Archive of Our Own

REPORT

“Report,” barked Leliana.. Her tent was cold and it had been a long day. She was a wanderer at heart and didn't mind the outdoors, but staying in the cold mountain air for too long was beginning to wear on a heart that had grown under the warm sun of Val Royeaux. Leliana's lieutenant shifted her weight. She was nervous.

“You tasked me to ... investigate the chosen, Lady,” said the lieutenant. “There isn't much information available. Public records are bad in the Free Marches. Mercenary company killed at the conclave. Mister Pavus says she has a lot of questions about Tevinter – too many to be a spy, or a good spy. Open disregard for the chantry. Followed, no suspicious activity. Spends most of the day training, working out.” The lieutenant, though experienced in espionage, looked around and lowered her voice before continuing, “I took the liberty of investigating her personal affects. She's not a journal keeper. A few personal letters, all pretty mundane. Haven't had the time to examine them for code. All correspondence was from before the conclave. There was only one letter dated after the incident, addressed to her mother. It hasn't been sent, or finished.

“What did it say?” asked Leliana. “No sensitive information?”

Her lieutenant looked nervous again.

“It said, 'Dear Mom, I'm alive. Kate isn't.'”

______________________

WOMEN IN RED

She likes the colour red. Fresh strawberries and blood on the snow and Josephine's Orlesian silk scarf.

“You should take it,” said Josephine. “Red's your colour. It looks good on you.”

“I'll just ruin it,” she replied, folding the scarf and placing it carefully back on the dresser.

He convinced Josephine to let him have it, used the scarf to tie Adaar to the bedpost and licked her cunt until she screamed. The colour really did look amazing. Adaar knew it, too. She would turn her head when it caught her eye, and if she caught Bull watching she would blush.

“What are you looking at?” he asked, even though he knew. The woman in the red dress, low cut in the collar, full in the skirt.

“Nothing,” she replied, turning away and fiddling with the clasp on her gauntlet.

“She's not bad looking,” he said, causing her to blush. She wasn't, either. The woman in the red dress. Full hipped and big breasted.

“You know I'm not into that,” she said. He slung his arm around her waist and grinned when Solas scowled.

“Good. Leaves more for me then.”

He expected Cassandra to scowl as well, but she was smiling.

“I know you don't like to flaunt your relationship,” she would say to him later, “but I think she appreciates a little affection.”

“Trust me,” Bull chuckled, “I know.”

Herah brushed it off easily enough, her litte appreciation for fashion. Josephine was frugal, but she always made room to keep abreast of the latest fashions, and her friend the inquisitor gave her someone to whom she could show off her latest fashionable acquisitions, and in turn Hera could admire the fine dresses and the pretty boots. Josephine cared about her appearance, and despite the fact that her own attire would suggest otherwise, Adaar was a friend she could turn to who appreciated Josephine's efforts. That wasn't to say the Inquisitor didn't have any taste at all – her armour and weapons were some of the finest sovereigns and the loyalty of fine blacksmiths could buy. But it was armour and weapons meant to be used. Inquisitor Adaar wore her armour as much to impress as well as planning to get completely and utterly wrecked. Which is why The Iron Bull though it was a little odd as he watched her pick mud off her greaves, radiantly tired in the golden green light of the Emerald Graves.

“Come on,” Sera whined. “they're just going to get dirty again. No ones going to be looking at your feet while you're waving that big old sword in their face.

“Nonsense,” chimed in Vivienne, which immediately drew a sour look from Sera. “Appearances can make the world of difference. There is nothing to fear in a decrepit foe.”

Blackwall, resting on a rock with his helmet in the grass, scratched his beard. “There's decrepit and there's practical, though. Look after your armour and it will look after you. It might not be pretty, but it will work. There's a difference between vanity and plain cleanliness.”

The jab at Sera obviously pleased Vivienne. “Well put,” she complimented.

“Just being practical,” Blackwall grunted. The inquisitor only listened, flicking mud into the grass. Bull offered her a rag, which she accepted wordlessly but with a smile.

Her smile made him smile too. It was cute and all, but she always tried to hide it. It was one thing to have an interest, a hobby, but it was another to pretend you didn't. It wasn't like Bull himself, who knew more knots for the bedroom than for any other practical use.

So he tried calling her out.

“Why do you do that?” he asked.

“Do what.”

“Stare at women and then pretend you're not interested. I'm into women too. I get it. It's okay to have certain feelings. Besides, if you want to spice things up in the bedroom, you know all you have to do is ask.”

“I heard spice and bedroom,” said Dorian, swinging his leg over the bench in front of their table and sitting down. “I'm interested.”

Adaar blushed pink, which she rarely did and which Bull found adorable.

“I'm not looking at them,” she countered, “I like – I was interested in what they were wearing.”

Dorian chuckled, “Josephine is wearing off on you. Next thing you know we'll have the inquisitor in a dress whenever nobility drops by. Wouldn't that be a sight.”

“Yeah,” Bull growled, “all dressed up like a dolly.”

Adaar picked at her lunch.

“Josephine can get a lot of information from the way someone dresses. Especially an Orliesian. I'm just trying to see what she does. You two should be able to appreciate that.”

Bull did appreciate that, but he doubted that if practising observation had been her only motive, there certainly would have been no blushing.

Dorian leaned on his hand and eyes the Orliesian lady across the hall.

“Money,” he said, “but not a lot. Her dress is out of fashion but well kept. The hat is new.”

“Needs to maintain appearances,” Adaar guessed. “There's something on her hands.” She squinted.

“Ink,” Bull supplied. “Probably a merchant, merchant's daughter. Not a lawyer. They dress better even when they can't afford it. Not any kind of book keeper, either. Look at her shoes. Meant for standing, walking. None of that heeled nonesense.”

“I dunno,” said Dorian. “Heels can do wonders for a man's legs.”

“You just need them cause you're short,” Adaar teased.

“I am a perfect respectable height for a human male, thank you very much. Just because the two of you push seven foot doesn't give you the right to judge.”

“He's just jealous, jealous he is,” Adaar decided, nodding sagely.

“Yeah,” Bull grunted into his cup, defeated. “Jealous.”

______________________

PATIENCE

Leliana was patient. She doubted she would have achieved anything she had if she were not. She didn't want to spend anymore resources prying into the Inquisitor's life – they worked closely, after all, she would get the information herself, let it come naturally as these things did among those who worked in tight quarters. That being said, any forthcoming information was taking fucking forever. Forever. Forever for the mysterious Kate to come up in conversation. Forever for Leliana to get a chance to ask her questions. And just because she could be patient didn't necessarily mean she accpeted every second of it with grace. The whole situation was a little bit funny and a little bit sad; Leliana found herself opening up about the whole of her past to the Lady Inquisitor, and yet of the life of Adaar she knew virtually nothing. And then, finally, one day, what she said was,

“I know this song. My sister used to sing this song.”

“Sister?” asked Leliana, a little too quickly to call it subtle. “You never told me you had a sister.”

Adaar looked startled, caught. “Oh,” she said, “I'm sorry.” She didn't seem inclined to say more.

“Your sister,” Leliana pressed, “She is..?”

“Dead,” Adaar replied. She fiddled with her mug, obviously searching for another topic of conversation.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Leliana asked. It was a tactic she had seen work well for the inquisitor. Adaar was a willing listener, but not a very willing speaker, it seemed.

Adaar shrugged, “All in the past. Not much to say. You asked if I knew the song and I do. Kate liked it.”

“I think it says a lot,” said Leliana. “A vashoth who liked chantry music? Rare indeed, worth speaking about.”

Adaar shook her head, “It's just a song. There's nothing special about liking a song.” She set her mug aside, still half full. “Cullen should see these reports. I'll make sure they get to him.”

“I'm sorry,” said Leliana as the inquisitor gathered the papers. Adaar just shrugged and left without another word.

“I wouldn't,” said Cole, just as Leliana was rising to her feet to follow. Maker knows where the fuck he came from. “She won't like it. She'll get scary. The pain is still too fresh.”

Well then. There were more ways than one to get information. Leliana just had to wait a little longer. Not too long. Just long enough to run into the Iron Bull in the hall, by chance. You know. These things happen.

“Bull! Iron Bull!”

She called out to him on the stairs to the armoury, where she just happened to conveniently be. Waiting patiently.

“Miss Nightingale?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

Leliana frowned, “Don't be Solas.”

Bull replied with his best shit eating grin.

“Has the Inquisitor, I know you and she are close, has she ever mentioned someone named Kate to you?”

Bull rubbed his chin, calluses scraping against the stubble.

“The sister? Yeah. Why, did she get all cagey and forget what she was talking about when you tried to talk to her about it, so you thought you'd ask me?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” said Leliana. The Iron Bull shrugged.

“I don't think she talks to her family much. Good to know you care though.”

He smiled and waved as he sauntered back to his day. Leliana sighed. Being the woman of mystery was her job. Was this seriously how frustrating it was for everyone else? She thought of Sten, his curled lip and his distaste for her “trickery”, as he put it. Qunari didn't like being kept in the dark. Sten didn't, at least. He liked having everything spread in front of him, clear, ready to analyze, ready to make the right move.

Leliana smiled. She resolved to maintain her patience. She would learn, in time, whether it was a qunari habit or if it was just Sten after all. But something told her the Iron Bull wouldn't let a good mystery pass him by.

***

Adaar was used to making love like a tiger, snarling and grabbing and biting, playing the role of the savage qunari, fighting to prove she was something worthy of respect. Sex and violence came together as one and she called it making love. A release, a way to prove oneself. Another kind of fight.

It was certainly nothing like this. I mean, who knew taking it slow could feel so good? Patience was always torture, but who knew the payoff could be so ... exquisite.

“Stop being a pussy; get up here and fuck me,” she growled, yanking on the restraints (they'd been using a torn up sheet until Josephine proved so generous). Bull raised an eyebrow.

“Babe, I haven't even gotten to the good stuff.” He crooked his fingers and she whined impatiently. This wasn't pain, not as she knew it.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” Adaar protested.

“Then be patient.”

She fought him at first. Scrabbled tooth and nail to prove she was still in control. She fought him and he broke her, ripped Adaar to pieces and held her as she fell back together.

“You gotta,” she panted, “you gotta teach me how to do that.”

Bull chuckled, “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Glad to hear it. Now get some rest, okay?”

It was never going to be a one time thing, she realized. That was not the kind of sex you gave someone when you just wanted to fuck.

______________________

MATERIAL GIRL

Bull had seen women in a state before. The kind of particularly feminine hysterics when one has made careful plans and then something falls through or something goes missing and despite said careful planning, one is late. In this case something was missing, and there were two women in full plate armour tearing through the inquisitor's belongings searching for it.

“You found one,” said Cassandra. “The other has to be nearby.”

“It should have been!” Adaar cried, waving a gauntlet in the air. “For fuck's sake you two, stop staring and help us find it!”

Varric looked to Bull who looked to Varric. The dwarf folded his hands behind his head.

“I dunno about you, but I am way too amused.”

Adaar hucked a pillow at the him, which Varric ducked artfully, and said pillow almost hit poor Dagna, who had just entered the room, in the face.

“M'lady?” said Dagna, with more than a hint of fear in her voice. “I finished the repairs you asked for.” Dagna clutched the missing gauntlet – which it seemed she had been in the process of delivering – in her hands. Two sets of shoulders sagged in defeat.

“Seriously,” muttered Cassandra.

“Well,” said Varric, clapping his hands together, “up and at 'em boys and girls. Lets go kill people.” He turned and followed Cassandra, already on her way downstairs. Dagna trailed behind. Adaar was biting her lip and staring at the gauntlet, turning it over in her hand.

“How'd you break it anyway?” Bull asked. Herah sighed.

“I killed a guy. He was wearing a helmet.” She made no move to get going.

“You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah. Sorry. We should go.”

***

Later, in Val Royeaux, he saw her talking to the merchant and he thought, good, she's going to treat herself. It was a nice fucking tunic she was looking at. Long, but not restrictive, crimson dyed and embroidered at the collar and cuffs in the style of the Free Marches. Bull didn't particularly think she needed it to look better, or that peacocking about in fancy clothes accomplished anything, but he did get that her usual outfit was wearing thin, and looking smart made her feel good, and if she felt good than he felt good, too (and wasn't that a scary new feeling, he wondered, fingering the dragon's tooth around his neck). Yet when he asked her about it later, she shook her head.

“Couldn't afford it.”

Bull scoffed, “How much was the thing? Was it enchanted? We pulled like, what, two hundred sovereigns off those slavers last week?”

She shrugged, “Kitchen needs sugar, doctor's need linen. Roof needs fixing on the south tower. Didn't go to waste."

“And what about yourself?”

“Not my money to spend.”

Bull raised his eyebrows, “Really.”

Adaar spread her arms, indicating her lofty apartments. “Look at this, Bull. None of this is mine. Everything here was paid for with Inquisition money. The roof over our heads, our food, the armour I wear, not even my boots belong to me. Look at this,” she marched over to a little square chest in the corner of her room and flung open the lid. “This? This is all I have. If I were to leave the inquisition today, these are the things I could take with me. Even the chest is on loan.

Bull squatted in front of the chest and peered inside. A couple of letters. A bag with maybe fifteen sovereigns in loose change. A broken wyvern's tooth necklace.

“My old Valo-Kas armour was left behind at Haven. My sword is somewhere in the fade.” Curious, Bull reached into the chest for one of the letters. As soon as Herah saw what he was up to, she batted his hand away and snapped the chest shut.

“That's private,” she said, brusquely.

“Welll soor-ee,” said Bull. “I didn't realize the subject of your possessions was such a touchy one.”

“Yeah, well,” she spat, “I was doing pretty good, you know? Making a name for myself. Seeing the world. Actual money. But then I was chosen to save the world and suddenly everything I ever worked for is on the backburner.” She flopped dramatically on the bed. Bull stood up, knees cracking, and sat next to her.

“What about us? This seems pretty good to me.”

Herah leaned into his shoulder. “I have this stupid fantasy where we lead rival mercenary companies and a double life as secret lovers.”

Bull laughed out loud. “Ha! For real? Oh man, that sounds like the kind of shit Varric would write. You should tell him that one, then we could be making money!” He laughed even harder at the thought, so hard he fell back on the bed. Adaar elbowed him in the ribs.

“Stop it!”

“I'm not sorry!” Bull crowed. “Can you imagine it? How Varric would describe you? 'Strong as an ox, with an ass to bring even the holiest of men to his knees-” Adaar readied her elbow again, and this time Bull threw up his arms in defence. “Alright! I give! Shutting up now.”

“Thank you.”

Bull pulled himself back into a sitting position. “On the subject of literature though; what's with the letter? Who was it from? Did you have a boyfriend or something? 'It's not you babe, its me, they all think I'm the chosen one.'”

Adaar shook her head, “It was for my mum.”

“Oh,” said Bull, surprised. “You never talk about your family, I assumed-”

“Nope,” said Adaar, “Alive and well.”

“No offence, but isn't not talking weird for people who were raised by their parents? Especially between mothers and daughters? Don't tell her I know, but even Vivienne writes to her mother. And she was carved from ice like dwarves from the stone.”

Adaar looked at her hands, picking at the dry skin around her fingernails.

“Did I ever tell you why my parents left Par Vollen?”

“Nope.”

