Archive of Our Own

Bull didn’t handle boredom well. Even as a child, he’d been a creature of action and movement; the Ben-Hassrath had simply honed that into something they could use. Stuck in a room where time didn’t seem to exist but for his darkening bruises and his clotting injuries -- for the drying sweat on his arms and brows -- was akin to torture.

Bull didn’t have much experience with getting captured. It was an amateur mistake that would have gotten him killed on Seheron, but somehow neither he nor the Chargers had expected blood mages in the arse end of nowhere, Orlais. Outmatched, Bull had covered their escape, and now he was locked in what he guessed was an old storage room. He couldn’t see a lot in the half-dark, but Bull had paced the room a couple of times, banging his shins on the busted crates until he’d learned the layout of the room. He had torn open a couple of sacks to determine they were less than fucking useless, and had even tried to pry open the door with his hands and a wooden slat from a crate. His captors hadn’t restrained him but putting his shoulder to the door had gotten him nothing save more bruises on top of the ones from his capture.

The smell of blood in his nose was still too strong for Bull to relax, but there was nothing in the store room and all his strength was no match for a single wooden door. Bull had never felt so thwarted in his life. He was trying to convince himself that attempting to pick the lock with a couple of nails really was impossible when a door swung open somewhere further down the corridor. Bull counted two sets of footsteps, fast and steady, and another that kept stutter-stepping with a grunt of pain.

Bull followed the sound of them down the hall, moving closer to his door when it became clear they were going to walk past him. If he could get their attention, get them to open the door somehow, he could get out. He didn’t think about how he’d have to avoid a whole cult’s worth of mages when a small group had been enough to send the Chargers into retreat. The Ben-Hassrath hadn’t trained him to think on his feet for nothing. He'd figure it out.

The group stopped right outside his door and Bull’s muscles all tensed at once. If they came in... but they didn’t. There was a grating of a key in a lock and the rusty protest of a door, and the distinctive sound of someone being thrown to the ground; the dull thump of cloth on a packed dirt floor and the short grunt of air being knocked from lungs. The two jailors must have followed their prisoner into the room and Bull could hear indistinct voices, too muffled to hear clearly. The clinking of chains was loud, however, metallic and sharp. The prisoner was chained down; either they were particularly dangerous to the blood mages in a way Bull wasn’t, or they’d done something to piss them off. A thud and a sharp pained groan, the sound of a boot connecting with someone’s ribs.

Definitely personal.

The jailors left the room and locked it behind them. Bull listened in on their chatter as they walked back down the hall, complaining about orders they’d received from someone called Eligius. Not in charge then, and unhappy about being stuck with the unpleasant task of fetching prisoners.

The prisoner in the other room shuffled and coughed wetly, and Bull winced a little in sympathy. Cracked ribs were no fun, especially if you kept getting the shit kicked out of you. They sighed and mumbled something, the words just shy of audible. If Bull spoke loudly enough, they could probably hear him in the other prison cell. Was that what his captors wanted though, what they expected of him? If they’d stuck him in a store room hoping for Qunari secrets they were going to be disappointed.

Bull turned to look at his store room and thought very seriously about spending the next several hours trying to press a handful of nails into service as lock picks. It wasn’t his first time calling a retreat, but he’d always been with his men afterwards, able to mourn and plan to do better next time. On his own, he could only chase his own spinning thoughts around his head until he made another circuit around the room, unable to outrun them and unable to find peace. Couldn't, not when he didn’t know how his men fared.

“Hello?” Bull called and instantly the shuffling in the other room stilled. Bull was very familiar with the awful silence of people trying not to be heard, of breaths being held, and decided to wait it out. No sense in giving in too easily if it was a trap.

“Ah, hello?” Vint, definitely. Noble born, probably, if only because his voice didn’t have the rough edge he was used to hearing from Krem. A noble Vint who had been dragged down the hall and chained up in the room across from Bull’s. Injured, and the blood mages who held them were responsible. Tortured? Bull took a deep breath and let it out slowly. If it came to torture he could give them some of his old intel, give them enough to keep them thinking he was more valuable alive then dead.

“Come now, don’t be shy. We’re all prisoners here,” the other man said. His voice wavered at the end with a rise in tone that Bull would have heard as questioning if it wasn’t so clearly desperate.

“How do you know I’m a prisoner?” Bull said, deliberately keeping his tone light. “I could be a guard lookin’ to chat.”

“In which case you’re still the best company I’ve had all week.” Biting, defensive. Covering up the honesty with a little self-deprecating humour. If Bull hadn’t already guessed he was noble that would have revealed as much. “Continue not to beat me bloody and you shall top the list for the whole month.”

“Rough time, big guy?” Bull asked, settling down. No reason not to enjoy his talk with the possible-trap, he wasn’t exactly being swept off his feet with offers of conversation either. Anything was better than his own endless, useless thoughts.

The Vint snorted. “You could say that. I haven’t spent this much time in chains since my twenties. Although the blood magic is new.”

“Tevinter not as depraved as they say?” Bull said.

“It’s all true and infinitely worse. Tevinter excels in nothing so much as scandal, wine, and blood magic, though Orlais might contest the first two. So naturally it’s blood mages in Orlais, even if they are Tevinter. I can feel the shame of my ancestors now. It’s awful, really, and I intend to let our hosts know as soon as a staff comes to hand.”

Mage, noble, Vint. Trying to think his way around all the possible plots and half-truths was giving Bull a headache. His training was saying to trust nothing but his common sense was telling him this was too convoluted for a group of mages who were living in a cave. It was possible he wasn’t hiding that he was Tevinter and a mage because he had nothing to hide. And if that was the case—

“The terrible circumstances are no excuse to forget one’s manners, however. Dorian Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”

“Charmed,” Bull said, slowly beginning to grin. “So what are you in for?”

“They caught me off guard. I am much too talented and clever to have been captured in a fair fight, I assure you.”

Bull huffed a laugh but let him evade the question. “I’ll bet.”

“And yourself?”

“We went looking for bandits and found blood mages. Thought we could take them on. Couldn’t.”

There was the sound of a particularly imperious sniff from the other jail cell and Bull raised his eyebrow. “Your foolish mistake,” Dorian said with no small amount of condescension. “A mage of any talent should be able to hold off a decent sized group of assailants. Factor in the blood magic and you didn’t stand much of a chance. And who’s ‘we’? Coming to rescue you soon?”

“Bull’s Chargers, we’re a mercenary group. And yes. Krem’ll be coming up with a plan right now.” One which probably started and ended with giving Bull a chewing out for being reckless and self-sacrificing. Bull smiled imagining it. He had no doubt his Chargers were gonna get him out of here and that they’d never let him hear the end of it .

Dorian shuffled, his chains clinking against each other and scraping roughly across the floor. “Who are you, then?” he asked archly. “Mabari? Nug?”

“I’m Bull. The Iron Bull,” Bull said, chuckling. “Nice to meet you, Dorian Pavus of Minrathous.”

“Venhedis,” Dorian sighed. “Likewise, The Iron Bull of Bull’s Chargers. So much for my manners.”

***

They quickly exhausted talking about the food (inedible) and the cultists (inept but numerous ), and Bull was back to pacing his store room looking for an escape or at least a distraction. He rolled shoulders, feeling the bruises and weighing the odds of dislocating it against actually escaping.

“So, what do you do for fun around here?” he called to Dorian.

“Well,” Dorian said with a considering tone. “I haven’t exactly been wanting for entertainment whilst here. Saying that, a book or two wouldn’t go amiss, even if I’d struggle to read them.”

“I would have thought you’d learned your letters by now,” Bull said.

“Har har. Such wit. My hands are chained behind me, so unless I were to turn the pages with my knees--”

“You could use your nose. Or your tongue.”

“I can think of a few better things I could do with my tongue to keep you entertained,” Dorian said, and there was that flirty tone again. Nobles were flirty, Bull knew from jobs in Val Royeaux, and maybe Dorian didn’t think anything of flirting with another prisoner. Sex as a distraction could work if Dorian was meant to be a trap -- but no, not likely, not without being able to see him.

“I could, for instance,” Dorian purred in his lovely rich baritone, “tell you a story from my time in the Circle at Minrathous. Is that entertainment enough?”

Bull laughed and settled back down. “Yeah, I think that’ll do. You have something good in mind?”

“I’ve always been particularly proud of the time my friend Felix and I stole a pet bird from one of our teachers. Enchanter Albus was not a poor teacher, or even disliked, but he cherished this bird so it was too tempting not to steal--”

Dorian was charming, even in a prison cell. Effortlessly so, and funny too, which Bull always liked in a man. His chains would rattle occasionally like he was trying to gesticulate, used to describing wide shapes with his hands to help him tell his story. Bull would bet he had nice hands, strong, with long fingers and fine wrist bones. An artist’s hands, his Tama would have said. But even Dorian’s expressive storytelling and deep voice couldn’t save Bull from the stifling boredom of being locked up.

“--Felix always claimed he hadn’t fallen asleep but even at the time I thought he was suspiciously well-rested--”

“And is this Felix going to come looking for you? Busting in here spitting fireballs?” Bull asked more abruptly than he’d meant to. He regretted it almost immediately when he felt the bubble of their conversation burst, the quiet of the dark and dusty store room coming back into focus.

“Ah, no. I’m afraid not.” Dorian took a deep breath and let it out with low noise. “He died some time ago. He was Blighted.”

“Shit.”

“Rather.”

The silence settled heavily, leaving Bull nothing to do but sweep the room again just in case a means of escape had been hiding in the corner until now. Dorian was breathing heavily, which had to be murder on his busted ribs. Bull wanted to say something; he probably deserved an apology. He didn’t need some arsehole poking at his scars because he was bored.

Dorian made a vexed noise in his throat. “No, it was fucking tragic. Felix was the best man I knew and it’s so fucking unfair. I--” His chains rattled, but whatever the rest of that thought had been, Bull didn’t find out. Bull stood in the middle of his storage room and began to wonder exactly how long Dorian had been held here. Caught off guard, and he never mentioned having travelling with anyone else--

“You got anybody looking out for you?” Bull asked.

There was a long silence before Dorian answered and when he did it was quiet, a confession whispered in a prison cell. “No. There’s nobody else.”

Now Bull felt really shitty, and an apology definitely wouldn’t fly. “Don’t worry,” he said instead. “When my boys get here, we’re getting out.” The least the guy deserved was to be rescued from that fucking cave.

“Of course,” Dorian said in a voice that said he didn’t believe him. Bull turned towards the door like it would let him figure Dorian out. Bull was good, and that kind of training never really left you, but even he had trouble reading people like this. Two doors and still no idea what Dorian looked like.

Krem and the others couldn’t get here soon enough.

“Hey,” Bull called. “You wanna hear about the time we were hired to take out some giants and set half the forest on fire? Rocky had been tinkering with his explosives, which always goes well, and Dalish decided her archery technique needed work too—”

***

A pause in the conversation, a moment between Dorian saying something and Bull’s response, and the door down the corridor rattled and opened. Two sets of footsteps approached and Dorian drew in a ragged breath that was edged with fear, loud in the space between their two cells.

“When are we getting out of this shit hole?” a woman asked. Sharp and a little exasperated.

“How should I know?” another woman said, quieter but no more gently. “You’re so close to Eligius, perhaps you should ask him?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Dorian’s door whined shrilly as it was opened. “Now now,” Dorian said with a faked nonchalance that didn’t fool Bull for a moment. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I think this shit hole perfectly suits mages and people of your calib-oof.”

The first woman said something cutting in Tevene and Dorian groaned as he was struck again. After that, there was a great deal of noise from the chains but Bull could still hear Dorian provoking their jailers and earning more beatings for his trouble. The first speaker only became louder and crueller with each retaliation but Dorian didn’t let himself be cowed. He was still running his mouth as they dragged him down the hall, and the last thing Bull heard from him was something hard hitting what sounded like the door frame and Dorian crying out in pain.

