aban_aqun | The Hissing Wastes

Asit tal-eb. He's certain he's heard Bull say those words before. God to have the translation. It doesn't much matter if he's answering his question directly, because Dorian is nodding anyway, absorbing the information he's given. It reflects what he knows about the major philosophy of the Qun already, for the most part. Good that he'd had the fundamentals straight, at least.

But that structure can't work for everyone, he thinks, though he doesn't say it. Bull already knows that very well, given how many Tal-Vashoth he'd dealt with during his career in Seheron.

What Dorian simply can't pass up is the chance to learn more about Bull's childhood. "What were you like as a child?" He asks, curiosity and amusement making his eyes bright, lips curling in a smile that is, despite himself, nothing short of fond.

Edited 2019-08-23 02:22 (UTC)

"Big," he quips, lolling his head to look down at Dorian. "I liked to knock things over. But I also helped to look after younger or smaller kids in my cohort. Our tamassran started calling me Ashkaari... I can't remember how old I was."

Old enough to know that having a title other than imkaari was special. Old enough to feel like he wanted to live up to her expectations and hopes.

"She had me pegged for the army early on, but she told me this story that changed her mind. She told me I couldn't go play until I ate three more things off my plate and all that was left was vegetables. I made her promise me and then put three pieces of meat I'd hidden back on the plate. I ate them and ran off."

He smiles at the memory of hearing it again and the laugh in her voice as she told it.

"That was when she knew I was too smart to be a soldier. Willing to follow the letter of the law but not the spirit when it suited me."

Dorian snorts lightly. Big seems a given. He'll file Ashkaari away for later, as he's distracted by Bull's stories of his youth. Even back then he'd been taking care of others. That doesn't surprise him at all, and he nearly says so. But of course, he chooses to tease him instead. "So you're saying that you became part of the Ben-Hassrath because you were contrary? That does sound like you."

He squeezes Bull's hand lightly, affectionately, and chances leaning a little into his side. Bull's smile is encouraging, and puts him in a lighter mood. "Your tamassran--how long were you with her before you moved on? Did you see her at all after?" He's curious as to whether the Qun would allow that sort of lingering familial bond. Because the way Bull talks about her, she wasn't just his nanny. She might as well have been a parent.

"Something like that. I would have been a good soldier in theory - I'm big even for a Qunari and violence doesn't bother me. But... I'm not--" Bull laughs. "She'd never have said this, but I'm not dense enough. Men that end up in the Antaam and the Beresaad don't have questions, they just follow orders. Most of them don't even learn a second language. Which is kind of rough when you consider that they're supposed to be the eyes, ears, legs, arms, and hands of our people, everything you need to interact with the rest of the world. Not always a great first impression."

He thinks, briefly, of Kirkwall. What a mess. Bull smiles though as he thinks about his tamassran.

"We had two," he admits. "But I was closer to the younger one. I was with her from birth until they sent me off for training, but I still saw her fairly frequently until I went to Seheron. I wrote to her. I saw her briefly when I was sent back, before they reassigned me to the south."

He remembers hoping that she would never be assigned to any of the colonies on Seheron. Bull still writes to her, though not as often, if only to keep track of her whereabouts. It comforts him to know that she is safe and that in some part of the world, things make sense.

Bull seems different as he talks about this. Lighter, somehow. Like this is something he's wanted to share for some time, but never had the chance. It pleases Dorian to see him this way, smiling and laughing, especially after how pensive he'd looked. It's clear that Bull misses the woman who'd raised him, but also that talking about her is something of a relief. Dorian isn't sure he's ever had anyone he feels that way about. Felix, perhaps.

He nods along, rubs a thumb across Bull's knuckles. A small gesture of comfort. It's difficult to miss someone you won't see again.

"And how long was it?" He asks. "Before you were sent off for training? Is it the same age for everyone, or do you all get dispersed depending upon how well-prepared you are?" If Dorian really thought about it, he's certain he could ask a thousand questions about Qunari life--about Bull's life, in particular. He can't help but wonder how many people know even this much about him. "Did they know right away what sort of job you'd have with the Ben-Hassrath?"

"It's a little different for everyone. If tamassrans have you figured out early, they might encourage you to try games that will help you develop skills for a future job. Memory games, chess, puzzles. I think I was fifteen or sixteen when I went to the Ben-Hassrath and the real training started. They try you at different things to see where you fit, then once they have you squared away, training starts in earnest. It's two or three years of that and shadowing someone that is doing the job you'll someday do. Then I went off to Seheron."

