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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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Dorian allows his eyes to slide closed, and then opens them a moment later. No horrible visions. Just the Bull, lips against his hair, as it should be. He is so very tired, physically and mentally, but he knows he won't be able to sleep properly even if he tried. The effects of the poison.
"Edible. I could have more, I think." But he'd like to get properly clean, too. 'Confined and interrogated' isn't a good look on anyone. Perhaps Bull would be so kind as to help him shave, too. He'd feel much more himself with this damned days-old stubble gone.
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Bull is tender as he works, gently scrubbing the last few days from Dorian's skin as best he can. He washes the mage's hair, lovingly tipping his head back to rinse it. He's quite certain Dorian will want the stubble on his face gone, but that can wait until he's more awake.
He pauses at some point to offer Dorian more water, another bite of food. Every swallow feels like a small victory, especially when he has a good idea of how exhausted Dorian is. Bull has never been interrogated, but he has been through re-education. Breaking is breaking, one way or another.
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He doesn't sleep. He drifts on the edge, but remains frustratingly conscious. Still, Bull's hands on him are nice--cathartic, even--and it's a comfort to feel clean for the first time in days, as well as have food in his belly. He's pliant, malleable, eating and drinking and moving as directed without complaint. His eyes slide open as Bull works his fingers through his hair, and he tips his head back to look up at him. It's all so overwhelming that merely the sight of Bull's face, warm and attentive and so very dear, nearly brings tears back to his eyes. Bull is so patient with him, and so gentle. What would he do without him?
"We should get a bigger bath back home," he says, voice thin. "I want to do this every day."
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Bull does his best to ignore the knot in his chest: he doesn't know how they will get back. He doesn't understand the magic that might have brought them here, and Dorian is in no condition to discuss it. Whatever they do, it will have to wait.
He stands up, lifting Dorian effortlessly so he can carry him out of the tub. Bull doesn't really put him down, managing to wrap the mage in a warm, soft towel without much hassle. He carries another towel to dry off with but doesn't bother with it until after he sets Dorian down on the bed. Bull stays within arm's reach as he dries himself off.
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Still, he's content enough now, refreshed by his bath and a little more nourished than he had been. The bed Bull deposits him on is large--built, clearly, for a qunari, rather than a human-sized bed that Bull has to squeeze himself into. Dorian spreads out, still bare, but dried off enough to enjoy the experience of clean sheets against his skin. If he could fall asleep now, he knows that it would be dreamless.
Bull is in the process of toweling himself off, and Dorian watches him through half-open eyes, appreciating the graceful way he moves, belied by his size and bulk. Bull is a story of contradictions, complex as he pretends to be simple, and Dorian loves him.
"No one will bother us?" He has the presence of mind to ask this, at least, even if it should be a more pressing concern than he makes it sound.
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Bull cannot promise that they wouldn't be bothered at all - he knows that someone will have questions eventually. But he also knows (from memories that feel too real, warring alongside others) how much weight his name carries these days. He's always been respected, but that influence has more behind it now.
No one would question his methods. Not yet, anyway.
Bull drapes his towel over the chair and looks through the room. He finds pants for himself and he finds clothes that might fit Dorian. Something soft to sleep in, at least.
Finally he returns to the bed, sitting on the edge of it while Dorian spreads out. "Do you want to stay naked?" he asks, sounding like he certainly won't protest if Dorian insists.
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No doubt they'll return to that topic when Dorian is more himself.
Bull's question, however, prompts a swift answer. "Yes," he decides at once. "You're more than enough to keep me warm." And the thought of anything else restricting his body at the moment--even soft, loose cloth--is an unappealing one. This is how he prefers to sleep normally, anyway, provided he isn't spending the night in a tent.
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"Sleep, kadan," he murmurs as he settles on his back. "I'll be here when you wake. I'm not going anywhere."
He's made a promise like that before. He keeps it, staying awake for a while as Dorian finally drifts off. Exhaustion will catch up with anyone eventually, and Dorian's as safe as he can be at the moment. Bull eventually follows, worn out by the experience of seeing Dorian like this.
He wakes a few hours later when someone comes through the door. A human Viddathari simply nods politely to him and delivers a large tray of food and a jug of something to drink. The tray is left on the small table in the room, along with a stack of paperwork. Letters, he supposes, or orders. Whatever they are, they aren't urgent. If they were, the woman would have approached him to make sure he had them in hand.