The quiet Dorian left behind was as extravagant as his presence had been – the crates and dozen empty sack Bull was left with were a poor substitute and he was all the more bored for it. Worse, he now had another worry skittering through his thoughts, wondering what their captors were doing to Dorian. At least the sacks could be used as pillows -- shitty ones -- and were a little better than the floor.

Learning to sleep lightly had quickly become necessary on Seheron so it was nothing to Bull to stretch out, kicking a crate out of the way to make room for his legs, and drift into the half-sleep of the watchful. Every even breath took him deeper down into the calm that had saved him more than once during his time on that piece of nugshit island. He’d never been captured though he’d seen a few blood mages; violent and unpredictable to the last and many magnitudes worse than the average mage, even one from Tevinter. A single mage could take out a patrol, like Dorian had said, but snap his staff and he was useless. Bull had seen blood mages take out whole villages, and not just once. There had been so much blood, the buzzing of the flies had drowned out even his thoughts, and the smell—

Bull resurfaced gagging on the memory of rotting meat. He spat into the dirt and wiped a hand across his mouth just as the door down the corridor banged open again. Dorian’s footsteps were more unsteady than the last time, and he didn’t make it far down the corridor before he tripped and fell over his own feet.

“Get up,” a woman snapped, the cruel one, the one only too ready to take out her anger on Dorian.

Dorian muttered something Bull could only hear the points of. The sound of an impact and Dorian groaning was far clearer. They didn’t bother helping Dorian back to his feet, or dragging him up, instead grabbing and hauling him like a sack of obstinate vegetables. Dorian complained about the abuse to his robes down the length of the hall, pausing only when he got the wind knocked out of him as he was dumped in the dirt again. Half a second and a suspiciously wet inhale later and Dorian was back to bitching out their captors for their pitiable talent and lamentable hygiene. If his goal was to get them to leave sooner he succeeded, if indeed he had any goal beyond sharpening his razor tongue on a handy target. The blood mages’ footsteps were a little faster going back down the corridor, though not fast enough to outrun Dorian’s ridicule.

“What, finished with me so soon?” Dorian yelled after them. The mages shouted back, their retorts little more than a rush of incoherent heated Tevene to Bull. Dorian laughed, high and contemptuous, like everyone in that cave was beneath him. He sounded invincible, and Bull had always liked a guy with a healthy sense of self-worth. The clang of the door slamming shut cut him off and the rest of Dorian’s laughter was lost in a sigh. He seemed to deflate all at once, murmuring curses in Tevene and Trade meant for no one’s ears but his own.

Bull was more than a little relieved to hear from him again, though he had to question what kind of blood mage cult they’d found that kept prisoners. He regretted the thought almost immediately when Dorian yelped like he’d been sat on. Bull jumped out of his skin and let out a strangled shout he would deny ever making. There was a few seconds where Bull had to make sure he hadn’t been frightened straight into the Fade while Dorian kept blithely swearing to himself like he hadn’t just shortened Bull’s life by a few years.

“How are you doing, big guy?” Bull said, knocking his horns into the wall and staring at the ceiling. There was the part of him that hoped Dorian was alright; the rest really wanted him to have a good excuse for making a noise like that.

Dorian was quiet for a moment before letting out a strangled shriek. “Marvellously,” Dorian said through wet and laboured gasps. “Just poking at my new bruises. And yourself?”

“Good,” Bull said, trying to sound light. “Haven’t provoked anyone into hitting me today. Or been provoked. Probably I’m the only one here who can say that.”

“Well. You didn’t hear me insinuate that our hosts’ grandfathers must have been impotent because their grandmothers fucked a nug.” He might have sounded regretful if Dorian weren’t so obviously proud of himself. Bull had met few prisoners as incapable of shutting up as Dorian.

“Is that why you were limping?”

“No, that’s because I then said that their families have gone downhill since.” Dorian sighed. “I suppose you think I should stop provoking them quite so much? Be meek and mild each time two blood mages come along to reacquaint me with their cults’ collection of knives?”

Bull considered lying. “The thought had occurred ,” he said instead. Dorian scoffed loudly at him, as Bull had thought he would.

“Naive fool. I didn’t crack my ribs with my best dinner party behaviour,” Dorian said with a snarl. “If I must endure this I prefer to earn my punishment, as strange as that might sound.”

“No,” Bull said. “That doesn’t sound strange.” He could understand the impulse, preferring to die with an axe in hand and spitting in the face of your captor. Refusing to go quietly, even if it hurt . “Were you this much of a spitfire in Tevinter? Damn.”

“It’s always been my goal to have Illegitimi non carborundum inscribed beneath the bust I’ll have commissioned, one of these days.” Dorian sighed, and Bull knew just enough Tevene to know that probably wasn’t his family motto. “I’m thinking marble. It’s been said I have a profile made for marble.”

“Doesn’t count if you’re the one that says it.” His squawk of fake-indignation made Bull laugh. “You’re trouble,” Bull rumbled.

“I merely start as I mean to go on, Bull.” Dorian grunted as he must have poked at his bruises again. “Remind me why that’s a good idea again?”

“Why are they doing it?” Bull asked lowly. “I understand what you’re doing, or think you’re doing, but what’s driving them?”

“The torture? I don’t know,” Dorian said. “I suppose they saw a Tevinter mage on his own and thought to get me to join their cause. Being so much more competent than them and adverse to blood magic, I declined. Needless to say, they were... unhappy with my answer.” Bull snorted, and Dorian chuckled in response. “At first I think the torture was a ungraceful attempt to get me to join their cause, and it went even worse than you’re thinking. I -- I was determined to die faster than they meant me to. I’m used to being the most important person in the room, and having attended Tevinter dinner parties, being the centre of attention in a torture chamber is not dissimilar.”

“And now?” Bull asked, not expecting to like the answer.

“But now--” Dorian tried to draw in a deep breath, coughing and gasping when his ribs protested. “Ah. But now they are, not even ungraceful, it’s -- I’m nothing so much as a training dummy to them now. A means to experiment. Which is particularly undignified to a scholar like myself.”

“Got bigger things to worry about than just your dignity, big guy,” Bull said not unkindly.

“But this I can control,” Dorian said quietly. Bull was not cruel enough to censure him for it.

Settling back against his makeshift pillows, Bull let out a loud sigh. “You should get some rest, Dorian.”

“Yes. Goodnight, Bull.”

Sleeping in the storage room was a little more difficult than resting. Dust settled on his skin and made it itch, and the bruises from the fight throbbed. He sneezed and grunted when it pulled a minor stab wound in his side, and in the other cell Dorian sighed and his chains dragged through the dirt.

“Can’t sleep?” Bull murmured.

“No.” Another sigh. “I miss feather pillows. And lying down without rapidly losing feeling in my arms.” Dorian tossed and turned while Bull tried to find a section of the floor not covered in dust. He could have slept but for the cacophony coming from Dorian’s cell, all clinking chains and irate sighing. It was startlingly not relaxing, and Bull was kept awake just enough to feel the dust getting caught in his nose. Bull had half-way resolved to get back up and work out his frustrations on one of the crates when Dorian gave one last sigh and rolled over again.

“I don’t suppose you’d care for a game?”

Bull gave the door an unimpressed look. “I don’t see how. We’re prisoners in two separate rooms, neither of which has a board.”

“King’s pawn to E4.”

“You’re shitting me.”

***

“Knight to B2.”

“You cheeky little shit.”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Your Knight can’t move there and you know it.”

“How strange. I must have lost track.”

“Stop trying to cheat and win fairly, you brat.”

“I’m simply using all the options at my disposal, my dear Bull.”

“I’ll show you options.”

***

“Ben-Hassrath takes Mage. Checkmate.”

“Vishante kaffas.”

“Good game, Dorian. Really had me on the run there.” Bull sat back, stretching out his legs in front of him. Chess was a good distraction but his bad knee was starting to ache between sitting in the dirt and walking the short path from the door and back again.

“Don’t patronise me, it's unbecoming,” Dorian said, his feathers all ruffled. Dorian indignant was just as fun as Dorian haughty; Bull might have let him get the upper hand once or twice just to hear him flaunt his own cleverness. Bull grinned, idly wondering if he should flatter Dorian to get back in his good graces and to see how much he’d like that, when Dorian made a questioning noise. “Where did a mercenary learn to play like that?”

“I didn’t grow up wanting to be a mercenary, you know,” he said, and could have cursed when Dorian hummed again. Bull had picked up the game in Par Vollen but had gotten good playing with an Ashaad under his command on Seheron. He’d been killed by Fog Warriors, which probably wasn’t what Dorian wanted to hear and not what Bull wanted to tell him either.

“Really? As a child I wanted to be a pirate. Practiced my swashbuckling and everything.”

Bull chuckled, imagining Dorian swashbuckling. He thought he’d have made a very good pirate, since he obviously had the flair for it, and said as much. Dorian seemed pleased by the compliment. “Alas, I didn’t have the legs for it. Found out I get horribly seasick, which crushed all my piratical dreams, but I digress. Where were you educated?”

Refusing to answer would bring his defenses back up, Bull knew. He also knew he needed allies to escape, not more enemies. There was the chance Dorian would stop talking to him, leaving him to his boredom, but he hoped that wasn't as likely. Dorian clearly hated boredom as much as Bull did; he liked games, and liked cheating more, and Bull already knew how he could use that to turn the conversation. He didn’t want to talk about Par Vollen or Seheron -- not here, not now, and not with Dorian.

“Tell you what, Dorian. I’ll answer one question honestly, any question at all, if you’ll do the same.”

Dorian hummed and rustled, but it was inevitable to Bull that he would accept his terms. It just remained to be surprised by the question Dorian asked.

“My question is... what do you look like? I’m having trouble picturing you,” Dorian said, and Bull got the distinct impression he’d be looking down his nose at him if he could. “Out adventuring, slaying wyverns and rescuing maidens--”

“That was one time, and I slayed the wyvern while Krem saved the girl--”

“So are you very tall? Strong? What does The Iron Bull carry into battle?”

Distraction, that would work, would keep Dorian away from where and how he grew up. Nobles weren’t the only ones primed to use sex as a distraction; it was just a shame Dorian couldn’t see him to watch him flex a little, if his questions were any indication of what he liked.

“I have a big axe, bigger than you, probably,” Bull said with a low, deep rumble. “I have to be big to swing it like I do. Tall, like you said. Broad. Krem says I’m built like a brick shithouse. I don’t wear a lot of armour, so I have scars, lots of them, all over my body.”

“Not a fan of self-preservation, are you?” Dorian said dryly, but he shifting against his chains and his voice was a little higher, breathier. Bull grinned slowly, sitting back with slow satisfaction.

“Says the pot to the kettle, big guy," Bull chuckled, "but I like ‘em. They tell the next guy that wants to kill me that he’s not the first to try, and that every time before him I was the one to come out still fighting. That I'm stronger than him, that I can survive something like a wyvern trying to kill me, and I can survive whatever he want to throw at me and more. It gets the point across.”

“Such braggadocio from someone being held prisoner,” Dorian replied faintly. Bull was tempted to draw attention to the way Dorian became grandiloquent when he was flustered, but that wasn’t the game they were playing.

Bull shrugged, affecting nonchalance in his tone. “Isn’t bragging if I got the scars to prove it.”

Dorian was quiet for a moment. “I, ah, suppose there’s a certain appeal.” Bull smirked. Dorian’s breathlessness was gratifying, and it helped soothe the part of his ego still smarting from his capture.

“Yeah, you would like that,” Bull rumbled, “imagining me swinging my axe, huge muscles straining, dawnstone glinting in the sun--”

“Wait, what--”

Bull couldn’t keep it up in the face of Dorian’s indignation. He laughed, the sound starting in his stomach and thundering out of his throat, harder and louder than he’d laughed in a long time.

