aban_aqun | Exalted Plains

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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 Exalted Plains are one horror after another, it seems. There are literal pits of corpses--what else can one expect, in an area where the Veil is worn so thin, but undead? And even beyond that, the civil war has ravaged the area to the point where many have defected from both sides, becoming the Freedmen, a lawless and dangerous rebel group. It is, quite frankly, a disaster.

There have been many times while traveling in the Inquisitor's company that Dorian has been very happy to see camp at the end of the day. He thinks that today might top nearly all of them.

He's noted Bull's uncharacteristic silence all day long with some concern, and now Bull has separated himself from the rest of camp. It's unlike him.

"Here you are," Dorian says as he approaches, a thin smile in his voice. Not as bright as it might have been on another day--one less grim and less exhausting, perhaps--but present. "Why don't we turn in early?" He suggests, and in the moment, barely even thinks of what he's implying by lumping the two of them together. "It's been a day, hasn't it?"

Bull jumps at the sound of Dorian's voice. It breaks him out of his rumination enough to remember where he is. Still, for a moment as he looks at Dorian he doesn't see him. He can't even appreciate the way that Dorian so casually talks about turning in, together, as if this had not been a radical idea a few months ago.

"Very long," he agrees quietly, finding his voice at last. "How are you holding up?"

He always wonders if Dorian's connection to the dead makes places like this easier or harder to endure. Bull tries not to think of the pits full of corpses.

"Well enough. Could be better. You know how it is." He shrugs one shoulder, dismissive. "It's a sad business, all of it. I'm glad that we can help, but it's..." He thinks of the restless dead. The conflict that made it so. Celene and Gaspard, oblivious to the daily suffering of their own soldiers, fighting a pointless war for the sake of political power. The Game. Would one really be so different to the other when it comes to the task of ruling their nation?

Dorian is silent for a long moment, drifting closer to Bull. Near enough to touch, though he doesn't. "It's a proper warzone, isn't it? Not exactly our usual foray into the woods." The Hinterlands had been very messy, too, with the mage-templar conflict in full swing, but the Inquisition has been able to take care of most of that in the last year.

Bull gives a faint nod of his head. "This is war," he agrees quietly. "And civil wars are messy."

The conflict between the mages and the Templars felt more like unorganized skirmishes: no real purpose beyond one side trying to destroy the other. This is different. This is calculated. This is the result of political machinations and it's being played out in the blood of the Empire's people. This isn't even conquest. There is no winning here, regardless of which side keeps power.

Bull shakes his head like that might sweep the thoughts away. After a long moment, he says, "Seheron was like this."

If Dorian was looking for a reason for the Bull's silence today, this must be it. And really, he should have put it together sooner. Now that Bull says something, the similarities are immediately apparent. Or at least, Dorian can imagine they are, from what he knows about Seheron.

"A mess?" He suggests, not unkindly. He does reach out for Bull now, a hand coming to rest lightly against his vitaar-covered bicep. He should really make Bull come to bed. Sitting alone out here ruminating about that cursed island isn't going to help him. But Dorian fancies that having his knee seen to and his horns rubbed down might.

Bull nods. "A mess," he echoes. "Civilians trapped in between factions, just trying to live. Losing ground, gaining it. Tevinter incursions in the fall, fog warriors and Tal-Vashoth, and sabotage through the year."

He looks out at the water - a river, not the sea - and sighs quietly.

"It never really ended. There were lulls at best."

That was true for Bull's experience, at least. As someone serving near the front lines, whatever that looked like at a given time, he didn't often get to spend time in the places that were relatively safe and thriving. And he knew how quickly safe and thriving could turn into ruin.

"These armies all know each other." That's the part that bothers him the most about what's happening here now. "Qunari don't have civil war."

Despite the heavy subject matter, Dorian's brain catches on that last statement. He huffs, withdrawing to cross his arms over his chest as he speaks without much forethought. "I suppose you wouldn't, when any deviation or alternative thought means that you can't be Qunari at all," is his blithe response.

But the expression on Bull's face, the quiet, matter-of-fact way that he'd described his life on Seheron makes him bite his tongue for once before he can say more. And while he doesn't think that what he said is wrong, he knows he's being an utter ass for bringing up this sort of ideological argument now. He hisses out a regretful breath, a frustrated sigh at his own thoughtlessness. "No, that isn't--I apologize. This isn't the time."

Sudden guilt roils in his stomach, sickening. How could he be so careless when Bull is in such a pensive state, when he's being so very forthcoming and trusting? This is important, and he's ruined it. A classic Dorian Pavus move, really.

