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Anaan esaam Qun
Bull hears about the Tevinter altus in captivity before he remembers how Dorian was captured. He can't stand the warring memories: ones from Orlais, and ones from the past year or so in Thedas. His body bears new scars, and he can't--
He can't block out his role in all of this.
Do you ever think about what would happen if the Qunari invaded?
No. Not at all.
The memories of the Dorian Pavus in this world are the worst. The pain upon realizing Bull's betrayal, the rage and fear and longing on his face when they finally confronted each other on a battlefield. Dorian nearly killed him and Bull bears deep scars from ice nearly going through his chest. He would have died had it not been for a saarebas in the field.
But he also remembers quiet, tender moments on the porch of the bungalow and on the beach.
It hurts to see Dorian in captivity, even if this man tried to kill him. He can't even blame him. Bull can't stay away, finding excuses to pass through the prison, to look at him while he's sleeping. It isn't until he hears that the prisoner has been taken to interrogation that cold fear strikes through him.
-*-
As far as Dorian can tell, this portal has landed him in some Qunari-occupied version of Thedas straight out of a Tevinter cautionary tale. It's clearly Ferelden; in fact, it looks very much like Redcliffe, from the glimpses he'd gotten at the outside world before being locked up, chained and collared in a very dark room by very indifferent-seeming Qunari. If the Qunari have gotten this far south, he can't help but think, then surely Tevinter must be--
No, but he can't dwell on that. He has to get out of here. Back to Zhautas, or at least to a Thedas that isn't so fucking dismal; the spread of the Qun to this point is a complete nightmare, would be so even to someone like Bull, who had followed the Qun throughout his life. Maker, Dorian hopes he's all right. He'd been nearby when the portal opened. Impossible to say whether or not he'd come through as well.
He's been given water occasionally, but it's laced with magebane. He knows the taste well, even subtle as it is. His father had dosed him with it for months. But he can't very well not drink at all, especially when he's not been given food for--as far as he can tell--several days. Difficult to measure the hours without sunlight. The heavy collar around his neck would prevent him from using magic anyway, even if he could access it. No magic, no food; he feels empty in every way, lightheaded and weak and devoid of purpose, of options. He's spent most of the time asleep, or at least trying to rest. He's been isolated, too; a few people have come by to view him, but all have spoken Qunlat, and none have spoken directly to him.
The first time he was acknowledged was when he was dragged from his cell for interrogation. They speak to him in Common, low and only lightly accented. He doesn't know anything of value, of course, about the state of this world, even if his counterpart here is apparently quite important to the resistance of Qunari occupation, which doesn't surprise him for a moment. But he's stubborn enough not to want to tell his interrogators anything anyway. And where is Bull? Surely he must exist in this Thedas, fighting alongside him?
Where is Bull?
Time passes. He doesn't give satisfactory answers. They tell him that if he does, he will be rewarded; perhaps he will be allowed to convert, and live out his life as a Viddathari. He laughs at this. He knows the Qunari don't bother to convert foreign mages. Dangerous things. For those like him, there is only qamek.
That must have been...yesterday?
Where is Bull?
He fears, at first, that qamek is exactly what they're giving him. But that doesn't seem to be so. It is some other poison, perhaps, as his free will doesn't suddenly dribble out his ears; it merely makes his mind increasingly fuzzy. He is left alone for some time. Now he really can't measure it, can barely keep hold of his own thoughts. They blur together in the dark, and after some indeterminable amount of time, it becomes difficult to tell whether there is anyone there with him or not. At one point, he's sure he hears Sera's voice, but opens his eyes to find himself alone. Felix sits with him for a while, silently, a Blight-ridden hand covering his; but he'd never looked that bad in life, the flesh melting from his beautiful dear face as though already decaying from the inside out. He wonders what has happened to Lavellan, and when he next opens his eyes, her head is laying at his feet, the stitches holding her lips sewn shut still bleeding sluggishly. He sobs, slams his eyes shut, and when he opens them again it's gone. He would say that he is dreaming, but whatever they've put in him keeps him awake, and uncomfortably aware of the weight of his collar, of his chains, of every cut and bruise and sore on his body. He is itching in his own skin, and and eventually he begins talking--begging, really, is what it is, for someone to come back, anyone, anyone who he can know is real.
Eventually, they return.
Where is Bull?
They ask him first about his family. He doesn't like to talk about his family, but he tells them. It's a relief just to have someone there and solid and decidedly alive to interact with, and he has no reason to defend Magister fucking Halward anyway. Then they talk about his friends, about Maevaris, Lavellan, Gereon--no, he really doesn't know anything about where Mae is now, have you tried her estate near Vyrantium? She likes to host her summer parties there, not quite as oppressively hot as Minrathous. No, he really doesn't know where she might be right now, and why should he? Known co-conspirator? Well, they've been known to be thick as thieves, but--
It occurs to him that this is still an interrogation, and not a friendly chat. It occurs to him that they want to find Mae to hurt her. Perhaps to do the very same thing to her as they have done to him. (Lavellan, her mouth sewn shut; he failed her, he must have, he can't fail Mae that way. Was that even real, or a figment of his mind? Does it matter?)
"Where is Bull?"
He nearly doesn't realize he's spoken aloud. There is silence for a moment after, and then a quiet murmuring, one interrogator to another. Dorian hears it, the whisper of a word--a name--he recognizes. Hissrad.