“Dawnstone, really?" Dorian snapped. "I thought you said you would be honest, Bull!”

“Hey, my dawnstone axe is very pretty!” Bull said in mock-indignation.

“Very well then, Bull,” Dorian sighed long-sufferingly. “What question do you want answered honestly?”

There was really only one question Bull wanted to ask but he still hesitated. Dorian wasn’t going to thank for it. “Why did you leave Tevinter?”

Dorian spluttered indignantly, sounding as though he took offense. “You’re supposed to ask me what I look like! I have a moustache, I won’t have you picturing me without it.”

“Duly noted.”

There was a long tense moment filled with Dorian rattling and growling, but Bull didn’t back down or ask another question. “Fine,” Dorian said through gritted teeth. “Why does anyone leave Tevinter? I wanted to see if the Fereldan countryside was all it was cracked up to be, and indeed it was, all dank mud and dog smell.”

“I said ‘honestly’. That doesn’t count.”

Dorian snarled something unflattering in Tevene. Bull didn’t back down though, and the silence stretched out between them as he waited Dorian out. “I hate you,” Dorian muttered sullenly. “This was your plan all along, wasn’t it? Earn my trust than ask invasive questions. Or are you just especially talented like that?”

Bull let out a loud laugh, caught by surprise by a complaint that sounded so much like how his Tama used to chide him. It broke the tension a little, and Dorian huffed a laugh too.

“Alright. I had a falling out of sorts with my father. He would have had me be somebody I wasn’t to keep from embarrassing our family name. Living my entire life as a lie didn’t appeal to me very much, but I couldn’t get him to see that. In the end, he did something unforgivable and I left. There. Satisfied?”

“Yes,” Bull said, and then for good measure added, “thank you.”

Dorian huffed another indignant noise at him, but he sounded amused too.

“You’re bloody welcome.”

***

Dorian had been muttering violently in Tevene since they’d brought him back hours ago, once more limping heavily and somehow in an even fouler mood than when he’d last been taken by the cultists. Bull could meditate through just about anything, and had, but the sound of quiet and angry Tevene still sent chills racing up his spine. He kept looking around his store room expecting to see Vints crouched in the corners and hiding behind crates, what little light there was glinting off daggers and staffs. Bull was about to start climbing the fucking walls, and when Dorian's chains got to scrapping through the dirt, back and forth, he’d had enough. Deep breathing could only get him so far.

“Calm down, Dorian,” Bull said through gritted teeth. “You’ll need your strength for when I get us out of here. Be still.”

Dorian swore at him in Tevene. At least, Bull assumed he was swearing at him and not simply yelling to hear his own voice.

“Again in Trade for the mercenary, if you don’t mind.”

“Kindly go fuck yourself, The Iron Bull.”

Bull tilted his head back until his horns knocked into the door. Suffering in silence while Dorian worked out whatever this was didn’t appeal. He could retaliate and they could fight -- work out their frustrations that way -- even if what he really wanted was to punch was the mages keeping them prisoner. Bull wouldn't have to worry about the awkward silence until afterwards. Talking while Dorian was riled up was pretty much impossible -- Bull had a better chance of having a civil conversation with a pissed off herd of druffalo -- but as it stood, it was his best option.

Bull had spent a decade on Seheron and yet he couldn’t have felt less prepared for verbally taking on one pissy little Vint mage. “I told you to sit down, not take a flying leap off the Frostbacks,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “You want to tell me what’s got your robes in a knot?”

“No,” Dorian said shortly. Bull knocked his horns into the door again in frustration.

“What did they do?”

“Leave me be,” Dorian snarled.

Bull gave it a moment’s thought. “No.”

“Stubborn, incorrigible--!” Dorian made a strangled frustrated noise in his throat and his chains rattled violently. “Why must you always pry? What does it matter to you what they say or do to me when they’re -- why do you care?”

“Because I care about you,” Bull said. The silence from the other cell rang loudly through the store room and down the corridor. It was in retrospect a little abrupt, though true, and nothing Bull wanted to take back now that he’d said it. Bull turned to address the door. “I care about you, Dorian,” he said again.

“Why?”

Bull shrugged, hoping it came through in his voice. “You’re a good man caught in a shitty situation. I think you’d get along pretty well with my boys. I bet you’re fucking lethal in a fight and look good doing it. You’re smart, and you’re funny, and you steal birds because you want to see if you can. I care because I like you, Dorian.”

“And yet you make it sound so easy,” Dorian said with a hollow laugh. The chains had finally gone silent. “It was -- treason has always been harshly punished in the Imperium. Nothing breeds loyalty like a few horrific examples of what happens when you aren’t. Even today, nothing cuts deeper than implying that a person’s loyalty is... less than it should be. I won’t bore you with a history lesson as to why,” he said a little snobbishly.

Bull snorted. As a good Qunari kid who sat and listened while his Tama taught him history, and a Ben-Hassrath who’d served on Seheron, he had a pretty good idea about why Vints were so hung up on loyalty.

“Regardless, it’s nothing I haven’t heard before,” Dorian continued. “But that my refusal to join a blood magic cult makes me a traitor! As if, as if I don’t want what’s best for my country. My father taught me blood magic was the resort of the weak mind, and whatever else, I hold by that. Even if--” There was a heavy pause. “But I don’t suppose you understand very much of this.”

“No. I won’t lie to you and pretend I do.” It felt like a half-truth, however. Bull had mastered lies of omission and selective truths years ago, still employed them liberally. It shouldn’t have bothered him. “I... come from up North,” he said haltingly. “Haven’t been back in a long time. I wouldn’t be welcomed, for one thing, and I’m pretty sure there’s nothing left for me. They call me a traitor, too.” If they even thought about him that much. Bull had killed a pair of shit-for-brains assassins and that had been the last he’d heard from the Qun. As hard as it’d been for Bull, it was infinitely easier for them to forget one Tal-Vashoth. “Don’t listen to what a bunch of blood mages think of you,” Bull finished gruffly. This wasn’t about him. “You’re worth more than any of them, and if Tevinter doesn’t know it than it’s their loss.”

“Why did you leave, Bull?” Dorian asked softly and Bull sighed.

“They wanted something I loved too much to give up. They wanted another stitch in the rug, a giant rug made up of all the parts of society working together. A single stitch can’t see the whole thing but he knows he’s helping to make something beautiful.”

His Tama used to explain it so beautifully, back before he was Tal-Vashoth, before Sehereon. When he was still Ashkaari, small and curious to know how he would know he is doing everything the Qun asks of him. How would he know he’s doing the right thing?

Bull looked down at his hands, at his two truncated fingers. “But they only ever wanted a stitch. Something useful, a thing to be used. I don’t regret what I did.” It was an old scar, gnarled and knotted, ugly but hard-won. He could’ve chosen the Qun but Bull knew it would never choose him.

“No, not regret,” Dorian said. “But how do you stop missing a home that doesn’t miss you?”

Bull snorted. “When you figure that out, let me know.” Dorian chuckled, and it was a sad sort of sound, filled with homesickness. “As near as I can figure out though,” Bull continued, “you make your home elsewhere. It gets easier. People help. Drinking too.”

Dorian sighed with a theatrically Bull was starting to think he came by honestly. “I could go for a nice bottle of Sun-Blonde right now.”

“When we get out, I’m taking you drinking with my boys,” Bull said with a rumble. “No Sun-Blonde, but I know a tavern with the dirtiest pint you can find this side of the Waking Sea.”

“And I shall leave you to it,” Dorian said primly. “I’ve not spent so long out of Tevinter that I can handle the swill they drink for fun in the South.”

The Chargers didn’t know the half of why Bull had become Tal-Vashoth. Didn’t know what the Qun had asked him to do, didn’t know about the long night of uncertainty when he almost could’ve done it. When they’d learned what had happened they’d cleaved to him, distracting him with jobs and drinking. Bull hadn’t been kidding about the drinking; the majority of that week was lost to him. His Chargers had been there, but they hadn’t understood, and it would be a toasty day in the Frostbacks before Bull would trust another Tal-Vashoth with his thoughts. It was lonely, if he was honest with himself, and Hissrad had learned to deal with that but The Iron Bull had not.

Bull could tell that Dorian understood and cared, beneath all the bluster. When they got out of here Bull was gonna buy him a drink and maybe, if Dorian was amenable afterwards, Bull would very much like to take him to bed and show him a very good time. After all this, they both deserved it.

“Hey, Dorian--” Bull began, but whatever Maker existed must have possessed a sadistic sense of humour as He chose that moment to send two blood mages to drag Dorian away to torture. Dorian didn’t go without a fight, laughing and spitting in their faces. Bull’s heart wobbled even as he wanted to put the cruel one through the wall when she snarled at Dorian, “keep laughing, traditor.”

There was such threat in her voice but Dorian refused to take heed. “It’ll be dark day indeed when I require your permission for anything,” he said archly. Bull huffed a laugh too quiet to be heard. “And you are fond of that word, it’s a shame no one taught you what it meant.”

“I know what it means! It means you’d rather live in the South then do what’s necessary for the good of Tevinter. You’re a selfish coward.”

“Better to be a selfish coward in the South than to share your spurious ideas of what’s good.”

Bull only wished he wouldn’t take so many opportunities to call the blood mages bastards, at least to their face, and something hot and protective rose up in his chest at the sounds of the beating Dorian received for that particular quip. Bull could do nothing about it, locked up and eventually left behind as they dragged Dorian out through the hall and slammed the door shut behind them.

***

Dorian was gone for hours. Bull tried to go to the quiet place, but it was hard to lie still and just breathe. His heart was thrumming in his chest and the smell of old blood was thick in his nose. Sat alone on the dirt floor of the store room, Bull choked on the oppressive Seheron heat, his thoughts smothered beneath the buzzing of flies. Bull had lost men before and it hurt -- even when Hissrad moved on, it hurt. There had been nothing to do except grit his teeth and hold his axe tighter, keep moving forward through it because he’d been told it was what the Qun wanted from him.

Their captor's brought Dorian back quiet, his feet scraping along the floor with no attempt to walk to his cell. They dropped him to the floor and he went with only half a noise, barely heard over the dull thump of his body hitting the dirt and the noise of his chains as they secured him. He offered no parting remark when they left, nor when the door closed behind them at the end of the hall. It was the quietest Dorian had ever been and it made horror sit heavy and familiar in Bull’s gut.

“Dorian?” Bull called. A rattle from the chains and a sigh, a single wet exhale. He got no further response. “Stay with me, OK? You keep breathing and I’ll get us out of here.”

He pressed his hands and his brow to the door, no thought in his head except for what was happening in the cell across from his. Dorian would gasp and cough occasionally and once he whimpered so quietly Bull almost didn't hear it. The sound tore at his heart, hurting like it hadn’t in a long time. There was no enemy to throw himself against, no Qun to assure him that this was unfortunate but necessary. There was only a couple of locked doors and a cave full of blood mages, and Bull could do nothing but sit and listen. He might not be able to save Dorian and that, that was torture.

The sound of arguing reached Bull distantly, where ever he’d gone where Dorian’s breathing was the most important thing in that moment. Bull startled when the door to their corridor hit the wall with a bang and all of his muscles tensed at once. A torrent of Tevene echoed down the hall and Bull recoiled from it like from a physical blow.

“There’s nothing in there, save the huge stupid Qunari!” the quiet one said with a tone like a knife. The cruel one hissed something and they continued shouting their argument. It easily drowned out the weak sound of Dorian breathing, and the chance that he might stop while Bull wouldn’t even know--

Bull’s fist collided with his door hard enough to make it rattle and he growled an insult in Qunlat -- something about even the worms refusing to eat their rotted meat -- and even if they couldn’t understand, it was low and ugly enough to get Bull’s point across.

