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Exalted Plains
As they cross Orlais back toward the Frostbacks, a message arrives for the Inquisitor, diverting them to the Exalted Plains. The civil war between Gaspard and the Empress has seen the land war-torn again, ravaged by soldiers and by mages. Bull has been here before, and if he had a choice, he would not be here now.
But he doesn't. This is where the Inquisitor is and so this is where he will be. Their first order of business is to rid the ramparts of demons and spirits and to burn the dead.
Bull hates the close quarters of the ramparts. He can fight in them - he can fight almost anywhere - but he doesn't like it. It reminds him of battles and ambushes in city streets. Qunari didn't use ramparts like this no dug-in fortifications.
The smell of dead and decaying bodies and fresh blood, the sound of far-off skirmishing keep Bull hyper-vigilant and alert. As best he can, he keeps his state to himself. The Inquisitor doesn't need to be preoccupied with him, nor does the rest of the party.
After they set camp between the river and the ruins of Ville Montevelan, Bull sits apart, lost in the sound of the water and a battlefield far away.
But he doesn't. This is where the Inquisitor is and so this is where he will be. Their first order of business is to rid the ramparts of demons and spirits and to burn the dead.
Bull hates the close quarters of the ramparts. He can fight in them - he can fight almost anywhere - but he doesn't like it. It reminds him of battles and ambushes in city streets. Qunari didn't use ramparts like this no dug-in fortifications.
The smell of dead and decaying bodies and fresh blood, the sound of far-off skirmishing keep Bull hyper-vigilant and alert. As best he can, he keeps his state to himself. The Inquisitor doesn't need to be preoccupied with him, nor does the rest of the party.
After they set camp between the river and the ruins of Ville Montevelan, Bull sits apart, lost in the sound of the water and a battlefield far away.
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He knows some that have still painted the patterns on themselves like war paint. It is their right to do so.
"As Hissrad I choose patterns that suit me or that give information that I want given." He's already described the good luck symbols used by soldiers and the other symbols have broad enough meaning that anyone might find reason to use them. Anyone that knows how to read the patterns would have no reason to suspect him of being anything but a soldier.
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Well, not...everything. Or at least, Dorian hopes not. After the last few months, and the previous night in particular, he thinks he can say with confidence that he knows the man Bull really is better than most.
With his plate empty, Dorian picks up his dragonskin gloves in preparation. "Well, show me how it's done, then," he says brightly. "I'm certain this is to be a moment for the history books; a Tevinter Altus learning to apply vitaar for a Ben-Hassrath agent. There's something to keep the gossips occupied."
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For a moment, he sorts bottles and vials. There's a knife in the kit that he sets aside, then an empty glass bowl. He passes that to Dorian.
"To collect the blood," he instructs. Easier to do this part with two people. When Dorian is settled and close, Bull chooses a place on the inside of his forearm and neatly opens the skin. He holds it over the bowl, watching as it collects. When he deems there's enough, he plucks a clean cloth from the kit and presses it over his arm to stem the bleeding.
"Add the pigment powder," he says with a nod toward the black jar sitting nearby.
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The process is fascinating, if momentarily worrying. He's never actually watched Bull do this before, and thus had no idea that the paste was mixed with his blood. He'd assumed water, or...literally anything else, really. But Bull is so very clinical about it, barely reacting as the blood drains from his arm into the small bowl from his kit. It's clear he's been through this process a thousand times.
Only when bid does Dorian move closer, and though he itches to press the cloth against Bull's arm himself, he instead puts on his gloves and carefully picks up the jar Bull indicates. He removes the lid, finds a small wooden tool inside for dividing and measuring the powder. "Tell me when I have enough," he asks, and begins scooping small measures of the powder into the bowl.
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He's pretty sure that means the pigment isn't as pure as it should be, but it happens rarely enough. Still, he isn't taking chances with Dorian. When he's certain the mage won't accidentally inhale anything, he dumps the vial of poison into the bowl. It hisses and foams, but does not splatter. He finds something to mix it with, carefully working it until the consistency is smooth and similar to a thick paint.
"Alright... should be fine as long as you don't get any on your skin."
Bull tries not to sound concern. The last person to ever help him had been Krem, and he'd covered himself up from head to toe, just in case.
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With Bull's confirmation, he accepts the bowl in one gloved hand and reaches out toward Bull with the other, palm up as he waits for him to hand him a brush.
"Out of curiosity," Dorian says, far too lightly, "what would this poison do to me, exactly, if I were to get any of it on my skin?"
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Bull gives up the bowl and brush to Dorian and moves to sit on the ground so that Dorian has full access to his shoulders and his back. He'd seen reports of magisters testing vitaar on their slaves and experimenting with living Qunari prisoners. He keeps that to himself. Dorian is not those men.