Dorian's stomach twists. "Is he dead?" He asks, frantic. The room seems to be closing in on him. "Is he dead?" But no one is listening to him now. One of the interrogators leaves. Dorian's throat feels dry, and he still can't reach his magic, this bloody collar is so heavy, he wants to just--just sleep, or burn everything, it doesn't matter which. He's surprised when he feels his eyes welling up, but can't stop the tears when they fall. He has to leave. He has to get back, back to a world that makes sense.
Where is Bull?
-*-
People are not hard to break. All it takes is loneliness, uncertainty, and fear. Even the strongest minds will eventually fall to one of these, especially if there is pain of some kind or another. It's a matter of time; it's a when, not an if.
Especially when the Ben-Hassrath are in charge.
Bull knows exactly what the prisoner is going through and there is nothing he can do to stop it that would not end in both their executions. He visits a tamassran every day and no one questions it: of course Hissrad seeks comfort and reassurance in the Qun. He has been on the front lines, they say. He has been away for so long. It is the least they can do to give him respite.
It is part of why they keep him from the interrogation, and he can find no good reason to insert himself into it. He knows Dorian, intimately, but the interrogation techniques of the Ben-Hassrath do not depend on things like that. Still, the interrogators report to him and to the Viddasala. In every report, he looks for-- something. There has to be a way to get Dorian out, to get him to the border.
Learning how far the borders are send cold chills down his back. The Frostbacks, the Waking Sea. But he knows this land well. If he can just find a reason to be alone with Dorian--
"Hissrad, we need you."
He looks up from the campaign map spread across the table, then pushes away to follow the interrogator. Have they killed him? Is it worse? Bull steels himself for any number of possibilities.
Somehow the reality is worse.
Dorian sits, broken, in the middle of the room. Bull is told little, only that Dorian has asked after him. They encourage into the space and into the light. There is no mistaking him: he is too unique among his people. All he wants to do is drop to his knees, to lift Dorian up and hold him close. He wants to kill everyone else in the room, and anyone that gets between them and a true escape.
But he will not risk Dorian's life that way. He must be Hissrad or they will both die.
He moves closer and finally sinks to one knee in front of the mage.
"Dorian."
Kadan.
-*-
They bring him.
The relief Dorian feels at the sight of him, his huge and familiar presence taking up so much space in the small, quiet room, is enough to have him doubling over. He aches in every imaginable way, but seeing the Bull unharmed is worth everything.
"You're alive," he murmurs, and leans toward him instinctively as he sinks down nearby, seeking comfort in the size and strength of Bull's form. He can't quite reach him, and it sends a pang of desperation through him. There are new scars spanning the tough grey skin of Bull's chest, and his expression is impassive, but he is here.
"Bull, amatus, please--please, let's leave." It doesn't occur to him, in this state, to wonder whether he is another prisoner, or whether he is somehow in charge here, or if he even has the power to release him or not. The tears are hot on his cheeks, blurring his vision. He tries to blink them away. He wants to see Bull clearly. "I can't give them what they want, Bull, please, let's go--" He makes another attempt to reach him, but is stopped by the length of his chains. A low, pathetic noise wrenches its way from his throat. Just touch me, he thinks, just touch me please, and everything will be all right.
-*-
Bull doesn't dare offer too much comfort. He considers Dorian's state, knows well what they've likely given him to induce it. The bruises and chaffed skin make his stomach turn. He takes a breath and lets it go slowly.
Would the Dorian that tried to kill him call him amatus? Would he be so relieved to see him, even in these conditions.
He turns his head to address the interrogators.
"I'll take over from here. You've pushed too hard today."
It isn't a difficult argument to make. Dorian sounds nearly incoherent. The interrogators both murmur their apologies and leave to write up their reports. Bull breathes another quiet sigh and waits for a few agonizing minutes before he moves. He carefully unties Dorian and, as he gets to his feet again, he picks the mage up effortlessly.
"I'm here," he says very quietly. Even if this is the man that tried to kill him, Bull cannot stand to see him in pain.
-*-
Bull gives a directive, and the other two leave. The implications of that--this Bull isn't on his side at all, is he? Hissrad. Ben-Hassrath. Spy, agent, traitor.
But that can't be the case, can it? Surely it is a ruse, he thinks. Bull is releasing him, shackles falling to the floor, and then taking him in his arms. He's safe. Dorian buries his face in Bull's shoulder and lets himself weep. Bull would never want to hurt him. He'd even given him a word to say to stop him if he ever did. Katoh.
"Thank you," he says, watery, thick. He hates that he cries so easily, but he seems to have even less control over it now than usual. Logically, he knows he needs to rest. He needs to let the poison clear his system. But all he wants to do is get far away from here, let Bull carry him until this is nothing more than a bad dream.
"Don't leave me," he implores. That is the most important part.
-*-
Something in him breaks when he hears Dorian thank him. He adjusts his hold slightly, making sure to keep the mage against his chest. His mind is racing: he needs to think of a viable reason to keep Dorian with him.
A question burns in him and he hates himself for a moment. If he asks it now, there is no way that Dorian can lie to him. It's the easiest, fastest way to get the information he needs.
"Dorian," he murmurs his name again. "When do you last remember seeing me? What were we doing together?"