Bull doesn’t flinch when Dorian says it. He looks at the mage and there’s something sharp in his gaze.

“No Qunari would put the desire for power before our own people,” he answers. And if there were inklings of it, the Ben-Hassrath stepped in. Dorian isn’t wrong, but if this is the alternative then Bull isn’t sure the Qun is wrong either.

The Iron Bull has never made excuses for his people or the Qun; he generally avoids discussing them altogether. But he will not sit in the ruins of a town torn apart by siege equipment and accept that kind of judgement. He knows that Dorian regrets it as soon as the words leave him, knows by the apology that comes next when concessions are such a rare thing from the mage. But he can’t let that pass without comment, even if it would be better if he did.

He looks back out at the water.

“Apology accepted.”

He deserves that, he thinks--that sharp gaze, the admonishment of Bull's answer. This isn't the occasion for debate. He wants to understand and support Bull, not antagonize him. Bull accepts his apology, but Dorian's guilt lingers.

Carefully, Dorian moves closer again, tentatively reaching out to place a hand on Bull's shoulder, steadying him as he leans down to press a tender and repentant kiss to Bull's brow. His stomach twists with nerves.

"Let's go to bed," he urges, more imploring than when he'd asked before. Apologetic, still. A little apprehensive, as though worried that this time Bull might tell him no. "Please."

Bull's hand slides up to cover Dorian's and he squeezes gently. "Alright," he agrees quietly. He does want to be with Dorian, and he knows it will be better if he stops sitting here and remembering. He lets go of Dorian's hand just so he can get up without pulling him down. Soon enough he's looming over the mage again, and, as if nothing sharp had passed between them, he leans down to kiss the top of Dorian's head. They're enough apart from the camp that he isn't worried about being seen.

He lets his hand run down Dorian's back as they turn toward the camp, but he lets it fall away before they draw any attention.

Someone has already sent Bull's tent up and he is grateful for the effort.

Dorian is constantly immensely thankful for the Bull's kindness and understanding, but perhaps never more so than tonight. Granting him forgiveness when he's clearly stepped in it, and seeming to actually forgive him. There's a weight lifted from his chest the moment Bull's hand squeezes his, and again when he leans down to kiss the top of his head. He hasn't completely ruined it. He just has to do better. The Bull deserves better.

He wouldn't even have minded, tonight, if Bull's hand had lingered on his back as they walk through camp. In the moment before he ducks through the tent flap, he reaches for Bull's hand, tugging him in after him with an air of playfulness. As soon as they're inside, he rocks up onto his tip-toes, lays his other hand at the back of Bull's thickly muscled neck, and kisses him. It's brief, but warm and openly affectionate. He has something to make up for. The last thing he'd want is for Bull to think that he doesn't care about him when it's just the opposite.

"Why don't you settle in?" He suggests. "I'll take care of your leg, then balm your horns."

Bull ducks into his tent and as he straightens, he finds Dorian pressed against him. He tips his head down to meet the kiss and takes comfort in how familiar it feels now, how easy it is to kiss Dorian. He slides his arms around him, holding him closer until Dorian starts to pull back again.

He touches his brow to Dorian's before he lets him go entirely, then carefully moves past him to settle on their joined bedrolls. Bull stretches his left leg out to remove the boot and brace first. He sighs heavily as the brace slides off. Reluctantly, he says, "Ankle, too."

Bull gets his other boot off and looks back to try to adjust his gear so he has something to lean on. He watches Dorian find the balm. The moment feels-- domestic. A tamassran would do this for him: see to his hurts, physical and mental, see to his needs when he didn't know what they might be.

There is something about the way that Bull touches him--how wonderfully familiar it feels now to have his arms around him. How well he knows the press of his lips. Yet it's never lost any of its excitement, its allure. He could probably kiss Bull for the rest of his life and never tire of the experience. He draws in a soft, shaky breath as Bull's brow touches his.

It's...something to consider.

As Bull arranges himself, Dorian find the balm and a small towel, and then gets comfortable as well, removing his boots and his outer robe so that he can settle on the bedrolls by Bull's outstretched leg, depositing his materials beside him. Rubbing his hands together quickly, he summons warmth to them, like fire lingering beneath his skin. This procedure is one he's become familiar with over the last couple months, and it makes him glad that Bull trusts him to do this for him. It's an intimate thing, especially considering Bull's wariness of magic.

