aban_aqun | Exalted Plains

Entry tags:

dorian pavus,
psl

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.

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The whole process seems rather soothing and meditative for Bull, too. Eventually his eye drifts close and his breathing is deep and even as Dorian covers old marks and renews the ones that have cracked and flaked off. It's not hard to see how a process like this could be ritualized, what it could do for both the one having vitaar applied and the one applying it. The only difference is that other Qunari need not fear a splash of vitaar.

"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.

After a moment to consider Bull's question--because there's rather a lot there to think about--Dorian answers simply. "I think that it looks good on you," he allows, a rare open compliment.

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.

Bull moves when Dorian asks him to, turning more toward the mage to give him the angle he needs.

"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.

"Oh, naturally," Dorian agrees. Bull shifts just as he needs him to, and Dorian trails the tip of the brush along Bull's skin with a steady hand, following a smoothly curving line that reminds him of a wave. "That's the best part, isn't it? If we're going to be offensive, we ought to offend everyone possible."

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.

Bull thinks the same: he doesn't really care what's said about him, but what is said about Dorian. He knows what the mage has endured, he shouldn't have to bear the burden of more rumors.

"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.

"At Skyhold, then," Dorian agrees, intrigued by the idea of Bull allowing him to paint him with brand new designs. That seems more blasphemous yet. But this had been such an unexpectedly positive experience that Dorian finds himself looking forward to it. He finds that he'd like to help Bull with this sort of thing in the future.

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."

Bull is still and quiet as Dorian makes his retreat. He should have anticipated that and it makes him a little grateful that he didn't kiss Dorian full on the mouth, the way he'd wanted to.

"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.

Bull's response visibly startles Dorian. If he was surprised before, he's shaken now. Confusion creases his brow, and his lips part slightly as he searches for something to say, but is rendered speechless. That alone is rare enough. What is Bull saying, exactly? That he'd like for them to be thought of as...more? That can't be it, can it? Bull wouldn't--a Qunari couldn't. While the Tal-Vashoth mercenary that the Bull purports to be could have a real relationship, the Bull as he truly is certainly cannot.

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.

Bull doesn't expect it to hurt when Dorian grows sharp, but it does. I shouldn't like anyone to think my standards are so low. It sinks into him, past the armor of the vitaar and his own years of steeling himself against abject difference. Bull knows that when Dorian feels vulnerable he gets dismissive and aggressive, he knows that.

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.

The remainder of the morning is spent in mostly silent preparation. Dorian converses quickly with Lavellan, getting the same brief she's been giving everyone, and finishes readying his kit, and then dressing for battle. By the time they're setting out, he and Bull haven't spoken again at all.

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.

Bull has been exposed to the undead often enough by now that it shouldn't bother him. When he gets the momentum just right, they're easy to smash through, and he can hold them off while others focus on the revenant. The fire tornado takes a bit more effort to avoid, but after a few turns they manage to get the timing down, and it's difficult to miss the sound it makes as it gets closer.

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.

After yesterday, Dorian has been keeping quite a close eye on the Bull as well. After making the connection to Seheron, he too sees it everywhere--or imagines so, given what he knows about it. Bull certainly sees it, judging by his grim demeanor. Not that there's anything to be particularly jovial about--this was a series of nerve-wracking and unsettling battles, and Dorian can't bring himself to look too long at the courtyard littered with the corpses of those who were never supposed to be involved in this war in the first place. Innocent people, not even soldiers, who'd died for nothing.

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.

It was a small settlement on a river, he can still hear the water rushing. they thought it would be safe - it offered nothing. No strategic position, no real gain for taking it. But they killed everyone: Viddathari and Qunari. It isn't Dorian's voice that he hears. The accent is Tevinter, there are bodies everywhere--

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."

Edited 2019-10-18 02:38 (UTC)

If Dorian's reflexes were only a little worse, he would be dead. He gets the barrier up just in time to block the sudden swing of the Bull's ax, the impact of the heavy weapon making the magical energy surrounding him shudder and flare. Dorian, for his part, is too stunned to react otherwise. There was no recognition on Bull's face. No, the fact is, he isn't looking at the Iron Bull at all, but the man who predates him. And that man doesn't know Dorian at all.

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.

Bull doesn't move. Suddenly his heart is pounding and his breathing is deep but quick. He can see Dorian shaking as he reaches out. He did that. He caused that. His eye burns and he tries to pull his mind back from wherever it had gone. This place has reminded him of Seheron since they set foot on the battlefields but he should be better than this. This is what madness feels like.

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?"

