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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 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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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.
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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."
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"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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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?"
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"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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The number of horrors that the Bull must have had to bear witness to, survive, and perhaps even perpetuate--how could anyone possibly understand? He'd spent nearly a decade in the worst place Dorian can think of, and he'd still come out of it a good man.
He listens to Bull recount this incident with growing unease, feels dread clench cold and hard in his stomach when Bull reaches I asked to be taken to the Ben-Hassrath. He knows what that means. "You volunteered to be re-educated?" He asks softly, almost disbelieving. But Bull had lost his memory to the point where he doesn't recall when he made that request; it seems he'd blacked out entirely after rage consumed him, and Dorian fully understands the meaning of the word on that headstone now. Bull is afraid of becoming untethered; losing his self control. He is afraid of hurting others. He is afraid of precisely what had happened that day, when he'd drifted far enough into his memories to nearly hurt Dorian.
"You aren't going mad," Dorian asserts at once, gentle but unyielding. "You've been reminded of something horrible from your past, and you need help processing it. Anyone would, Bull."
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Bull lifts his gaze to meet Dorian’s.
“I was a danger to myself and to others. And I couldn’t think of a single reason to keep doing my job. So I went back to Seheron for about a year, and during that I went through re-education.”
He’s quiet again, considering it he wants to continue.
“I wanted them to rip all the pages out. Everything that led up to that moment and everything after. But they left them.”
He still remembers Seheron vividly. It haunts his nightmares and his memories and sometimes in waking moments like at the citadel.
“I could have killed you, Dorian. For a moment, I wanted to.”
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At the moment, however, all he wants to do is hold him. He thinks of last night, of the Bull's head heavy in his lap, smoothing the cardamom-scented balm over his horns until he'd fallen asleep there. Leaning down to kiss his brow. How the soft sleepiness had lingered after--until he turned the lights out.
"No," he asserts. His hands slide from Bull's waist around to his back as Dorian steps closer. "You'd never want to. Not really." He meets Bull's eye carefully as he adds, "I won't let you deal with this alone, and I won't have you condemning yourself. Though if it makes you feel any better, in the unlikely event that you actually go on some sort of rampage, I am by far the most qualified person in this camp to deal with you."
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“Feint on the left and go low,” he murmurs. “I leave myself open.”
Dorian could kill him from a distance if Bull doesn’t see him first, but he gives the advice all the same. He leans down to kiss the top of Dorian’s head. He refuses to think of what else might put them at odds: an order from Par Vollen.
“I’d see a tamassran if I were home,” he admits. “Or— well. Definitely a tamassran.”
His doubt isn’t enough to send him back to the Ben-Hassrath re-educators yet. Yet.
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Though he is hardly a substitute for a tamassran--and indeed, still doesn't entirely understand their full purpose, with all the nuances Bull has described--he'd done well enough last night, hadn't he? Thoughts of the uniquely intense connection they'd shared, of the trust that the Bull had placed in him, make his pulse beat faster. Fondly, he reaches up for Bull's face with one hand, fingers tracing lightly along the familiar scars toward his lips. "Let's go to bed then, shall we?"
He kisses where he can easily reach just below Bull's collarbone, and smiles up at him. "I'll even pamper you again if you like."
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After the past two days, Bull doesn't have much fight left in him. He wants to set his burdens down; he wants to rest. That won't be possible for a while yet - none of them know how long Lavellen will conduct business here before they return to Skyhold. He will endure, as he always does.
Dorian's smile shifts something inside him and Bull leans in, hesitates just for a breath, then brushes a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I'd like that," he concedes.
"Shok ebasit hissra," he says quietly, mostly to himself. He needs the Qun: Seheron proved that and despite living as the Iron Bull for a decade, he keeps his ties to his people as tight as he can. He can't lose himself like that again. He might not come back.
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He wishes, in what is truly a singular and strange moment in his life, that he knew more of the Qun. He thinks it would calm Bull to hear it, especially the poetic verses he had recited for him back in the Hissing Wastes. But as he doesn't, he settles for allowing Bull to murmur, and speaking encouragement and admiration in the common tongue instead.
Dorian doesn't remove any clothing just yet, having changed into something more comfortable earlier after returning to camp and washing up, but he encourages Bull to strip, both for better access to his leg and--as he puts it with a smirk--some incentive. He jokes, but it's at least partly true. The Bull is magnificent, and Dorian will never tire of looking at him, let alone touching him.
Then he lays him down and pampers him, just as he'd promised, and just as he had last night. A thorough massage for his left leg with the magical warmth of his hands, and then a slow rub down of his horns with his specially made balm. When he's finished with that, he leans down to kiss his brow, where the strap of the eye patch he'd already removed would normally fall.
"How are you feeling, Bull?" He speaks low and soft, so as not to disturb him too much if he's been dozing.
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"Tired," he admits. The kind of bone-deep tired that won't fade easily, but Bull can live with it. A good night's sleep will help, he just hopes he can manage one. His hand slides back to touch whatever part of Dorian he can reach.
"What about you?" he asks after a moment. As quick as Dorian is, Bull still swung an ax at him today. His body might be in one piece but Bull can't imagine that dealing with that - or the fallout after - is easy. The last thing he wants is for Dorian to hit some wall of compassion fatigue from taking care of him.
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For his part, Dorian has been largely avoiding thinking about that moment. It's come back to him again anyway occasionally throughout the day, a surge of shock fear. But he isn't afraid of the Bull. Truly, he isn't; hasn't been for a long time now. He knows he could take care of himself if it ever came to a direct fight. He knows that Bull was not himself in that moment, and he wants to do whatever he can to ensure that doesn't happen again.
This is part of it. He's found that he enjoys this, making Bull feel good and relaxed. It's something the Bull does for him so often.
"Let me up, and we'll lie down," he bids. After last night, he can't help but wonder what it is Bull will need from him tonight, but he's confident that he'll be able to figure it out.
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He isn't entirely sure what he needs or how to articulate it, but he will take what Dorian offers him and he will do it gratefully.
"It was the civilians," he says after a long moment. Seeing soldiers dead on battlefields is one thing - it bothers Bull but in a different way. Seeing the people that had been left behind to die made something snap inside him. "The room they barricaded themselves into-- it was full of soldiers. How could they just leave him."
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