"I'll start there, then," Dorian decides, and closes both hands gently around Bull's ankle. The heat seeps from them into Bull, and he rubs at the tendons there carefully with his thumbs. Though the scarring here isn't as bad as around Bull's knee, his ankle has taken a lot of strain as a result of that injury. Dorian tends him diligently--lovingly, one might say. There's an unspoken devotion in the way he's learned to care for the Bull's injuries, the way he regularly offers to do so. He likes knowing that he's helped to alleviate at least some of his pain.

As Dorian warms his hands, Bull carefully works off his eye patch and sets it aside. He rubs over the empty socket, feeling the phantom pain. It comes and goes, and it's worse when he's been ruminating, he knows that. He drops his hand to watch Dorian work, feeling the warmth sink into his leg as Dorian rubs him down. It's difficult for him to submit to healers, even when it's a good idea, even when he needs it. But this is different, he thinks. There's no fixing the old wound but it-- helps him feel better.

Dorian has learned how to take care of it in a way that doesn't put Bull off, and Bull has noticed. Their physical intimacy makes accepting his care even easier, and Bull isn't sure how deeply he should read into that.

But he's started to look forward to these quiet moments between them.

Dorian works slowly, making sure that he's actually helping Bull to relax. From his ankle his hands move up his calf, fingers digging more firmly into the thick muscle there to massage away some of the tension. As he does so, he chances a smile up at him that's nearly shy, and finds that he's removed his eye patch for the night. He's struck by the strong urge to lean up and kiss the scarred skin beside the empty socket. Dorian has done that very thing several times before, to the point where he thinks Bull believes him now when he says that he doesn't find it off-putting in the least.

Instead he merely smiles a little more, and keeps at his work.

A little more time passes before he makes it up to Bull's knee, pressing his heated hands around it through the fabric of his pants. This part in particular will be much easier without them.

"All right," he says, playfully admonishing, "time for these to come off. But don't get any ideas."

Bull rolls his eye but he smiles at the admonishing. He removes his belt and he works his trousers off. He works them down carefully and lets Dorian take over after a certain point, leaving Bull in his smalls. As much as he might like to get ideas, the day has left him feeling worn down to the bones.

He shifts his weight down, bending his leg just slightly at the knee as Dorian's hands find their way back to it.

"You'd have to do all the work," he teases quietly.

"Well, we can't have that," he teases right back. He considers it for a moment, bringing Bull off after he's done tending to his leg and his horns, giving him release with the same devotion. It isn't a bad idea. He'll hold onto it, revisit it later when he can decide whether or not he has the energy.

With Bull's trousers removed, it's far easier to do what he needs to with his knee. He rubs around it slowly at first, letting the heat sink in down to his bones, before he begins to massage carefully, patiently, at the thick scarring. This part takes the most time, naturally, as it's the worst injury of the lot, but Dorian is in no rush. He's glad that Bull still allows this, still trusts him with this, after his untimely remark earlier. He won't disappoint him.

His eye nearly closes while Dorian works. Bull tries to let his mind drift pleasantly, focusing on the immediate sensation of Dorian's hands on his knee, the warmth of the treatment, even Dorian's scent and the quiet sounds he makes when he runs into knots of tension or spots of pain.

When he feels himself drifting too far, Bull forces his eye open again, intent on staying awake until Dorian joins him beneath the blankets.

"Thank you," he murmurs. He wants to make sure he says it on the off chance that he does fall asleep. Which is entirely possible once Dorian breaks out the horn balm.

Dorian wouldn't mind it if Bull fell asleep. It would mean he was doing this well. He takes his time with his knee, repeating motions that get a positive reaction and radiating heat into Bull's skin until his muscles feel relaxed. He moves a little further up as well, fingers kneading into the thick muscle of his thigh.

It's sweet how Bull refuses to nod off, though, despite how much he clearly wants to. Finally finished with his leg, Dorian gathers the horn balm and shifts up the bed close enough to press a kiss to his brow.

"Feel better?" He asks, trailing fingers lightly from Bull's temple up to the base of a horn. "How would you like to do this? Your head in my lap?" That's how Dorian prefers it, anyway, finding it both intimate and practical.

Bull closes his eye as Dorian's fingers trail along the surprisingly sensitive skin at the base of his horn. "Yeah, that," he agrees. He knows Dorian likes it and if he does fall asleep... well. It'll be relatively easy for Dorian to get out from under him if he needs to.

Slowly, he slides forward and waits for Dorian to settle the way he'd like before resting his head in the mage's lap. He looks up at Dorian and there's something on the tip of his tongue that he swallows back. Dorian wouldn't understand, so there's no point in saying it in the first place.