Bull seems reluctant to come forward, but when he does, Dorian initiates contact between them quickly, taking Bull's hands in his. Perhaps it's counter-intuitive, but he needs to touch him. At the moment, it feels like the only thing that will help him process this.

"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.

Edited 2019-10-18 03:28 (UTC)

As Dorian presses against him, something in Bull shatters. He wraps his arms tightly around the mage's shoulders and his back and he tries to avoid crushing Dorian in the embrace. He closes his eye, feels the tears slide free as Dorian tries not to sob against his chest. Even now, Bull tries to give him privacy, tries to shield the mage from anyone that might see them.

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.

This is precisely what he needs. Bull holds him tight against his body, and Dorian is comforted by the strength of his arms. As there's no use pretending he isn't crying, at this point, he lets the tears fall, and lets himself use Bull's strength to stay upright, leaning heavily against him. He doesn't cry loudly, keeping the noise quiet by forcing himself to draw softer, more even breaths rather than the sharp, hard ones his still panicking body wants him to take.

Bull mutters in Qunlat, then translates in common, as sincere and remorseful an apology as Dorian has ever heard. He sniffles against Bull's chest, and then, feeling that he can do little else to express the full depth of what he's experiencing, he leans back just far enough to wipe his eyes with the knuckles of one hand. And then, without hesitation he reaches up and cradles Bull's jaw in his palm, and urges him down to meet him when he rises up on his tip toes for a desperate kiss, regardless of who may see. Resolutely, he is not ashamed.

"I shouldn't have said that, this morning," he whispers against Bull's lips after, feeling that he, too, must apologize at once. The mania of it grips him, urges him to say his piece. "You must know that I didn't mean it," he pleads. "Regardless of what you meant, it was a cruel thing to say, and I am sorry."

I would have you, is the fleeting thought that accompanies these words, if you had the slightest inclination.

He relaxes his hold as Dorian starts to pull back, not wanting him to feel trapped. But then he's pulling Bull down and they meet in a kiss, and Bull tightens his hold all over again. Dorian kisses him like he's making a point, and in that moment the impact is deep.

What he isn't expecting are the apologies. Bull strokes his thumb beneath Dorian's eye, sweeping away fresh tears before he leans in to kiss him again to accept them all. Part of him knew but part of him had doubted and it left him off balance. Whatever happens, he has no intention of changing their sleeping arrangements now. Kadan, something in him whispers. He doesn't dare breathe the word, even if there is no reason why he shouldn't. The Chargers are kadan, his tamassran is. But this-- this is different and he knows it.

It's dangerous.

But Bull is too tired to worry about it now. Dorian is in his arms, alive and vibrant and safe. He wants to leave. He wants to get out of this citadel.

"It's alright," he murmurs, realizing he should speak. "It's alright. I'm here."

Feeling much lighter after making his apology, Dorian drifts back down onto his heels and lets his forehead rest against the Bull's collarbone again, closing his eyes as he lets the tears finish running their course. He's immensely grateful to have this man in whatever capacity he can. It's some few minutes before he moves again, simply letting himself breathe and exist in the circle of Bull's arms. He still feels safe here. He can help Bull through this.

"You are here," he agrees, grateful and warm. "And so am I, Bull. At the risk of sounding overly syrupy, I'm here for you. Whatever you need."

Looking up to meet his eye, and then drifting up further for another kiss, this one slower and sweeter. Just as he draws away, there's a whistle behind him. Startled, Dorian turns to look over his shoulder, and is unsurprising to see Varric standing some few paces away with Lavellan beside him, both wearing deeply satisfied grins.

"So this is where you two got off to," Lavellan teases. Varric snorts.

"Think we found them before they got off, but yeah," he chuckles. "Tiny, Sparkler, are you coming back to camp with us, or should we just leave you here?"

Dorian forces himself to separate slowly, no rush to be out of Bull's arms. No shame to be caught in them, he consciously reminds himself, despite how deeply he's beginning to flush. Maker, today's been an emotional whirlwind. "If you leave me out here, Varric, I will set fire to your notebook myself," he threatens, and bends over to pick up his staff. He'd get Bull's ax while he was down there, if he had any hope at all of lifting it.

"And be responsible for the destruction of Thedas' next great work of literature before anyone can lay eyes on it?" Varric feigns disbelief.

"All of Thedas can thank me later," Dorian sniffs. When he turns back to Bull, his gaze visibly softens. "Shall we, Bull?" He asks, and makes it a point to remain at Bull's side as they return to camp.

By the time they reach it, night has nearly fallen, and Dorian is feeling exhausted to his bones. He sits close enough to Bull at dinner by the fire that their knees touch the whole time, and their shoulders and elbows brush occasionally.