“They hated it. I mean really, really hated it,” Adaar said. “They way my mom spoke of it, it was like living in cage, only no one else could see the cage.”

“Damn.”

“Chyeah. Like I said, she didn't like it very much. She wouldn't even talk about what she did. I know women aren't warriors but she was still full of all these stories and warnings about the fighting and the violence. A lot of the tal-vashoth I've met are ex-military. My dad was. They always have this resentment, they always want to tell you how they grew up knowing nothing but how to fight. Then their kids grow up to resent the human world and the cycle continues. My mom hated violence.”

Another surprise, thought Bull but he remained silent.

“Yet, there she was growing up in boot camp. I mean, don't get me wrong I know It wasn't some gross oversight, I know they learn tactics and engineering, and my mom can be disciplined when she wants to be. But she hates the idea of killing, and Par Vollen isn't the kind of place where you can just quit your job and find a new one unless the new job involves moving rocks and drooling on yourself. So she left.”

“And your father?”

“Same deal. They were lucky to have each other. They kept one another in check.”

“What did they want to do so badly they left home for it?”

Adaar shrugged, “They became bakers.”

Bull frowned, “Okay now I know your shitting me.”

“Nope. I grew up in a bakery.”

“Is that why you're so soft?” the remark earned him another jab in the ribs, but it was worth it. “There's an analogy used in the Qun,” he continued, “it goes sort of like, if a farmer were to leave his farm, and start selling goods, does that make him a merchant? The Qun says no, he will always be a farmer, and if he tries to become something else, something he is unsuited for, that will hold him back, and become his downfall.”

Adaar blinked, “What?”

“How to a man and a woman who grew up learning to fight run a bakery?”

“Discipline, I guess. Determination. Experimentation. And don't think a pair of Qunari setting up in the free marches didn't have to fight for every ounce of respect they got. They ran that place like they had something to prove. People can change. People can turn their life around. Look at me. Look at you! Would the Qun say either of us – or Varric, or god forbid Sera are any good for the job's we're doing?”

“To be fair, saving the world is rather extenuating circumstances.” Herah opened her mouth to protest, but Bull cut her off. “You don't have to defend them, kadan. They did a good job.”

She nodded, “I'm just saying, to them life under the Qun was dull and violent. My dad especially used to say it was hypocritical, that the Qun is just as afraid of differences as the difference it represents to the rest of the world.”

“That stings you know.”

“Sorry. I guess- i just want you to understand the impression I grew up with. How scary it was.”

“Still smarts.”

Herah leaned over and kissed Iron Bull on the cheek. “I'm not scared of you.”

“But you are afraid we don't fight for the same kind of freedom.”

“I was,” Adaar admitted. “But you chose the chargers – you chose family – and that means a lot to me.”

“Family means a lot to you, huh.”

“It does.”

“Then why haven't you sent that letter.”

Herah frowned, “Low.”

“I'm just curious now, is all. You became a mercenary even though your parents gave up everything they had to lead a peaceful life.”

“No matter how hard you try, a qunari outside Par Vollen does not lead a peaceful life.”

“Did you even try?”

“Yes,” Herah growled, “And we will not speak of it.” Bull knew he was poking at a sore spot. She buried her face in her hands. “Dammit all.”

“Hey,” said Bull, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Past is past.”

Adaar usually thought of herself as a big person, but she still felt small whenever Iron Bull put his arms around her. Bull, for his part, was struggling between the part of himself that was saying, You have her here, make her talk, and the other that, selfishly, would do anything not to push Herah too far.

“I think,” he said, “if there ever was a time to try and mend things with your family, now would be it.”

“Before its too late, you mean.”

Bull's hold tightened, “Don't speak like that. Solas speaks like that. It's unnerving.” Adaar's hand found his, and they twined their fingers together in comfort.
“I tried,” she said. “Things were going really well before the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”
“What happened? You know, besides the obvious.”
Adaar was silent for a moment before she shrugged. “That's pretty much it. Cataclysmic events that changed the course of history, is all.”

***

“So wait,” said Krem, “run this by me again.”

“She frets,” said Bull, “about what she's wearing.”

Krem drummed his fingers on the table thoughtfully, then shrugged. “Never really seemed the type to me. More of a lady than I ever was, but I assumed Josephine beat that into her.”

“Josephine tries to tell her how to act, not dress. If anything she's always insisting on the armour. Gives off the right attitude, or something like that. Typical human noble nonsense.”

“Typical,” Krem agreed.

“I don't get why she thinks she needs that stuff.”

“What, armour?”

“Clothes.”

“Fancy clothes or clothes in general.”

Bull considered this.

“Both,” he decided, “but I think it would be best if the sentiments remained unrelated.”

“Probably a good idea,” Krem replied. “Ummm .. I dunno then. What have you tried?”

“Tried talking about it. Conversation derailed pretty quickly.”

“Hn,” Krem grunted, “Ugly.”

“Well, it answered a lot of questions. Just not the ones I was after.”

“'S the way things go,” said Krem. “I guess, um, do you think the ah, fretting is a recent thing?”

Bull thought about it. “No?” he said finally. Krem shrugged.

“There you have it then. It's just the way some people are. Everyone's got something they don't show the rest of the world. If you care about them, you accept it.”

“You would accept it if someone you cared about was self deprecating because they feel they have to dress a certain way.”

“You are the king of low blows, you know that?”

“I am the king of finding the flaw in my opponents logic.”

Krem sighed, “Have you just tried like, fucking telling her maybe? Just nut up and be like, hey babe, I noticed you fret about your clothes but you don't have to worry because you don't look good in clothes, clothes look good on you.”

Bull didn't react. At all. He levelled Krem with his most neutral stare.

“Does that one work well for you?”

“Very well,” Krem replied, “thank you.”

______________________

TRADITION (TRADITION)

Kissing was not something the Iron Bull did before being stationed in the Free Marches. He was aware of it as Something People in the Outside World Did, like paying for things, but it was not something he himself indulged in. It wasn't even something the tamassrans did when you needed to go pop your cork. Mouths weren't terribly erogenous unless there was something in them, and wasn't that a thought for making your pants feel just a little too tight. The first time a human girl kissed him it had been startling – he hadn't expected what was to be a one night stand to get that intimate. When the barmaid saw his look of nervous surprise she grinned.

“First time? You don't need to be shy, its that way for a lot of qunari.”

“Hell no,” he growled, pushing her around and hiking up her skirts. It didn't take long for him to be known as No Kiss No Cuddle, and Bull ran with it when he found it suited the image. That's the way it started with Herah – he just wanted to show her a good time, you know? Woman needed to relax more. But he stopped having sex with anyone else, and then one night he forgot to set up his tent and she said, “Sleep here,” and in the morning they were all tangled together and he felt zero compulsion to leave. He watched her sleep. He watched her fucking sleep until she woke up and kissed him sleepily and for the first time in his life Bull realized why humans always raved about morning sex. It was like waking up and killing something right away. Only nothing died. And you got to cum.

“What a fantastic metaphor,” Krem had replied, after being told.

Long story short, The Iron Bull didn't have much experience in kissing, and he was dating a girl for whom it came naturally.

“Aw, you don't get many kisses, do you?” she teased, the second time he knocked their teeth together. Iron Bull grumbled with dislike at being mocked for his inexperience.

“Not your first kiss, am I?” she asked, still with that tease in her voice.

“I'm not a teenager,” he griped.

“Seriously though,” she giggled. “people don't kiss much in Par Vollen, do they? Did you ever kiss anyone before you came her?”

“I did, actually.”

“Really?” Adaar asked, pressing into him. “Did our Iron Bull have a forbidden romance? Tell us about your first kiss.”

“Don't want to talk about it,” Bull growled, taking her mouth and swallowing her protests.

Way back when, buried in the fog of childhood, Iron Bull had memories of a girl his own age. She didn't have name, of course, but in his mind she would always be Mulberry. She was memorable – which drove the tamassrans mad – curious and quick witted, excelled at all kinds of book learning that Bull never had the patience for. She also had one of those unfortunate birthmarks, the one's like wine stains on a kid's face. A dark purple blotch, the colour of mulberry's. She stood out and she excelled, a bug huge wrinkle in a society that supposedly had no sense of individuality. She would become someone, or she would die tal-vashoth, everyone knew. For a place where everyone was supposed to be equal they kept an awful close eye on certain individuals.

She also had nightmares.

Young girls and boys shared a dormitory until they were sent off to study for their careers. Most followers of the Qun had zero sense of body shame. They didn't flaunt it, but there was no reason to be ignorant of what was there. The last thing they needed was for anyone to feel shame over something so base and primal as a naked body. Regardless, the Iron Bull could easily recall being woken in the night by her thrashing and screaming – the whole damn dorm was probably woken at least once a week that the demons were coming, that they were waiting to be taken like lambs to the slaughter. They couldn't separate her on principal. They couldn't drag her off and dose her - it would annihilate a developing mind. And they couldn't just kill one of their best pupils, no matter how efficient that would be. Yet one day she was gone. Just vanished into thin air. Bull assumed for years the girl with the mulberry birthmark had been sent to a hospital, or some kind of institution where they would be searching for a cure. These things were not unheard of; better to be understanding than afraid, no? Bull didn't see the girl with the mulberry birthmark for maybe twenty years. If the Qun had its way he would have never recognized her at all. If the Qun had its way, all of its followers would have the keenest eyesight and expert attention to detail, and at the same time they would all be blind.

The Iron Bull (though back then he was mostly known as Brother) had been roped into a man hunt, an experienced pair of hands to help hunt down a rogue sarebaas.
According to the report she had melted her chains, raided a warehouse and disappeared into the woods. The could only spare so many handlers lest the rest of the mages get any ideas, but at the risk that she was possessed they needed to catch her as quickly as possible, so they grabbed any military the barracks had available. The ruckus it caused was a crime almost akin to the escape itself. Bull doubted the woman was possessed – demons spread mayhem and killed for sport. They didn't steal food. They didn't need food. The handlers sent him off with strict instructions; track her, find her if you can, but under any circumstances do not engage. Come back and get an expert. He didn't need to be told twice. No way in hell was he risking any chance of becoming possessed.

And so, undermanned and nervous, they set out. Iron Bull found her, of course, not far from the town along the coast, kneeling on a cliff overlooking the water. She had her back to the trees and it looked like she was eating something, shoving something wet and red inter mouth, slurping noisily. He took a couple of steps closer, expecting to see her devouring some poor creature, praying it was indeed an animal. Seheron had enough shit going on without throwing a possessed cannibal into the pot. He must have stepped on a twig (he was never known for physical grace) or she sensed him with her magic powers or something, because as Bull strained to get a better look her head snapped up and around. Her mouth was red and bloody, and for a moment his heart jumped to his throat, but Bull realized quickly that the blood was probably hers – she had cut and torn the stitching from her mouth. But he recognized that mulberry birthmark instantly.

I know you, he thought, and what a dangerous thought indeed. He straightened, showing himself, and was finally able to see the food she had stashed in her lap. A basket of strawberries, most of which had been eaten, lay across her robes and the grass. She must have devoured them for so many to be gone in such a short amount of time, and so much juice on her hands and face.

She smiled when she saw him.

“Want one?” she asked, holding out a plump, red berry. Her voice was thick with disuse, yawning around words it hadn't formed in decades. The berries had probably been picked fresh this morning, bound for schools and bakeries. “The tamassran used to let us have these as a treat in summer. They said not everyone in Thedas can enjoy strawberries, but under the Qun everyone benefits from their hard work, the scholar as much as the farmer, and the fruits of their labour are shared by all.” She grinned even wider, the holes in her lips spreading and glistening wetly. “Unless of course you see demons in your dreams.” Bull knew the sarebaas were fed better than prisoners, but not by much. Mostly broth and water. Nourishing, filling, but repetitive and plain. Nothing at all like sinking your teeth into ripe, sun warmed fruit. It must hurt her, he realized. Teeth unused to sweetness, juice running into open sores on her lips. Buts till she revelled in it.

“Was anyone hurt?” she asked, biting into a berry. He shook his head silently, and she nodded to acknowledge his response.

“I missed this,” she sighed, taking another berry. “Who knew solid food could be a luxury?”

“You shouldn't overeat,” he said, stepping closer, feeling emboldened by his doctrine. “Its unseemly.”

“Ah,” she said, “not just a soldier but a true believer then. Ben hassrath?”

He nodded.

“Have you never overindulged, ben hasserath?” she asked, proffering a strawberry. “Our indulgences can tell us a lot about who we are. You spend all day watching other people, how much do you really know about yourself?”

He was silent.

“Ah, but you are not a you. The man before me is ben hassrath, a cog in the machine.” She looked at the strawberry. “It's good that no one was hurt. I never wanted to hurt anyone.”

No, you didn't, he thought. You're not possessed, you're not starting an uprising. You just wanted to eat strawberries.

“We all make our sacrifices to the greater good,” he said. She snorted derisively.

“Then sacrifice me, for I may as well be dead. I heard in the chantry circles they have a ritual that takes away your magic, but it also takes away your emotions. Why don't they do that to all of us, I wonder, if they are so afraid of demons? No more possessions. No more angry tal vashoth. And they wouldn't have to waste resources growing strawberries.” She stood, brushing the remnants of the fruit from her lap. “Before I go, will you indulge with me a little, ben hassrath?”

“I'm not hungry. And you're not going anywhere.”

“I promise I won't go far if you give me a kiss.” She closed the distance between them, beaming up at him with her bloody, juice covered smile. “Let me live a little before they silence me again.” She leaned up to his mouth, ans he didn't stop her. The kiss was chaste by most standards, close mouthed and soft. She left the taste of blood and strawberries on his lips. That's what Iron Bull remembered most about his first kiss – the red of her mouth, and the taste of blood and strawberries.

“You should come back,” he said. She smiled sadly.

“Oh ben hassrath, you really think they're going to let me live?”

From his perspective, it was like the air between them exploded. With her power she threw them apart, sending him sprawling but without much injury on the grass. He pulled himself up just in time (or maybe she waited, who knew) to see her turn her back to the ocean, facing up into the sky, and step off the cliff. By the time he made it to the edge her body was already laying on the rocks below. When the handlers arrived and asked him what happened, he said she attacked him before committing suicide, and no, she wasn't possessed. He woke up that night from a nightmare of a demon with split lips and breath that smelled like strawberries.

Two weeks after that he turned himself into the re-educators.

The Iron Bull didn't mind making love a little torn up, but he always wiped the blood from her mouth.

***

Is the Qun a faith? That was one of the first questions many people asked him. Qunari had faith in the Qun, yes, he would reply, but we do not worship. Yet you have rituals? Yes, but not all the metaphors of ritual are rooted in religious belief. Tradition? Yes. Teaching? Yes. The Qun liked ritual because it was something that lived in the mind of everyone from Arishok to the common labourer. Each person under the Qun had a role, but ritual reminded them that they were the same, that they were mortal, and that they had a common goal.

“So for all intents and purposes,” said Varric, “the Qun is a faith with no god.” Mortals could carry faith and they could carry belief without all the trappings offered by religion. There were a lot of people who had no faith in Andraste, but plenty in the Inquisitor. Sometimes The Iron Bull watched her and thought, there are historians who say Andraste never spoke to the Maker, that she did not achieve greatness through divine intervention but through her own mortal hand. In a thousand years, what will they say about you, Kadan? That she wielded power there was no doubt, but whether they say her power was Corypheus' mistake or Andraste's blessing those tales will not be of chance, they will be only about the divine reaching down to shuffle events in the mortal world. And what part would he play, in a thousand years? Was it really so much to ask, for once, to write his own story?