The mages were quiet for a moment before muttering quickly to each other. It was getting heated again when the cruel one spat out a “fine!” and came storming down the corridor. Bull fixed his eye on the door as the entirety of his being focussed on the footsteps coming towards him, the rustling of robes and rattling of keys . Scenario after scenario rushed through his mind, whether she was armed, if the other mage was still by the door. How many mages there were between Bull and the outside. The door to Dorian’s cell was opened and Bull’s heart juddered, but rather than drag him away again, the cruel one turned and banged on Bull’s door. “Get away from the door,” she shouted.

Bull moved away, sitting back on his heels as the lock in the door rattled before it swung open and the business end of a staff preceded who Bull could only guess was the cruel one. She had dark hair pulled back in a bun and a face that was all hard angles, with a nose like a razor blade and a jaw to match. It was a face made for unkind expressions, and she looked at Bull with an undisguised look of contempt. “Move and I’ll incinerate you, beast,” she spat. Bull blinked very slowly in response. “Stupid creature. Nonia, stand on the other side.”

The second mage circled around her, lowering her staff at Bull. She had a shaved head and a scar that cut a groove into her nose, but it was the slightly green look of reluctance that Bull took note of. Her grip adjusted once, twice, and her eyes darted from Bull’s horn to his face and back again. Fear was good, Bull could work with fear.

“Get up and walk to the next room, ox-man,” the cruel one said slowly, enunciating every word very carefully. “Stray and I’ll burn you where you stand.”

Bull climbed to his feet, swallowing his grunt when his vision greyed out for a moment. He took a step forwards, and when he remained whole and unburned, another. He walked out of the store room and stood in the hall for a long moment. He could take out the two mages behind him, even with their staffs trained on him, though it would probably hurt. Might even lose his other eye. Could get lucky though; humans always thought Qunari were slower and stupider than reality. He could kill them and escape.

But not with Dorian. He could still feel the fight that had landed him a captive, and two days without food and water was making the world tilt ever so slightly. Escaping with someone more injured than he was would be almost impossible. The thought occurred to leave and come back with the Chargers and a plan -- leave Dorian with the blood mages who had tortured him, where Bull couldn’t protect him.

Bull kept walking until he stood in the doorway to Dorian’s cell, dark and stinking of blood. Bull almost reeled back in horror before a staff jabbed him in the spine and pushed him in. The door slammed closed behind him, the lock clicking with a finality to it, but Bull was no longer listening to the mages outside the cell. He dropped to his knees with a grunt, probably fucking up his bad knee, but that was Dorian crumpled up on the floor, trying to make himself as small as possible. In the dark, Bull couldn’t tell if he was still breathing and Bull held his breath for a long moment until Dorian let out a shuddering sigh and curled into himself further. He almost reached out to touch him when Dorian whimpered.

“Please,” he said on a breath. “No more. Please.”

“Hey, big guy,” Bull said, keeping his voice low and kind. “Dorian? It’s me, Bull.”

Dorian sobbed once, shaking violently. “I’m going to touch you now, is that OK?”

Bull thought he nodded. He placed a palm against Dorian's shoulder, feeling how stiff his robes were with blood. Dorian was shaking and every breath trailed off into a pained whine. Bull ran his hand down Dorian’s arm, along skin flecked with cuts that only became deeper until he bumped into the heavy metal cuffs at his wrists. Dorian flinched and Bull shushed him without thinking, threading his fingers through Dorian’s.

“You squeeze my hand, OK? One squeeze for yes, two squeezes for no. Do you understand?” Dorian squeezed his hand, smearing fresh blood between their palms, and Bull gently squeezed back. “I’m gonna try and stop the bleeding. Sorry, this is probably gonna sting a little.”

Dorian squeezed again and Bull slipped his hand from Dorian’s grip. He caught the edge of Dorian’s robe and tore a strip for a bandage. Dorian made an aborted noise in his throat and Bull froze until he felt Dorian’s trembling fingertips touch his wrist. Dorian pinched it between two fingers and Bull went back to tearing his robes into ribbons. Bull went to check his face too, since head wounds always bled like a bitch, and brushed his temple and along his brow. Dorian recoiled from his touch like he’d been burned and Bull quickly pulled his hands away. Dorian stayed curled away from him though, breathing hard and whimpering.

“Hey, hey, I heard you. It’s OK, I got you,” Bull said, keeping up the gentle assurances until Dorian relaxed again and Bull cupped a hand around the sharp jut of his hipbone. “I’m sorry but I have to move you.”

Dorian huffed, sounding very much put-upon by what he must have thought was an unreasonable request.

Bull breathed out a chuckle. “I know, but you can’t stay where you are.”

Dorian sighed heavily but Bull convinced him to get off the floor with gently coaxing hands and words, chains rattling as he was moved, which was when Bull discovered that his hands were chained together and then fastened to the floor without chain enough to stand. Dorian was settled in Bull’s lap where he slumped into his chest, turning his face into the space between Bull’s neck and shoulder. Dorian was cold, and he kept shivering like he was about to break apart .as something warm and sticky dripped off Dorian’s face and was rubbed into Bull’s skin.

Bull wound the make-shift bandages around Dorian’s arm from elbow to wrist and tied it off, doing the same for the other arm. Dorian lay quietly for him, twitching only when his fingers touched the edges of his injuries and sighing gratefully when he was finished. Bull felt lost without his hands moving so he kept them stroking up and down Dorian’s back and side, feeling Dorian’s eyelashes flutter and how he was still wracked with shivers. He started to hum, a mindless little tune until Bull realised he was humming the lullaby his Tama had used to sing for the sick kids when they couldn’t sleep. The words escaped him but the memory of her low, soothing murmuring as she stayed up to watch her charges filled Bull with the same protective urge but softer, warmer.

Dorian seemed to sleep a little in Bull’s arms, exhausted by whatever the cult had tested on him, but before long he was snuffling and attempting to stretch his aching, cramped muscles. He tensed for a moment, forgetting where he was and who he was lying on, until he melted back into Bull’s arms. Bull kept up his gentle touches, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Hey. How you feeling?”

“Horrible man. You’ve ruined my only robes,” Dorian said with a little of his usual haughtiness. He sounded like shit but Bull was relieved he was speaking at all, that he hadn’t slipped further into catatonia to escape the pain. It was hard pulling someone out of that, and worse to watch it happen.

“I’ll buy you a new set,” Bull said, rubbing his fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck. Dorian practically purred, moving into the touch as much as he was able to.

“You spoil me.” Bull’s mouth twisted at that, and he wasn’t sure if he was frowning or just grimacing. Dorian deserved better than what Bull could do for him. He’d felt his robes, he knew they’d been expensive at some point, though they’d barely been holding together even before Bull had gotten to them. Dorian was used to fine things, or had been. He deserved to be.

Dorian shifted some more, pulling his face away from Bull’s chest so he could speak unmuffled. “So. Ox-man.”

Bull’s expression was definitely a grimace now. “Yeah. Might have failed to mention I was Qunari.”

Dorian chuckled, and of all the possible reactions Dorian could have had, laughter surprised Bull the most. “And now my mental image is completely off and I shall have to come up with an equally pleasing one that accounts for the horns.”

Bull laughed at Dorian’s indignation at being beaten at his own game and having to play catch up now because of Bull’s horns. “Sorry,” he said, not even a little sorry, “I know how important that was to you.”

“Ridiculous. I’m pretty sure I had that book as a teenager.” Bull hummed a question. “A classic of poorly written pornography,” Dorian explained a little wryly, “the handsome Qunari mercenary rescues the gorgeous man in peril from evil blood mages.”

“Oh yeah? This the part where you swoon in my arms and I ravish you?” Bull asked, making no move to do anything.

Dorian snorted. “I mean to say, I have no problems with the fact that you are very large and have horns. Just don’t--” All at once the mood changed. Bull could feel it in the way Dorian stiffened and his breathing stopped for a moment.

If he was any other kind of Qunari, and Dorian another Vint, Bull didn’t have to think hard about how this would end. A hand on his neck and another beneath his chin, resting so soft and trusting against him. A quick pull-push. As easy as thought, as breathing. Bull had done it before, though never with a Vint he’d played chess with. The part of him that would always be Hissrad still wouldn’t hesitate if he had to; friendship hadn’t meant much on Seheron where a knife to the chest could kill you as easily as a stab in the back. “You know why they put me in here with you. What they’re thinking is going to happen.”

“I have a suspicion this isn’t it,” Dorian said, his forehead coming back to rest on Bull. “I feel as though my teenage self was lied to. Torture is bloody awful, and ravishment is the very last thing on my mind right now.”

“Trust me,” Bull said. “Murdering you in cold blood isn’t very high up on my list of preferences either.”

“I do, strangely enough.” Dorian laughed again, almost without sound but filled with such bitterness. “I trusted my father too, until he turned out to be a blood mage. He used it on me. I was bringing House Pavus shame so he tried to change me.”

“Vashedan. His loss.”

“Would that my father felt that way. Here, I’m the traitor.” Dorian sighed against Bull’s skin. “You remember I mentioned ‘horrific examples’ of Tevinter punishing the disloyal?”

“I might do, yeah,” Bull muttered. “Is now really the time for a history lesson?”

“Quiet, it’s relevant. One practice that was popular at one time was to -- sew their eyes shut.”

Bull went hot and then cold very fast, his heart seeming to skip a beat. Bull had to swallow hard to keep it in his chest while his lungs couldn’t fill, he couldn’t breathe-- “They didn’t--”

“They did. Usually it was a prelude to parading them through the streets, having their crimes listed to the watching crowd before being summarily beheaded.” Dorian lifted his shoulders in half a shrug. “So at least I don’t have to worry about that.”

Bull cursed with enough violence he would have singed the horns off of any listening Qunari. Dorian’s only comment was, “such a beautiful language,” in as dry a tone as he could manage considering that he’d just had his eyes sewn shut. “Isn’t this similar to what you do to your mages?”

“Qunari do, but I’m Tal-Vashoth, I’ve never sewn anybody’s -- Koslun’s balls, Dorian, your eyes.”

“I’m aware of the severity,” Dorian said thinly, and it was probably as close as he was ever going to get to admitting how bad the situation had become. He’d been fighting their captors so hard for so long but there was no smart comebacks for this. Even without his public humiliation and execution, this was a defeat, however much Dorian didn’t want to admit it.

“Gives new insight into why being a traditor is so vilified,” Dorian said, his voice strained and breathy. “Clearly someone here has done their research.”

“I’m going to kill every last person in this cave,” Bull said darkly. Dorian just breathed for a moment, and feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath Bull’s hands did much to push back the red mist creeping into Bull’s vision.

“Of course,” Dorian said, and this time he didn’t sound half so sceptical. “Bull,” he murmured after a long quiet moment of just sitting together. Bull leaned down, tightening his arms around him almost without thinking. He sounded so weak. He sounded like he was dying. “When they next come, you need to--” he swallowed roughly. Bull brushed his thumb down the bare skin of his upper arm. “You need to put me down and -- and sit on the other side of the room.”

“Dorian--”

“No,” Dorian said with as much force as he could manage. “If they find out about...” He turned his face into Bull’s shoulder, smearing blood across his collarbone. “They’d hurt you. I couldn’t bear it.”

“Don’t worry about me. I was made to take hits.” Dorian shuddered and made a small, hurt noise that tugged at Bull’s heart, but he refused to be swayed so easily, his arms coming around Dorian tighter and a growl starting in his chest. “I’m not leaving you to get the shit kicked out of you when I can stop it,” he said with absolute conviction.

“Please.” He sounded so desperate, as desperate as he’d been for someone to talk to in that cave -- not even kindness, just a voice that wasn’t accompanied by violence. “Not for me.”

His growl trailed of into a sigh and Bull loosened his hold, stroking up Dorian’s arm to pet the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “OK,” Bull murmured. “If you say so. I’m following your lead here, big guy.”

***

At the first sound of the door down in the corridor swinging open, Bull silently lifted Dorian and set him down on the dirt floor, feeling his heart shudder at the wrecked and miserable whimper Dorian made.