"You put a scent in it when you make it. What is it?"

Bull has to admit, the balm Dorian makes is more or less identical to what he'd had when he lived on Par Vollen and Seheron. Stitches had done the best he could with what he knew, but it was never quite this good.

Pleased, Dorian settles with his legs crossed, and helps Bull ease his head down until it's resting in his lap. His horns curve out on either side of Dorian, and he smiles at Bull's question as he releases the lid on the tin. "Clove," he murmurs, sounding happy that Bull had noticed. "The oil has pain relieving properties, and it smells quite nice." Sweet-spicy. It reminds him a bit of home.

He scoops some of the balm into the palm of one hand before he smooths it across the Bull's left horn near the base, taking care to rub it thoroughly into each groove, and especially where it meets his skin, as he's told him before that's where it tends to itch most. Dorian is slightly gentler there, as he had been when massaging Bull's leg, but as he works his way further up along the horn itself his hands become firmer as he uses both hands to work the balm into the ridges of growth. The smell of clove wafts strong and spicy from his hands, and now from the Bull's horns, made smooth and slick and fragrant.

"It smells like home."

Bull's eye drifts shut again as Dorian works the balm into the dry, cracked skin right where his horns erupt from his skull. One hand drifts back, careful not to interrupt Dorian's work, so that Bull can loosely drape it around the mage's back. It isn't long before he's drifting off in Dorian's lap. The weight of his head settles more on Dorian's legs now that he isn't making any effort at all to hold it up.

He sleeps through the application on his other horn but starts to wake when Dorian stops. Bull forces himself back to consciousness, vaguely aware that he has Dorian pinned under him. It probably wouldn't be a hassle for the mage to free himself, but--

"Sorry," he says, still groggy. "Didn't mean to drift off."

It smells like home. The comment startles Dorian for a moment, given how he'd been thinking much the same thing. But it makes perfect sense. They're both from the north, where clove is used far more frequently than here in the south. Some things transcend borders, wars, cultures. It makes Dorian smile to hear it. He's glad to have brought Bull a little comfort this way, and that this is something they can share.

It's quite sweet, actually, that Bull falls asleep as Dorian works the balm into his horns. It's an immense show of comfort and trust, and it makes something in Dorian's chest twist in quite the opposite way to how he'd felt not long ago. He covers the right horn as diligently as he'd done the left, though this time he works from the top down. Bull wakes eventually when he gets to the base, slick fingers rubbing soothingly over the skin there.

"It's quite all right, Bull," he says quietly, a smile in his voice. "Now's the time for that, anyway." He lets his fingers drift a little down Bull's face, following the firm line of his jaw. There's nothing he wants more right now than to curl up at Bull's side and drift off as well.

"C'mon," he urges quietly. "Get down here." Bull wants to feel Dorian close, too. He lifts his head to make it easier for Dorian to get out from under him, then settles down on his bolster. He feels heavy and tired, but in a better way than he had just an hour ago. His skin smells like cloves and the scent is lulling him as much as Dorian's touch.

He moves over more on their combined bedrolls so that Dorian has room to actually settle in next to him. Bull keeps his eye open, intent on staying awake at least until Dorian is at his side. He likes likes watching Dorian's evening routine.

"All right," Dorian laughs, slipping out from beneath Bull's horns and helping to place his pillow there instead. "A moment, please." If the promise of being in Bull's arms makes him hurry through his nighttime routine, only Bull will really know.

He twists his hands together, rubbing the excess of the balm into his skin. Not its intended purpose, but it does serve as an effective moisturizer for him as well. He removes the rest of his clothing swiftly down to his smalls, tossing everything into a bit of a haphazard pile atop his other belongings. He thoroughly rinses his face of the day's dirt and sweat and his makeup, and then there's a scrub for his teeth. There might be another step or two at times, depending upon his needs, but tonight he forgoes any extra. He meets Bull's eye with a quirk of his lips, and then moves to lay down with him, pressed to his side and within the crook of his arm, a position that's become usual for them.

Strange to think of this gradually becoming normal.

His head rests between Bull's shoulder and chest, and a hand wanders low on his belly, tracing idle, aimless patterns into his skin. Lips press to Bull's clavicle as Dorian tilts his head up, eyes still open. Before the adoring look in them can give him away, Dorian flicks a finger and extinguishes the lantern, plunging them into semi-darkness, only the campfire still burning outside their tent filtering a sliver of light through the front flap.

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Exalted Plains

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