***

“I've been meaning to ask you,” said Bull. “that wyvern's tooth necklace you have in your box, who gave that to you?”

“My mum,” Adaar replied. “She wears one for my dad, one for each of us kids. Little pieces of her heart she sent off into the world and never got back.”

Bull reached out and fingered the dragon's tooth hanging around her neck.

“Did she tell you? About the tradition?”

Adaar's hand went to her throat, their fingers brushing.

“She did, actually. I think she used the tradition as some kind of ... I dunno, metaphor for for her relationship to Par Vollen. Reminding herself that part of her would always belong somewhere else.” Herah hooked her fingers into Bull's, letting them tangle with one another absently.

“Its not like leaving home was easy for them,” she said quietly.

“I know,” Bull replied. She squeezed his hand, taking comfort in the rare moment of silent affection. “I'm sorry,” she said, her words catching in her throat.

“For what?” said Bull.

“I shouldn't talk about Par Vollen. It's my fault, I-”

“Was just trying to prevent more unnecessary deaths.”

“I-”

“Not your fault,” he said, grabbing her jaw and tilting her head so she could look him in the eye. “Never your fault, got that?”

Adaar nodded, but no matter how many times he said it, whenever Bull spoke of Par Vollen, it left a little stab of guilt in her gut.

______________________

TRUTH AND JUSTICE

Living the mercenary life meant a lot of time spent living in tents. Living intents meant, of course, that one's privacy was often in great jeopardy. It was common enough to pretend you knew nothing about a co-worker's private life when in fact through a combination of casual observation and camp gossip you knew every fucking detail.

So yeah, Herah was used to other people knowing about her relationships. She had no shame and a big sword, a fact she was quick to remind anyone who thought they could make fun of her.

After the incident, Cullen apologized briefly, then seemed determined never to mention it again.

Cassandra grinned hugely and winked when they passed at breakfast.

Josephine was downright mortified.

“I'm sorry!” she squeaked, the next time Herah walked into her office.

“Uh oh,” Herah sighed, “who did I disappoint this time.”

“W-what?” Josephine stuttered. “No one! Certainly not me! I mean, not – ahem!” She made a point of stopping and composing herself a little. “My apologies. Everything regarding Inquisition matters is running smoothly.”

But Cassandra's playfulness had but the Inquisitor in a mood. She leaned on Josephine's desk and smiled lewdly.

“There something else on your mind, Miss Montilyet?”

Josephine fidgeted in her seat. She refrained from looking Herah in the eye.

“No, nothing.”

“Are you sure? Because you seemed very eager to find me last night.”

“I was in no hurry, I assure you.”

“I'm not entirely reassured, Miss Montileyt. Usually when someone barges into my room without knocking they tend to be, hm, desperate.”

“Everything was fine.”

“Are you sure? You didn't seem to be having a very good time. Unlike-”

“Alright!” Josephine cried. “Since you seem to be so keen on the topic, it has been on my mind.”

“What, exactly, has been on your mind.”

“I just ... have to ask .. I was curious... how?”

Adaar blinked. “How what.”

“He's very, you know,” Josephine made a circle with her index finger and thumb. “Among other things.”

The grin returned immediately to Herah's face.

“Aw, Josie, never been with a Qunari, have you?”

Josephine glowered, “I'm not inexperienced, but such particulars are outside the realm of my knowledge, yes.”

“What, Qunari dicks or dicks in general.”

“Maker have mercy Inquisitor-!”

Herah cut her off with a chuckle. “Relax,” she said, “I'm just ragging on you.”

Josephine, however, continued to look displeased.

“I'm a big girl,” Herah went on. “I mean I'm sure it would work regardless, but I suppose it helps.”

Josephine gave a little shudder. “That does not look easy,” she said. Herah thought the conversation would have ended there, but Josephine looked around (even though they were alone) and lowered her voice. “I guess human men seem small in comparison, no? Especially given a man's tendencies to exaggerate about how gifted he is.”

“Why?” said Herah slyly, “Do you find yourself disappointed, Miss Montilyet?”

Josephine sniffed, “It would be unfair to say I am unsatisfied, for I am not. There are some people who know well how to make do with what they have, and some who do not.”

“Ah,” said Herah, “so you're curious? No no, you don't need to answer that. You already have.”

To Josephine's credit she managed her composure amazingly, even if it was hard to hide her blush. Herah leaned across the table, lowering her voice to add to the conspiracy.

“I'll let you in on a little secret. Bull's the best lay I have ever had, not because he's big but because he doesn't let it go to his head. Quantity makes a difference, but quality makes it matter. And no matter what they try to tell you, every elf has a dick like a fucking twig. That's why they all act like they have sticks up their asses.”

Josephine gasped and swatted Adaar playfully. “You rude little dog,” she chided.

“I am the Herald of truth and justice,” the Inquisitor countered, raising her voice. “I lead the ignorant back into the light. Spread the word Ambassador – no more women are to be tricked by men and their lies about their small members!”

“Inquisitor!” Josephine gasped, waving her hands in the universal gesture of oh my god stop you are going to get us in so much shit. But she was laughing, and Herah was laughing too, and they both lost it all together when poked his head out of the war room and whined, “Hey, come on, not all men...”

______________________

CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT

Bull had always gathered that in order to maintain the good relationship between the Inquisition and the Ben Hassrath he should stay away from Leliana's office. It was a sign of trust. Bull was not a snoop. He was too big to snoop. For him to go anywhere near the spymaster's domain would draw suspicion, suspicion he very well did not want. Besides, he liked to think he was better than that. Snooping. After relations broke down as it were, staying away had just become a habit. The offices of covert affairs were just a place The Iron Bull didn't go. It was none of his business, and besides, the birds gave him the creeps. This was why, standing in the rookery after having received a summons from the spymaster Leliana herself, he was feeling incredibly uncomfortable.

“Glad you could come so quickly,” said Leliana.

“Slow day,” Bull grunted. A raven next to him squawked, indignant at the presence of a large intruder.

“I understand this may be somewhat of a sore subject,” said Leliana, “but I am afraid I must be blunt. Would you be able to recognize another member of the Ben Hassrath?”

“You think there's a spy?” Bull asked.

“Oh, I know we have a spy, for sure. I'm just not convinced about this one.”

“The chances are low,” Bull replied, glad to keep things as professional as possible. “They wouldn't send anyone I have even the slightest chance of knowing, and they would have definitely changed the call signs after I ... resigned.”

Leliana tapped her fingers on her desk, thinking.

“There is a Qunari woman in the camp,” she said. “She's been working there for several weeks with her son. They were absolutely no trouble, until recently. The mother has been making repeated and persistent requests for an audience with the Inquisitor, but so far her requests have been denied because she refuses to state her intention.”

Bull crossed his arms and hummed along thoughtfully.

“Doesn't sound like Ben Hassrath at all,” he said. “No one trained under the Qun would be that obvious. And they don't use children as cover.”

“Her son is a grown man, so I am told.”

Bull shook his head. “There's something you're missing there, that's for sure, but I don't know what it is because its definitely nothing from Par Vollen.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and scratched his head. Something about this was bugging him, something about it was familiar but he couldn't quite pin his finger on why.

“Could you do me a favour and look into the matter anyway?” Leliana asked. “Just as a precaution.”

“I can try,” Bull replied. “If they saw me poking around it could be a pretty big tip off, though.”

Leliana nodded. “I suppose at the very least they'll take it as a show of force, and leave of their own accord. The woman's name is Hestia, and her son Cena.”

The feeling of familiarity strengthened and crawled its way up Bull's spine.

“Has anyone told the Inquisitor?” he asked. Leliana shook her head.

“I know Adaar doesn't like her audience being vetted,” she admitted, “but I have a job to do, and there are risks I cannot take.”

The Iron Bull nodded in understanding. “I'll see what I can do,” said he. Besides, there was that feeling sitting at the base of his skull, nagging him, egging him on with curiosity. Leliana turned back to the papers on her desk, probably expected The Iron Bull to take his leave. And Bull did want to get a move on, but there was one other thing that had been bugging him.

“Nightingale,” he said, drawing back her attention. He didn't think they were on first name terms so he preferred to use the nickname. It made more sense. Leliana was her name but the Nightingale was who she was. “I've heard rumours, actually, if you don't mind me asking. Is it true you travelled with the Hero of Ferelden?”

Leliana smiled. “I did.”

“And is it true that the Arishok travelled with you as well?”

“Arishok? There was a Qunari who travelled with us. He was Beresaad, if I recall correctly. He used the name Sten.... you don't mean our little Sten is Arishok now, do you?” she giggled. Bull wrinkled his nose.

“You know that's not his real name, right?” It was so strange to think that the man he had admired once broke bread and fought darkspawn alongside this tiny redheaded woman from Orlais.

Leliana's smile softened. “I know. Its just so strange to think. The man I knew as Sten was so dour and yet so curious. He liked cookies and war dogs and believed he held his soul in his hands. Its hard to rectify that image with tales of the fearsome Arishok. Perhaps it is for the best, then. That's how your people think, no?”

“I don't follow,” Bull admitted.

“People change. At the end of a decade any man is not the same man he was ten years ago. Sten has changed, his role in the world has changed. Thus, as he understands it, he is no longer Sten. That is no who he is. Now he is Arishok. He is no longer the same man.”

“That's not always how it goes,” Bull admitted. “But the sentiment is on point.”

“Why did you ask, anyway?” Leliana asked. “Do you think if I appealed to the Arishok he would still send aid? I don't think he would,” she admitted. “I never got the impression he liked me very much. He certainly didn't approve of me at all.”

“No,” Bull replied. “I was just curious, is all.” It was the truth, too. The rumours seemed so wild, but they held up. This Grey Warden must have been one hell of a guy.

***

Bull did a good job of maintaining an outward composure. He could be pants-shittingly terrified and his response would be to stand there and grunt. He could be in love and he would twist his hands behind his back rather than betray any weakness with a casual touch. He thought up reasons to be in the camp by the river. The Chargers were housed in the main fortress, so honestly, he had none. He hummed as he walked and made up a story about Krem and a girl, maybe a feisty blue eyed dwarf who fought for the Inquisition an had a taste for oysters, or something similar. A rumour that would eventually circle back to Krem and drive him up the wall. “Have you seen my lieutenant?” he would say. “I was told he come down here with a dwarven girl to go diving for pearls.”

He saw the son before he saw the mother. He was talking to one of Cullen's lieutenants down by the river – being scouted by the looks of it. He had his arms folded and kept shaking his head. The lieutenant said something that caused the young man to frown, and realization hit The Iron Bull like a sack of bricks. He had the same swept back horns, the same wide, strong hands as his sister, but none of her physical gaminess. When Herah talked about her brother, Bull had always pictured a male version of the Inquisitor, broad shouldered and lean. Her brother was a pudgy kid, but there was a family resemblance in their frown. If Bull hadn't been so stunned he would have found it kinda cute. He watched Herah's brother and Cullen's lieutenant from a distance, waiting for the soldier to leave. Herah's brother went back to chopping wood. His heavy breath steamed in the cold mountain air.

“Sucks don't it,” said Bull, sauntering up to the young man. “Just because you have a pair of horns everyone assumes you want to hit something.”

Herah's brother brought his axe down, neatly splitting the thick log in two.

“I'm used to it,” he grunted, grabbing one of the halves and setting it back on the stand. “Anyway, everyone has something they want to knock the piss out of. They just assume I would be better at it than them. Take as much of a compliment as you can.” He eyed The Iron Bull and his many scars. “You look like you've seen your fair share of fights anyway.”

Bull sat down on a nearby rock, resting his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers together.

“It's a living,” he said. “I happen to be good at it. Puts good food on the table and pretty women in my lap.”

“Must be nice,” said Herah's brother, “to have merit instead of being a stereotype.”

“I like to think so,” said Bull. “What about you?”

He shrugged, “I have my own job, and I do it well.”

“You don't fight though.”

“I cook,” said Herah's brother. “I clean. I move boxes and chop wood and brush horses. No one has to get hurt.” He was stronger than he looked, Bull realized. Someone who did a lot of physical labour but also had easy access to rich food. He chopped wood with practised ease and efficiency. Someone who was used to getting things done themselves. “I'm Cena, by the way,” he said, offering a hand. He and Bull shook. “I've never seen you in the camp. Are you new?”

“They call me The Iron Bull,” Bull replied. “And no. My mercenaries are camped up the hill. Don't make it down here very often. How long have you been here?”

Cena shrugged, “Three weeks? Feels like longer. Took almost a month to haul it down from the Free Marches.”

“I've heard there's a good mercenary company out that way, mostly tal-vashoth. The Valo-Kas?” Bull watched the young man's expression closely when he heard spoke the name. There was recognition, a little pain. Nothing big.

“We know of them,” he replied.

“Who is we?” Bull asked. “Your wife?”

Cena scoffed, “Maker no! It's just me and my Mum.”

“Why'd you come all this way with your Mum?”

Cena grabbed another log and readied his axe.

“To do the right thing I guess. Can't sit around while the world is ending and make bread.”

“How noble.”

Cena scoffed, “Not really.” He twirled the next log on the stand, toying around, thinking. “My sisters were at the conclave. We haven't heard from either of them since before the attack, but my mom still has this crazy idea that they might still be alive.”

“Well, the Inquisitor is Vashoth so – wait, did you say sisters? As in plural?”

***

Varric was the only one who knew. And the only reason he knew was because he was the one who saved her life.

It had always been cold in Haven. Herah supposed she had never really seen the place in the summer, so all she would ever remember is the snow and the cold, two things of which she was never very fond. Herah never felt at home in Haven. The courtyard at Skyhold always shocked her lungs with cold mountain air, but the mountaintop castle never had the same sense of being camped out, the same sense of being exposed. It may not have been the temperate paradise she wished for, but Skyhold at least eventually felt like home. Haven on the other hand was the dark times. Midwinter was drawing in – the sun provided only a few hours of weak light, and at night the wind howled down from the mountains and rattled the walls of the village. Normally Herah would make any excuse to bury herself under a pile of furs and sleep the night away next to the fire, but on that particular night the worry and the guilt kept her from her sleep, drove her from her bed and left her to sit, with tears on her face in the woods outside the gates. Who the fuck knows why the guards went and got Varric of all people. Maybe her advisers were busy. Maybe they just had better sense. Either way there she was, tears on her face and snow on her butt when Varric appeared, dragging his little dwarven legs through the drifts. He'd done up his coat (the one and only time she saw it as thus) and was carrying a blanket.

“What the hell are you trying to do out here?” he griped. “Get yourself killed?”

“About sums it up,” Herah grunted. Varric made a little “tch” sound and tossed the blanket at her. Herah didn't react, letting it hit her head and slide down to rest across her face.

“Put it on,” Varric ordered.

“Too hot.”

“Put the fucking blanket on or I will get that walking mountain you hired to carry your ass back inside.”

“He'll charge you.”

“I'll bill Cassandra. Put the Maker-damned blanket on.”

“If I do it will you fuck off?” Herah asked.