“I got you,” he said softly, placing a steadying hand on the back of Dorian’s neck. Dorian leaned into the touch like a man desperate for gentleness. “Say the word and I’m breaking us out. I’ll take on this whole fucking cult to do it.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Dorian muttered. “The other side of the room, Bull. Before they come in.”

Bull shuffled away, schooling his face into the dull, placid look of an animal. Dorian curled closer to the wall, shivering from either shock or cold. They waited in silence for the mages to walk to their cell, turn the key in the rusted lock, and the cruel one to look in with cold contempt. She looked around the cell, surprise overcoming the contempt for a moment until she saw Bull looking her way and sneered at him.

“Nonia, he’s still alive. Bring the bowl in, I’ll make sure the ox doesn’t try anything.”

She stationed herself in front of Bull, her staff aimed at his chest, while the other mage ducked around her, holding a bowl of grey slop. Bull had to keep himself from looking too intently in Dorian’s direction, but between the two mages and the half open door there was nothing to be seen of him in the half-light save the soles of his boots and the collar of his robes, stained with old blood.

The cruel one knocked the butt of her staff into Bull’s boot, drawing his attention away. “Here, it’s feeding time.”

She tossed something at Bull’s head. He let it glance off his horn and drop to floor, putting out his hand to keep it from rolling across the room but slowly, slowly, too slow to catch it and too dumb to avoid it.

“Stupid beast,” she said under her breath. “Should be using you to test our spells on. You’d make a great deal less noise than the traditor. Do Qunari even feel pain?”

“Don’t provoke it,” Nonia said. “You should see what him and his thugs did to Quirinus.”

Bull kept his eyes down, taking in what the cruel one had thrown at him. A bread crust, already mouldering; enough to keep from starving but only barely. Enough to make the hunger hurt. Bull had seen prisoners kept on a diet of scraps turn to miserable begging within a couple of days. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the other mage all but dropped the bowl in front of Dorian, making the murky grey sludge inside slop out over Dorian’s boots.

“Quirinus got his. You’ll see no tears from me.” The cruel one glanced over her shoulder though her staff never wavered in its aim. Cruel and intent; a dangerous combination. “Though how do we know the ox wasn’t just their pet, trained to fight? I’m sure one of us could get the creature listening to orders. Look at him, he’s just waiting for someone to take the reins.” She smirked. “Or more likely the harness and bridle.”

Bull blinked again. Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Only a fool sees the calm ocean and doubts the riptide that lies beneath. Bull was looking forward to drowning her but he let her words go through him without leaving a mark. He had better things to pay attention to than a blood mage’s barbs.

Dorian had drawn his feet back but Nonia just nudged the bowl closer, not caring as more of the slop sloshed out onto the floor. It smelled even less edible than the bread crust they’d given him, dank with an acrid bite that Bull associated with magebane. Bull wanted to send the rest of poison into the dirt but Dorian made no sign, so Bull sat on his arse and watched Dorian’s lip curl as he lashed out with a foot and caught Nonia in the ankle. She stumbled back, yelping a curse, and brought down her staff.

The cruel one caught her by the robes on her shoulder and dragged her away. “Here, Nonia, you deal with this one while I handle the traditor.”

Nonia shuffled a step closer to Bull, who kept watch on the cruel one and felt all of his muscles tense at once as she strode over to Dorian and jabbed the butt of her staff into his ribs. He grunted and hunched over, putting his face suddenly in the light. It was the first time Bull could properly see what they’d done to him, to his eyes, and he had to quickly swallow a growl.

“If it were up to me, you’d be eating nug shit,” the cruel one snarled. “Even this is too good for someone like you, traditor.”

Dorian tilted his head very deliberately, as though seriously considering what she’d said, and Bull’s heart did something complicated when Dorian grinned with blood on his teeth. Dorian spat in her direction, managing to splatter her boots with blood and spit.

The cruel stabbed her staff deeper into Dorian’s gut, growling something ugly in Tevene over Dorian’s whines. Bull’s fingers twitched but nobody was looking his way to see the moment of weakness. They were all watching as the cruel one put her boot on the back of Dorian’s neck, where Bull’s gentle hand had been, and pressed his face into the dirt.

“Maura,” Nonia said. “We can’t--”

“He thinks he’s clever,” Maura said. “Too valuable to damage but if he doesn’t curb his tongue we’ll sew his mouth shut too.” She looked over to Bull with an ugly sneer stretching her face. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Bull realised distantly what he must look like, what Dorian must look like with his clothes ripped and his blood on Bull’s skin and caked under his nails. It was easy to keep the horror from showing, simply breathing and blinking.

Maura shrugged with a vicious kind of nonchalance. “So long as you don’t kill him, you can beat him as much as you like. Personally?” Maura grinned with all her teeth. “I think it’d be justice for a traditor to get torn apart by a savage after deserting the Imperium. But Eligius says no. He wants to sell him back to his father.”

Dorian made a wrecked noise, half pain and half something Bull could only call despair. “Please no,” he whispered.

Maura looked down at him, lifting her boot off his neck and stepping away. Bull stared at the dirt and fresh bruises on the pale skin. “Magister Pavus is giving us good money for you, Eligius says. Far more than a wretched coward like you is worth. I’m surprised you didn’t get your eyes sewn shut years ago when someone realised you were just like your miserable ancestor Gideon Pavus, just another treasonous liar that Tevinter was better beheading than having to listen to the filth coming off your tongue.”

Dorian stayed slumped over and Bull didn’t let himself relax, not with how Maura’s lip was still curled in disgust. He watched her look down at the bowl of slop and kick it at Dorian, who recoiled too late to avoid the metal dish and caught it across his face, crying out as the rough edge sliced the bridge of his nose.

“This is all you’re getting. Eat it or starve, I don’t care which,” Maura said with a satisfied smirk. “Either way you’re headed back to Tevinter, and then everyone will see exactly what a Pavus is worth. Enjoy your last days in the South, traditor.”

Apparently satisfied, Maura left the cell. Nonia dithered for a moment before darting over to bowl, grabbing it, and then half-running back to the safety of the doorway without ever getting within reach of Dorian or Bull. She slammed the door shut behind her and the cell went dark. Bull slumped immediately, shoulders curling in as the key once more ground in the lock.

Dorian was still slumped over when Bull moved to him, inadvertently putting a hand in the poisonous muck soaking into the dirt. Bull cursed, wiping it off on his trousers. “Careful, this shit’s poisoned.”

“I’m aware,” Dorian said quietly.

“You OK with being touched?”

“Yes, it’s fine--” he swore without heat when Bull cradled his face, swiping at the still bleeding cut on his face with his clean hand. “Gently, please.”

“Sorry.” Bull tore another strip from Dorian’s robes to dab at his face, and it scared Bull when Dorian didn’t even murmur a complaint about his clothing. He kept all his touches as light as possible when he checked his ribs, which Dorian quietly submitted to aside from a single bitten off whimper. Meek-and-mild wasn’t something Bull was used to getting from Dorian, and in a desperate bid to find out why he smoothed a hand through Dorian’s hair and rubbed soothing circles into his back, his thumb at the edge of the new bruises on his neck. “Talk to me, big guy.”

“I’m not going back to Tevinter,” Dorian whispered. Bull stopped; there was nothing comforting about that tone of voice. “I’ll throw myself off a cliff before it comes to that. I’ll... I’ll--”

“Pashaara, Dorian,” Bull said, moving his hand again, slow and steady, up and down his spine. “We’re getting out of here before it comes to that. I promise.”

Dorian barely had the strength enough to laugh but he tried, all shaking shoulders and pained breaths. “If I don’t die here, my father will kill me. Either his spell won’t work, or--” Dorian shuddered. “A prisoner in my own head, forced to watch as Dorian Pavus becomes someone I’m not, will never be. Fuck, fuck.”

Bull pressed his forehead to Dorian’s shoulder. “I won’t let it come to that. We’re not dead yet.”

Dorian shook and it was impossible to tell whether it was from laughter or tears. Bull held him through it until Dorian went quiet, slumped over with his temple against Bull’s brow.

***

The door in the corridor hit the wall with a bang that reverberated down the hall, chasing the hurried footsteps headed their way. Bull growled, moving to shield Dorian from whoever came through the door -- Dorian, who wasn’t awake to chastise him or force him to put him back on the floor. He’d slipped into unconsciousness and hadn’t so much as stirred since, so cold and still Bull kept placing a palm against his pulse just to feel it fluttering, listening to his throat rasping with each breath.

A pair of footsteps faltered and Nonia cursed shrilly in Tevene. The second set of footsteps kept walking, heavy with the weight of armour and the scrape of metal on leather. The mages had never worn anything besides robes. Bull tensed, not knowing what to expect but running through scenarios. If they wanted Dorian, they’d have to pry him away from Bull.

“They’re just down here,” Nonia said. “I’ll need your help with the Qunari, it’s a half-savage monster. It’s who they’re after. Here, I’ll get the door, you get ready with your sword. OK--”

Their cell door opened and Krem walked in, a stolen sword loose at his side. Bull gave him a little wave and Krem smirked, half-turning to talk over his shoulder. “A monster, you said? There’s nothing like that in here.”

“Oh Maker, if they’ve gotten out--” Nonia pushed past Krem only to stumble to a halt when she saw Bull and Dorian. “What--?”

Krem’s sword was up before she could finish the thought. She died with a quiet noise and a look of surprise that never made it past her eyes. She slid off his sword and crumpled to the floor to lie in the dirt. Bull grunted in satisfaction. Made his job of clearing out the cult easier.

“Hey Chief,” Krem said, leaning down to wipe his sword on Nonia’s robes.

“Hey Krempuff. Took you long enough.” Bull levered himself to his feet, drawing in a deep breath and blowing it out when his vision darkened threateningly at the edges. Three days without food wasn’t enough to kill him, wasn’t even enough to keep him out of the fight, but his limbs were heavier than they should be from only standing up and his head was swimming. Bull tried to breath through it, grunting a thanks when Krem came up on his blind side and leaned his shoulder into his side. “You look like shit in those robes.”

“Next time you get captured, you can come up with your own escape plan instead of sitting on your fat arse getting fatter.” Krem looked out the open door of the cell. “C’mon, we gotta get moving before someone notices their prisoners aren’t where they should be.”

“Wait,” Bull said, looking over at Dorian. The light coming in through the door slanted across Dorian’s shoulders. His face was still partially hidden in shadows but under all the blood he was pale and still, without so much as his eyelashes twitching. He hadn’t moved, and a sudden fear gripped Bull’s heart so that he stumbled to him, kneeling down to feel his pulse. Dorian’s heart was still beating, faint but present, and Bull sighed in relief.

“Who’s he?” Krem said, jerking his chin down at Dorian.

“A friend.” Bull brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, stuck there with sweat and blood. Bull cupped his cheek but Dorian’s head lolled into his hand without stirring. Only his warm breath on Bull’s wrist kept his heart from beating out of his chest.

“A friend,” Krem said dryly.

Bull swallowed thickly. “I promised I’d get him out of here.”

“Alright,” Krem said. He hefted his sword and eyed the chain keeping Dorian tethered to the floor. “Alright,” he said again, and brought his sword down in a shower of sparks and the awful sound of metal sheering through metal. Bull immediately pulled Dorian into his arms, swallowing down the terror at finding him so limp and cold. He wasn’t dead yet.

Krem crouched down beside him, eyeing Dorian and flicking a look back to the open door. “How we doing this, Chief?”

“I’ll take him, you take the sword and go ahead of us--”

“Hang on--”

“We’re not leaving him,” Bull growled, cupping Dorian’s shoulder and scooping up his legs. “He needs help--” He tried to get his feet under him but his bad knee gave out and Bull went down with a pained grunt.

“And so do you,” Krem said, grabbing Bull’s arm and holding him there. “You’re dead on your feet. Do you really want to pass out while you’re carrying him?”