His superiors saw what he was good at and made extensive notes on what he could do, what value he could bring, to a place like Seheron. His ability to get along with people, the way he gathers information, remembers it, uses it. His leadership skills and his willingness to work around hard rules when he needs to. His dedication to the Qun and his people. All of it worked together to get him to where he is.

"Antaam and Ben-Hassrath kids are usually that age when we go off. Bakers, cooks, farmers, craftspeople - they all get apprenticeships when they're a little younger."

Dorian remains silent, but nods to show his understanding. It's logical, of course, which he supposes is how the Qun runs itself. Everything makes sense, is efficient, fits seamlessly into place. Every person, too. Ideally, at least.

But Seheron at such a young age--Bull couldn't have been far past twenty when he first set foot on the island with his assignment. It makes Dorian's stomach churn to think of. At that age he'd been getting blind drunk in brothels, having sex anywhere and with any man he wanted, willfully engaging in duels, and making a general ass of himself. Seheron was barely on the periphery of his awareness, something he only thought about when the subject cropped up at particularly boring dinners.

He feels, not for the first time, a great deal of shame on behalf of the spoiled little shit he'd been. Bull had been fighting for his life and his sanity while Dorian wasted money on drink, complained about the intelligence of his peers, and then sucked them off anyway in back rooms and dark hallways, only to pretend afterward that they'd never been introduced. His father deserved it, of course, every embarrassment he'd caused him; but these days, Dorian can't look back and actually like that pompous, ignorant young man. But he can learn from him, at least. Be better.

"You were so young," he says quietly, looks up at Bull with plain sympathy and more than a little concern, though the latter is two decades too late. "And they decided that you were the man they wanted on the ground in that shithole?"

"When I was still technically in training, I carried out work in Par Vollen. That's where I became Hissrad," he admits. "People assumed that because I was big, I was a guard or something, not Ben-Hassrath. Because I found it so easy to be straightforward, they thought me stupid. People will tell you a lot of things when they believe that."

Bull smiles faintly. "I did well. Uncovered a few smuggling operations, found discontents. Rooted out a whole Tevinter spy ring. That's what got me posted to Seheron. They needed someone intelligent enough to find spies, charming enough to win over natives, and-- brutal. Someone that could survive. I guess I was twenty one? Wasn't hard to rise through the ranks. I was good at my job and people died or got reassigned to avoid real burn out."

He was good. An unshakable comrade, a ruthless hunter, fair with the natives, and sharply clever.

"Usual tour of duty is two years. I was there for about eight." Bull looks down at his hands, one holding Dorian's and the other missing a couple of fingertips. "Kind of liked it when the Vints showed up every year. Made things feel straightforward."

Fighting Tevinter soldiers and mages was its own kind of hell, but at least Bull knew who he enemy was in those incursions.

Of course he was good. If Dorian hadn't known right from the start that Bull was Ben-Hassrath, he likely would have fallen for Bull's cover, too. He's learned to use people's expectations--their prejudices--to serve his own ends. The Iron Bull is huge, jovial, loud. He loves to drink, fuck, and fight. While Dorian knows that Bull genuinely does enjoy these things, it's also the perfect cover. No one would ever suspect him of duplicity. Not the big, dumb oxman. Few would even think him capable.

But to hear of the extent of Bull's successful career with the Ben-Hassrath is sobering. Dorian has known for quite some time now that the Bull must be one of the most intelligent men he's ever known; it's one of his most attractive qualities, right up there with the mass of his biceps. This only serves to confirm that assumption--as well as the assumption that his long tour of duty on Seheron had been the exception rather than the rule. It's difficult to fathom what he must have had to endure there in all the time.

Instead of broaching that depressing topic, he asks another question.

"Hissrad?" Dorian repeats the unfamiliar word, brow furrowing. "Is that your...title? Under the Qun?" He's never heard it, if Bull has any other name apart from the Iron Bull. But he must, he realizes. Or at least, he must in so far as Qunari have things they call one another.

"Something like that." Bull hasn't met anyone else with that particular title, but he wouldn't have considered it a nickname, either. It's descriptive enough to give people an idea of who he is and what he does if they know it. "Keeper of illusions," he translates.

Liar something in him whispers. As apt a translation as any. Maybe less refined. Bull doesn't use it if he has a choice. He doesn't lie. He lets people believe what they want to. It's different. It's easy to get caught lying; less easy to be caught playing along with what people already assume is true.