Varric sat himself on a nearby stump. “No.”

“Then why are you here.”

“Because you bit the heads off the fine soldiers by the gates who are only worried about you, and I'm not afraid of your self pitying bullshit. I don't know what has you feeling this way, and honestly you can spare me the details. Pressure sucks. Responsibility sucks. And you didn't ask for it. But running away? Like this? Half the world is looking your way and this is how you want to be remembered?”

“You think I'm being a coward?” she spat.

“Cowards don't face death head on. I think you're being stupid and stubborn.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Sometimes life throws shit at us and we have to change, fast. You don't want to, and you don't see another way out. You can't walk back to the Free Marches and pick up your old life, you you disappear while it still looks like you have control.”

Herah snorted. “It sure as hell sounds like you're calling me a coward. Besides, you wouldn't be saying that if you knew why I was here.”

“I'm willing to listen if you're willing to tell me.”

Herah said nothing.

“But you're not. So fine. You think you're such a coward? Suck it up and come back to Haven. Face whatever the hell it was that drove you out here and don't bitch when the world doesn't bend to accommodate you're self pity.” Varric shut his mouth, crossed his arms, and stared the Herald down. She let it be for as long as she could, let him suffer with her out in the cold. But Varric's glare was unwavering, and the soft blanket was tempting in the face of the bitter cold. It wasn't long before she reached out and unfolded the blanket, wrapping it around her shoulders. They would see it as that, wouldn't they, she thought, raising with stiff limbs to her feet. They would think I died in the woods running away. And no-one would know that she had run because her sister died, because she was terrified of the grieving family back home. They would say Andraste had given her a gift and she was too chickenshit to take it. And no, that was not how she wanted to be remembered.

Before she went back to bed that night, Herah drank a cup of hot broth and tried to write a letter. Exhausted, she put it aside for the morning. She threw herself into her work with the Inquisition. She was no diplomat, but she could swing a sword like a giant, and they needed a leader. The letter remained unfinished and unsent. She told herself there was work to be done instead. Quietly and efficiently, Herah ran away.

***

“Pardon?” said Cena. “Yeah, my sisters. Both of them. Ironic, isn't it?”

“Shit,” said Bull, bringing a hand to his mouth. “Shit. She never mentioned anything about ... shit.”

“What is it?” asked Cena, straightening up from his chopping block. “Is something wrong?”

“You're Herah's brother, right?” asked Bull.

“Andraste's breath-”

“You are, got it. Go get your mother. Bring her back here. I'll get your audience with the Inquisitor.”

Bull left Cena standing by the river in a daze. He hurried back up the mountain, caught between being angry that Herah had withed the truth, and devastated that someone he cared for had lost someone so important to them. Herah was with Josephine and Leliana in Josephine's office. They had some big old map spread out over her desk, covered in crests. Was probably interesting, but at this point in time Bull didn't particularly care. All three ladies looked up when he entered – Josephine even ventured a hello, and Herah looked like she was about to ask whats up before he grabbed her arm.

“Hey!” she protested, pulling out of his grasp. She wouldn't have minded if he were being playful, but it wasn't hard to gather from Bull's expression that something was wrong, and that he was pissed about it.

“Don't care,” Bull growled. “It can wait.” He took hold of her again, but Herah locked herself down.

“What the hell is going on?”

“I swear to whatever you believe in, I will carry you if I have to.”

Herah held her ground. “Is it really that important?”

“Have I not stated loud and clear that the answer is yes?” Iron Bull tugged. Herah did not move. Josephine and Leliana were looking at each other, wondering of they should say something, if they should ask. Leliana caught Bull's eye and raised her brow.

“There's someone you need to see,” said Bull.

“Who?” Herah asked.

“You'll see when we get there. They told Leliana they were coming.”

Herah turned to Leliana, her arm still trapped. Leliana looked a little stunned, but she recovered quickly enough to say, “I think you should go. We can handle things here.”

Poor Josephine was just lost.

“All right, I'll come, jeeze,” Herah relented. “You better as hell not be making shit up to get laid.” Bull just rolled his eyes, grabbing Herah's wrist and hauling her off without wasting time on any more words. Herah grumbled all the way down the mountain, turning her confusion into anger in response to Bull's sudden sour attitude. Because Bull had finally come to the conclusion that he was indeed pissed. Adaar was the Inquisitor – she fought the dragon and rode the bull and the whole fucking time the woman was hiding from her goddamn feelings. He was pissed because she had looked him in the eye and told him to betray the Qun because the Chargers were his family, while hers trekked hundreds of miles because she was too afraid to tell them she was alive.

“No,” said Herah, when she say Cena and her mother on the river bank. She pulled against Bull's grip, but after her first attempt at escape he had locked down like a vice. She dug her heels in, scrabbled back, so he picked her up and carried her across the final few yards before dumping the inquisitor in the snow.
There was a brief moment of silence.

“Well fuck,” said Cena. Their mother knelt in the snow by her daughter.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

Adaar didn't reply. Her shoulders were shaking.

“Kate?” her mother asked, reaching out to touch her daughter's shoulder.

“Makers gaping asshole!” Herah screamed, throwing off her mother's hand. “Lone survivor. Lone. Fucking Survivor. Okay?” Her voice cracked, pleading. “Okay?”

“Mercy woman,” Cena sighed, “It's not like it was your fault.”

______________________

ROAR

Humans and elves had a tendency to see Qunari women as mannish. Dwarves found them flat out intimidating, no matter what their gender. Sera though, Sera got it.

“Fuck em,” she said. “There's just too much women for them to handle.” That was how Herah liked to think of herself. A lot of woman. Her body liked to do things big. Big boobs, big butt, big hands, period like a stuck fucking pig. Big cunt and an appetite to match. She was never allowed to subscribe to this idea that femininity was something that came bundled in a tight little package. Femininity could roar.

***

“Why dragons,” Sera whined. “Why are we always being attacked by bloody wild animals. Why can''t they see we have better things to do. 'Oh hello Mister Ferocious Beast, how are you today? I'm fine thanks, just trying to save the world. Nothing personal, but I really don't feeling like being eaten today. Maybe we can fight about it later?'”

Solas replied with a deep, heartfelt sigh.

The Iron Bull and Herah were paying no attention whatsoever.

“You got blood,” she said, while Sera flicked dragon guts from her arrows and complained.

“Where?” asked Bull, checking his hands and chest.

“Here,” she said, leaning in and licking the spot just behind his ear.

“That's a little gross,” said Bull. Herah just continued up and over the shell of his ear. “Unless there was no blood,” Bull continued, “and you were just using it as an excuse.” Herah nipped his earlobe. Bull could see Solas roll his eyes and turn away. “We should, ah, act more professional,” Bull suggested.

“Do you really want to act professional?” Herah growled. “Do you really want to go rooting through dragon guts with the elves while your girl is still hot from the fight?” She grabbed Bulls jaw and this time took his lip in her teeth. His dick twitched a little in interest. Now, usually Bull would say no. Usually he would say something like, we agreed to keep personal and professional separate. But Herah growled and his hands itched to feel her ass beneath her armour, and she wasn't the only one who got worked up by a fight. She licked her lips and suddenly his whole body was raring to go, hot and hard. Herah grinned wickedly.

“I've got to take a leak,” she announced, unstrapping her sword and dropping it next to the dragon corpse.

“Yeah, uh, me too,” Bull coughed, following Herah off into the woods.

Sera rolled her eyes, “Yeah yeah.”

“Just not against the statue,” Solas grumbled.

“Why?” asked Sera. “Good a place as any. It'll keep them out of view.”

“It's disrespectful,” Solas replied.

“Ach,” said Sera, ripping out one of the dragon's teeth and stepping back from the blood that followed. “Who gives a shit about some crumbly old statue anyway?”

There was a statue of Fen'Hairel not too far away, one of many that dotted the Emerald Graves. The stone was worn soft and mossy with age, mostly obscured by trees and blocking any line of sight from the road. Herah was already fumbling with the straps on her cuirass.

“You wear too many clothes,” Bull complained, helping her with the clasps on the other side.

“You don't wear enough,” she countered. Her tassets and breastplate hit the ground next to her gauntlets, and Bull grabbed her by the waist.

“Afraid you'll loose me?” he teased, kissing her. “Afraid some big scary dragon will come and bite me in half?” He shoved a hand up Herah's shirt, tugging down her binding and giving her breast an appreciative squeeze, thumb brushing over her nipple. His other hand (and hers) went south.

“Wow,” he remarked, running a finger over her lips, already invitingly wet. “You weren't kidding about being all hot and bothered.”

“Fuck me,” she replied. If it had been just the two of them, if the elves weren't waiting just out of earshot Bull knew he could drag this out all afternoon. He could make her scream.

“Is that what you need right now?” he asked.

“I need your fucking cock in me,” she growled. “I don't need games.”

Bull didn't even bother with the rest of her armour. He pinned her to the statue, yanked down her pants, and tried to do the cool thing by just pulling his dick out but his pants fell down anyway. Either way, the noises she made when he pushed himself inside were worth it.

“Fuck I love that,” Herah groaned. “Fucking fill me up so good?”

“Yeah?” Bull grunted. Even for the best of men it was hard to stay coherent balls deep.

“Yeah,” she gasped, rolling back. “I like fat cocks and I'm not afraid to admit it. Ah!” Bull had reached up her shirt again and started teasing at her breasts. He imagined how she looked bent over, ass on display, tits handing freely. Bouncing with every thrust. She loved having her breasts played with. Dammit. This angle was good, but it wasn't enough. Herah made a mewl of complaint when he pulled away – it was one of those little noises Bull guessed very few people were privileged to hear.

“I know, I know,” he said, kneeling down and ignoring the ache in his cock in order to undo the straps on her knees. “C'mere,” he said, tossing them aside and sitting back against the statue. Bull pulled Herah onto his lap, and without further prompting she pushed him back inside and went to town. This was better, he thought, where he could see her. Where he was in the best position to push all her buttons. Sex – sex he was good at. Sex he could guarantee. Fun times, back or front. It was a skill. But this whole caring about another person and watching them cum thing wasn't turning out so bad either.

***

They ended up meeting the elves back at the camp. Sera hooted suggestively as they arrived. Solas didn't say anything but he looked up from his work and waggled a knife at Bull, indicating he at least owed them help on the dragon hide they now had to clean. Herah snuck off and busied herself guiltily at the alchemist's table. It had been a while since she had to make the contraceptive herself, but she remembered what went in it and no matter what you did the result was a shit tasting tea. At some point Sera wandered up behind her, rocking back on her heels and watching.

“It' got powdered deeproot mushroom in there, yeah?”

Herah paused. Did it? Was she getting the recipe wrong? This was not a recipe she wanted to get wrong.

“Does it?” she asked.

“Pretty sure, yeah,” Sera replied. “Has every time I made it. Just a pinch or so.”

Herah added the powder; better safe then sorry, she figured.

“I thought you were strictly into girls,” Herah asked, crushing the ingredients together in a mortar. Sera shrugged.

“The other girls always left me in charge of these things. Something about elves doing it better. Like I have some kind of mystical elfy powers or something.”

“Did it work?”

“Of course it fucking worked, but its because I'm not a fucking idiot, not because I'm an elf. Though if you let me piss in it I'm sure it'll bring you luck. 'S what i would have liked to do to some of those twats.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

Sera poked at the little fire beneath the kettle. “What kinda shit do the humans give you?”

“Good for nothing but killing,” Herah replied. “Must all have dicks.” She pounded the mortar perhaps a bit too harshly, “Stupid big cow.” Sera listened, regarding the Inquisitor thoughtfully.

“Unsolicited life advice, yeah? Things don't always go right, justice isn't always served, and the best you can do is not let the past hurt you anymore.”

“I get that a lot too,” said Herah. “Qunari aren't like that though. Even tal-vashoth will say their scars are their strength.”

“It doesn't matter how,” Sera argued. “I\m just trying to relate, jeeze.” Herah reached over and snagged her little elven friend in a one armed hug.

“Thanks,” she said. “I like your unsolicited life advice.”

“Yeah yeah. Now stop poking me to death with that stupid armour.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon packing, having finished business in the Emerald Graves they wanted to be ready to leave for home at first light. Anyone paying attention, however, would have noticed that both the Inquisitor and the Iron Bull looked increasingly unwell as the evening wore on. They all began to notice when the two of them disappeared into the woods (separately) and just ... didn't come back. Solas and Sera seemed unconcerned, but the scouting party they were with passed worried looks and whispers of does it really take that long? I mean, come on! After a while one brave lieutenant went looking for the Qunari contingent, and it wasn't long before he found the Inquisitor parked not too far from the camp, groaning.

“Are you .. alright?” He asked, though she clearly was not.

“I will be,” Herah groaned. “Just something I ate, I guess.”

From behind a nearby tree there came a snicker.

“And Master Iron Bull, the same?”

“I assume so. Ugh.”

The snickering grew louder.

“Who is that!” Herah demanded.

The snickering finally broke into familiar, full fledged laughter.

“Miss Sera, Inquisitor.”

“Sera what the hell!”

“Serves you right!” Sera crowed. “Powdered deep mushroom gives you the shits! Can you believe it was the egghead's idea!? Serves you fucking right for leaving us to deal with dragon guts while you get your rocks off in the woods!”

Solas called to her from the camp, something Herah couldn't quite hear.

“Oh,” said Sera, “and for desecrating elven ruins.”

To his credit, the lieutenant looked extremely uncomfortable. Herah groaned again as another wave of nausea hit her. Too incapacitated to retaliate, all she could do was listen to Sera's laugh.

______________________

OH YOU GONNA TAKE ME HOME TONIGHT

“I don't know,” said Josephine, regarding the Inquisitor. “Maybe the skirt is too much? Too full? It needs less support, I think. More opportunity to flow.”

“I feel like if we made the skirt smaller it would end up .. dwarfed.” The problem, Herah thought to herself, was trying to put a Qunari in a dress. It was like shoving a nug into a tiny little ruffled collar. The collar didn't make it a lady, it just made it a nug in a ruffled collar. The problem was not that her skirt was too ample, but that her hips were wide and her shoulders wider. Adaar though of the hours she had spent training and the satisfaction she got in smiting her enemies, using the memories to punch down the little twinges of regret. Who needs dresses when you can get a darkspawn head off and flying in one go? Really nice dresses, mind you, with low cut backs and bright, fine fabrics. She could paint a colourful vitaar to match, wear a pendant just because she liked the way it looked...

Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs, startling both women.

“Fuck,” said Adaar, reaching for the laces on her back. “Hold them off.”

“Don't come in!” Josephine called. “The Inquisitor is .. is... she is indecent!” Herah scowled at Josephine, who threw her hands up in defence.

“Yeah, I know,” Bull laughed from the other side of the door, pushing his way in without any pause whatsoever. He stopped short when he saw Herah in front of the mirror wearing the dress Josephine had ordered for the party at Halamshiral. Then he burst out laughing.

“This is bullshit,” Herah concluded, tearing once more at the laces. Josephine scowled and shoved at Bull, urging him back toward the door, for whatever good it did.

“Out!” she demanded. “Out out out! It is no good to barge in on a lady like this.”

“What the hell is that?” Bull snorted.

“Get out,” Herah growled. “She's right. You're not helping.”

“Oh, yeah, well,” Bull laughed, “neither is that dress.”