Bull growled in his chest but sense won out. “Fine, take him. I get the sword and go ahead. Stay back, look after Dorian.”

“Dorian, eh? Good to meet ya. I’m Krem.” Dorian was hefted up and slung over Krem’s shoulders, and if he’d been awake no doubt he would have complained about the unflattering comparison to a sack of potatoes.

Bull blinked the spots from his eyes and took the sword. “Horns up, Kreme brulee,” he said, and at Krem’s nod advanced out the doorway and down the hallway.

Hostile territory, one man already down, one sword between him and blood mages. It was like Seheron again, and just the thought let him sink back into the mindset that had let Hissrad survive. Fighting wasn’t an option. They had to keep the element of surprise for long enough to get out, regroup. Their enemy knew the territory better but they knew the way back to the entrance, Krem pointing out the way when Bull’s memory failed. The time they saved not checking doors and getting lost they used to go slowly. Distantly they heard hurried footsteps or shouts of alarm, but they hung back waiting for the cultists to pass them. Bull kept his mind perfectly clear, his sword raised and ready to react; before he could come up with a plan to clear out the cave of the cult, he needed to get his wounded man to safety.

Dorian hadn’t stirred yet and Bull turned to look at him with his good eye, worry rising up and flooding out past his careful calm, when Dorian chose that moment to shift and groan into Krem’s shoulder. “Chief--” Krem said but Bull was already helping him lower Dorian to the floor. The stolen sword was abandoned in favour of cupping Dorian’s face and looking, hoping, for signs that he was waking up.

“Dorian,” he murmured, stroking his thumbs along his cheekbones. The mages had really done a number on him. The skin on his eyelids was swollen and had darkened to a black-blue, and the stitches had become encrusted with blood -- not the carefully spaced stitches of a Saarebas either, but crudely done. They’d wanted Dorian to live in agony before they sent him back to his father. “Dorian, please.”

He started to stir, drawing his brows down in a deep scowl. His face not covered in blood turned mottled purple and white, and blood trailed down his cheek in a slow, stark line. Bull made a noise like a hand had reached in and squeezed his heart, and the expression on Dorian’s face softened. “Bull--?”

“It’s me, sweetheart. Krem’s here and we’re getting out.” Dorian gave a little startled breath and Bull smiled, stroking his fingers down Dorian’s cheeks and jaw. “I made you a promise but you gotta hold up your end of the bargain. Hold on until we get out of here, OK?”

Dorian dipped his chin and blew out a slow breath.

“Alright. Krem?” Bull stood up, stepping back to let Krem step in, slinging Dorian’s arm over his shoulder and lifting him.

“Let’s get you out of here, yeah?” Krem grunted.

Bull watched Dorian lean his head in close enough to whisper into Krem’s ear, who laughed and adjusted Dorian so he wouldn’t be jostled too much as they jogged down the corridor. “Yeah, you’re definitely the prettiest maiden I’ve ever rescued,” he said, sounding too smug by half.

“Stop flirting,” Bull said shortly, only half-joking. “The others?”

“Fighting at the front of the cave.” Bull let out a growl, part fear and part intense displeasure that his boys were anywhere near these blood mages. “No heroics, just distraction tactics. I needed to sneak in with these shitty robes and ask directions before anyone looked too close. Fighting was the best choice, you know it was.”

“You shouldn’t have come in alone,” Bull said, turning his head to give Krem a look.

Krem scowled back, his chin set stubbornly. “Escape first. Afterwards you can beat my ass.”

Another turn, another hallway with heavy wooden doors. The sound of fighting got clearer, raised voices and bodies hitting shields, hitting the ground, coming to a grisly end at the point of a sword. Bull grit his teeth when the smell of blood hit him like wet slap. They were getting closer to where the Chargers were keeping the blood mages’ attention, which meant they had to be close to the entrance of the cave. However, between them and freedom was going to be a whole cult of very pissed off mages. Surprise wouldn’t count for much when they were already staffs up and casting.

“Down there,” Krem said, nodding down a branch in the hallway. “Not far now. The entrance is through that big room--”

“I remember--”

“The others should be there fighting. Next left--”

Bull could see warm sunlight at the end of the corridor, and the blood smell was almost lost under the heavy burning stink of Rocky’s explosives. His relief was tempered by his caution though, and so Bull slowly craned his head around the corner for a look and pulled back quickly to avoid losing his horns to one of Dalish’s ‘bolts’. “Shit, the fight’s right outside,” he growled. “No way we can get past that.”

“Got any ideas for distractions?” Krem asked, the line of his chin determined but he was pale, and he kept having to adjust his grip on Dorian as he tried to slump to the floor.

“Just one, but you’re not going to like it,” Bull said, lifting his sword. “Krem, take Dorian--”

“Chief, no--”

“I’m not fucking kidding, you need to go!” Fear was rushing up Bull’s spine and down his arms, and his grip on his sword was so tight his hand was starting to cramp. But he was getting Dorian out of here.

“Chief!” Krem yelled again with an edge of fear that had Bull whipping his head around in time to see Dorian tumbling from Krem’s arms and hit the ground running.

Too stunned to think beyond what the fuck, his hand was too slow to catch Dorian before he bolted around their corner and faced the blood mages. Bull don’t know what noise escaped his throat but it was loud, tearing out of him and taking his heart with it. He tried to dive out after him but Krem grabbed him by the arm and pulled, enough to make him stumble back; too far, Bull could only stare at Dorian and pray he wasn’t about to do something incredibly stupid.

He looked like a hero of stories, grinning with blood on his face as he cupped his hand in front of his mouth. “Vae victus!” Dorian shouted, and his hand fell away as a flame licked out from between his lips and roared into life. It filled the hall with thunder and smoke like a dragon, and the cultists screamed, unprepared for an attack from behind and immolated where they stood.

There was so much smoke Dorian disappeared and Bull’s heart was thudding so hard, the rush of blood so loud in his ears, it drowned out the howling fire and the agonised cries of cultists dying. Bull finally shook Krem off and rushed into the thick black smoke. He tried to call to Dorian but there was no air, only burning smog. He coughed and choked, tears streaming down his face and blinding him, but he still pressed forward.

A body slammed into him and Bull grabbed the hand scrabbling against them, prepared to crush all the delicate bones before he threw them aside and kept looking for Dorian. A hand clutched his wrist and squeezed, just once, and Bull threw his other arm around Dorian and half pulled, half carried him out of the smoke. Dorian was shuddering and coughing, clinging to Bull like he was a drowning man at sea. Something warm and wet dripped onto Bull’s arm, and he wondered frantically how much more blood Dorian could lose before there wasn’t anything left.

Once they were out of the smoke, Bull set Dorian on the floor, his hands hovering over his face, his shoulders. Dorian’s lips were cracked and bleeding sluggishly, as blood from his nose ran down his chin and onto his wrecked robes.

“What the fuck was that?” Krem said, bending down and shoving his glove under Dorian’s nose to stem the bleeding. “Maker’s sagging balls!”

“That was our distraction,” Bull growled, wiping his eyes on the back of hand and trying to watch for anybody else coming through the swirling smoke. He couldn’t see through the grit, couldn’t smell. They’d have to fall into his arms before he even knew they were there. “We have to move, we can’t stay here.”

There was definitely movement in the smoke, going counter to the billows, and Bull raised his sword and bellowed a challenge.

“Andraste’s fat arse!” Stitches yelled as he burst through the smog, a shimmering barrier protecting his eyes and nose. “Which one of you was responsible for that?”

“The Chief’s new squeeze is a Maker-damned bitch of a mage,” Krem said before Bull could think to answer. Stitches glanced between Krem and Dorian before rolling his eyes up to the ceiling and crouching down at Dorian’s side.

“He sure know how to pick ‘em,” Stitches muttered, already pulling out salves and smearing them on the burns covering Dorian’s lips.

Dalish ducked out of the smoke from behind Bull, staff glowing and holding a bloodied dagger she sheathed so she could place her hand against Dorian’s forehead. “He’s cute. Beneath all the blood and bruises and disfigurement,” she said as her hand started glowing a soothing blue. “The moustache is very dashing.”

Grim appeared through the smoke with Skinner behind him, her grin stretching a cut across her cheek. Rocky trailed along, wiping soot from his armour. “Didn’t know moustaches were a thing for you, Chief,” Rocky said.

All his Chargers accounted for, Bull hefted up his sword. “If you get him out of here in one piece, you can compose a whole song to me and my taste,” Bull growled. “Krem, Stitches, get Dorian out of here. The rest of you, you ready to kill some fuckin’ blood mages?”

“Yes Chief!” they all shouted in unison. Stitches helped Krem pick Dorian up, an arm slung over each of their shoulders to support him.

Dorian reached out and caught a hold Bull’s arm, holding on tight as he opened his mouth and tried to talk. His burnt throat let out a wet croak before he choked, flecks of blood landing on his chin and doting his robes. “Chief,” Stitches said urgently, digging through his pouches one-handed, and Bull nodded his understanding.

“You need to get out of here,” Bull said quietly, putting his hand over Dorian’s fingers for a moment before lifting them away. “Shit’s about to get rough in here and I don’t want you caught in the crossfire.”

Dorian didn’t let go of his hand, his mouth twisted in an unhappy expression that looked like it was pulling on his burns painfully. Bull wanted to kiss him, but he also knew now was not the time, so he squeezed Dorian’s hand twice very gently. Dorian’s face shuttered but he let go of Bull with only a soft sound of protest.

“Stay safe,” Bull said softly, stepping back and nodding at Krem. Bull turned away as Krem tightened his grip on Dorian’s shoulder and with Stitches skirted around the dissipating cloud of smoke, headed for the exit. “Horns up, Chargers!” Bull roared, and followed by the answering cries of his men, dove into the smoke.

***

One moment he was in the Fade and the next Dorian was dumped unceremoniously back into his body and made to be aware of how ill-used he’d been of late. Everything ached, including places that Dorian hadn’t known could hurt like this, and Dorian wished quite earnestly that he could pass out again so as not to feel it all. When his bid for unconsciousness was thwarted, Dorian instead tried waking up, only to realise he couldn’t open his eyes. However, his eyes hurt no worse than the rest of him, and gone was the constant sting-burn-throb he’d been living with since a cult of blood mages had decided to reenact Exalted Age Tevinter justice on him.

“You awake?” a man beside him said and Dorian froze, as much as he could while already lying down and trying not to move for the pain. “Sure know how to pick your moments, don’t you, Spitfire?”

Dorian tried to remember who the man was, and where he was, and why he was calling him Spitfire. He took a deep breath and his lungs filled with the sting of elfroot -- there was blood on his tongue and his hands curled into rough blankets. The last thing he remembered was The Iron Bull about to go face an entire cult--

“Whoa, easy,” the man said, and a firm hand pushed Dorian back onto the bed roll after he tried to push himself up. Dorian jerked his shoulder away, even thought it upset the majority of his bruises and his ribs. “OK, no touching, understood. But you need to lie down. You’ve had a pretty shitty week already and you don’t want to add pulled stitches on top of it.”

He was on a bed roll and he had stitches. There was a man speaking to him who hadn’t insulted or hurt him yet -- though Dorian had only been awake for less than a minute.

“Krem?” Dorian tried to say, his dry throat and chapped lips not up to the task yet. Ah yes, the fire-breathing trick. That explained the nickname.

“Yeah, Spitfire, it’s me,” Krem said and Dorian slumped back into the bed roll in relief.

“Bull?” Dorian said, hope and panic warring inside him. He’d made it, but Bull was too stupid and stubborn to leave blood mages well enough alone.

“He left to get firewood, I think.”

Dorian nodded, trying not to be upset that the man who’d rescued him hadn’t even managed to wait for him to wake up before leaving. It was harder than he thought it should be, but apparently all it took was some kind words and gentle hands and Dorian was half-way to falling in love.