-*-
Gradually, he stops heaving, breathing slowly to a more sedate pace. Deep inhales and exhales, shaky still. He isn't exactly not crying, but it's near enough. He holds tight to Bull where he can, and breathes in the scent of his skin.
"Near the beach. You and I were walking together, looking at trees," he says, and hopes that makes some sense. "There was a portal. I only wanted to have a look--they're so fascinating--but I ended up here after all." Home and very much not home. He's longed to see Thedas for months, but not like this.
-*-
Bull can't breathe. Dorian-- this is his Dorian, the man he's loved for years, the man he's grown close to since they found each other again on Zhautas--
He's left him here all this time, not knowing, suffering. Bull closes his eye for a moment and squeezes Dorian as tightly as he dares.
"Forgive me," he whispers. "For not intervening sooner."
He walks past the prison, moving up through the castle. No one questions him. If someone does, he'll find an answer, but he cannot leave Dorian there a moment longer. Bull's mind is already racing to concoct a story, a reason for his taking possession of a Tevinter altus. He could tell them that his mind has broken. That he barely remembers who he is, never mind information of any use to the Qunari. But what is to keep them from deciding to simply kill Dorian?
Me, he thinks grimly.
-*-
Well, at least he understands. This is his Bull then, isn't it? Good. Then they can work together to find the portal that will get them out of here. Bull apologizes to him, and Dorian's breath hitches at the emotion in his voice. No, no. He doesn't want this. It isn't Bull's fault, is it?
...is it?
"It was a bit inconvenient," Dorian agrees weakly. Bull is carrying him through what Dorian recognizes to be the halls of Redcliffe Castle, without a doubt. Ironic, that; he'd seen Bull locked in a cell beneath this very castle in the dark future that hadn't come to pass. That was long before he'd ever considered Bull special to him. Indeed, it was before he knew him at all.
Or, well, it hadn't been before, exactly, since it had been the future, but timelines are funny like that.
"You couldn't have dropped by to pick me up yesterday?" His attempt at humor falls flat in the face of what he's experienced. He fears he'll lapse back into it the moment Bull lets him go. That he'll be gripped again by the isolation, the fear, the uncertainty of what is real and what isn't. And he's still got that collar on.
-*-
Bull wonders if he can get Dorian out of the castle. He has rooms here, but he hates the idea of staying. There are too many eyes and ears in the castle itself and it's too close to the local triumvirate. But Dorian is in no condition for that trip, and there will certainly be questions if he carries him all that way.
Bull avoids main thoroughfares in the castle, sticking to back stairs and quiet corridors. He doesn't know why he remembers his way around, but he does.
"I was afraid they would kill us both," he admits. "If I showed my hand, if I tried to place myself in the investigation without reason."
He had to wait. It's something he learned as a spy, but waiting meant letting Dorian suffer, and the knowledge eats at him. Bull aches to kiss Dorian.
"I won't let anyone take you from me again," he murmurs, his voice low and harsh. When they reach his small apartments, Bull settles Dorian on the bed.
-*-
"I understand," he says, as only someone whose trust is certain could. "I know you wouldn't leave me to--to that," a moment to swallow, trying not to think, now that he is in Bull's arms, about what had come before. "Not if there was any other way." He appreciates these quieter halls, back passageways, lesser-used stairs. The last thing he wants now is too many eyes on him. He wants the Bull, and the Bull alone.
"Perhaps I should have asked after you sooner. I worried that they had done something to you." He'd assumed incorrectly, he now realizes. It's a sobering thought, and one he still can't force his mind to examine beyond a surface level, murky as his thoughts still are. "But you aren't Tal-Vashoth here, are you?"
You are part of this, is what is implied. You made this happen.
He doesn't want to believe that the Bull--any version of him--is capable of this. But here they are. In a room, now. Small, but much more comfortable than the castle dungeon, at least. He reluctantly allows Bull to put him down, but reaches for his hand instead, more than a little terrified to lose contact completely.
-*-
"No," he answers quietly. "I am not Tal-Vashoth."
The words hold more weight than he ever thought they would, and so much goes with them now. He knows he has something to do with all of this: how could he not, given his extensive experience in this part of the world? The information he would have been sending back to his people like clockwork? The intimate details of weaknesses, points for exploitation?
Bull squeezes Dorian's hand before he moves away from the bed. He wants to draw a bath, certain that Dorian will want one; he makes sure to stay in the mage's line of sight at all times. There's a stone tub in the room and he know it will hold heat well. That will let Dorian soak for as long as he wants.
He's wearing the ropes of his station: they wrap around his chest and shoulders, down his arms. He doesn't have his eye patch. He's wearing vitaar.
-*-
Dorian's jaw sets. There it is, then. He has to wonder just what had led to this. What had to change to make Bull behave this way? To remain loyal to the Qun rather than to...to him. Or had they not been together here? Or is he simply letting his vanity give him an inflated idea of his own importance? Of course, in a choice between him and the Qun, Bull's people--
Thankfully, his Bull had not been presented with that ultimatum. Or if he had, he had chosen differently.