Adaar glowered at the Iron Bull. He was still grinning but he regained some composure when he saw her expression.

“That is, I mean, unless you want to wear it. You can wear whatever you like, I just don't think that dress is very ... you? Isn't it a bit, you know ...?”

“Girly?” Herah finished for him.

“I was going to say over the top.”

Herah continued to beat him down with her stare.

“Its the latest fashion from the Free Marches,” Josephine reminded them.

“Yeah,” said Iron Bull, “but its so...” he waved his hand. “The clothing that human women wear, especially the rich ones. It's restrictive. And excessive. Meant to be looked at instead of worn. You're the Inquisitor! You need to be fearsome!”

“And what if I don't want to be fearsome all the time?” Herah retorted. She regretted how petulant it made her sound.

“Don't get me wrong,” said Bull, “it looked good, you looked good. It just didn't look ... like... you...” Bull's momentum petered off. He'd talked himself into the spot between ad rock and another unpleasant place. “I just think it sends the wrong message, is all.”

“We need to be diplomatic,” Josephine reminded them.

“We need to be active,” Bull countered. “We need to be assertive. Offensive. The Orliesians may have an empress, but their women are still parrots.”

Josephine fingered the fine dress. “You play a dangerous game, Inquisitor.”

“Fuck games,” said Bull. “Do you think our enemies are playing by anyone's rules? Why should we?”

Herah finally broke her stare. “Josephine,” she asked, “can you hand me my shirt?” Josephine obligingly passed Adaar her shirt from the bed. Herah dropped the dress from her shoulders with her back to the room, slipping on the shirt before stepping from the dress entirely. Josephine seemed unfazed by the sight of Herah in her shirt and small clothes, nor did Herah seem embarassed to be seen. They were probably closer friends than Bull realized, and the thought made him a little jealous.

“Bull is right,” said Herah. “The Inquisition is a military force We need to make that clear. We are here to make a change, we are not here to please.”

Josephine hefted the dress, larger than she was tall, and folded it neatly in her arms. “Your orders are done, Inquisitor.”

***

The red coat looked good enough. Bull disliked the formal cut of it, restricted and refined. Wearing his makes him feel like a pet monkey. But she'd stuck with the colour, and the colour was great.

She kept looking at herself in the mirror, smoothing the fabric down self consciously. She adjusted the belt a little tighter, to show off her figure.

“I admit when I was little this wasn't exactly what I expected to be wearing to a ball. I didn't expect to be going to balls at all, but hey.”

Bull let the jab slide.

“Feels kinda weird, doesn't it? I mean, we were mercs. We're not cut out for marching an saluting and neatly pressed uniforms and whatever the hell else being a soldier means.” She continued to fiddle with the jacket, pinning her sash and straightening the cuffs and pressing down folds. Obsessed that it was in some way flattering.

“Can you even dance in these things? Am I going to have to dance? God, I'm going to look like such a fool.”

He wanted to say, but a sexy fool, but it felt just a little too glib, especially seeing as Bull was the one who pushed her into this position in the first place.

“Fools,” he said instead, “do not best demons. Fools do not inspire an army.” He stood behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “If I thought you were a fool I would never have followed.”

“You might have, for a laugh.”

“Okay, granted. I like that you know me that well. What I was going to say was, you grew up vashoth amongst humans – you know as well as anyone that people mock because they fear. What do their games mean anyway, when the Empress has invited a vashoth to court?” He leaned over and kissed her, hard and deep, tugging a little on her hair. Its a kiss full of promises. When he broke away she chased his mouth, but he held her back.

“Later,” he assured her.

He makes good on his promises (he always does), once there was blood on their hands and everyone else was too busy getting drunk in order to forget. They dance because they're there to create a scandal, moving however they feel the music takes them, pressing their bodies close. Bull admitted he could see the thrill in the way the nobles danced, building up all that tension, savouring it for later, but he's glad he isn't obliged to hold back. He made sure Herah wasn't wearing anything by the time they were fucking. Bull likes to pride himself on his originality, but he says it anyway.

“You look better like this. No trappings. Just you.”

“I though you were going to say something cheesy like, you look best with my cock in you, but no. You managed to be even cheesier.” Herah was lying on the bed, legs spread, arms above her head. The two of them feel heady and horny; she's wet and he's hard, and both of them had had it with games and semantics. He needs to take something beautiful and she wanted to be taken. He was purposefully loud, unashamed to let others know he can have what others only wish they could lay their hands on. She takes as good as she gets, but she cried out through clenched teeth.

“I mean it,” he said, sometime between a very late night and a very early morning, when they were both finally sated. “You're most beautiful when there's nothing holding you in.”

______________________

SATISFACTION BROUGHT IT BACK

The Iron Bull guessed the whole thing went to show just how little time he had known the Inquisitor Adaar. Just enough time that he thought he had formed a good picture, to guess her reactions, estimate what she liked and disliked. But not long enough that circumstances to, say, draw her out. Show him the real Adaar, as it were. To put the image he had of her to the test. The world was on the brink of toppling into chaos; you'd think that at times like these people would slough of the painted skins and masks they wore day to day and give their true colours a chance to show through. But the world wasn't written by fucking Varric Tethras, so when push came to shove what people under pressure actually did was expend a lot of energy to look their best, and Adaar hid per pain to fill the role of Brave Inquisitor. Bull wondered, if he had never dug into her past, if her family had resigned to the death of their eldest daughter, if he would ever have come to know this side of Herah who called herself Adaar. Part of him, the part that grew up under the Qun, would always spit harsh protests to her pain. People die. Family makes you weak. A leader does not break if one under her command falls. But Kate had not been a soldier under her captain’s command. She was kadan, as precious to Adaar as Adaar was to him. He thought back to the Storm Coast, how he would have felt if Krem and the other had died. They did not follow the Qun, it would not have given them a meaningful death. Bull fingered the dragon's tooth in his pocket, listened to Adaar's little family speak tearily and wondered if under the pressure of the end of the world the image of the bull-horned Qunari had cracked, and had found out that indeed, yes, he was something of a softie and a family man, and maybe he had learned a more complete image of himself than he would have ever seen had he stayed loyal to the Qun. Would he even be where he was, right now, sitting in a tent by the river? Would he have lead Adaar to her family or chased them away in order to ensure the Inquisitor's commander remained focused on her task. The answer was most likely yes, but the loyal Iron Bull would never have felt the wave of relief he felt that evening on the Storm Coast when Krem smiled and waved and said, good job there, Chief. We might be dead if it weren't for you.”

***

They sat there for hours, Herah, Cena, their mother Hestia and the Iron Bull. Four vashoth crammed at a little wooden table in a tent beneath Skyhold's shadow. Bull didn't contribute much to the conversation, but he felt no compulsion to leave either. Herah's leg was pressed to his beneath the table, and he got the impression she drew comfort from it, that she didn't want him to leave. She wasn't ready to be alone with this just yet. The tears had dried for the time being, and now they were just talking – about life, about the Inquisition, about Kate. At some point Hestia got up to make tea and produced a basket of pastries from somewhere that Bull recognized with a pang as the kind of cheese filled sweet rolls popular in Seheron. He picked one up and examined it, a piece of his homeland he didn't think he would ever see again. Bull popped the treat into his mouth. It tasted perfect, just as it should, just as he remembered. Herah and Cena chewed happily, making rapturous comments about their mother's cooking.

“How's the food here?” Cena asked. “You look like you lost weight.”

Herah rolled her eyes and took another sweet. “I could afford to loose some weight last time you saw me.”

“You look skinny.”

“It's cause it all went to her ass,” said Bull matter of factly.

“I don't hear you complaining,” Herah replied.

“No,” said Cena. “Not what we need to hear, please. Mom, back me up here. Mom,” he whined. Hestia was laughing quietly, basking in her son's disapproval.

“I think its cute.”

Herah raised her eyebrows and looked at Bull.

“My mom thinks you're cute.”

“Tch,” said Bull, “what a shame. Because I am freaking adorable.” He waved one of the pastries, “These are great, by the way.” Hestia acknowledged him with a nod. Herah asked about the bakery and Cena let her know they had sold it. Not that there had ever been much calling for qunari cooking in the Free Marches, especially not since the invasion of Kirkwall. They'd been getting by on odd jobs for a while, and when it looked like they would have to leave it all behind to come to Skyhold they'd taken it as a sign that it was time to let go.

“Whether it was you or not, I think we would have stayed here anyway,” said Cena. “It's not every day a Vashoth calls for action like that. When it happens the rest of us have to stand up and listen.” It was a good sentiment, even though the number of Qunari among the ranks at Skyhold was a pittance compared to the other races; even the xenophobic dwarves had a better showing. Herah laughed at the notion of her family in the Inquisition.

“What would you do – make everyone fat? Save the world with a sudden epidemic of heart attacks?”

Cena frowned, “I can do other things you know.”

Herah laughed, “Like what? Shovel shit? Get rejected?”

“Come on now,” Hestia interrupted. “Cena's been working hard.” The and he doesn't have to lift a sword to do it remained unspoken. Bull wondered how much skill could actually be gained by the general labour available to most vashoth, but he kept his mouth shut. There was no shortage of work within the ever growing ranks of the Inquisition, and plenty for a young man to learn.

“You don't like the tea?” Hesia asked. Bull shrugged. He wasn't a tea guy. He was a beer guy. He didn't drink tea unless Stitches forced him to, and then it always tasted awful. He took a drink just to humour Adaar's mother. He supposed it was good. It didn't taste like grass, at least. More like spics, fruit, what he guessed was actually tea and not some horrible herbal concoction. And it smelled familiar, like, like ...

Like the market in Seheron, a woman used to make tea with milk for the labourers. He never tried any, but he smelled it every time he walked down there. Tea and cinnamon and cloves mixed with the salt air, overcoming the sink of the city. The smell of home.

Bull set the mug down quickly and pushed it away. No matter how good things smelled, dried leaves in boiling water never lived up to their promises. Hestia watched him, and she raised her eyebrows.

“Not a tea guy,” Bull told her.

“Hm, figured,” Hestia hummed. She didn't press the subject. The conversation wound on. They still hadn't talked very seriously, Bull realized. Maybe it was his presence. Maybe these things usually took time. They would have their heart to heart after they touched base, realized they could still be a family that shared these kinds of things. Herah was talking about the nuggalopes they kept stabled in Skyhold, which Cena seemed eager to see. Their mother declined to go with them, as did Iron Bull. He wasn't an animal kinda guy anyway. Horses were fine, they pulled things. Getting on one was a whole different story. He watched the siblings leave while Hestia wrapped up her pastries.

“Can I ask you a question?” he asked, which seemed a it redundant.

“You just did,” said Hestia, sliding back into her chair across from him.

“Hey,” said Bull, “that's my line. I say that.”

Hestia ignored him, “What is it you want to know that you can't ask my daughter herself?”

Bull laughed uncomfortably. “Yeah, well. Um. Anyway. I've noticed about Adaar, she does this thing, the, um. The dress thing. What's with the dress thing?”

Hestia drummer her fingers on her cheek.

“The look at this look how nice it is but I'd be caught dead in it thing?”

“That thing.”

Hestia drained the last of her tea.

“And you haven't asked her about it because?”

“Because she vehemently denies it?”

“Fair,” said Hestia. “I'll tell you this much; tal-vashoth don't get much respect for letting their softer side show, especially living amongst humans. Herah has to wear a pretty tough face now that so many eyes have turned their gaze her way.”

The Iron Bull remained silent. He wanted to protest, but then again he'd left his people behind by choice. Herah never had that chance.

“I know you think that because you see her beauty, she should too, but that's not always how these things work, Iron Bull. Herah doesn't need affirmation, she needs to get through this in one piece.”

Bull nodded, “Yeah. Yeah, you're right. She's doing really well though. I mean, without my help.” He stood. “Thanks for indulging me. And thanks for being there for Adaar.”

Hesita sighed, “I'll never get used to hearing people call her that. My daughter isn't a weapon.”

Bull thought about Hestia's words after he left. A Qunari warrior's weapon was as part of them as the horns on their head. The sentiment was completely and utterly incomparable, but as Adaar became more and more a part of him, he figured their had to be some poetry in the name, no?

***

Bull stayed up late waiting for Adaar, helping himself to some of her books and kicking up his feet on the balcony. He was about to write it off, figured she was spending the night with her family when she walked in, hitting the bed with a sigh.

“Thought you'd be asleep,” she said.

“Was waiting for you.”

“I didn't think you liked Varric's books.”

“I didn't think you did either.”

“I haven't read them he just gives them to me. Said at the very least they would appreciate.”

Bull flipped the book shut and squinted incredulously at the cover.

“I have to admit,” said Herah, “I can't wait until he writes one about us.”

“I can,” said Bull, tossing the book on the dresser. It was amazing, the fact that the two of them fit in that little human bed, let alone the fact that they had only broken it once (only once, okay?).

“You up to talk? He asked, folding his hands behind his head.

“I'm awake if that's what you mean,” she replied, tracing the outline of the Iron Bull's bicep with her fingernail. “I'm not entirely sure what you want me to say.”

“Fill in a few blanks, maybe?”

Adaar thought about it, still running her fingers down his arm absently. It was beginning to tickle. Finally she rolled over onto her back and folded her hands on her stomach. They were both looking at the ceiling as they talked; their voices washed unimpeded between them.

“As you probably guessed,” Adaar began, “I'm the eldest of three kids. After me there's my brother Cena, and our little sister, Kate. Kate was ... I think the Qunari word is kabeth?”

Kabeth to Iron Bull mean simple, ignorant or unenlightened, but he didn't think that was the way she was using the term.

“You mean simple in the common sense,” he said. “Touched.”

“A lot of people just say retarded.”

“Yeah.”

“From what I understand, she never would have been allowed to live if she had been born in Par Vollen.”

“True,” said Bull. “Under the Qun its considered a mercy.”

Adaar laughed hollowly. “Is it? A mercy for whom, exactly?”

Bull shifted uncomfortably.

“I'm not saying Kate was a burden. Anything but. She was the light of our lives. Shit. Big and stupid and smiling all the time. She loved animals and flowers and cake and all that other girly shit. I don't want to say she was oblivious. She understood that there were bad people, bad things. She knew what it meant when something died. But she was one of those people you just want to protect, you know? Keep all the bad things away from someone who never did anything to deserve it. The Chantry says all beings are born with sin, and that is bullshit. We choose to do shitty things, and you know what? I don't think she ever did. And I was her big sister, right? So that was my job. Make sure she never had to. Fight the bad things.”

“And what, exactly, were the bad things?”

“We are qunari.. So practically everything. Shitty neighbours, shitty landlords, shitty neighbourhood kids.”

“You got in a lot of fights, I take it.”

“Beat the shit out of and got the shit beaten out of more times than I can remember. And mom gave me hell every time. I hated her for it. Resented both of my parents. It was like they were living in some fucking fantasy where Qunari were respected for things other than their ability to start a fight. You think I'm better than your average angry, bloodthirsty tal-vashoth? You never met me as a teenager.”

“That why you became a merc?”

Herah sighed, rolling over onto her side, away from Bull, and all of a sudden his Ben Hasserath training kicked in and he knew, he knew she was going to lie. It was the kind of little motion liars did when they were trying to direct attention away from themselves. When they were trying to hide.