“Aw, shit. Don’t pull that face. He only left because Stitches kicked him out of his own tent. He’d been sat keeping watch on you for two days.”

“Days?” Now that Krem mentioned it, there was an ache in his bones that seemed far removed from his eyes and his arms and his cracked ribs. He hadn’t felt a pain like this since his days under the tutelage of Alexius -- those days had never seemed further away than now. The only thing he’d had to worry about then was having candles enough to study by.

“It was close thing for a while. I don’t think the Chief took his eyes off you, like he thought that the staring was all that was keeping you tethered.”

Dorian let out a slow breath. “Ridiculous.”

“Yeah he is.” It might have been an admonishment if Krem hadn’t sounded so fond. To hear Bull talk about his Chargers was to listen the man boast, as though they were the single greatest group of fighters, drinking companions, and individuals in Thedas. To see that affection and pride returned, it made Dorian smile. Bull deserved good people around him. “Look, he’ll be back soon. Go easy, OK? Chief’s a big idiot but he’s our big idiot.”

He nodded, a little hesitantly, but it seemed to placate Krem. His hand pressed into the bedroll by Dorian’s shoulder and he levered himself up to his feet with a groan, popping his back loudly. Bull wasn’t the only one who apparently thought that sitting and staring helped Dorian.

“I’ll let the boys know you’ve woken up. Get some rest, Spitfire.”

“Thank you.”

Krem snorted but Dorian was already being dragged back into the Fade. His confusion let him linger a little, listening to the sound of the tent flap being pulled aside and quiet conversation on the other side, but there was no raised voices, no smell of blood. He was safe, and it was with that thought that Dorian drifted into sleep again.

***

It was another day before Dorian could stay awake long enough to leave Bull’s tent. He would probably feel the cave and what they’d done to him for a long time, but in the meantime Dorian had been chained to a floor for the better part of a week and he needed to move, if only to feel the burn in his weakened muscles.

Navigating the camp was hard without his eyes and Dorian was not a patient man. Bull tried to stay close but Dorian had even less patience for him hovering like a nursemaid. Dorian shied away from unexpected touches, even those intended to pull him out of harm’s way, and Bull would apologise after every recoil from a hand on his elbow or around his wrist and Dorian would bristle and snarl.

Krem tried to talk some sense into Bull, and convince him to at least leave Dorian for half an hour so Dorian could piss in peace, but Bull didn’t really understand why until he saw Dorian borrowing Dalish’s spare ‘bow’. Slowly swinging it, cautious, but with a beatific smile shining on his face. Bull could only watch as Dorian went through his paces, a little falteringly but clearly well-learned, and when he finished Bull took a step towards him. Dalish beat him to Dorian though, and proceeded to flutter around him and gush praise, though always careful never to touch him. Feeling uncharacteristically shy, Bull hung back while Dorian and Dalish traded tips until they both turned to Skinner, loping over to tell them the food was ready. Dorian reached out and Dalish met him half way, wrapping his hand up in hers and tucking it into the crook of her elbow, startling a laugh and another one of those genuine, happy smiles from Dorian. He looked happy, and it was only then that Bull realised that he hadn’t been.

Dalish caught his eye and waved him over, but Bull couldn’t help but notice how Dorian stiffened as she called Bull’s name. Bull shook his head, smiling at the frowns Dalish and Skinner shot him, and turned to head back to his own tent and thoughts.

Despite Dorian’s apparent adoption by the Chargers, it was patently obvious that a mercenary camp was no place to recover after being blinded, and Bull’s talks with Stitches and Dalish only confirmed it in his mind. Stitches could only do so much with his supplies, better suited to dealing with cuts and bruises and the occasional broken bone, while Dalish conceded that the infection was too deep, too much in his blood now, for her to know how to heal it.

They could handle the injuries on his arms but there was no helping the mass of scars on Dorian’s face and arms. For the sake of his vanity, he kept his injuries covered by lengths of cloth, painstakingly winding them every morning and unwinding them every night. Bull didn’t watch, figuring Dorian deserved a least a modicum of privacy while they were forced to share a tent, so he was surprised when an evening almost a week after they’d escaped the cave, Dorian tapped his arm. Bull jerked his head around so fast he nearly clipped Dorian with his horn. Dorian was facing him with a small smile but his hands were twisting in his bed roll, betraying his troubled thoughts.

“So, when do we leave?”

“We?”

The smile on Dorian’s face faltered, going brittle at the edges. He recovered quickly, grinning up at Bull, something artificial about the curve of his lips. “You aren’t planning on leaving me behind, are you? Leaving me in the woods to be eaten by wolves like a babe of old?” Dorian touched the bandages at his temples, betraying his blithe lack of concern.

“No, course not.” Bull settled down on his bedroll with a sigh. Looking at Dorian across the tent from him, still pale and with bandages covering most of him, it should have steeled his resolve. It only made it harder. “We wouldn’t leave you behind.”

Dorian finally let his smile drop, scowling at Bull. “Say what you mean, Bull,” he snapped. “Don’t talk in circles like I’m too stupid to see what you’re doing.”

“Peace, Dorian,” Bull said. Dorian snarled at him. “I’m not abandoning you anywhere. The plan is to take you to the nearest town and find you someone better equipped than we are to deal with your injuries.” Bull reached up to scratch the base of his horn. Dorian had gone stiff as he’d spoken, a mouth a twist of emotions he couldn’t read. “After that, if you wanted to go someplace else, to Val Royeaux to find a surgeon maybe, we’d take you there too.” Dorian was silent for a long moment, and Bull didn’t know what to expect from him -- something dramatic perhaps, like setting the tent on fire.

What Dorian did was nod stiffly and turn away from him. “Thank you, The Iron Bull. That’s a generous offer.”

“You’re welcome,” Bull said. Dorian started to settle down for the night, the conversation having apparently ended, but something was wrong with the mild way he’d accepted it. “Dorian--”

“However,” Dorian interjected sharply, “there’s no need to take me as far as Val Royeaux. The nearest town will do, and then I shall no longer be a burden to you or your men.”

And with that he lay down on his bed roll, curled up with his face turned from Bull. Bull wanted to keep talking, but pushing Dorian was a sure way to get into a screaming argument where nothing got said. They could talk later, maybe after they reached town. Bull nodded and pulled his boots back on. Dorian hadn’t moved by the time he was drawing the tent flap aside, and with one last look back Bull went to stand watch.

It was a clear night with a sky full of stars and the two moons painting the whole world in a wash of greys and silvers. It was the sort of night where movement could be seen for miles and restless minds were given plenty of leeway to wander. Bull set his axe against a tree and made himself comfortable, and almost immediately his mind returned to the prickly mage currently sleeping in his tent.

In Par Vollen, Dorian would have been taught a craft, something to let him be of use and provide for himself. This far South, and without money or family, there wouldn’t be many who would afford a blind Tevinter mage kindness. Bull wanted Dorian to stay with the Chargers, with people who cared about him, but he couldn’t and Bull would just have to keep repeating it to himself until it stopped hurting. Keeping Dorian would be selfish. They could visit him wherever he ended up, in Val Royeaux or elsewhere. Bull wondered if this was what they meant when they talked about having someone to come home to. He thought about Dorian’s smile as he practiced with his borrowed staff, and what it would be like to have that joy directed at him.

Bull felt a tug in his chest and huffed a little in surprise. His heart had been doing weird things since he’d gotten to know what a bratty, contrary, lonely, kind man Dorian was. Bull thought about what it would be like to walk out the door and knowi that Dorian wouldn’t be following. Not tomorrow, not the day after, but eventually. After watching him get dressed in the morning and fuss with his moustache to get the curl just right; eating and joking with the Chargers who got along with him better than Bull could have thought possible; stumbling around camp and cursing at every stray twig and pebble but still so determined to manage without help. Sleeping in the same tent as him, catching his elbow before he could walk into a tree, seeing him saunter around as though his spare robes were the latest fashion.

Bull closed his eye and felt a stronger pull in his chest, just below his sternum. If it hurt to leave him now, how much worse would it be when it finally happened? Bull might as well saw open his chest and leave his heart behind with him.

There was another tug at his chest and Bull grunted for real this time, rubbing at the spot with frown. That wasn’t him, and Bull turned his eye to scan the trees around him. He’d been so lost in his own thoughts he hadn’t heard the rustling from the bushes behind him, back towards the camp. He hefted his axe and advanced towards the source of the sound; if somebody had gotten into the camp because he’d been too busy mooning over Dorian like a lovesick imekari, he was never going to forgive himself.

“Who’s there?” he growled, and the rustling stopped.

“Bull?” the bush said, and laughed, leaving Bull blinking in confusion until Dorian waded out of the forest. “Andraste’s tits! I can’t believe that worked!” He flicked his hand across his robes and gave his moustache a self-satisfied twist. “Naturally it worked, I’m a genius and a prodigy. Maker, I’m good.”

“Dorian? How the fuck did you get all the way out here?” Bull blurted, staring at him dumbly as Dorian preened and congratulated himself on his cleverness, of all things.

Dorian swung his head around to face him -- no, he was glaring at him, there was no mistaking that expression even half-hidden by his bandages. Dorian stalked over to him, staff in hand, and Bull stumbled back a step out of sheer heart-pounding terror. “Listen here, The Iron Bull,” Dorian said tapping the head of his staff against Bull’s shoulder. “I am an altus of Tevinter, an accomplished mage and esteemed scholar. If I put my considerable mind to finding you, do you really think I couldn’t?”

“Guess not,” Bull said dumbly. Dorian’s chin was lifted with a kind of untouchable superiority, and in that moment he looked every bit the altus and mage he was claiming to be. Now that Bull was fairly certain he wasn’t about to be incinerated, the fear was replaced by an arousal so intense his skin tingled and his breath caught in his chest. Dorian was beautiful and Bull couldn’t look away for anything.

“I am not yet so feeble that I need to be locked up in the back rooms for my health whilst you make plans about how best to deal with the burden,” Dorian snarled, tapping Bull again for good measure.

Bull frowned at Dorian, pushing his staff aside. “You’re putting words in my mouth. Nobody thinks you’re feeble or a burden. You’re injured.”

“I’m damaged,” Dorian sneered. “Admit it, it was easy to make promises while they seemed easy to keep. Now I’m -- I’m...”

His bottom lip started to quiver and Bull’s heart squeezed, even as he struggled to know how to help. Dorian-on-fire was easier, more predictable than this quiet mood. He seemed so defeated. “Hey now,” Bull said, reaching out to touch him and drawing short just over his shoulder. “Can I, um--” Dorian stepped into his arms and Bull hugged him very gently, ducking down to breathe in Dorian’s hair. “Hey there, big guy,” he said just to hear Dorian snort, his nose buried in his bicep. “What’s going on?”

“I was bred to be perfect,” Dorian sighed. “Perfect mage, perfect mind, perfect b-body.” He swallowed thickly. “Anything less is an embarrassment to your house.”

“Bringing shame,” Bull murmured, remembering with a white-hot rush what Dorian’s dad had done to try to change him. Dorian nodded, sniffling suspiciously, and Bull could only wrap him up more tightly.

“You’re starting to get it,” Dorian said quietly. “So please don’t -- don’t send me away.”

“I’m not sending you anywhere,” Bull growled with a vehemence that surprised even himself. Dorian stuttered a breath into his shoulder and Bull tried to take a step back only to have Dorian scrambling to keep him close, ending with his hands curled around his horns. It was Bull’s turn for his breath to falter. Dorian’s face was right there, close enough to see the freckles on his proud nose and how he bit his lip and left it spit-shiny. Bull wanted to kiss that lip rather desperately.