"I got it while I was still in Par Vollen. For a while I didn't really have anything. My tama called me Ashkaari but that means someone who knows, and everyone in the Ben-Hassrath knows things. Not enough to serve as a differentiation."

Keeper of illusions. The translation lingers in Dorian's mind like tendrils of smoke, obscuring a more literal meaning. It's accurate enough, he supposes.

Their fingers are still wound together, palms flat. Himself and--Ashkaari, Hissrad, the Iron Bull. Maker, that's a lot to keep up with. He knows, at least, the he doesn't want to let go. That will have to be enough.

"You've had a number of descriptive monikers, it seems," Dorian comments. "So have I, I suppose, but only one of them is my name." He smiles faintly. "I'm sure it comes as no surprise, but for you, I like the Iron Bull best." He squeezes Bull's hand, leaning into him as he tilts his chin up. For a fleeting moment he wonders if he could chance a kiss here. He wants to. Wants to communicate to Bull how much he cares for him exactly as he is, and how grateful he is that he's shared these things with him. Dorian isn't the sort to say such things plainly. But he thinks that a kiss may not be right, either. There's something almost selfish about that desire, and he doesn't want to examine it too closely.

Ashkaari, Hissrad, the Bull - all the same man, or at least, Bull hopes they are.

He smiles small and shrugs one shoulder when Dorian points out the titles he'd gone through. "I couldn't stay Hissrad when I came here," he admits. "He's known in Seheron and if I waltzed around Orlais using that name, someone would put the pieces together eventually. Especially Tevinter agents. Besides, all Tal-Vashoth pick a name for themselves. It's an important part of breaking with the Qun."

Some days Bull worries that he has been The Iron Bull too long. He writes letters to Par Vollen with perfect devotion because he knows what his people have done for him. He is not a traitor. He is not Tal-Vashoth.

But the Bull is just another title. He comforts himself in that, even if he had to choose it for himself.

He looks down at Dorian and he can't help but smile when he sees the look on the mage's face. Bull leans down to give him a kiss, lingering until he feels Dorian start to pull away.

"Qunari don't have names. But I can see the appeal."

The Bull really is good. Something in what he sees in Dorian's face makes him lean down to kiss him, just as Dorian had been contemplating it. Even so it's something of a shock. There's the overwhelming urge to pull away immediately. He hadn't looked around, hadn't checked, he doesn't know who might be watching, seeing this. But he doesn't. He makes himself return the kiss for the space of a heartbeat at least before breaking it, sitting back and slipping from Bull's grip to clasp his hands nervously in his lap. He resists the urge to look over his shoulder, but only barely.

To distract himself, Dorian picks up his bowl again. What's left of his dinner is colder than he'd like, but a small fire rune drawn on the side of the bowl fixes that quickly enough. When the stew is steaming again, he raises a spoonful to his mouth.

"But you've got one," he points out, tries for lighthearted without being blithe. "Or am I mistaken? Should I stop moaning Bull in bed?" His smirk is as teasing as it is provocative.

He notices the way that Dorian panics and pulls away. Bull is certain that no one is watching, but he also cares about that much less than Dorian does. He lets Dorian go, lets him gain some distance to compose himself.

"No, I like hearing it," he answers warmly, giving Dorian a smoldering look in case he thinks Bull is only teasing. It's one of his favorite things lately: hearing Dorian gasp his name and grab whatever part of him he can reach.

Still, the comment hits something deep in him. He doesn't have a name. The Iron Bull is a title, like any other: he is a cover that doesn't really exist. He hasn't had to think about it in a long time, but maybe he should be more aware of it. More careful. It's been easy to get comfortable in his life. But he is Qunari. He is Hissrad. And when all of this is over, he will still be Hissrad.

"Should I avoid public displays like that?" he asks, tone light but sincere.

As much as Bull's flirting makes him smile, strangely giddy, the question that follows after is sobering. Bull is asking so that he can be mindful of his comfort, Dorian thinks. It's kind, and Dorian feels badly about it all the same. An all too familiar twist of shame and longing.

"I'd prefer it," Dorian says, soft with embarrassment. "It isn't that I don't enjoy the idea," he explains, and thinks admitting even that is probably unwise. He thinks of kissing Bull in the middle of camp. Not a dramatic, eye-catching gesture, but simply an exchange of affection between lovers, common as could be. It's a fantasy, like so many he has. Unlikely to ever come about. "But I simply...have an aversion, I suppose. It makes me nervous. I was always looking over my shoulder back home. I had to."