“Not for a long time, but yeah. Someone had to look after Kate, I had to stick around for that.”

“Not Cena?”

“Towed my parents' line. Always tried to get her to work in the bakery, but she wandered too easily. Put dough in the oven, then off she would go, and bye bye bread. Whole day gone dealing with the aftermath. No, the last time I saw him I probably would have told you Cena was a useless twat. I'm surprised he wants to talk to me.”

“So where did Kate end up?”

Adaar grinned, “In the fucking chantry.”

“You're joking.”

“You say that every time I talk about my family.”

“You keep spinning this ever more ridiculous and unbelievable tale.”

“Believe what you want, man, I'm only telling you the truth. Anyway, its not like Kate was a sister or anything. The town chantry had a big garden and this little old gardener who could barely lift his hat, let alone a shovel. He needed someone to help out and Kate liked plants. She was always pious, in her own little way. Said the Maker must have loved the world to make it the way he did, and the way to make him turn his gaze was to show him we loved it as much as we did. Plus plants don't mind when you wander off.”

“That's ... awfully cerebral for someone you described as a simpleton.”

“Well, I'm paraphrasing. Sometimes she used this cake metaphor, 'the world is an ugly looking cake and we have to show the Maker it tastes good'. I have no fucking clue where she picked that up. Probably from the gardener.”

“She thought life was sweet.”

“She used to pray and say things like, 'I saw a really pretty butterfly today,' and, 'Thank you for making cocoa taste best when it rains, when you need it the most.' Stuff like that.”

“Not the kind of girl I would peg as your sister.”

“Nope.”

“So, let me guess. After a while even Kate's kind heart seemed to naive for teenaged Adaar to bare, so she left to find her fortune with the only skill you felt you had.”
“Excuse me, I was raised in a bakery. I can cook too, thank you very much.”

“Then why do you let everyone else do it?”

“I don't have to like cooking.”

“Touche.”

“Other than that, yeah. And after another while I wised up and tried to, you know, go back say sorry.”

Something Iron Bull would never have the luxury of doing.

“I wrote one goddamn letter and Kate was all, sister, take me to the temple. Sister, I want to see the Divine. She talked about it like she was going to see a friggin princess. Captain said, why not? Keep her in line, no one's going to touch the place anyway. We all thought the conclave would be an easy job with a fat paycheck. But, of course. Boom. I never even got a chance to look for her body.” Adaar sighed. “It's such a fucking farce, people calling me Andraste's chosen. The only person worthy of her attention died at the conclave.”

“I know you know the truth now,” said Bull, “but if you really had been chosen, would you still think yourself unworthy? You've certainly drawn the attention of a lot of people.”

Adaar clenched her fists, “Is it really so terrible for mortals to take credit for their actions? Just because something unholy rises doesn't mean the holy are the ones who rise up in defence. I would never take never take lone credit for what we've built, but to put everyone's efforts down to following Andraste? Having faith is not a pre-requisit for wanting to make the world a better place.”

Bull looked to Herah, but all he could really see was the back of her head and the expanse of her back.

“Anyway,” he said, looking back to the ceiling, “I'm sorry about what happened to your sister.” He heard the little rustle of fabric that indicated Adaar was curling up just a little more on the bed.

“Thanks,” she said quietly. The room was quiet save the wind, and the low murmur of watchmen on the walls.

“You want to be alone?” Bull asked.

“No,” Adaar replied. What was it people were supposed to do in this situation, Bull wondered. He decided to shuffle a smidge closer, so the warmth from his side just met her back. Adaar didn't move. After not too long at all her breathing slowed, and the Inquisitor was asleep.

***

She'd simplified the story a little bit when she told it to the Iron Bull. Her “letter” had been more of a “note” that said, “We'll be passing through town. I would like it if we could talk.” And it hadn't been just whiny teenage angst that drove her from home. She was better than that, her dad had died, for pity's sake, Burned from the inside out my wyvern poison protecting a village that barely even wanted them. It was enough to send anyone over the edge.

So, for the first time in a long time, the whole family sat for dinner around the table, and nobody snapped at each other, or moped in silence. Herah brought her brother a book from Orlais, a discourse on culinary arts, and for Kate an embroidered scarf that someone had traded with someone who got it as a gift from their second cousin who managed to barter it off a dalish caravan. Either way, it was supposedly genuine elvish make, and not even the richest cunts in the village would have anything like it. Kate squealed in delight when she saw it, and mom had to force her to take it off for dinner lest the ends trail in their food. Kate pulled her chair right up next to Herah, so close they bumped elbows as they ate, and generally looked pleased as punch to have her sister back in the house. Cena stabbed at his food moodily and made vocal comments about how long it had been since they'd seen each other. Kate and their mother disregarded his attitude almost entirely, Kate mentioning that, “He'd acted a lot like you, only he wants to be in charge of the bakery.”

“You're not staying?” he asked, impaling a turnip with his fork. Herah shook her head.

“We've been hired on as extra security at some Chantry thing down in Ferelden. It's gonna take a the better part of a month just to get there, then who knows how long the political mucking about is going to take.”

“Chantry thing?” said mom. “You mean the peace talks at the Temple of Sacred Ashes?”

She shouldn't have said it. The words should never have left her mouth with Kate at the table.

“Something like that, yeah. I just know the Divine is going to be there so it's pretty important.”

She said it. She said the word “divine” and immediately Kate was off. Adaar would think about that conversation a lot in the months that were to come. She would tell herself that her careless talk cost Kate her life. That she should have known better. That she should have listened to her parents and never left home to join the Valo-Kas. She would lie awake and trace her life back over all the stupid decisions she had made. They had all seemed good at the time, but in the end they got her sister killed, and she should have known better. She'd gotten her own sister killed and Cullen and Cassandra and Leliana had put her in charge of the lives of thousands. Thousands who believed a dead woman chose her to save the world. Whenever someone asked her about it she wanted to say, Andraste didn't chose me. Andraste wouldn't choose an idiot like me. But she never did. She didn't tell anyone until Iron Bull wheedled it out of her. It was tantamount to a lie, withholding the truth for so long. She would look over the armies at Haven and Skyhold and realize that thousands of people were putting their lives at risk because of a lie. If any one of them found out just how incompetent she really was everything would dissolve, there would be no Inquisition because there would be no Inquisitor to follow. Just and ugly woman and her big fat lie.

***

By the time Bull woke the next morning Adaar was already gone. He ended up taking breakfast with Varric and Dorian (the perpetual late risers), who mentioned seeing her Inquisitorialness with a man and a woman with who she bore some resemblance, not to sound racist or anything.

“Totally racist,” said Varric. “Typical Tevinter.”

“Dwarves are even harder,” said Dorian, “because all you can see are the tops of their heads.” Varric flicked a hasbrown at Dorian, which was artfully dodged and answered with half a roll, which nearly landed in Varric's ale.

“Well the mage is right,” said Bull. “They are her family.”

“No shit?” said Varric, tossing the roll back and immediately holding up his hands to catch a piece of egg that launched itself in his direction. “Did you talk to them? Did they approve?”

“Approve?”

“Uh, tal-vashoth? Ben hasserath?”

“Technically their both tal-vashoth now,” said Dorian.

“So?” Varric scoffed. “You don't think the family would be just a little bit suspicious?”

“Not unless you neglected to tell them,” Dorian suggested.

“Hey man, she hasn't even introduced us,” said Varric. “It must be still be very early yet.” He stood, stretched, downed the last of his ale (fucking dwarves) and sighed happily. “Our fair Inquisitor would say that past is past. Let's hope she gets that from her mum and dad. Now, if you two will pardon me.” Varric waved a salute to his companions and sauntered off to do whatever it was Varric did after breakfast. Write poetry, or something. Followed by second breakfast.

“Seriously though,” said Dorian. “Parents don't like to be kept out of the loop.”

Bull shrugged, “Never had much experience with them.”

“I know.”

“They know I left the Qun,” Bull countered. “They just don't know I was ben hasserath.”

“Well,” said Dorian, “how far are the ben hasserath willing to go to keep their cover? How much are they willing to lie?”

“I'm not exactly some master of coercion,” Bull objected. “I'm not like Leliana with her masks. The ben hasserath are spies because of their loyalty. Because they are viewed as incorruptible.” He stopped, realizing how easily he'd fallen for Dorian's bait. “Low,” he growled. “Even for a 'vint.”

“Don't worry,” said Dorian. “You've done more than enough to prove yourself to us. But to someone who left home because of how much they fear you? That's going to take a little more convincing. Think about it, Iron Bull, and think about it hard. If you ever need to be reminded of how much it sucks to be trapped between your family and your heart, my ears are open, as they say.”

The Iron Bull finished his breakfast alone, frowning at the eggs so intently that none, not even the chargers, dare disturb him. Dorian and Varric had been spouting shit. It's not like he needed to be reminded. There was a hole in his heart where once the Iron Bull looked forward to returning to Par Vollen, to witness her majesty and know with certainty it was where he belonged. The Iron Bull didn't need some fucking 'vint to remind him that never being able to return home sat like a hot stone in your chest, a little cinder of grief, regret, and arrogance. He didn't need to be told how much it hurt. And it wasn't as if Bull didn't know the position he'd put Adaar in, its not like he needed a nosy dwarf and a meddling mage to drop warnings all over him during breakfast. The Iron Bull could face disapproval goddamit, it wasn't like he'd already faced the biggest condemnation of his life.

But it wasn't like choosing the life of a tal-vashoth really put a wedge in anyone else's relationships.

It wasn't like his life had changed very much. He'd practically been living as a human since he formed the Chargers.

Shit, Dorian wasn't talking about the Inquisitor at all, was he.

“You all right, Chief?” asked Krem, who had apparently been elected by the Chargers to go and find out what the hell was up with their boss. He was standing a cautious distance away, on the other side of the table. Bull sighed.

“This is gonna suck,” he said.

Bull decided it would be in his best interest to let Adaar go about her day, enjoy the company of her family, and get her work done without being subject to any more unnecessary stress. He gathered the Chargers and dragged them through a full drill session to distract himself, and they complained while he barked at them and told them they weren't paid to sit on their asses. It at least felt like accomplishing something rather than procrastination, and reduced the risk of getting his nose broken because he was too distracted for one on one matches.

Adaar being Adaar however threw his plans all ut eh fucking window by lunch time. He was just about to sit down when she materialized out of the crowd and said,

“I order lunch to my room. Mum thought you should join us.”

And that there, there was no saying no to that. Krem caught the look in Bull's eye. Worry, then confusion flicked over his face.

“Looks baaad,” chimed in Dalish, as the two tal-vashoth walked away. Krem watched them go, humming to himself in thought. Then he burst out laughing. Dalish looked from Krem, to the Chief, then back again.

“Oh man,” Krem laughed, “that fucker is in love and he doesn't even know it yet. Eat your food, Dalish. He'll be fine. A right idiot, but fine.”

***

The problem with distracting oneself lay in the fact that no matter what you found for yourself to do, you had to take a break eventually, and once you gave your mind a moment of rest your problems came crashing back down around you. Like fixing a leak by putting a bucket underneath. The roof would still have a hole in it and the floor would still get wet eventually.

“Stop,” said Bull, once they were away from the crowd and alone on the stairs. Adaar, who was a couple steps ahead, stopped and turned.

“What's up?”

“Have you ... told your mother I was ben hasserath?”

“No,” she replied. “Why? You think she'd have a problem with it, is that right?”

“Do you think she would?”

“I think,” said Adaar, “she would have her doubts, for sure. I wont say anything until you're ready to say anything if you're worried about it.”

“Thanks,” said Bull. Adaar turned to continued, but Bull remained standing where he was.

“You know I'm not faking it, right? You know I'm here, right? For better or worse. I'm here.”

Adaar smiled, “I know.” she leaned over and kissed him on the tip of hi nose. “Wouldn't feel like home without you.”

______________________

REELING

It did not escape the Iron Bull that when he turned himself in after a crisis of faith, instead of helping him reaffirm his belief at home by assigning him to public works, or have him sit in on a class, the authorities of the Qun sent him away. Bull was sure there was some sort of existential reasoning in there – go forth, little brother, and witness how confusing and shitty the lives of the kabethari are, how good you have it here under the Qun (and besides, we need a spy in Orlais). And witnessed the Iron Bull had, but he had also seen the reasons other people had to live. If he really thought about it, the day the Qun left his heart was the day he lost and eye saving the life of a stranger, a Tevinter no less. Par Vollen had been reeling him out for a long time, it seemed, but it had been up to him whether or when to cut the cord. The Qun had put him to the test, but Iron Bull never particularly felt like he had failed. The Qun had instead done exactly as it advertised. Standing with the Chargers, with the Inquisition, Bull felt he was exactly the person he was always meant to be. The sculpture that was him when it left Par Vollen was two dimensional – good, but lacking substance. He needed to step sideways and get a different perspective to make it a true three dimensional work of art.

***

Mom was baiting him. She did the same thing when Herah and Cena were in their teens, like when Herah was crushing on the blacksmith's boy and was too embarrassed to talk about it. She'd bait them and then draw them out, make them admit the of their own volition. Hestia was testing Bull's loyalties, pressing him with treats from home until ... what? Until he broke down and cried or praied the Qun with the loyalty pastries brought to his heart? Maybe it seemed more ridiculous than it looked from the outside. She'd known him for what, hours? Loyalties needed to be proven. At least Mom wasn't the kind of person to be outright hostile. Hestia didn't need to chase the blacksmith's boy away with w frying pan, she just talked until her daughter came around. Herah had the notion in her mind that her mother would really approve of someone like the Iron Bull, someone she could lock horns with who didn't need to sacrifice all civility to do so. He wasn't the only one, either. Hestia was baiting her daughter, too.

“What about Commander Cullen?” her mom asked. “He seems nice.”

“I think he has some complex about people who are taller than him,” Herah replied.

“And that Tevinter boy really is exceedingly polite.”

“And extravagantly gay,” Herah grunted. The inquisitor wondered how aware her mother was that her children were aware of her tactics – it was one of the few points of solidarity Herah and Cena shared as young adults. It was well accpeted that mothers always knew what was going onwith their children's lives, but few could be as meddlesome as Hestia. In a time long ago, before she left home, Herah would have growled at her mother and told her to stop sticking her goddamn nose in my life, mom, I know what I;m doing. A decade later Adaar had needed to wise up, fast, and she decided to let anything between her mother and her lover play itself out as long as everyone still remained civil. It was partly because she wanted Hestia to figure things out for herself and partly because of the enjoyment she would get when Bull began to push back. Hestia, however, had been at this game quite a bit longer than her daughter and taken the head start Bull had given her. It wasn't his fault, oh no, don't think that. He could never have known. He was innocent and he just wanted to help, which was a rare instance in the life of the Iron Bull.

Although it should be noted that one should always be careful when they are given advice to stick their nose where it shouldn't be.

“So I was thinking,” said Bull, “wondering.” They were in the war room, alone. She was sitting, he was standing by the window, waiting for the moment when everyone else had departed. “Thinking about the dress you commissioned – the one you let Josephine commission for the Winter Palace.”

“What about it.”

Bull rubbed the back of his head, up and down, craning his neck as if to work out a kink. It was one of the few sure signs that he was feeling uneasy, that he was stalling. Adaar's eyes narrowed.

“Why'd you do it?”