The sight of the bathtub is a welcome one. He'd been about to ask, but as usual, Bull anticipates his needs. He still draws in an unsteady breath when they part. Though he isn't so far away, he misses the contact immediately. It isn't enough just to see him. Dorian pushes himself up. His legs are shaky, but he manages the few steps it takes him to reach Bull again. He presses himself flush against his back, leaning his forehead against his spine, arms circling as far around his waist as he can reach. His hands rest against the curve of his stomach. The Bull is so solid, sturdy, present. Touching him is grounding. Bull is in many ways the only real thing here. What would he do without him, in this world or any other?
"I love you," he says, the hoarse words half-buried against Bull's skin.
-*-
Bull almost tells Dorian to get back into bed, but it's futile. Soon enough the mage is pressed against his back, and, selfishly, Bull is grateful to feel him there. One hand moves to cover Dorian's.
His fingers brush over the fresh scars. Deep, killing wounds. He remembers the pain.
He doesn't say anything, only reaches with his free hand to check the temperature of the water as it fills the tub. The words go straight through him, fill him, and his hand tightens over Dorian's.
"I love you," he answers, and with Dorian's head against his back, the man can probably feel the words as much as hear them. "I'm here, kadan."
-*-
He loves this. He loves when he is pressed so close to Bull that his words are tangible. He can feel them, and that makes him edge all the closer, though it's barely possible. A hand covers his entirely, and he centers himself. This is real. And this is real, what they have between them. He has never been loved like this. He has never trusted anyone to love him like this and mean it, but he thinks that Bull does. He thinks that Bull will stay with him, if he asks. Will go to Tevinter with him, will travel to another bloody planet for him, and want nothing in return.
Dorian wants to give him everything.
"Bathe with me?" he asks, and for once it isn't even an implication that Bull needs a bath. At the moment, there is nothing he'd like more than to lay in the warm water in Bull's arms. He won't be able to sleep, he thinks, while the poison is still in his body, but with Bull there to ground him in reality, he can at the very least relax without fear of what he might see.
-*-
"Of course."
Bull had considered offering, but he's uncertain of how much space Dorian needs or wants. Little, seems to be the answer, but he wants to be sure. The invitation soothes some of his frayed nerves but ignites other worries.
"I'm going to take your collar off. I know they've been dosing with you magebane..." Bull trails off, hating the words inside his mouth. But he speaks them - he needs to. "Don't use your magic, kadan. Whatever your ability or the temptation. They'll find out."
He isn't sure that he can protect either of them if anyone thinks that Dorian is capable of his usual expertise, or even anything near that. Ashamed, Bull can't quite bring himself to look at Dorian after asking that and instead focuses on getting the collar off.
He can't block out his role in all of this.
Do you ever think about what would happen if the Qunari invaded?
No. Not at all.
The memories of the Dorian Pavus in this world are the worst. The pain upon realizing Bull's betrayal, the rage and fear and longing on his face when they finally confronted each other on a battlefield. Dorian nearly killed him and Bull bears deep scars from ice nearly going through his chest. He would have died had it not been for a saarebas in the field.
But he also remembers quiet, tender moments on the porch of the bungalow and on the beach.
It hurts to see Dorian in captivity, even if this man tried to kill him. He can't even blame him. Bull can't stay away, finding excuses to pass through the prison, to look at him while he's sleeping. It isn't until he hears that the prisoner has been taken to interrogation that cold fear strikes through him.
-*-
As far as Dorian can tell, this portal has landed him in some Qunari-occupied version of Thedas straight out of a Tevinter cautionary tale. It's clearly Ferelden; in fact, it looks very much like Redcliffe, from the glimpses he'd gotten at the outside world before being locked up, chained and collared in a very dark room by very indifferent-seeming Qunari. If the Qunari have gotten this far south, he can't help but think, then surely Tevinter must be--
No, but he can't dwell on that. He has to get out of here. Back to Zhautas, or at least to a Thedas that isn't so fucking dismal; the spread of the Qun to this point is a complete nightmare, would be so even to someone like Bull, who had followed the Qun throughout his life. Maker, Dorian hopes he's all right. He'd been nearby when the portal opened. Impossible to say whether or not he'd come through as well.
He's been given water occasionally, but it's laced with magebane. He knows the taste well, even subtle as it is. His father had dosed him with it for months. But he can't very well not drink at all, especially when he's not been given food for--as far as he can tell--several days. Difficult to measure the hours without sunlight. The heavy collar around his neck would prevent him from using magic anyway, even if he could access it. No magic, no food; he feels empty in every way, lightheaded and weak and devoid of purpose, of options. He's spent most of the time asleep, or at least trying to rest. He's been isolated, too; a few people have come by to view him, but all have spoken Qunlat, and none have spoken directly to him.
The first time he was acknowledged was when he was dragged from his cell for interrogation. They speak to him in Common, low and only lightly accented. He doesn't know anything of value, of course, about the state of this world, even if his counterpart here is apparently quite important to the resistance of Qunari occupation, which doesn't surprise him for a moment. But he's stubborn enough not to want to tell his interrogators anything anyway. And where is Bull? Surely he must exist in this Thedas, fighting alongside him?
Where is Bull?
Time passes. He doesn't give satisfactory answers. They tell him that if he does, he will be rewarded; perhaps he will be allowed to convert, and live out his life as a Viddathari. He laughs at this. He knows the Qunari don't bother to convert foreign mages. Dangerous things. For those like him, there is only qamek.
That must have been...yesterday?
Where is Bull?