"It'll be safe when it's dry."
If there's any left, Bull will bottle it or discard of it as necessary, but that usually means burying it. For now, he'll carry it with him.
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"Then I shall endeavor not to spill a drop," he promises gravely. As he dips the fine tip of the brush into the mixture, he says, "I'll start by refreshing what's already there. If you'd like anything new, I'll handle that afterward."
Dorian has a very steady hand, made so by years of learning how to sketch complex magical sigils and glyphs, where the wrong slant of a line or misplacement of a letter would mean a botched spell at best. As a result, he's very handy with diagrams, and with precise geometric shapes. It's a boon when painting the Bull's right shoulder, where even the designs with more sweeping lines follow exacting rules and measurements. He's careful to roll the brush against the edge of the bowl before lifting it so as not to gather any messy excess paint, and in that way, brightens the faded edges and cracks in the designs already present on Bull's skin. He's never drawn on a living canvas before, and almost unconsciously, he finds himself matching his breathing to the Bull's. If he were not so hyper-aware of the dangerous material he is working with, Dorian might almost call it soothing.
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"What do you think?" he asks after a while, once Dorian has moved on to his other side. He finds himself curious: this is not a small thing Bull is sharing and it is so thoroughly Qunari.
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The designs are beautiful if austere, and the way they follow the curve of Bull's musculature, the way the black ink contrasts the grey of his skin--he looks dangerous, yes, intimidating, just as he's meant to. A hulking brute in intricate war paint. Doubtless, that is all many people will see. That will be the last thing many people will see. But Dorian knows more. They've known one another long enough--and intimately enough, now--for him to have thought more than once that the Bull is probably the smartest man he knows, which is saying something. Vitaar, too, is subtly clever. Armor without seeming it, many purposed. The application must be an important ritual for the Qun's soldiers, no doubt, creating a culture among them, a point for peer bonding.
"It must be blasphemous for me, of all people, to be doing this for you," he comments, sounding like he rather delights in the taboo of it all. He does, but he's also feeling more contemplative. Perhaps it's the way he can feel Bull's measured breathing, the patterns he himself is following. Emptying the lungs, clearing the mind. He almost doesn't want to break the spell. "Will you turn this way a little more?" He asks, dipping and wiping the brush again.
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"Blasphemous on both sides, I think." A Tevinter altus serving a Qunari spy; a Qunari spy allowing a Tevinter altus to know this process. Bull keeps his head turned carefully to make sure that Dorian doesn't have to duck around his horns.
He watches the camp as people start going about their day. Some look over, watching the strange scene of a Tevinter mage and Qunari engaged in this ritual. Given the right spin, this sort of thing could be a morale booster. The Inquisition could use that, but Bull finds himself hoping that this doesn't leave the camp. This is something between him and Dorian, not something being done for the sake of the Inquisition.
This is something that feels like his own.
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Dorian tries to pay little mind to the passers-by, though he doesn't doubt that they're gawking. He and Bull have become quite the topic of conversation since the Hissing Wastes, apparently intriguing enough to pass on camp to camp. For the most part, he's tried to ignore it; he's had far worse back home, and by this point he doesn't care what's said about him, but more so what's said about Bull.
"I'm nearly finished, I think," he says, head tilting as he considers the canvas of Bull's torso. "Unless you'd like me to add more?" He can think of some designs, but isn't certain that Bull would want him simply free-hand drawing whimsical patterns on his skin with long-lasting poison paint, especially when his people hold this process so sacred. Either way, it pleases him to know that he has quite literally had a hand in protecting Bull. He'll feel that much better about whatever they face today.
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"Not this time," he says with a a smile. "Next time we're at Skyhold, when there isn't so much pressing business."
The Inquisitor will want to get across the river eventually, and Bull needs a bit of time to let the vitaar dry to avoid putting anyone in their party at risk. Bull has to admit quietly to himself that he's curious about what designs Dorian would put on his skin.
Bull reaches to take the bowl and brush from Dorian, then turns more to brush a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you," he murmurs, gratitude that is just for Dorian.
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Dorian hands the bowl and brush back, and it's a good thing that he does, or he may very well have dropped them in surprise at the relatively simple touch of Bull's lips against his cheek. Bull murmurs his thanks, and Dorian is quietly stunned. This is not usual for him. It is, in fact, the first time a man has shown him such affection openly, here in the midmorning sunlight in the center of camp, where anyone might notice. Sad, but there it is.