“It?” she replied, defensiveness snapping into her voice.

“Why'd you commission it in the first place?”

“Because we were going to a ball.”

“It's the Age of the Dragon,” said Bull. “Its not as if dresses are mandatory.”

“Yeah, well, they say things like that,” snapped Adaar, “but it was an Orleisian ball. Those people will crucify you for wearing the same pair of shoes two days in a row. Why do you care anyway?”

“Because I care about you? I see you looking, but you never do anything more than look.” Adaar blushed. “Because I don't know what someone like you would do with a dress like that.”

“Someone like me,” Adaar scoffed. “And what did you expect someone like me would do with a dress like that? Wear it just so you could tear it to shreds and tie me up? Play out a scene where you show me I'm pretty because I'm what, fuckable? You're lucky you get admiration for your scars. I'd have to be twice as fucked up to get half the respect men like you do! People, especially the Orliesian nobles that pay all the fucking bills around here don't respect a woman who doesn't have time to make herself up and put herself together every morning. They laugh at me, and by extension the Inquisition because I don't draw my face on every day. And I don't want to hear any pedantic bullshit about vitaar, okay?”

Bull shut his mouth.

“But some of us don't have a choice. Because between dolling yourself up and looking like a fool, and being a fool who can crush skulls there isn't any fucking competition! They don't listen to me they listen to Josephine! She's the one that does all the hob nobbing on behalf of – I dunno what they call it – some Qunari running around in the wilds beheading people who don't listen, or something. I'm not the chosen, I'm not some grand military genius, I'm a merc who just got lucky, who has a mark on her hand that ensures the people around her know what they're doing!” She took a deep breath, “If it were me, if it were all up to me the world would be ending and everyone would be laughing at me for saying so. People – people expect everything at all times and there's not way in hell I live up to those expectations.”

She left herself hanging, her words ringing on the stones.

“Okay,” said Bull. “Okay, how about, a) you're more than just fuckable. Turning a guy's tricks on him? That's more than just chasing a hole to fill. B) Nobody could do this on their own so don't expect to. And c) since when do you give a fuck what a bunch of human nobles think?”

“You're not listening, fuck!” Adaar snapped. “Fine, I'll put it this way. Being vashoth you have a really hard time getting people to see you. No matter what you do, first and foremost you're some angry, simple minded beast. But at least guys – male qunari – have something your everyday guy respects.”

Bull resisted the urge to point at his package, knowing Adaar was trying to stay serious.

“Most of us girls don't,” she continued. “When you don't fit in with the girls, and you'll never be one of the guys, where does that leave you? Everyone knows you can't win hearts with swords alone.”

“Kadan,” said Bull softly, “I tried to show you. Why do you still think that way when there are men and women willing to die for you? When you've heard them tell you why?”

“Because!” Adaar cried, “They expect a legend and I'm just some woman!” She drew a couple of deep, sharp breaths, high on the edge of tears. “It's always been this way, kadan. It's been my life. I thought I was okay with it. I thought, if I have to fight my way to the top then the rewards will taste that much sweeter. But life only works like that in fairy tales. People don't work like that. Even in the Qun they want to slot you into these neat little narratives and there will be things you will never be allowed to achieve because fate gave you the wrong bits in your pants.”

Bull crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. Adaar was still sitting, but her glare could bring down a man at fifty yards.

“You're kind of right,” he admitted. “The Qun to help a person do the most with what they have. It assumes happiness is living to your full potential But there's the flaw. It tries to make everyone happy. Or as many people as it can,” he added, thinking of the sarebaas in their chains. “Actually I'm not even sure happy is the right word, maybe fulfilled, but the idea is there. What I'm trying to say is, when you try and please everyone someone gets left out and its usually you.” Bull sighed. “Of course you need Josephine, Josephine isn't you. It's not like she's a better you, she isn't you at all – you're like two parts of a machine that work in tandem to make the Inquisition what it is. Anyone who thinks a leader leads alone is flat out blind. Make sense?”

Adaar smiled wryly, “I'm pretty sure you contradicted yourself there, but I get it, yeah.”

“I'm not saying stick to you're place,” Bull clarified. “I'm trying to say – you can't do everything but there are perfectly sane people who will do it for you. People don't expect a fairy tale, that's why we offer to help. Or I do anyway. I can't speak for other people, but I'm can't tell you the world is going to change and I can't tell you to change. Though to be frank I don't have much experience being self conscious.”

“But you can't just tell people to look away when they see something they don't like,” said Adaar. “Especially when its why we're here and not someone else.”

Bull sighed, “You really talked yourself into a knot with this one, didn't you.”

“Sure as hell keeps me up at night.” Adaar sagged back in her chair, relaxing her shoulders and letting her legs splay out in front of her. “I wonder a lot how much I would have managed on my own if fate didn't stick this mark on my hand.”

“You would have done fine.”

“Just fine? Not good? Not great? Just better than most.”

“At the very least.”

Adaar smiled, “Smooth.”

The Iron Bull smiled as well. “I wish you could see what I see, but I've been told that's not the way things work.”

“Ugh, you sound like my mom. Wouldn't you rather solve all my problems and sweep me off my feet? Be my prince charming?”

Bull laughed, “Fuck no! I'd tie you across the back of my horse and smack your ass until you liked it. Admit it, deep down it's what you want.”

Adaar reached out blindly toward him, calling silently for her lover. He stepped forward, letting her grab his hand and pull him in close so she could cuddle up against his arm.

“Maybe one day when this is all over you can tie me to that horse you never ride and spirit me away.” She sighed, “I know I can't do everything myself, I know I can't be everything to everyone, but I can't run around being a unique little snowflake all the time either. The world is bigger than that. It has no time for that. I just can't see me in there. Learning the line between Adaar and the Herald.”

“Well,” said Bull, “you know that when you find out, I'll be there with you.”

“Even if I have to wear a dress?”

“As long as you're not wearing any smallclothes underneath."

Adaar swatted him lightly.

“What,” Bull complained, “you know its sexy.”

______________________

OH DOWN BESIDE THAT RED FIRELIGHT

“If I were Qunari,” she asked, “like, if I was loyal to the Qun, what do you think they would have done about the mark?” Adaar held up her palm, glowing faintly. “Would they have cut off my hand?”

Iron Bull scratched his chin. The fire crackled. Somewhere in the near distance the could hear horses snorting and pawing the ground, getting ready to settle in for the night.

“If they didn't know it closed rifts, probably. Something like that, nip it in the bud.”

“And if they knew?”

“At best, whatever duties you had would immediately become second to sealing the rifts. But you would be watched constantly – definitely have a full time supervisor. Someone who has worked with mages. At worst they would treat you like one of the sarebaas, though your first job would still be closing rifts.”

“So its a tool,” said Adaar. “They would view it as a tool.”

Bull leaned back, stretching his feet out toward the campfire. It wasn't cold, but the light and the heat brought a certain kind of warmth to a dark night under a huge open sky.

“Hard to say. There are a lot of people who say magic is a tool, but the Qun still fears magic. Its hard to call something a tool when you don't understand its fundamental nature.”

“Yet they use magic.”

“Yeah, but it's like watching a kid ride a horse, though.”

“Then why don't they kill mages?”

“Because it wouldn't stop mages from being born, and a life is a silly thing to waste. Most Qunari do believe we'll understand it eventually, like any science. You can't make gains without sacrifice.”

Adaar looked at the mark on her hand, turning it over and watching as the light shifted.

“Sometimes you have to admit, the circumstances are remarkable. Not only those that gave me the mark, but those that brought everyone else to it as well.” She turned her hand over again. Tthe green light shuddered and swirled. “So you ever wonder what it would be like, if things were different?”

“I thought we'd been over this. Rival mercenaries turned lovers or something.”

“I more meant like, what if I was loyal to the Qun, or what if the conclave was a meeting of dwarven houses. What if Corypheus had decided not to make an example of the Divine? His ritual needed a life, didn't matter who's. If he's pulled a whore off the streets of Denerim he'd be ruling the world by now. Or who knows what kind of person would have gone to their aid. Or what if you know,” she flexed her hand and patterns of green danced on her face with the firelight, “what of Kate had been the one to hear Justinia's call for help?”

Bull had an image of a beleaguered and heartbroken Cassandra escorting a simple girl from one rift ti the nest, trying to keep her troops together while they looked on with growing trepidation and distrust. Or abandoning her to look after the war front, fighting a loosing battle while Solas and Varric took her under their wing and Kate tripped over the edge, exposed to demons and magic beyond her understanding.

“Pity,” said Adaar. “Pity and scorn. Completely undeserved.”

“I dunno,” said Bull. “See, I get the feeling she wouldn't have left your mother out of the picture, and from what it looks like she can be a formidable force.”

Adaar sighed. “Not what I was saying, but still very true.”

You ever think about it? She was saying. You ever think about the fact that I got here on the deaths of so many innocent people? That that's what being Chosen means?

“I thought you didn't believe you were chosen anyway.”

“I dunno,” Adaar sighed, dropping her elbows to her knees and running her hands over her horns. “But I get thinking about it sometimes, and the thought of it all being chance is just too much. If everything were coincidence the world should have ended a long time ago.”

Bull looked like he was going to speak, but he was interrupted before he had the chance.

“Perhaps it is merely a matter of perspective,” said Solas. He was standing just inside the ring of firelight, staff in hand. “My apologies. I did not mean to interrupt, but I could not help but overhear and be intrigued by your conversation. If I may?”

Adaar nodded. Bull shrugged. Solas sat down on the other side of the fire, folding his legs and laying his staff across his lap.

“Countless empires have risen and fallen before us. The world does not end, only change. But might I suggest that you do not worry yourself too much. It is, after all, your talent for assessing the needs of the here and now that have brought the Inquisition thus far.”

The two tal-vashoth stared at him.

“I don't know how much that helped,” Bull admitted. “I mean, basically what you're saying is that if we fail, nothing will really be different in the long run.”

Adaar rolled her eyes and slumped forward. “This is not what I need to hear right now.”

“Perhaps some nourishment will life your spirits,” Solas offered.

“Oh yeah,” said Bull, snapping his fingers. “I came to tell you dinner is ready.”

“Brilliant,” said Adaar, straightening back up and flipping her braid over her shoulder.

“Sorry.”

“Nah. I needed to get this shit out of my system.”

“I don't think its shit at all,” Solas piped in. “It's an interesting thought exercise, though ultimately fruitless.”

Adaar threw up her hands. “Fine! Fuck it, I get it. Let's go eat!” She stomped off, leaving the men by the fire. Bull rolled his eyes.

“Way to go Chuckles. You really know how to woo a gal.”

“As I said,” Solas replied, “What ifs are not our concern. Keep asking yourself that question and eventually your guilt will consume you.”

“That something you learn from the demons?”

“More often then not the stories told by spirits in the fade reflect our own experiences,” Solas said by way of reply. “I thought this was your job anyhow. Letting her blow off steam, keeping her on track.”

“You do know that involves listening once in a while, right?” Bull sighed, uncrossing his arms. “Anyway let's go. I'm hungry too.”

By the time Bull grabbed his dinner and sat down, Adaar was already sitting by the cook fire with Blackwall, Dorian, and Mister Tethras. The three of them seemed in good spirits. Dorian and Varric were seated next to one another, grinning. Gordon was smiling as well but he was also blushing and ducking his head to hide it.

“Sup,” said Bull, swinging one leg then the other over the bench so he could sit.

“Our Grey Warden has a crush,” Adaar informed him. “They're trying to get him to confess.”

“Varric's money is on Sister Amaryllis,” said Dorian. “I think he has his dastardly eye on the horsemaster's daughter. Likes his women in the rough.”

“Bull shit!” Varric crowed. “Sister Amaryllis is more mature. Doesn't want to run off on some wild adventure half the time.”

“Don't Ferelden sisters take vows?”

“A vow of poverty doesn't rule out sex.”

“I always thought it was more simplicity and chastity and other things to keep the demons at bay.”

“Sex helps keep the mind clear.”

“The point is moot, anyway, because its definitely not Sister Amaryllis.”

“Come on Sparkles! What if she has married herself to the Maker? Unrequited love is tragic and beautiful, everyone loves it.”

“I'm no character in one of your novels,” Blackwall complained. “Anyway you're both wrong. So shut up about it.”

Huge satisfied grins broke out on the boys' faces.

“Oh boy, there's no backing out now,” Varric insisted. “You're not going to bait us like that.”

(To Adaar's left, Cole tapped Solas on the shoulder, holding out the stem from a bunch of grapes and asking if he could eat it. Solas, naturally, told him that he as capable but it didn't come highly recommended. Cole took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. He put the rest back on his plate, remarking that he could see why people didn't like it.)

“Don't be shy,” Dorian pressed. “Maybe we can help.”

“Uh huh, and how long has it been since either of you fucked something other than your fists?”

Varric crossed his arms defensively.

“I'll have you know I am capable of being discreet,” Dorian retorted. “I can do my business without everyone have to know.” He shot a pointed look at Iron Bull and Inquisitor Adaar.

“I didn't say that,” said Blackwall. “I said you weren't getting any.

“Ooh, gotcha there,” Varric chuckled.

“I get what I need,” Dorian huffed.

“Yeah, from your right hand,” Varric whispered.

“Anyway,” Dorian went on, “you two are the ones to talk.”

Varric shrugged, “Its a lifestyle choice. I don't know what his excuse is. Being shy. Like a teenager.” He grinned wickedly at the death glare Blackwall sent his way. “Don't make faces like that, it'll freeze that way.”

“At least promise us you'll do something about it,” Dorian pressed. “We'd hate to sit around and do nothing while you suffered.”

Gordon sighed.

“Since you'll never let it go, and I do have hopes for some peace and quiet in the future, I'll let you know that there is a new cook in the kitchens.”

Adaar froze.

“She makes these great little cheese filled pastries I've never said before. She said she and her son came from the Free Marches, but I haven't met him yet. She's read everything by that Antivan scientist you told me about, Dorian.”

“New cook?” asked Dorian, who had grown up in a rich household and very rarely found himself venturing into the realm of what he called “The Help”. Varric snapped his fingers.

“I know who she is! Hestia, right? Really tall woman?”

(Adaar's head landed in her hands, but the men weren't paying attention). Blackwall nodded.

“She's qunari, you know that right?” Varric asked, his eyes full of glee.

“Really?” said the older man, “But she has no-” he waved his hands back over his head, indicating the same shape as the Inquisitor's horns.

“It's rare,” Bull piped in. “But not every qunari has them. Our dear Inquisitor's mother, for example.”

“You don't say,” said Varric, in the sly manner of someone who knows what's going on and blatantly pretending that they don't.”

“Hey,” said Dorian, “Isn't your mother – oh my god Hestia is your mother oh my god the Warden is crushing on your mother!”

Varric laughed so hard he fell over, his stubby legs kicking the air. Adaar raised her hand and held up a finger.

“My mother is her own woman with her own life and her own needs, and that is all I will say to that.”

“Yeah but if you take after her you're just saying that, when in reality you are going to hound Blackwall until he tells you everything,” said Bull.

“True,” said Adaar, pointing at Bull to emphasize her point. If she was looking up she would have noticed Blackwall look profoundly uneasy.

“If it makes you uncomfortable...”

“Parents dating anyone makes their kids uncomfortable,” Varric laughed. “Just don't pretend it gives you any leverage whatsoever.”

