emmrich, or Neve, nor was it Rook’s. The Dread Wolf himself was holding back the monster, as dirtied and bloodied as all of them, no more successful against the might of Elgar’nan’s Blighted tendrils than mere mortals.
And Rook approached him willingly.
Bullshit. Solas was as full of bullshit as ever, spouting nonsense of desperation, of how he had no choice but to poison Rook’s mind with blood magic, destroy his sanity, take away the vestiges of control Rook painfully managed to wrestle away from the masters who controlled him his whole life. Tamassrans, Loratius, Imshael, Ghilan’nain, and Elger’nan, and now Solas… he was really no better than any slaver.
Rook seemed to think so, too. But Rook could always see things clearer than most. Was willing to work with Solas until they dealt with Elgar’nan. Lucanis couldn’t say that he’d have the sheer willpower and control to do the same; the hatred he felt for Solas was only rising with every single lie he uttered.
“If joining me and stopping Elgar’nan requires the Veil to stay in place, then I will pay that price, unflinching,” Solas declared, oh-so-earnest, voice deep and full of passion, “I swear by my own foolish pride, by love for friends I’ve failed and hurt, by everything I ever held as sacred: I will leave the Veil untroubled. It will never come down by my hand.”
Just as he finished that declaration, a sound of clapping could be heard, slow, deliberate, as a slender figure of an elf with dark red eyes stepped forward, a giant Pride demon at his shoulder.
“That pride and love have surely carried you far,” Anaris laughed, his voice mirthful, though his eyes remained cold and predatory, “Didn’t you call me a friend, too? Funny how your beloved friends all end up imprisoned, while you roam free.”
“You… walk the world again,” Solas said slowly, his face going pale, voice cracking as he took Anaris in.
“Not a happy reunion, huh,” the demon rumbled, its voice thunderous, but Anaris only laughed.
“Alas, he doesn’t seem that happy to see us, my love.”
Lucanis slowly exhaled, so Imshael decided to discard the fragile elven body to fight in his – her? – primal form. Could he go back? Could any abomination? Was that the fate that he and Spite narrowly avoided when Zara’s enchantments were unraveling?
“Doesn’t matter,” Rook cut in quickly, “Solas, what was your plan? Did you have one?”
“I… yes,” Solas muttered slowly, still reeling from Anaris’ presence, “Though it’s easier to show.”
The Blight. It was reacting to the presence of Evanuris, tendrils spreading, reaching, eager and hungry, guided by the minds of enslaved Venatori, bodies half-submerged, half-consumed by the monstrous flesh. Elgar’nan did not have Ghilan’nain talent for Blight manipulation, his methods crude, brute-forced, yet still effective. As Solas muttered that he could accompany them no further, that his presence was calling the Sun-God’s attention, Lucanis could only huff in disbelief. Who was he trying to fool?
That was when Anaris snarled, suddenly enraged, and they all watched in horror as one of the tendrils unfurled, Bellara’s face stricken with black veins, eyes crimson red and pulsing in tact with the Blight boils, watching them. Even if she were alive, Elgar’nan has forever corrupted her body, poisoned her mind, turned her into one of those monsters they were supposed to slay.
The archdemon roared, diving down as he finally noticed their little group, eager to set them on fire, the first attack barely stopped by the barrier Solas erected just in time. That barrier wouldn’t hold another attack, the shimmery dome around them already dissipating.
Both Evanuris looked up just as the archdemon reared up for the second round. The scream Anaris let out was inhuman, reverberating with the power of Void as Cyrian’s rage and pain took over the ancient spirit. Shadows furled around him, dark, ominous, pulsing with hatred so thick and suffocating they all fell back as Anaris’ body started to change, a giant winged serpent taking its place, shadows clinging to the pitch-black scales like a mantle. All giant coils flew past them at surprising speed as the shadow serpent launched at the archdemon.
“We are out of time,” Solas muttered, watching as the two gargantuan monsters battled in the skies. “I will aid him and defeat the archdemon. Once Elgar’nan is mortal, the final blow… it must be yours.”
Lucanis looked skeptically as Rook accepted the dagger. He didn’t believe for a second that Solas didn’t have a second plan in mind, some final betrayal that was awaiting them all. It was just not in the prideful elf’s nature to finally admit that he must have been wrong about something.
And of course, Solas could also turn into some giant monster. A wolf, how fitting. A flea-infested mongrel, if one were to ask Lucanis, but they had to take all the help they could get at this point.