Bull drifts again after that, slipping in and out of sleep and only soothed by the quiet, steady breathing of Dorian against his side.
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The rest and the simple skinship does wonders. When he does wake--some time after Bull begins to dip back into consciousness as well--it is with a much clearer head. It takes him a moment, of course, to realize where he is, but he remembers the events of the last few days quickly enough after that. For the space of a single, shuddering inhale, he almost breaks down again. The situation, now that he examines it without a mind clouded by poison and fatigue, is even more dire than he realized, and Bull's position in all of it is...worrying.
Still, he trusts the man at his side more than anyone. He can believe that he is safe in this room, for the time being. Dorian buries his face into the crook of Bull's neck and closes his eyes again. He is still fatigued and injured and will bear the scars of his interrogation for some time, and such weariness isn't cured by a single bath, meal, or sleep. Still, his mind is his own again, which is worth everything. The effects of the magebane, too, are wearing off. It's a start.
"So it wasn't all some strange, terrible Fade vision," he murmurs regretfully, and the arm he has draped over Bull's chest tightens marginally. "There's that hope dashed."
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He hates to kill that hope so quickly, but they are better for it. There is no solution to their problem down that road. Bull's arm squeezes gently around Dorian's shoulders. Laying on his back reminds him of the faint, lingering ache in his torso. Saarebas are imperfect practitioners, discouraged from certain kinds of mastery.
Bull knows Dorian bears injuries now, too. He wishes he could take them from him, carry them for him.
"Someone brought a more substantial meal, if you're hungry."
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Maker, what has he wrought? And how will they survive it long enough for him to return to a time where this world never existed?
But Bull is mentioning food--always looking after him, isn't he?--and Dorian realizes that he is, in fact, hungry. "Very," he says. A few bites of fruit don't make up for days of intentional starvation. He'll still have to take it slowly. And then, startled, "Wait--someone came in here while I was sleeping?"
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Bull sits down on the edge of the bed, looking over what had been brought for them. Cold cuts, cheeses, bread, more fruit. Perfect.
He looks up, meeting Dorian's gaze. "It's been like this for more than a year," he says quietly. "They've conquered most of Ferelden."
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"So: the Qun has invaded southern Thedas at last. I, presumably the leader of some rebel faction, have been captured and detained for questioning. After being released from interrogation by a Ben-Hassrath agent with known personal connections, someone came in here and saw that I, your prisoner, am naked in your bed--and quite comfortably so, at that." Dorian sounds incredulous. "No one is going to find that the least bit strange or suspect?"
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Hissrad is good, and everyone in the Ben-Hassrath knows it. Why wouldn't he take a former lover in hand, coax him to relax, to trust, as he had once before? Who here knows Dorian better than he does? Regardless of what is actually happening, it is a belief Bull is willing to let breathe. It might keep Dorian safe.
Bull has had his time to panic in the days Dorian was out of his mind. Now, all he can see are ways forward, are ways to survive.
"You and Vivienne, in fact, have been very instrumental in organizing the first possible alliance between Orlais and the Imperium. It it is still on shaky ground... and now the Qunari have you."
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Quite suddenly, Dorian isn't hungry after all. In fact, he's feeling rather sick again.
He considers, for the first time, the scars (new to him) spanning the Bull's torso. Pinched and uneven skin in some places, clearly the result of a burn, while on his arm there is the distinct branching shape of a strike of lightning, as though someone had grasped his arm and shot it straight through him. There are other alarming ones as well--crudely knit together skin where it seems as though he was stabbed through with something.
Dorian curls his fingers into the sheets over his legs, loose fists.
"Then clearly they mustn't have me for much longer," he says, clipped and certain, stepping into the role he occupies in this world so easily that he hardly even considers an alternative. Of course he would do everything in his power to resist. That he and Vivienne might broker such an alliance together seems so deeply unlikely that it must certainly be true. And of course he must do what he can now, while he can. "Vivienne or Maevaris no doubt possess the best resources available for me to reconstruct some sort of foci, and work out a way to get us out of here and back where we belong."
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He touches the deep, penetrating wounds on his torso. Ice. Deep, cold, and killing. There is no part of him that blames Dorian for doing it; even in his strange memories, he does not blame him. Asit tal-eb; how could Dorian be anything but what he is?