He resists the urge to reach out to Bull again, keeping his hands to himself. Something else about this tugs at him, makes him apprehensive and hollow-feeling.

"You have no problem with it, then?" He asks quietly. "Being seen with me like that?" Showing real affection in public--a sweet kiss like that one had been--is far different from bragging about a tumble. There's a certain amount of genuine feeling, even commitment, implied by the former. And it is that which both frightens and elates Dorian, when he thinks about it.

“No,” he answers easily. “It doesn’t bother me.”

Dorian holds back so much. Bull knows that he does it to protect himself, but it’s a lot to get past. Bull has never had to do anything like that. Under the Qun, his sexuality simply doesn't matter beyond what kind of tamassran might be most helpful. In the south, most people are too afraid of him to give him grief about the people he chooses to bed. He is discrete for the sake of his partners and what they might prefer, not for himself. He knows that he’d try for more if Dorian didn’t get so tense about the mere thought of being caught out in public.

“No one ever shamed me about sex or the kind of people I might be attracted to as I grew up. It was never a thing that someone saw a need to correct.”

It doesn't bother him. That's more than can be said for any other man Dorian's fucked. But he shouldn't read too much into it, he chides himself. There are relatively few things that actively bother Bull. He's an entirely different creature--quite literally--than any of Dorian's past lovers.

"How wonderful for you," Dorian says quietly, more than a little bitter, "that it didn't bear correcting." He can't help but hear the words I only wanted what was best for you.

His dinner is set aside again as his hands wind together with nerves. He feels compelled to tell Bull, here and now. Perhaps because Bull has deigned to share things with him, perhaps because Bull has told him that he's willing to acknowledge Dorian in a way he hadn't anticipated. He trusts him, he realizes. More than anyone else he knows.

"My father felt that it did." Dorian's voice remains strong, though low. "He grew so weary of the scandal my predilections caused, of my refusal to live a lie and marry the woman they'd assigned to the unfortunate task of becoming my wife."

Dorian doesn't take a deep breath, doesn't pause. If he does, he knows he won't continue.

"He tried to change me. He wanted to use a dangerous blood magic ritual to alter my mind, make me...acceptable." And there it is, out in the open. Dorian hadn't meant to make this confession tonight--or ever, really--but as with so many other instances, the Iron Bull draws out truths and emotions from him that he didn't expect. Kaffas, he thinks; he really is good at what he does.

Bull listens in silence as Dorian delves into the part of his life that Bull knows so little about. He knows that the Inquisitor and Dorian went to confront Halward - not an agent, as previously believed - in Redcliffe. He did not dig for more after that, given Dorian's mood when he returned.

What he could not have imagined was that Halward Pavus would have tried to use blood magic, particularly dangerous blood magic, on his own son. His expression changes subtly: a quiet but profound anger. Bull takes a deep breath and lets it go slowly, trying to let his rage go with it. He looks out at the desert but one large hand slides over, gently covering both of Dorian's to stop their anxious wringing.

"I'm sorry, Dorian." The words are small and they feel useless in the face of what he had to face. Bull looks at him. He wants nothing more than to pull Dorian into his arms and offer him comfort the way he knows best. He wants to hold him, to let him feel supported and cared for and protected. But Dorian has asked that he avoid such public displays.

Bull tells himself he would do it for anyone, but that doesn't matter. Dorian has asked him not to. So he squeezes the mage's hands.

"He was wrong to try to do that to you. Wrong to try to make you anything less than what and who you are."

He knows what Bull must be thinking; or what he assumes he's thinking, at least. Tevinters and blood magic go hand in hand. But his father wasn't like that. Or at least, Dorian had thought he wasn't. The mistaken assumption that his father still had some principle left, some compunctions about using the sort of magic he'd always taught Dorian to abhor, had nearly cost Dorian his life--or his sanity. The same either way.

But there's no I-told-you-so. Bull apologizes quietly and takes his hand. It's still something of a marvel, the way Bull's hands so completely engulf his own.

"I know that, of course." Dorian murmurs, and finds that though there are a hundred more things he could say about this, he can't manage to actually find the words for any of them. He settles on, "But it's good to hear you say it anyway. Thank you."

"It's one thing to know it and another to hear it."