With a shrug, Rook turned away from the battling gods and ran towards the group of tendrils where they last saw Bellara’s body. Terrified of what they’d find, Lucanis hurried after him, and, like a clockwork, another wave of darkspawns and some strange magical construct appeared. It was the familiar dance of thrusting, parrying, and slashing at this point, wings carrying him obediently as Spite snarled in his hand, bloodlust merging them into one perfect arcane warrior.
Bellara wasn’t dead. She really wasn’t, and as the tendrils retreated, Rook hurried over, falling onto his knees in an attempt to catch a falling body.
She wasn’t dead, but she was surely Blighted, crying weakly as Elgar’nan tried to reassess control over her blood. But for all the evanuris’ might, he was still not Ghilan’nain, and Bellara was stubborn, skilled, and trained by the best mages the Inquisition had to offer. Trained by Surana, Lavellan, and Merrill, the elven legacy she inherited absorbed the ancient knowledge of the Evanuris, and expanding, developing, bringing the new edge as she and her brethren cut out the new path for the elvhen.
“You are not my god! Get out of my head!” she shrieked as the mind-controlling bond finally snapped, freeing her will.
Bellara started saying something else, but was cut short as the new attack made them scatter. The ground around them started shaking as the ancient structures couldn’t withstand the burden of the tendrils spreading around, and they all ran, desperate to escape to stable ground. A piercing cry of a crow split the skies, and that swamp witch, Morrigan, suddenly appeared, the shroud of Mythal powers around her shoulders, and a barrier erected at the snap of fingers as she ushered them towards an opened maw of the outer wall of the Divine’s mansion. The rubble around them kept flying, the ground unstable, but for now, the building protected by the wards erected by the strongest Tevene mages was holding strong.
As they ran into the cellars and shut the doors behind them, a rumbling noise could be heard from the other side of the basement. Cautious, they approached the doors shaking under the relentless assault, weapons gripped in preparation for the yet-unknown threat, and then sighed in relief as the doors busted open and Taash and Davrin, along with Lavellan, Surana, Isabela, and several more Wardens rushed in. Lucanis noticed Antoine and Evka among them. It was surely a relief to see some of their allies still managed to survive the ginormous lyrium construct.
Ah, and Dorian with Maevaris, of course. Apparently, the Shadow Dragons took the opportunity to assassinate as many Venatori as possible in the surrounding chaos as the entrances to the Divine Manor got unblocked. Good for them, Lucanis wanted to say, it’d make his job easier when he got to fulfilling the promise he made to Rook to kill all the enemies of his little Tevinter rebellion. Provided, of course, the world didn’t end today.
It wouldn’t. It couldn’t. Not before… not before…
Bellara was talking about how Elgar’nan was using mages’ brains as the living controls for the Blight, blood magic combined with some unholy Blight corruption to make them malleable, obedient, burned-out husks of themselves, obediently dancing to the evanuris’ tune. Lucanis didn’t care. Now that they were so close, and the stakes were so high, the only one that mattered was Rook.
The world was hazy and yet so crystal clear as they walked through the Divine’s manor, at some point no doubt splendid and magnificent, but now ruined under the repeated attacks and Blight corruption. Maevaris has taken Bellara to a makeshift hospital where Spirit of Kindness was hovering over Junalis’ shoulder, the Altus woman quickly looking over the elf before moving her hands in a choreographed dance of the healing spells she explained to have too much practice with, after so many months of Ashur slowly dying. Bellara’s condition was incurable, bar Joining, but she wouldn’t drop dead right this instant. A huge weight lifted off Lucanis’ shoulders as the death sentence over his friend’s head got delayed, if only for now.
On the other side of the healing ward, he noticed Anders – Justice? – looking over Bellara speculatively before returning to his own patients, but didn’t have the time to inquire.
Rook went off to talk to Surana, Lavellan, and Hawke, who somehow found her way onto the council despite being absent for a good decade. Being the legendary Champion must have had something to do with it. Or maybe it was her knowledge of the deep Fade, deeper than any mortal could have ventured. Lucanis didn’t care.
Today, the last mission entrusted to him by Caterina would end. After that, it was all up to him how to live his own life. What choices would the new First Talon make?
Deep in his thoughts, he paid no mind as Rook emerged from the council room and made his rounds, checking up on their friends. He needed to get it right, get the words right.
He was never so nervous and so excited, and it had nothing to do with Elgar’nan’s impending end.
“Whatever happens, my contract was for the blighted gods. Today, it is fulfilled,” he started slowly as Rook finally approached, eyes coloured like the thunderous, stormy clouds watching him in rapt attention.