He fears, at first, that qamek is exactly what they're giving him. But that doesn't seem to be so. It is some other poison, perhaps, as his free will doesn't suddenly dribble out his ears; it merely makes his mind increasingly fuzzy. He is left alone for some time. Now he really can't measure it, can barely keep hold of his own thoughts. They blur together in the dark, and after some indeterminable amount of time, it becomes difficult to tell whether there is anyone there with him or not. At one point, he's sure he hears Sera's voice, but opens his eyes to find himself alone. Felix sits with him for a while, silently, a Blight-ridden hand covering his; but he'd never looked that bad in life, the flesh melting from his beautiful dear face as though already decaying from the inside out. He wonders what has happened to Lavellan, and when he next opens his eyes, her head is laying at his feet, the stitches holding her lips sewn shut still bleeding sluggishly. He sobs, slams his eyes shut, and when he opens them again it's gone. He would say that he is dreaming, but whatever they've put in him keeps him awake, and uncomfortably aware of the weight of his collar, of his chains, of every cut and bruise and sore on his body. He is itching in his own skin, and and eventually he begins talking--begging, really, is what it is, for someone to come back, anyone, anyone who he can know is real.
Eventually, they return.
Where is Bull?
They ask him first about his family. He doesn't like to talk about his family, but he tells them. It's a relief just to have someone there and solid and decidedly alive to interact with, and he has no reason to defend Magister fucking Halward anyway. Then they talk about his friends, about Maevaris, Lavellan, Gereon--no, he really doesn't know anything about where Mae is now, have you tried her estate near Vyrantium? She likes to host her summer parties there, not quite as oppressively hot as Minrathous. No, he really doesn't know where she might be right now, and why should he? Known co-conspirator? Well, they've been known to be thick as thieves, but--
It occurs to him that this is still an interrogation, and not a friendly chat. It occurs to him that they want to find Mae to hurt her. Perhaps to do the very same thing to her as they have done to him. (Lavellan, her mouth sewn shut; he failed her, he must have, he can't fail Mae that way. Was that even real, or a figment of his mind? Does it matter?)
"Where is Bull?"
He nearly doesn't realize he's spoken aloud. There is silence for a moment after, and then a quiet murmuring, one interrogator to another. Dorian hears it, the whisper of a word--a name--he recognizes. Hissrad.
Dorian's stomach twists. "Is he dead?" He asks, frantic. The room seems to be closing in on him. "Is he dead?" But no one is listening to him now. One of the interrogators leaves. Dorian's throat feels dry, and he still can't reach his magic, this bloody collar is so heavy, he wants to just--just sleep, or burn everything, it doesn't matter which. He's surprised when he feels his eyes welling up, but can't stop the tears when they fall. He has to leave. He has to get back, back to a world that makes sense.
Where is Bull?
-*-
People are not hard to break. All it takes is loneliness, uncertainty, and fear. Even the strongest minds will eventually fall to one of these, especially if there is pain of some kind or another. It's a matter of time; it's a when, not an if.
Especially when the Ben-Hassrath are in charge.
Bull knows exactly what the prisoner is going through and there is nothing he can do to stop it that would not end in both their executions. He visits a tamassran every day and no one questions it: of course Hissrad seeks comfort and reassurance in the Qun. He has been on the front lines, they say. He has been away for so long. It is the least they can do to give him respite.
It is part of why they keep him from the interrogation, and he can find no good reason to insert himself into it. He knows Dorian, intimately, but the interrogation techniques of the Ben-Hassrath do not depend on things like that. Still, the interrogators report to him and to the Viddasala. In every report, he looks for-- something. There has to be a way to get Dorian out, to get him to the border.
Learning how far the borders are send cold chills down his back. The Frostbacks, the Waking Sea. But he knows this land well. If he can just find a reason to be alone with Dorian--
"Hissrad, we need you."
He looks up from the campaign map spread across the table, then pushes away to follow the interrogator. Have they killed him? Is it worse? Bull steels himself for any number of possibilities.
Somehow the reality is worse.
Dorian sits, broken, in the middle of the room. Bull is told little, only that Dorian has asked after him. They encourage into the space and into the light. There is no mistaking him: he is too unique among his people. All he wants to do is drop to his knees, to lift Dorian up and hold him close. He wants to kill everyone else in the room, and anyone that gets between them and a true escape.
But he will not risk Dorian's life that way. He must be Hissrad or they will both die.
He moves closer and finally sinks to one knee in front of the mage.
"Dorian."
Kadan.
-*-
They bring him.
The relief Dorian feels at the sight of him, his huge and familiar presence taking up so much space in the small, quiet room, is enough to have him doubling over. He aches in every imaginable way, but seeing the Bull unharmed is worth everything.
"You're alive," he murmurs, and leans toward him instinctively as he sinks down nearby, seeking comfort in the size and strength of Bull's form. He can't quite reach him, and it sends a pang of desperation through him. There are new scars spanning the tough grey skin of Bull's chest, and his expression is impassive, but he is here.
"Bull, amatus, please--please, let's leave." It doesn't occur to him, in this state, to wonder whether he is another prisoner, or whether he is somehow in charge here, or if he even has the power to release him or not. The tears are hot on his cheeks, blurring his vision. He tries to blink them away. He wants to see Bull clearly. "I can't give them what they want, Bull, please, let's go--" He makes another attempt to reach him, but is stopped by the length of his chains. A low, pathetic noise wrenches its way from his throat. Just touch me, he thinks, just touch me please, and everything will be all right.