“Or saves you from the chopping block,” Dorian quipped.

“Honestly,” said Adaar, “I'm not the one you need to impress. But I'm not giving you any secrets either.”

“Ooh, cold shoulder,” Varric crowed.

Blackwall nodded, “I can accept that. Besides, it would be cheating. And where's the fun in that, eh?” He grinned at everyone around the fire.

“But if you cheat,” said Cole, “isn't she more likely to have sex with you?”

______________________

ALCAEUS

Adaar and the Iron Bull had their own interesting little aftercare traditions. Besides Adaar's constant demands for back rubs (which didn't always have to do with the rough sex and they both knew it), they would lie together on the too small bed (and seriously, why hadn't they done something about that yet?) and tell each other stories. The stories always had to do with scars. They'd started at this pretty early on – Bull was making sure he hadn't left any welts on her thighs, when he noticed a pink gash on the outside of her leg.

“Shit,” he said, touching the wound. “Shit, did I do that?” Adaar, who was lying on her stomach, pushed herself to her elbows and twisted around to take a look.

“Oh that,” she said with a laugh. “That's old. It looks awful, but its old. Well, new old. New for me, but nothing you did.”

“How'd you get it?” he asked, running his fingers once more over the scar.

“The first time we tried to seal the breach,” said Adaar. “We attracted a pride demon. You know those big ugly lightning whips they use?” Bull nodded. “Caught me right there. Right through my armour.” She made a wet ripping noise for emphasis. “They patched me up pretty good, but you know magic. Never quite heals right.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Here,” he pointed to a shiny white patch on his calf, an old burn. “Mage fire. I swear I can still feel it sometimes.”

And that's how it began. They would lay there and cool down, running fingers and lips over each others' bodies to calm the fire of their lovemaking, tracing scars old and new, and one of them would ask, where's you get this one? On the Iron Bull's hip an assassin's blade, on Adaar's bicep an arrow wound. Bull remembered where he got every single one, even though the white lines were so numerous on his skin. There was one he had been avoiding asking about, though. Three lines right across her left shoulder and chest. Obviously the mark of some beast, and a big one. But it was their age that was odd. They were the oldest, he thought. Faded scars from a long time ago. Faded scars from home. Yet, inevitably, he found himself tracing them one night, enjoying the feel of the soft skin on the tips of hid fingers, where the calluses weren't so thick.

“Wyvern,” she said without being prompted. “The little kind.”

“Looks like a long time ago.”

“Over a decade. Fifteen years or so.”

Bull grinned, “Little Adaar fought a wyvern? Protecting the innocent from a scaly fanged peril?”

She snorted, “Huh. Little Herah tried to fight a wyvern. Little Herah didn't do so well.”

“Didn't kill it?”

“No.”

“Ah well. We were all young and inexperienced at some time.”

“My dad killed it.”

“Good for him.”

“Got him good, too.”

“Uh oh.”

“Took a good chunk from his leg. Got infected. Never healed.”

“I wondered what happened to your father.”

“Now you know.”

“Why were you two fighting wyverns anyway?”

Adaar sighed. Bull flattened his hand and rubbed her shoulder.

“Its fine. Forget i asked. You're supposed to be relaxing.”

“I tried to kill it on my own,” said Adaar. “the stupid thing was taking sheep and I thought if I could kill it the humans would actually, like, you know, respect us. So I took his sword and fucked off and by the time he caught up he had nothing to defend himself with.” She rolled over onto her side, away from Iron Bull. “When he got there the wyvern already had my back. I remember thinking, this is how I die. On my back, int the mud, with this fucking wyvern's teeth on my throat.” She grinned. “It actually felt kinda badass at the time.”

Bull stroked his chin, “Upgrade that to dragon and I might agree with you.”

“My dad had to put himself between me and they wyvern to get the sword. Took what would have been the killing blow.”

Bull rested his hands behind his head.

“You said your dad was a soldier.”

“Yeah.”

“Was that the sword he used”

“Yeah.”

“'S bad luck to take a soldier's sword.”

“I know.”

“'S like taking his arm. He'll come after you.”

“I know.”

“But you're worth it.”

Adaar said nothing.

“Worth loosing something for. Worth saving.”

“You might have to eat those words one day.”

Bull slid down the headboard so he was lying on his back. Adaar shuffled down a little so his horn could lay above her on the pillow and they could still lay close.

“Would you die for me?” she asked. “For me, alone, even if there was no Inquisition?”

“Uh uh,” said Bull. “We'd both live. You know it.”

***

Herah rubbed a hand over her tired eyes.

“I gotta go. The world is ending, and I have paperwork to do before Josephine feeds it to me. Some days I'm not sure who my mortal enemy is supposed to be.”

“She's actually a spy,” Cena joked, “sent to make sure you die of boredom.”

“I doubt it,” Herah groaned. “Corypheus suffers from a baffling lack of subtlety. He doesn't do spies.”

“I dunno. After I met Dorian I thought it was a Tevinter thing.”

“Krem's got subtlety.”

“Have you ever seen him trying to flirt? I think you have.”

“When?”

“A couple weeks back. When the new girl started at the inn.”

Herah raised her eyebrows. “You have failed as friend is he still call that flirting.”

“Oh no,” Bull insisted. “I have tried.”

Adaar looked at Bull, and Bull looked at Adaar and everyone else watched while narry a word was spoken.

“Krem asked a girl if she wanted to ride the bull, didn't he.”

“Yeah, like I said, I tried.”

Herah shook her head. “Get him to like, write up a report for Cullen on Tevinter tactics. I need to sign off on our astounding expenditures. Do you know how much we've spent on cheese alone in the past month?”

“I saw at least two hundred sovereigns worth,” Hestia replied.

“And according to moral reports, its not enough.”

“So don't buy cheese at all,” Cena suggested. “Buy them beer instead. Cheaper to transport.”

“Seconded,” Bull agreed, lifting his glass.

“I don't know,” said Hestia, “humans like their cheese. You might have a riot on your hands.”

“Join the Inquisition,” Herah groaned, “we have cheese.”

“Go sign off on your bloody cheese reports before you pass out from exhaustion,” said Cena.

Herah obliged, tousling her brother's hair and giving her mother a peck on the cheek.

“You coming later?” she asked Bull.

“Hope so,” he replied.

“Ew,” said Cena. He too stood, collecting their plates and wandering off to the kitchen, leaving Hestia and the Iron Bull alone at the table.

“I've been meaning to ask,” said Hestia, “why Iron Bull?”

“The Iron Bull,” he corrected automatically. “With the article. I chose it at first because it fit the image. But it grew on me.”

Hestia watched him finish his beer.

“Really? The article makes it sound like some sort of war machine, a mindless thing charging across the battlefield.”

“Welll. Yeah. That was the point.” The Iron Bull cleared his throat and avoided looking Hestia in the eye. “Take everyone's idea of an angry tal-vashoth and run with it.”

“Deflect them away from the truth.”

“Yeah,” he said, and then when he realized what he said, “Fuck.”

“Mm, not that bad,” said Hestia. “I knew either beresaad or ben hassrath, but you two were being cagey about it.

“She was afraid you wouldn't take it well.”

“Oh ho, have a come to that point in my life where my daughter is the one trying to protect me?”

Something was ticking, stirring in the mind of the Iron Bull like a countdown, pieces of a puzzle falling inevitably into place.

“What about you?” he asked. “How did you choose your name?”

Hestia cocked her head to one side. “Alcaeus and I chose our names for each other. We named each other for the life we wanted to live, the hopes for a better future we saw in one another. Hestia is a spirit of the hearth, Alcaeus was an elven hero who lay down his bow to bring peace by building homes for his people.”

Bull knew the story of Alcaeus, once a slave, then a rebel, then a peacemaker. City elves tended to see him as some kind of martyr; the dalish called him a fool for trying to live as humans did. But either way he sought to to build peace for his people, all in all not a terrible name to aspire too.

“So nothing to do with home, then,” said Bull. “Adaar never mentioned what you did at all. She said you were taught how to fight, but you can guess it seems unusual.”
“Only to someone who knows the Qun.”

“I'm curious, then, as to what necessitated the exception.”

“Nothing,” said Hestia, standing. “We all have out tools. What is one's might not be anothers -”

“-but that does not mean that one is of greater value,” Bull finished for her. It was a quote from the Qun, basic stuff they parroted as children. Like multiplication tables, the words stuck in your head and rattled around for the rest of your life.

“Take a good look, Iron Bull. Tell me what a ben hassrath observes.”

There were few reasons the Iron Bull knew of wherein the Qun accepted female soldiers; lack of manpower, outstanding natural talent or physique, or a wicked good tactical sense (actually, after watching both Cassandra and Leliana outmanoeuvre Cullen on multiple occasions, he wondered why they didn't screen for it more often). Hestia wasn't big for a Qunari woman – to be honest she was a little on the short side, and both her children were taller than she. Bull had assumed they got their height and horns from their father. Well, they would have had to – Hestia didn't have any horns at all.

“I've never seen your skill,” said Bull. “But you do command a lot of respect. From your children at least.”

“Come on,” she egged, “you can do better than that.”

“All right,” said Bull, “then tell me why you left.”

“Because Qunari are a people of many kinds of violence, when they have the potential to be so much more. The Qun is stagnant and frustrated, and I was one of its curators. It is not expansion that brings progress, it's war. Or they're one and the same, at this point.” She sighed deeply, an old woman poking at an old wound. “Violence is futile – it can only be matched by more violence. They should have let me be a farmer. I might have stayed if I ran a farm. All I wanted was some goddamn -”

“-peace and quiet,” Bull finished for her. “Sorry, its personal. I shouldn't have prodded.”

“It's fine. I had Alcaeus, not everyone is so lucky to leave with that kind of affirmation.”

Bull nodded. He understood that very well. “This whole Inquisition business must be killing you, huh.”

“It's not pleasant,” Hestia agreed. “But from what Herah told me, this Corypheus fellow isn't one for talking, and the fact that she stood up and took control when no one else would can't help but make a mother proud. Not what I wanted, but you can't always get what you want.” Hestia leaned her elbows on the back of her chair. “Is that what my daughter brings you? Peace?”

“What? Naah. A vacation is good every now and then, but it gets boring. Being with the Inquisition keeps me on my toes. I mean, do you know how many dragons we've killed?”

“I don't need to know. The fact that you're chasing dragons is terrifying enough.”

“Oops,” said Bull. “Too much?”

“Perhaps. Herah was never a sit still kind of person either. I meant – spiritual peace, I suppose.”

Bull thought about it. “I think what Adaar – Herah – brings to the picture is hope. That's why everyone follows her. Because she makes them really believe this thing can be beaten.” The Iron Bull examined the dregs in his cup. “Sitting around, with a house and garden isn't really my thing either. But at least this fight has a foreseeable end.”

Hestia nodded sagely.

“I think I like you.”

“From what I understand, that's high praise.”

“Don't let it go to your head,” she replied, standing and stretching her old bones. “And no slacking, either.”

Bull chuckled, “You got it, Boss. Before you leave though what did you do?”

Hestia smiled ruefully. “I watched over people. Kind of like you.”

“Oh.”

“I watched them, and I saw them in pain, and I realized that instead of helping them, like I was told I was doing, I perpetuated it. I promised myself I would never cause anyone else pain again. You know,” she smiled, “whatever my children might tell you notwithstanding. A parent can apparently cause their child pain my mere fact of their existence. Anyway, you can tell Herah we had our chat, and that I don't think you're still a spy, or whatever she was fussing about.”

“Can I tell her the part where you're proud of her?”

Hestia winked, “Lets keep it our secret for now.”

______________________

KADAN

Its been a long few weeks. Orlais is freezing this time of year. The civil war may be winding down, but that still means there were bands running around because they didn't necessarily agree with the ceasefire, making it hard to set up proper supply lines for Inquisition work. It's been cold and snowy, they've been wet and hungry, and overall, tired. A hot meal really makes a difference. Varric's been bitching. Usually he's jovial about it (“If there's one thing I don't miss about Orzammar its the weather – same thing every day!”), but on this particular trip he'd taken to muttering under his breth about clouds and snow and the luxuries of predictability. Night after night of salt beef and cheese around a shitty wet fire was making the crew pretty miserable. Cassandra was all up for going hunting, but Adaar didn't want to split up the party.

“I'm just glad nothing has attacked us,” she admitted, “and I want to keep it that way.” As they drew up on the Frostbacks it finally stopped snowing, but the days became bright and frigid, the sun blinded them but it did not warm the earth, and icy winds tore across the higher altitudes.

“I have an idea,” said Varric. “You get a bunch of dwarves, right, and you pay them a shitload of money, and they dig a tunnel to Skyhold. Through the mountains.”

“Do you want to get home in this century?” Dorian sneered.

“No, see, I haven't told you the best part. The best part is, you promise them all the mining rights. Full privy to anything they find. You'll be home within a week.”

“We'll be back within a week anyway,” Dorian pointed out.

Then, one long cold day, they finally crossed the border into Ferelden and met up with Harding and the rest of the supply line. They were greeted with relief and warm stew, and to be fair Dorian wasn't the only one who almost cried. Adaar flopped down on the back of a wagon and napped for a good part of the afternoon, complaining when no one woke her up before dinner. Everyone tittered and shrugged, to embarrassed to admit Cassandra had chased them all away. It didn't feel so long until they finally made it back to Skyhold, tripping with relief into the kicthens demanding fresh bread and hot wine. They crashed right there in front of the fire with full bellies and warm feet and heads fuzzy from the drink. The Iron Bull showed up as soon as they arrived, and Adaar gave into her instincts and crawled into his lap, seeking his warmth, letting him drop his arms around her. He tried to rest his head on hers, then on her shoulder, but the horns were just determined to let anything like that work.

“Ah,” said Varric, watching the couple fumble, “So that's why the Qun discourages intimacy.” He caught Dorian's eye, who was glowering at Bull and Adaar with what looked a little like jealousy. “I do love a good romance,” Varric sighed.

“Ugh,” said Dorian, “why do they have to be so sweet, it makes my teeth hurt.”

“Glad your back,” said Bull quietly, as the other men tittered. Adaar patted his large hand fondly.

“Missed you too, babe.”

“It's boring here without you.”

“What, Krem and Solas aren't enough company for you?”

“It just makes the whole thing feel big and empty.”

“Stop guilt tripping me for sending you with the Chargers.”

Bull sighed, “Just get back here faster next time.”

It would probably have been very hard to see, but Adaar felt his arms tighten ever do slightly around her shoulders. She wouldn't know until Krem told her later, but Iron Bull had been going nuts that past couple of weeks. “Restless,” as Krem put it. “I got the feeling he always wanted to be somewhere else, and whenever I tried to ask him about it he would say, 'I just wish they would get back here already.' Don't you dare repeat this, but sometimes I think he just wants to be wherever you are.”

Back in front of the fireplace Varric kicked his little legs up on a barrel and sighed contentedly.

“Feels good to be back. Good for the soul. As much as I do enjoy a good adventure, nothing beats kicking your feet up.”

“They have a saying in the Ferelden,” said Dorian, “home is where the hearth is, I believe.”

“Heart,” Varric corrected. “It changes the meaning a little. Home is where the heart is.”

And that, thought Adaar, sounded just about right.