"It's possible that I could get you to the border," he says quietly, considering. It will not be easy: if he disappears with Dorian, people will start looking for them. There is no story he can spin that would give any plausible reason to take Dorian to the Frostbacks. But he knows this land better than his people, even those that had been here for a year or so.
There is something sad but resolved in his expression.
"I'd have to leave you, as soon as the Orlesians found you."
He would be killed on sight, he knows that. And he knows exactly what fate will be waiting for him if the Qunari find him again.
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He knows how hot, how all-consuming, his anger can burn, especially when the one he is most angry with is himself. And this would be an inferno like no other.
The Dorian of his world is him in another life, just as the Bull in this world is. Whatever they are, and whatever they were to each other, is already doomed. But the two of them have their own lives to live, and Dorian will not seem them compromised. Tentatively, he reaches out to take Bull's hand from his chest into his own.
"I'm not leaving you." Firm. "I can't. You have to be with me to--to return." If there is one thing he is certain of, it is that he will do whatever it takes to remain by Bull's side. But Maker, what does that mean? And how will he get them home? "It'll have to be some other way, then. Because there is nothing that is worth more to me than you, amatus, and we are staying together."
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This entire future (and past) they are witnessing rests on his shoulders. He set up the pieces, he delivered the information, he clung to the Qun because without it, no part of his life made sense. It was his weakness (his strength, a different voice whispered) that led to this.
It takes him a moment to collect himself, and when he speaks again, he keeps his eye closed.
"Sataareth kadan hass-toh issala ebasit," he murmurs. It is my purpose to do what I must for those I love. A priest would never translate it that way, but it is what he means now. His fingers squeeze gently around Dorian's hand and he slides it to his mouth so he can kiss his palm.
"I will not leave you," he echoes. "I can't."
Bull takes a deep breath and lets it go slowly. He lets his hand and Dorian's drop to his leg and finally opens his eye to look at the mage again. "Please try to eat."
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Dorian gets to his feet. Blood rushes, his empty stomach churns, and his vision goes black for a moment. But he is doing this expressly so that he can insinuate himself between the Bull's knees and look at him eye to eye when he cups his face in his hands, rubs a thumb over his scarred cheek. "I will not leave you either," he promises. "Nothing matters more than that. Amatus. I love you," a kiss, hard but tender, an expression of every desperate, loyal, passionate, dedicated feeling that has taken root in him. "I love you."
He'll eat in due time. For now, he presses close to Bull, kissing him again, bare skin against warm bare skin, and hopes he conveys the depth of his feeling, and his commitment to seeing this through together, whatever the odds.
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He strokes his fingers over Dorian's back and moves carefully to pull the mage into his lap as they kiss again. He tips his head, breaking the kiss but only so he can press his lips to Dorian's throat, feeling his pulse, his life.
"Kadan," he murmurs, heavy and soft and full of feeling that he doesn't have the words for.
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"Do we need to stay here?" He feels understandably frightened and apprehensive at the thought, given what he's just experienced, but he asks the question gently, with a sort of level-headed pragmatism that tends to come to him in the face of terrible situations. Thankfully, he can work under pressure.
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"I could see about getting us moved elsewhere," he says, thinking. Maybe he can find reason for a transfer to Crestwood or some other part of Ferelden, maybe even closer to the mountains. The coast would be too dangerous, he thinks.
"I want to find out where the Viddasala is keeping magical artifacts," he adds, more cautiously. Maybe Maevaris and Vivienne could not reach them here, but that did mean they had no resources at all.
"At the very least, I can see about moving us down to Redcliffe Village."
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"Moving to the village would be marginally better, at least." There wouldn't be quite so many high-level agents and organizers there than at the castle, he imagines. "If I can get access to whatever the Viddasala has on hand, it may speed up the process of getting us home exponentially." Still, there's everyday life to consider until then, and that is likely to be the most dangerous part of this. "In the meantime...I assume you won't let them lock me up again?"
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Bull rubs his forehead. He’s had a headache for days, it seems.
“I won’t let them imprison you again. It might mean putting on an act... Are you alright with that?”
The alternatives are few, but Bull would think of something if Dorian objects to the idea.
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"I'll do what's necessary," he agrees, though reluctantly. Anything less, though, will be dangerous for them both. His hands rest lightly on Bull's shoulders, thumbs absently moving in soothing circles against his neck. "What would be required of us?"
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