Bull's quiet for a moment, considering carefully before he asks, "Halward was in Redcliffe, wasn't he? An agent might have pissed you off, but..."

He'd never spoken to Dorian - or anyone - about what he did or didn't know about the Inquisitor's trip to Redcliffe. All he could confirm (and even that was on shaky ground) was that it sounded like a conversation between father and son and beyond that the details are bare. Tavern walls had ears, even when they seemed empty, and Bull doubts that Halward would take notice of servants.

"What did he want?"

"He was," Dorian confirms with a sardonic little chuckle. "He wanted the same thing he's always wanted: for me to come back home and do my duty to House Pavus. He thought that coming all the way here and joining the Inquisition was just another one of my little rebellions. Goes to show that he doesn't really know me at all." Clutching hard at Bull's hand, Dorian shakes his head. The smile on his lips is not a happy one. "I came here because I wanted to do the right thing. Getting away from him was merely a happy coincidence."

He stares out at the horizon, at the sand stretching on for miles beneath the moon. Thinks of Bull's words from the Qun, about how angry and lonely he'd felt after seeing his father. He hand't felt like he was a part of anything at all.

"He said that what he tried to do was for my sake, because he always has to be so self-righteous. But he only cares for himself--for the good name of House Pavus. He cares more about that than about anyone who actually bears that name."

Bull stays quiet, weighing everything that Dorian tells him. Halward is selfish in the worst way. He wants Dorian to change for the sake of what - a name? Lineage? Prestige? It doesn't matter. The lengths he was willing to go to, the actions he was willing to take against his own flesh and blood--

It bothers Bull in a way he can't entirely articulate.

"Asit tal-eb," he murmurs quietly. "You are Dorian Pavus, and you can be no other way than this. To try to change the nature of a thing is a failure to understand it and value it." He wants to say, it is an abomination, but that is not a word to use lightly around mages and Bull knows it.

"What you bring to the world is something only you can give. I am grateful to know you. Not what your father or Tevinter would have you be."

Well, he won't be changing any time soon. It's a relief to hear that Bull appreciates him as he is; he hasn't heard that nearly enough times in his life, and it's enough to make him a little misty-eyed, though he certainly doesn't look at Bull, hoping that he can hide the depth of emotion this conversation has brought forth in him by turning his face away. He hadn't expected to talk about this with Bull; hadn't thought he ever would, really. But he's glad he has, even if he won't say as much.

"I--" Dorian swallows hard and resists the urge to reach up and wrap his arms around Bull's neck, to bring himself closer and fold into his embrace. "I am rather spectacular. And I have far more value here than I ever would following convention back home."

After taking a moment to blink slowly, breathe deeply, and collect himself, Dorian stands up. He doesn't release Bull's hand, but rather uses it to urge him to stand as well. "Let's go for a walk, shall we?" He suggests, finally glancing at Bull with a tight smile. The desert is beautiful under the moon, and he wants to appreciate it together a little longer--and a little further from camp.

Bull gets up slowly. He braces his free hand against a rock to leverage himself upward so that he doesn't drag on Dorian's hand.

Of course he'll go for a walk. He wouldn't mind a bit more privacy, if that's what it takes for Dorian to allow an embrace or some other comfort. His good eye is bright as he looks down at the mage.

"I expect you to protect me if we run into anything that wants to eat us," he quips. "I'm not armed."

As if his own body is not weapon enough. As if he has never grappled with something twice his size in an effort to kill it.

"You're safe with me," Dorian assures, managing a genuinely amused smile. Bull's teasing quickly puts him in a better mood, as does the sustained grip of their hands. He's never walked hand in hand with someone like this before. It always seemed far too intimate, like something real lovers would do. It makes him strangely giddy. "Luckily, I am always armed."

As though Bull wouldn't happily fight something with his bare hands anyway. Dorian's seen him do it, at times simply for the joy and satisfaction it apparently brings him. Dorian will never understand, but he can't deny that it does things to him, the way Bull swaggers about after a particularly hard-won victory, grinning, boasting, muscles gleaming with perspiration, gaze hot and knowing when it meets Dorian's--

--the point being, Dorian isn't worried about them encountering anything that, as Bull puts it, wants to eat them.

Dorian leads the way, though he has no idea where he's going. Further from camp, at least, around an outcropping of rock, tall boulders with edges smoothed by sand and time. "I hope the next camp's near a lovely oasis surrounded by lush greenery," he jokes. "I could use a proper wash, and something other than sand to look at."

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