-*-
Bull doesn't dare offer too much comfort. He considers Dorian's state, knows well what they've likely given him to induce it. The bruises and chaffed skin make his stomach turn. He takes a breath and lets it go slowly.
Would the Dorian that tried to kill him call him amatus? Would he be so relieved to see him, even in these conditions.
He turns his head to address the interrogators.
"I'll take over from here. You've pushed too hard today."
It isn't a difficult argument to make. Dorian sounds nearly incoherent. The interrogators both murmur their apologies and leave to write up their reports. Bull breathes another quiet sigh and waits for a few agonizing minutes before he moves. He carefully unties Dorian and, as he gets to his feet again, he picks the mage up effortlessly.
"I'm here," he says very quietly. Even if this is the man that tried to kill him, Bull cannot stand to see him in pain.
-*-
Bull gives a directive, and the other two leave. The implications of that--this Bull isn't on his side at all, is he? Hissrad. Ben-Hassrath. Spy, agent, traitor.
But that can't be the case, can it? Surely it is a ruse, he thinks. Bull is releasing him, shackles falling to the floor, and then taking him in his arms. He's safe. Dorian buries his face in Bull's shoulder and lets himself weep. Bull would never want to hurt him. He'd even given him a word to say to stop him if he ever did. Katoh.
"Thank you," he says, watery, thick. He hates that he cries so easily, but he seems to have even less control over it now than usual. Logically, he knows he needs to rest. He needs to let the poison clear his system. But all he wants to do is get far away from here, let Bull carry him until this is nothing more than a bad dream.
"Don't leave me," he implores. That is the most important part.
-*-
Something in him breaks when he hears Dorian thank him. He adjusts his hold slightly, making sure to keep the mage against his chest. His mind is racing: he needs to think of a viable reason to keep Dorian with him.
A question burns in him and he hates himself for a moment. If he asks it now, there is no way that Dorian can lie to him. It's the easiest, fastest way to get the information he needs.
"Dorian," he murmurs his name again. "When do you last remember seeing me? What were we doing together?"
-*-
Gradually, he stops heaving, breathing slowly to a more sedate pace. Deep inhales and exhales, shaky still. He isn't exactly not crying, but it's near enough. He holds tight to Bull where he can, and breathes in the scent of his skin.
"Near the beach. You and I were walking together, looking at trees," he says, and hopes that makes some sense. "There was a portal. I only wanted to have a look--they're so fascinating--but I ended up here after all." Home and very much not home. He's longed to see Thedas for months, but not like this.
-*-
Bull can't breathe. Dorian-- this is his Dorian, the man he's loved for years, the man he's grown close to since they found each other again on Zhautas--
He's left him here all this time, not knowing, suffering. Bull closes his eye for a moment and squeezes Dorian as tightly as he dares.
"Forgive me," he whispers. "For not intervening sooner."
He walks past the prison, moving up through the castle. No one questions him. If someone does, he'll find an answer, but he cannot leave Dorian there a moment longer. Bull's mind is already racing to concoct a story, a reason for his taking possession of a Tevinter altus. He could tell them that his mind has broken. That he barely remembers who he is, never mind information of any use to the Qunari. But what is to keep them from deciding to simply kill Dorian?
Me, he thinks grimly.
-*-
Well, at least he understands. This is his Bull then, isn't it? Good. Then they can work together to find the portal that will get them out of here. Bull apologizes to him, and Dorian's breath hitches at the emotion in his voice. No, no. He doesn't want this. It isn't Bull's fault, is it?
...is it?
"It was a bit inconvenient," Dorian agrees weakly. Bull is carrying him through what Dorian recognizes to be the halls of Redcliffe Castle, without a doubt. Ironic, that; he'd seen Bull locked in a cell beneath this very castle in the dark future that hadn't come to pass. That was long before he'd ever considered Bull special to him. Indeed, it was before he knew him at all.
Or, well, it hadn't been before, exactly, since it had been the future, but timelines are funny like that.
"You couldn't have dropped by to pick me up yesterday?" His attempt at humor falls flat in the face of what he's experienced. He fears he'll lapse back into it the moment Bull lets him go. That he'll be gripped again by the isolation, the fear, the uncertainty of what is real and what isn't. And he's still got that collar on.
-*-
Bull wonders if he can get Dorian out of the castle. He has rooms here, but he hates the idea of staying. There are too many eyes and ears in the castle itself and it's too close to the local triumvirate. But Dorian is in no condition for that trip, and there will certainly be questions if he carries him all that way.
Bull avoids main thoroughfares in the castle, sticking to back stairs and quiet corridors. He doesn't know why he remembers his way around, but he does.
"I was afraid they would kill us both," he admits. "If I showed my hand, if I tried to place myself in the investigation without reason."
He had to wait. It's something he learned as a spy, but waiting meant letting Dorian suffer, and the knowledge eats at him. Bull aches to kiss Dorian.
"I won't let anyone take you from me again," he murmurs, his voice low and harsh. When they reach his small apartments, Bull settles Dorian on the bed.