Dorian's heart is in his throat. There's a swell of feeling in his chest, but also of confusion, and he genuinely isn't sure for a moment whether he's going to retreat or reciprocate. Retreat, probably. This is beyond the scope of his experience. Bull clearly has no issue with being open about their association, but Maker, they're only fucking and sharing a bed for comfort. How does that translate to such tenderness in public? Dorian steps away, busying his hands with removing his dragonskin gloves as he manages a thin smile. It seems that his courage has fled him all at once. "You should be more mindful," he says softly. "There are some people who will misconstrue that sort of thing."
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"Mm," he hums quietly. "And wouldn't that be terrible." There's something mild there - not chiding or sarcasm, but something warmer, more gentle. It's the sort of tone he absolutely should not be taking with Dorian; he shouldn't even insinuate that what they're doing is more than fucking. Bull isn't actually sure what to do if it is. But--
He can't really blame Dorian, either. Fucking is one thing, but doing anything more than that with someone like Bull is probably ludicrous.
Bull looks down and shifts to set the brush aside, to cap the small bowl and put it away in the kit. He wraps the brush in cloth; he'll clean it later, somewhere that won't be a risk to their water supply.
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But it forces Dorian to imagine something that he has been deliberately avoiding. What would it be like to be with Bull? To really be with him, truly belonging to one another? What would it be like to have with Bull the sort of impossible relationship Dorian has always craved?
There's a response on the tip of his tongue: I didn't say that. But that would mean admitting something to himself and to Bull that he absolutely should not. He says something else instead, shifting quickly from vulnerable to arch and standoffish as he draws his armor around himself.
"Terrible and entirely misinformed," he says, dismissive. "I know it's all foreign to you, but sex and romance are not always intertwined, even for humans. I shouldn't like anyone to think that my standards are so low." And with that, he turns back toward their tent, intending to clear his mind by finishing his preparations for the day. He knows it won't be so easy as that.
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But maybe there is some truth there. What Bull has foolishly intimated is not possible. He'd thought, for some time, that Dorian's interest was different; maybe it isn't after all. Is he more ashamed of this than he'd been letting on? As the idea takes root, Bull decides that it may be time to end the depth of their intimacy. If Dorian wants to keep having sex, that's fine. But there's no need to fool himself by continuing to share a bed. It would be for the best.
He finishes tending to his kit, waiting until Dorian is done in the tent before he finishes preparing himself for the day's excursion. He doesn't exactly know what they'll find across the river, but given the state of the ramparts, he suspects it won't be pretty.
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Bull must be upset with him, he thinks. Normally he's quick to forgive--even last night, when Dorian had stepped in it rather badly--but he can also be stubborn at times. As can Dorian. Really, he thinks, it should be Bull who apologizes to him. What had he meant by a comment like that? Was he trying to tease him? If so, it wasn't the least bit funny.
They make their way across the recently repaired bridge to Citadelle Du Corbeau across the river, just as Lavellan had planned. What awaits them there is a gruesome and brutal slog, which includes fighting a void-cursed revenant and a tornado of fire which simply won't quit coming back. They discover that the fortress' ancient elven defenses have been triggered by Celene's soldiers in a last effort to rid themselves of the undead. Dorian might be intermittently angry at and confused by and remorseful toward the Iron Bull, but he doesn't allow that to impact his focus or his casting. Such a distraction could mean a fatal mistake--not only for himself, but for any member of their little party, should he miss the timing of a barrier or another crucial spell. In such close quarters as the halls and ramparts they're forced to fight their way across, he winds up in direct combat more than usual, having to use his staff blade nearly as much as he does his offensive spells. But Bull is always there just a little ways in front of him, a force of sheer destruction, brutal and intimidating painted with his fresh vitaar, the lines that Dorian himself had applied.
The undead are concentrated even more heavily here an in other parts of the Plains, which is understandably terrifying to most, but to Dorian, a boon. He is able to turn many to his own purpose, his magic and his will stronger than the force which binds these spirits to their husks. Reaching the top of the Citadelle means fighting the largest group yet. Many of them are not the corpses of soldiers, Dorian notes, but of ordinary civilians. They must put them down all the same, and Dorian uses his own methods to do so. After it's over, Lavellan activates the device that disengages the fortress' ancient defenses. Dorian takes a moment to breathe, holding his staff close.
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He keeps his eye on Dorian, part out of habit and part-- for reasons he doesn't want to think about too deeply. They haven't spoken since that morning. Bull sees nothing to apologize for and he isn't prepared to make peace just yet. Maybe he shouldn't at all, but the last thing the Inquisition needs is for he and Dorian to truly be at odds.
Bull feels in one piece until they reach the upper levels of the Citadelle. The undead are civilian, and those that haven't been reanimated somehow lie prone, victims of-- what? When all is quiet, Bull stands in the courtyard, looking at corpses of men and women. He wonders if they were crushed as people fled the weapon or if it was something else. Something cold trickles through him.