“If I’d never gone to the Crows, if I’d never found you… I’m just so grateful I did,” Rook answered, his voice quiet, uncertain, hitching slightly by the very end as if he was as nervous as Lucanis felt.
“As am I. More than I’ve ever told you,” Lucanis exhaled, Spite straightening out his spine as he almost felt the urge to hunch, the demon urging him to power through, so faithful to his nature as the spirit of Determination where Lucanis might have wavered.
“Rook… saying I owe you my life is not enough,” he continued, bolstered by that silent support, “You know my mind. I’ve assumed you know my heart because… it beats for you. It’s been beating when I wanted you. When I was afraid to want you. Tell me this ends with me asleep in your arms, and I will kill any god you ask.”
“Lucanis… I…” Rook’s eyes were wide, his face so suddenly young, and trusting, and hopeful. Someone who so dearly wanted to belong. To be loved and cherished as he deserved, thousands of times over.
Lucanis wasn’t nervous anymore. He knew in his heart what Rook would say. He still wanted to ask, just for the sheer joy of it.
“I love you, Rook. I won’t let you down. And…” he swallowed, and took that leap of faith, trusting in the miracle that let him meet Rook in the first place, “You said earlier that you had no family, so no family name. After this is over… how would you like Dellamorte?”
“Is that you asking?...”
Lucanis just nodded and watched in sheer delight as Rook’s face lit up.
“Yes! A thousand times, yes!”
Rook looked so happy, and excited, and joyful, his hulking figure suddenly seeming as light as a feather, and Lucanis couldn’t help but feel as if his heart was filled with pure sunshine. If the hellish year in the Ossuary, his family’s treachery, the world falling apart around them were all the price just for this one, single, perfect moment, he’d pay it without thinking.
Family? His new family was right here, squeezing him excitedly, pulling Lucanis up in his exuberance until his feet were in the air, and he didn’t care for a second about how ridiculous they must look as Rook span them both around in sheer glee, his elation palpable.
“Of course, I love you. And I’ll love to be a part of your family,” Rook muttered as Lucanis threw his hands around the neck of his lover, somewhat regaining balance. Not that he needed it. Rook could easily hold him, weightless, secure in the arms of the gentle giant who has become the new meaning of his life, the sole reason to wake up and look forward to what tomorrow would bring.
Lucanis wasn’t exaggerating when he said that his heart beat for Rook. And it would keep beating for millennia, if needed. If two ancient elves could do it, so would he.
The moment of respite was brief; Elgar’nan’s forces, or whatever remained of them, gathered around the Divine’s Manor, ready to lay siege as they felt the threat to their master. Davrin joined his warden brethren again, and Taash was heading off with their vanguard to stave off the Qunari. Neve and Ashur were rising up the manor’s defenses as Tarquin commanded the remaining Shadow Dragons, as well as the loyal mages and templars of the Argent Spire, to form a protective perimeter. That left him, Bellara, Emmrich, and Rook to follow Surana, Lavellan, and Hawke up the vines, climbing higher, towards the sky, where Elgar’nan’s dragon battled Solas and Anaris.
Mages. All mages. He could stop lying to himself and discount himself as one by now. It was almost ironic, but they were in Tevinter, after all. The whole land was breathing magic, Veil paper-thin, Fade just a whisper away.
Their ascent was slow and laborious, the ground treacherous, vines threatening to slip away from their grasp. And yet they pushed onward, finally reaching the Archon’s palace, at some point a marvelous example of splendor and wonder, now ruined, desecrated, and tarnished by the Blight. More enemies, scurrying like roaches in the shadows. More blades clashed. Death by a thousand cuts, strength slowly slipping away as their reserves waned. When would this day be finally over?
When Elgar’nan drew his final breath, Lucanis reminded himself. When the contract was completed. When Rook was finally safe.
Bellara said something about being able to control the tendrils. Could she? Could anyone? Just what has Elgar’nan done to her?
And finally, the steps to the throne where Elgar’nan sat, pointless pontification of a man who thought himself a creator, and them the destroyers of the world he so painstakingly built.
He talked about the glory their shemlen lives would be too brief to remember. What glory, Lucanis wanted to ask? What glory could have been worth... whatever it was? The poisoned city, suffocating in Blight? The ruin he brought? Even the bloated, distorted corpses of the magisters hanging off the tendrils of his enormous Blight construct? Was that the glory Elgar’nan promised?