-*-
"I understand," he says, as only someone whose trust is certain could. "I know you wouldn't leave me to--to that," a moment to swallow, trying not to think, now that he is in Bull's arms, about what had come before. "Not if there was any other way." He appreciates these quieter halls, back passageways, lesser-used stairs. The last thing he wants now is too many eyes on him. He wants the Bull, and the Bull alone.
"Perhaps I should have asked after you sooner. I worried that they had done something to you." He'd assumed incorrectly, he now realizes. It's a sobering thought, and one he still can't force his mind to examine beyond a surface level, murky as his thoughts still are. "But you aren't Tal-Vashoth here, are you?"
You are part of this, is what is implied. You made this happen.
He doesn't want to believe that the Bull--any version of him--is capable of this. But here they are. In a room, now. Small, but much more comfortable than the castle dungeon, at least. He reluctantly allows Bull to put him down, but reaches for his hand instead, more than a little terrified to lose contact completely.
-*-
"No," he answers quietly. "I am not Tal-Vashoth."
The words hold more weight than he ever thought they would, and so much goes with them now. He knows he has something to do with all of this: how could he not, given his extensive experience in this part of the world? The information he would have been sending back to his people like clockwork? The intimate details of weaknesses, points for exploitation?
Bull squeezes Dorian's hand before he moves away from the bed. He wants to draw a bath, certain that Dorian will want one; he makes sure to stay in the mage's line of sight at all times. There's a stone tub in the room and he know it will hold heat well. That will let Dorian soak for as long as he wants.
He's wearing the ropes of his station: they wrap around his chest and shoulders, down his arms. He doesn't have his eye patch. He's wearing vitaar.
-*-
Dorian's jaw sets. There it is, then. He has to wonder just what had led to this. What had to change to make Bull behave this way? To remain loyal to the Qun rather than to...to him. Or had they not been together here? Or is he simply letting his vanity give him an inflated idea of his own importance? Of course, in a choice between him and the Qun, Bull's people--
Thankfully, his Bull had not been presented with that ultimatum. Or if he had, he had chosen differently.
The sight of the bathtub is a welcome one. He'd been about to ask, but as usual, Bull anticipates his needs. He still draws in an unsteady breath when they part. Though he isn't so far away, he misses the contact immediately. It isn't enough just to see him. Dorian pushes himself up. His legs are shaky, but he manages the few steps it takes him to reach Bull again. He presses himself flush against his back, leaning his forehead against his spine, arms circling as far around his waist as he can reach. His hands rest against the curve of his stomach. The Bull is so solid, sturdy, present. Touching him is grounding. Bull is in many ways the only real thing here. What would he do without him, in this world or any other?
"I love you," he says, the hoarse words half-buried against Bull's skin.
-*-
Bull almost tells Dorian to get back into bed, but it's futile. Soon enough the mage is pressed against his back, and, selfishly, Bull is grateful to feel him there. One hand moves to cover Dorian's.
His fingers brush over the fresh scars. Deep, killing wounds. He remembers the pain.
He doesn't say anything, only reaches with his free hand to check the temperature of the water as it fills the tub. The words go straight through him, fill him, and his hand tightens over Dorian's.
"I love you," he answers, and with Dorian's head against his back, the man can probably feel the words as much as hear them. "I'm here, kadan."
-*-
He loves this. He loves when he is pressed so close to Bull that his words are tangible. He can feel them, and that makes him edge all the closer, though it's barely possible. A hand covers his entirely, and he centers himself. This is real. And this is real, what they have between them. He has never been loved like this. He has never trusted anyone to love him like this and mean it, but he thinks that Bull does. He thinks that Bull will stay with him, if he asks. Will go to Tevinter with him, will travel to another bloody planet for him, and want nothing in return.
Dorian wants to give him everything.
"Bathe with me?" he asks, and for once it isn't even an implication that Bull needs a bath. At the moment, there is nothing he'd like more than to lay in the warm water in Bull's arms. He won't be able to sleep, he thinks, while the poison is still in his body, but with Bull there to ground him in reality, he can at the very least relax without fear of what he might see.
-*-
"Of course."
Bull had considered offering, but he's uncertain of how much space Dorian needs or wants. Little, seems to be the answer, but he wants to be sure. The invitation soothes some of his frayed nerves but ignites other worries.
"I'm going to take your collar off. I know they've been dosing with you magebane..." Bull trails off, hating the words inside his mouth. But he speaks them - he needs to. "Don't use your magic, kadan. Whatever your ability or the temptation. They'll find out."
He isn't sure that he can protect either of them if anyone thinks that Dorian is capable of his usual expertise, or even anything near that. Ashamed, Bull can't quite bring himself to look at Dorian after asking that and instead focuses on getting the collar off.
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Bull imagines, briefly, Dorian in deep purple rope, wearing his knots all the time, for all to see--
He growls something in Qunlat and grips Dorian closer to him. He whispers his love against Dorian's skin and bites him again, higher on his neck, a mark that would take an exceptionally high collar to hide. There's a brief rush of uncertainty when he feels the knot near base of his cock start to swell.
"Dorian-- are you sure..?" He has to ask. After the last time this happened, the intensity of it, he has to be sure.
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He's wanted this--wanted to belong to someone--for so long. But only the Bull has wanted him like this, and frankly, that's just fine. It matters very little if anyone else ever did, or ever would. Bull is who he's chosen. Who else could he possibly love as much, or as completely?