He shouldn't be laying this burden on Dorian, but having him here has been a balm that Bull didn't even realize he'd been missing. He carefully wipes beneath each of Dorian's eyes, brushing away the trail of his tears and any smudged kohl. Bull leans down more for the next kiss so that Dorian doesn't have to strain so much leaning up.

Somehow, he manages not to jump when he realizes how close their companions have gotten without him noticing. His arm tights around Dorian protectively before recognition sinks through him. Bull slowly relaxes and reluctantly releases the mage as Dorian and Varric banter back and forth. He leans down to heft his ax over his shoulder and he says relatively little on the journey back to camp. Trailing behind Lavellen and Varric, now and then he lets his hand brush against Dorian, reminding himself that he is there and whole.

Bull cleans up before dinner and appears to eat without armor and looking as tired as Dorian feels. He's quiet through dinner though he does his best not to seem withdrawn, tries to make his presence palpable though he speaks little. Every brush of Dorian's body against his makes him want to retire, to sleep for a week. But he waits until at least Lavellen has given up before turning in. As he rises, he waits a breath to see if Dorian is coming with him.

He is. Nearly as soon as Bull heaves himself to his feet, Dorian stands as well. He tells himself that he doesn't care what it looks like, the two of them getting up to turn in together. Everyone already knows about them. And it shouldn't matter anyway; he's taking care of Bull, which is what's really important.

He bids who's left a good night, and endures the suggestive comments and the amused murmurs when their backs are turned. He stays close to Bull, and once they're ensconced inside their own tent, finally away from the rest of the world, he reaches for him. He moves into Bull's space, settling his hands at his waist as he looks up at his face. "How do you feel?" He asks gently.

Dorian, too, had cleaned up before dinner. He's wearing something much simpler now, and he'd taken off most of his makeup--what he hadn't already cried off, anyway. As he looks into the Bull's single eye, he's reminded of that moment earlier when Bull completely failed to recognize him, the rush of fear and sadness and shock that had come over him. But even after Bull had taken a swing at him, he'd been far less afraid of Bull than for him. He just wants him to be all right, and he'll do whatever he can to help him through this.

Bull leans down as Dorian touches him. "Tired," he answers. His brow creases along old lines. I don't know why I'm doing this anymore. That can't be the answer because Bull knows where that answer leads, and he doesn't have the resources here to help him.

He runs his hands over Dorian's arms, thinking again (and again, and again) of the afternoon, of the look on Dorian's face after Bull's ax slammed into the barrier, after he dropped the weapon. He considers the words weighing heavily on his tongue. There are no tamassrans. Krem isn't here. He has no one else to talk to. This information isn't secret among the Ben-Hassrath but it isn't known here, save for what he's told Lavellen.

"I feel like I'm going mad again," he confesses quietly.

"Bull," he says softly, concern and dismay touching his voice. He remembers--had never truly forgotten, really--the headstones in the Fade, one for each of the Inquisitor's companions. The fear that resided deep in each of their own hearts. His own, Temptation, he had scoffed at even as he recognized it in the sick feeling deep in his stomach. He hadn't been able to keep himself from glancing at the others. Beneath the Iron Bull's, a word that had struck Dorian then as much as it does now; Madness.

It seems so very antithetical to the man the Bull is; careful, conscientious, critical. It's difficult to imagine him losing his mind, powerful as it is. But, Dorian supposes, under the right circumstances, anyone could be driven to lose control.

But there is something more here than he knows. He speaks slowly, as though unsure he'd heard correctly. "Again?"

It's a vulnerability, a weak spot. But Dorian has already seen that, hasn't he? In the last day he's seen that. Still, Bull is quiet as he considers how to relay the information. It isn't a secret. But it also isn't widely known.

"On Seheron," he starts. "I was there for eight years. I watched my superiors and my comrades burn out or die but I stayed."

He looks away, staring at some point on the ground as he continues. "There was a baker that supplied bread to my men and most of the settlement. He was jumpy one day, uncomfortable. Found out too late that he'd been threatened into poisoning the bread. Killed a few of mine, but it also killed a tamassran and all her kids."

He still remembers their little bodies curled up near hers. Bull shivers.

"I took what was left of my men to a known Tal-Vashoth stronghold. Some died. Some retreated to get reinforcements. When they came back, they said I was standing in the middle of the slaughter, still and covered in blood. Reports after that differ slightly. Someone said I asked to be taken to the Ben-Hassrath right then and there. Someone else said I did that the next morning."

His own memories are slightly fuzzy on that point.

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