He stays where he is as Lavellen climbs the stairs to bang on the sealed door. There are soldiers in there. Soldiers that fled and left these people to die. Another wave and soon enough he feels detached from himself. He moves away, losing the sound of the Inquisitor's voice as he leaves the courtyard behind. He needs air, he needs to be away from the dead and the dying. They're all he can see. He doesn't understand.
How could anyone kill so many civilians? What does it achieve? He sees the tamassran and her charges, he sees the bloating bodies left by Tal-Vashoth in summer raids. He can smell them.
Bull tries to remember to breathe.
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Dorian watches Bull step away with open concern. He leaves the rest to Lavellan and Varric, and chooses to follow Bull instead. Despite their apparent falling out this morning, Bull is his friend, and...yes, his friend. Or so he hopes.
In retrospect, it had been a nasty thing to say, even if Bull was being deeply confusing. Whatever standards Dorian may have (few), Bull isn't below them by any means. Not that it should matter anyway, of course, given that a relationship with a Qunari simply isn't an option. (It isn't, is it?) Still, he didn't need to be so mean about it, especially when he's well aware that one of Bull's hang-ups about this sort of thing is having a partner who's ashamed of being with him. That is the very last thing Dorian wants to be. He doesn't want to layer that stress and disappointment on top of what Bull must already be feeling.
"Bull," he calls his name softly as he approaches. Bull's back is to him. Dorian looks at the intimately familiar patterns on his skin. He'll check in on him, and then apologize. That seems the best course of action.
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Bull moves with trained instinct; he gives nothing away until the last second. Mages can't react if they don't get enough warning. He turns in a smooth arc but his blade smashes into a barrier. The impact sends a shock up his arms but he doesn't drop his weapon, too well-trained for that. He turns away, bracing for whatever might come next - he's seen barriers explode outward.
But it makes something shiver apart inside him and when Bull looks up again, he sees Dorian standing there, and he realizes what he's just done. That makes him drop the heavy great ax as numbness spreads through him.
"Dorian."
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There's a long, tense moment where Dorian simply stands with his staff at the ready, hoping that he won't actually have to fight Bull. But when he turns around and looks up again, there's recognition in his eye. At last, his Bull surfaces. He drops the ax with a great heavy thud and a hollow-sounding murmur of his name. Dorian allows his barrier to dissipate, and drops his staff in turn.
"Yes. Yes, Bull, it's Dorian," he says, only a little hysterical. Cautiously, he takes a step closer. His instincts still scream at him to stay away, but Maker, how could he when Bull is experiencing this? "I'm fine, Bull, I--" He swallows hard, trying to move past the moment of sheer panic he'd just experienced, trying to banish the stinging of his eyes before stunned tears actually begin to fall. Bull sees him now--sees him. He won't lash out again. He doesn't think so, at least. "It's all right. Come here," he urges, and extends his hands, palm up. They're shaking.
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He could have killed Dorian. He would have, if the mage's reflexes were any slower.
Shok ebasit hissra.
He tries to slow his breathing and he doesn't move, doesn't dare, but neither does he discourage Dorian. Come here. Bull forces himself to move, feeling stiff from the tension. He closes the small distance between himself and Dorian and stands before the mage, head down.
It takes him a long moment to summon his voice, and when he does, it's quiet between them.
"Did I hurt you?"
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"No. The barrier took the hit," he explains quietly. "I'm not--" He swallows hard again. His throat is tight, painful. "You would never hurt me," he says, voice raw, and allows himself to step forward and wrap his arms around Bull's middle. He buries his face against his chest, heedless of the blood and sweat coating his skin, to take a deep, shuddering breath.
The tears, it seems, are going to fall heedless of his will, but his shoulders shake as he manages to suppress an outright sob. "You would never hurt me," he repeats, as though trying to reassure both of them. It's the shock of the thing, a more rational part of his mind tells him, that is causing him to react to hysterically. But that doesn't mean that he can stop it, or stop himself from clinging to Bull like he'll die if he lets go.
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You would never hurt me.
Bull wants to believe that's true. He knows what he's capable of when his mind becomes untethered, and what is he now if not that? But there are no tamassrans here, no Ben-Hassrath to turn himself in to. He was reassigned here to prevent this from happening again, yet here he is.
He can smell blood and he knows that it's a memory, but it feels very real. He murmurs something against Dorian's hair, voice thick; his accent is heavy when he repeats the apology in a language Dorian will understand.
Vividly, he recalls the things he heard as they walked through the Fade at Adamant. He holds Dorian tighter.
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