And can he be blamed for wanting evidence? Is it strange that he should want to press his fingers into still-dark bruises days from now and remember how lovingly they were given, how good it feels when Bull grips his hips and fucks him? Yes, he wants them to know. He wants it known. By wearing Bull's marks, he is staking a claim as surely as Bull himself.
Dorian sighs, moans high and keening as Bull's teeth rake over his neck. He has nothing to hide that one, even if he were so inclined. The dark purple-red stands out so well against his golden skin; perfect ornaments, each a testament to Bull's desire. Much like the Qunlat words he growls into his hair, much like the way he pulls him with increasing urgency onto his cock.
He feels it before Bull says anything at all, feels the way he begins to grow thicker around the base, and eagerly rolls his hips as well as he can while on his back like this. "Entirely sure," he says breathlessly, pleased to have gotten the reaction he expected. He remembers full well how Bull's knot had made his body hum with pleasure, how he'd come again and again while still tied. He remembers the effect that knotting him had on Bull, how wild he'd been when Dorian whispered nonsensical and desperate words like your child in his ear, yet how tender. How he murmured sweetly in Dorian's ear even as he spilled inside him in long, hot pulses, how his big, warm hands roamed gentle and possessive over his ass and thighs and stomach, how he kissed him and told him for the first time the meaning of kadan.
"I want it, Bull," he confirms. "Fuck me until you come inside me, please--fill me."
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His breath catches when he feels it and Bull pushes deep one last time as their bodies lock together. He bites Dorian again, not even thinking this time as he comes. It's relief and an urgent sort of pleasure all at once. He isn't finished, not entirely, but he's tied with Dorian (his mate, his animal brain supplies) and there is nothing else they need to worry about.
Bull shifts his weight carefully, slowly pushing up so that he can actually see Dorian's face. He braces his weight against one arm, leaving the other hand free to stroke his fingers along Dorian's cheek and his neck, admiring the dark, blooming bruises on his golden skin.
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There are several slightly frenzied minutes of this, wherein the rhythm of Bull's thrusts and the drag of his growing knot inside him kindles Dorian's pleasure to a bright, hot blaze. Dorian clings to Bull like he can't imagine letting go, occasionally peppering open-mouthed kisses along the stubble-rough line of the qunari's jaw.
The moment Bull comes is hardly sudden; Dorian had felt it building as surely as he'd felt his knot swelling. Bull's cock pulses and he sinks his teeth back into his shoulder as he spills deep inside him. It's a gesture that Dorian is certain is instinctive rather than intentional, which makes him gasp ("yes, yes") at least as much as the sudden pain. Bull's release is warm and his knot feels like it's stretching him to his limit, and his body aches where Bull has bitten and bruised him, and his cock is hard and dripping where it rests against his stomach, and he feels so damn satisfied that he can't help but grin, nuzzling into Bull's hand.
His grey eyes are half-lidded when he looks up at him. Bull looks terribly handsome like this, a certain intensity still in his expression, and the only reason that Dorian doesn't move to loop his arms around Bull's neck is that he can tell he's admiring him. And so he doesn't move, and says nothing, simply lets himself be admired, laying pliant and aroused and bruised and deeply pleased.
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"I love you," he murmurs quietly in the space between them. There are no words that mean the same thing in Qunlat, no phrases or idioms that he could think of. Kadan is as close as he'll ever get. So he speaks the words in a language not his own, and, after a moment of considering, he says them again in Tevene. Dorian deserves to hear the sentiment in a language he's known all his life. He deserves a lot of things; Bull wants to give him as much as he can.
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It's--physically, it already feels like so much, Bull massive over him, inside him, the hand around him--but the love he expresses, the determined dedication in the softened edge of his voice, makes everything feel that much bigger. Fills it with meaning. His thighs tremble where they're hitched above Bull's hips. Bull speaks the words again in Tevene, and--and Dorian hadn't known, until now, how much he'd wanted to hear that. How he'd expected that he never would.
"Oh, Bull," he sighs, whimpers. "Amatus." He repeats the words back to him in Tevene, and his throat feels raw after he says them. The truth of it burns, he thinks, somewhat absurdly--burns right up from his heart and into his mouth.
When Dorian comes he seizes up, body clenching around Bull's knot. With an almost relieved gasp, he spills hotly into Bull's hand, and the trembling moves from his thighs through his whole body. He tries not to close his eyes, and succeeds, keeping Bull's face in sight if not entirely in focus. Breathing hard, he tilts his chin up far enough to brush his lips against Bull's jaw again, and then the scarred corner of his lips.
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He lifts his head when he feels a tell-tale tremble in Dorian's thighs. He doesn't want to miss a second and Bull can't help the groan that escapes him as Dorian's body tightens around him, squeezes the knot trapped inside him. He murmurs something in heavy Qunlat, something like praise, as Dorian spills over his hand.
"That's it," he murmurs, encouraging as he strokes Dorian through his orgasm. Bull doesn't stop until he's certain the mage has nothing left to give. He smiles at the touch of lips against his scarred mouth ad he turns his head to kiss Dorian full on. He doesn't hold to it long this time, drawing back so that they both have room to breathe.
"Kadan."
Bull knows it will take a while for his knot to subside, so he tries to make sure Dorian is comfortable: adjusting the pillow beneath his hips, finding another for his head to rest on.