“I don’t see any glory. All I saw was a tyrant, destroying everything he touches,” Rook echoed his thoughts with a tired huff. Elgar’nan didn’t seem to appreciate his disdain.
“You mistake discipline for cruelty,” he started slowly, voice poisonous, “A failing among those who like a master’s gentle guidance. We only destroy it because you resist it.”
Master’s guidance. He sought to be another master of Rook’s, the one who’d take upon himself to mold people into whatever form he’d contort them to, and chip away unnecessary pieces one by one.
A tale so familiar. Tamassrans, Loratius, and Solas. Caterina, Zara, and Cesare. Was it just Rook who was beholden, or was it Lucanis himself? Did he care? Elgar’nan’s words made his blood boil all the same. He couldn’t keep listening, didn’t care about Elgar’nan’s lament over Ghilan’nain’s fate.
It didn’t matter. Nothing did anymore. Just his blades, seeking Elgar’nan’s heart.
Bloody tendrils spreading out between Rook, Surana, and Lavellan in a giant trap were suppressing whatever Evanuris' magic Elgar’nan should have been able to call upon, but it still fell upon the rest of them to inflict damage on the ancient elf blasting light and thunder, hack and slash in attempts to break through the barriers surrounding the arena.
Nothing mattered, except for the glide of his feathers, the glint of his blades, Fade steps, and the delicate dance of the footwork as he slid right next to Elgar’nan to make another tiny cut, one of thousands, wearing down his defenses bit by bloody bit.
Dance with the demon, he whispered, dance with the Killer, dance with Death Incarnate, the one who perfected his crafts in the shadows and secrets. Dance, and never notice that while you are distracted by the flashy fire and necromancers’ spellwork, magebane poison is seeping into your veins.
Lucanis danced with Elgar’nan, his deadly masterpiece, as Rook wove his magic, the power of lyrium, of the dagger woven with Titan’s blood, sang in the air. Like a tiny piece of Harding, Isatunoll, an eternal hymn of creation and connection, stolen by Solas from the titans for Evanuris’ sake, was returning to battle its ancient foes.
It was the most beautiful dance. And like all dances of the Demon of Vyrantium, of the First Talon, of Lucanis Dellamorte, it could only end in death.
The tendrils snatched the figure of the Dreadwolf out of the air, a pitiful whimper of the beaten dog so ironic coming out of the mouth of a giant monster. Even the shadow dragon serpent weaving its rings around the archdemon didn’t seem as swift and lethal anymore. The Pride demon form Imshael seemed to favor before melted away, giving place to a delicate figure of a Desire demon, her form beaten, bruised, so unlike the usual seductive ease with which her brethren waded through Fade. Elgar’nan’s immense presence alone made him misstep, falter, freeze as Rook’s form crumbled, his lover landing heavily on one knee.
It was then that Bellara bolted for the abandoned throne, her eyes, usually brown, now eerie red, glowing with hatred and defiance.
Whatever she said in elven enraged and baffled Elgar’nan in equal measure as the tendril around Solas unraveled and the paralyzing spell fell away. As she was getting suffocated by the Blight vines encircling her slight figure tighter and tighter, she kept smiling, the crooked, teeth-bared slasher smile with her eyes wide open, so similar to Rook’s in its defiant insanity, her last glance aimed upward, where two giant beasts still battled.
The shadow dragon’s piercing scream split the skies before he tore straight through the archdemon’s throat, and a ginormous lightning bolt pierced straight through the skull of Elgar’nan’s pet, eviscerating the bone and all the soft tissue. The giant beast fell down, its weight alone enough to shake the flying fortress to its core, and the shadow dragon serpent, still coiled around the body of the archdemon, fell with it. So did the Dreadwolf, shrinking to the form of the beaten-up, bruised elf. Solas.
“You are mortal, Elgar’nan. Enjoy it while it lasts,” Solas forced out through clenched teeth, gingerly trying to pick himself up.
Elgar’nan felt it too, if his desperation, the spiteful, jerky stench of his spells was anything to go by. But when it came to spite, Lucanis’ demon had a stronger grudge. Deeper reason. Determination to survive, to prevail, to save one person they treasured the most, loved the most, cherished the most.
Whatever spirit of Command, Authority, or whatever Elgar’nan used to be, he has long since lost that purity, his attunement to the Fade torn by the Blight coursing through his veins, Blight none but Ghilan’nain could control. And Ghilan’nain was no more.
And with the final plunge of the lyrium blade wielded by Rook’s hand, so was Elgar’nan.