Instead he touched Dorian’s wrist and drew it to his own face, his confusion morphing to comprehension as Dorian tentatively stroked across Bull’s face, tracing his many scars and the place where his eye had once been. “You’re not damaged,” Bull said, his lips brushing Dorian’s hand. His fingers twitched but he hadn’t moved away yet. “You’re not going anywhere you don’t want to,” he said into the shared air between them. “I’m sorry, I should have asked you. What do you want, Dorian?”

“I want--” Dorian sighed and Bull felt it wash over his lips. “I want to stay.”

“Stay,” Bull said, and he felt something in his chest finally unclench. “Stay with me. Please.”

***

***

Dorian laughed, a sound of relieved joy. “Yes! Bull--”

Bull lifted him off his feet, startling an inelegant squawk and more of that delighted laughter from Dorian. He was too beautiful in that moment not to kiss. Their noses bumped together and Dorian tasted overwhelming of elfroot, but then his hands curled around Bull’s ears and the angle changed and there. That was perfect.

Somehow, between kisses, Bull remembered the desire he’d felt in that cave to take Dorian to bed, and more importantly, how he’d been interrupted before he’d been able to ask. He asked now, under the stars with the cave and blood mages so far away, and Dorian let out a soft sigh. He took his time answering but Bull wasn’t exactly worried about rejection when Dorian’s lips were pursed in thought against his collarbone and Dorian’s hands were skimming patterns across his biceps. He leaned up until he was breathing next to Bull’s ear and whispered a counter-offer. Since there were no beds to be found currently, perhaps they could compromise?

“Perhaps you could find us a nice patch of soft grass and, ah--”

Bull was delighted by the blush darkening Dorian’s cheeks. “You want me to make you feel good, sweet thing?” Bull said, grinning at Dorian’s small nod. “Want me to treat you right?”

Dorian scowled at him, his mouth an adorable little moue of displeasure. “I expect nothing but the best.”

Bull stroked his cheekbones, brushed a gentle thumb over his bottom lip. “I’m sure we can manage something.” Dorian shy and happy really was something to see.

Bull found them a nice soft patch of grass to sit in, but Dorian complained that it wasn’t up to his exacting standards and decided that Bull’s lap was the superior seat. Bull wasn’t complaining, not when it gave him the best view of Dorian, pale and silvery in the moonlight with his face tilted up for a kiss.

Slow and sweet kisses meant he’d bite his lip with a small smile when Bull drew back, and kissing his throat got him a sigh and gentle hands stroking along his horns. “Shit, Dorian, you’re hot when you’re all fired up like that,” Bull said into the noble line of his throat, lips on his pulse point.

Dorian turned his nose up at the pun but there was no hiding how the corner of his lip curled up. “I am magnificent.”

“Fuck yeah,” Bull growled. “I just about shat myself when you marched over like you were gonna set me on fire.”

Dorian’s moustache twitched and his grin grew wider. “I still could, you know,” he purred, stroking a fingertip along Bull’s ear.

“Yeah, but you won’t,” Bull said, catching his hand and pressing a kiss to his fine artist’s fingers. Dorian looked so startled by that small bit of affection that Bull leaned in to kiss the corner of his lips, his cheek, the line of his jaw. “You’re extraordinary,” he said into Dorian’s ear before kissing the shell with a hint of teeth. Dorian shuddered and made a small noise, parting his lips, only to turn his head very suddenly and look over his shoulder.

“Did you hear that?” he asked, and Bull tightened his arms around him, sitting up and looking over with his good eye. There was someone coming towards them none too quietly through the forest and Bull grunted, loosening his hands to run soothingly down Dorian’s arms.

“Think someone followed you from camp?” Bull said and Dorian shook his head sharply, concentrating very hard at where the rustling was coming from until he stiffened all at once.

“Bull, that is not a Charger,” Dorian said urgently, just in time for the head of a staff to poke out from between the trees. Bull registered that it wasn’t Dalish’s before he was grabbing Dorian around the chest and rolling him out the way, catching the arc lightning on his shoulder and grunting when his muscles spasmed. Bull must have blacked out for a moment because when he next looked up, Dorian was standing over him, his staff raised and pointed at the mage across the clearing.

“Filthy traditor,” the mage growled. Bull recognised that voice, and his heart plummeted as they stepped out and the pale moonlight shone on Maura, covered in her burn wounds and the whites of her eyes illuminated in the dark. “You killed my sister,” she spat, “and now I’m going to kill you, and the animal too.”

“Mori in kaffas!” Dorian snarled, gripping his staff so hard he was shaking. “How dare you speak about my Amatus like that!”

Bull’s muscles were shaking from the hit he’d taken and he couldn’t quite catch his breath, but he’d be deep in the Void before he’d just lie there and watch Maura kill Dorian. He rolled onto his side and nearly blacked out again, the pain from his shoulder blanking out everything in his mind and making his groan like a dying animal.

“So that’s how you escaped,” Maura said, her voice dripping with slime and making Bull shiver to hear it. “Disgusting... I’m going to enjoy killing you.”

“Dorian,” Bull moaned. “Leave... get help--”

“And leave you? I hardly think so.” Dorian grinned, the moonlight catching on the points of his teeth. “Fear not, there’s only one of her and I’m not half so unprepared as when they caught me. I rather fancy my chances.”

Dorian raised his staff, his gathering magic sparking along the shaft. And that was when the world erupted.

Later, once Dorian had dismissed the spirits he’d summoned, their duty done and Maura’s death screams long faded into the night, Dorian sat with Bull while Stitches pulled out his much-used burn poultice and tended to Bull’s shoulder. The Chargers had come running as soon as they’d heard the howls of the undead, all of them in various states of undress but all armed to the teeth, and they could only stand back as Dorian had dealt with the blood mage the fastest way he knew how.

“Maker-damned bitch of a mage,” Krem had said solemnly, a sentiment the rest of them seemed to share judging by their nods and the thump Skinner gave Dorian’s arm. It took the majority of them to help Bull to his feet and back to camp, where he was settled back in his tent and Krem took charge of organising the watch so they weren’t surprised by any more blood mages.

Bull was quiet, barring the odd grunt, and so was Dorian. Stitches made enough noise for the both of them, sighing and muttering that he was running out of bandaging, but once he left for his own tent, the awkward silence settled in thick and heavy.

“So,” Bull said, scratching at his chest. Dorian was sitting stiffly on his bedroll, and would have been staring resolutely into the middle ground if he’d been able to. It was too dark in the tent to see his expression but he was radiating misery in a way that was hard to miss. “Necromancer,” Bull said a little stupidly.

Dorian nodded. “Fire is useful, but necromancy is where I truly excel at. Though I haven’t raised so many bodies in a long time. I might have overdone it.”

“Nah,” Bull said, reaching across and letting his fingers brush Dorian’s knee. “I reckon she got hers.”

Dorian chuckled, ducking his head. “Yes. That she did.” His hands were clenched in his lap so hard they were shaking, and Bull moved to cover his hand with his own. “She hurt you,” Dorian whispered wetly.

“If you hadn’t given me the heads-up, I probably wouldn’t have gotten out of the way in time. Would’ve taken her lightning head on.” Bull tugged gently and eventually Dorian relented, letting Bull pull his clenched fist to his mouth and press a kiss to the knuckles. “You saved me. Thanks.”

“Think nothing of it, Amatus,” Dorian said with a smile. Bull grinned; he recognised an endearment when he heard one.

“And now I have a scar worth boasting about,” he said for the way it made Dorian laugh and squeeze Bull’s hand.

“You are not letting it scar, you ridiculous man. You are putting on Stitches’ poultice if I have to hold you down and put it on myself,” Dorian said in mock-indignation. Bull growled playfully, tugging on Dorian’s hand until he got the message and bent down to kiss him. He rested his head on Bull’s uninjured shoulder and sighed, his hand still shaking in Bull’s gentle grip. Bull didn’t say anything; it had been close for both of them. Every time he blinked he could still see silver light on burn scars. He needed Dorian close as much as Dorian needed to hold him.

“How did you know she wasn’t a Charger?” Bull asked and Dorian stiffened again. “I couldn’t tell until I saw her staff. Was it magic?”

Dorian nodded slowly. “It was the same thing that allowed me to find you. Necromancy gives me an affinity for spirits. I can reach into the Fade and--” He frowned, drawing back his hand as he struggled to put his thoughts into words. “People have a presence which objects do not, and I can feel some of that through the Veil. I knew you were standing watch so I simply looked for the presence furthest from camp and followed it.”

Bull thought for a moment. “Was that you with the--?” He gestured at his chest before remembering and huffing out a laugh. “I felt this pulling in my chest, like there was a string around my heart.”

“Yes, that was me. Completely harmless, without magic enough to do anything. I was just -- err -- how to explain...”

“You were following your heart,” Bull cooed, laughing at the Dorian’s immediate disgusted noise.

“That is an overly simplistic explanation that completely fails to capture the intricacy of what I was doing,” Dorian said waspishly, smacking him on the shoulder and absolutely not blushing.

“You should explain it to me sometime then.”

Dorian’s glares were something to behold, all in the thin line of his mouth and the delicate wrinkle in his nose. “You wouldn’t understand it. Most magical scholars wouldn’t.”

“Probably not, but I like hearing you talk,” Bull said, and predictably the blush on Dorian’s cheeks and the tips of his ears deepened.

“You unrepentant, awful flatterer,” he said, his voice far fonder than his words. Bull figured he was forgiven when Dorian bent down to give him another kiss.

Hissrad, and the part of him that heard ‘spirits’ and shuddered at the thought of demons and the Fade, said that Dorian was dangerous. Bull looked at Dorian and agreed -- he was glorious. “So you can find people -- and distinguish them?”

“I’ve spent enough time with the Chargers to know them when I see them,” Dorian said before snorting. “For lack of a better term. They’re familiar, Maura was not. It’s difficult to explain.”

“How many people can you ‘see’ at once?” Bull asked, mind already turning.

Dorian was quiet for a moment. “Only one or two. Probably more, with practice. Why? What are you thinking, Bull?”

“Nothing bad,” Bull said, and Dorian gave an ugly snort. “It’s just, I knew with all that confidence when you talked about your talent, you’d be a someone I wanted to have at my back in a fight. Seeing you do your necromancer shit, it just proves it. You’re incredible.”

Dorian twisted the end of his moustache, a fragile smile on his face. “Glad we can agree on something,” he said with a confidence he clearly didn’t feel.

“I think that, with a little training and practice, you could be a damned good fighter. You’d have to learn to avoid hitting the boys, but you’re smart enough to figure something out with your ‘spirits’,” Bull said as casually as he could, and still Dorian’s mouth dropped open a little before he must have realised he was gaping unattractively and snapped his mouth shut. “I was serious, you know,” Bull said quietly, remembering how his heart had unclenched when he’d finally asked Dorian to stay.

“I know,” Dorian said faintly.

“And if you’re staying with the Chargers, you’ll have to start earning your keep.”

There was a long moment when Dorian froze and said nothing, and Bull worried that his joke had fallen flat or struck a sore spot he should’ve known to avoid. Then Dorian burst into ugly snorting laughter and poked Bull sharply in the collarbone.

“The Chargers are a third-rate mercenary group who should be so lucky to have a mage of my calibre counted among them,” he declared, jabbing at Bull until he caught his hand again and nipped gently at the pads of his fingers to make him squawk. “Luckily for you, I am willing to waive my fee. For certain favours.”

The grin Dorian gave him was absolute filth, and if Bull hadn’t just magically had the shit kicked out of him he would’ve taken him up on that smile. Shit, he could still try, even if it got him a load of disappointed Chargers tomorrow morning.

“Oh?” Bull said, his voice going low.

“Yes,” Dorian said, his nose in the air again. “I think a trip to Val Royeaux is well overdue. I will not concede to wearing these robes any longer, Bull.” Bull started laughing and Dorian’s moustache twitched, threatening a smile, but he kept up his haughty act. “What century did Dalish recover them from? And why? I don’t need to see to know that they do absolutely nothing for me.”

Bull leaned up to taste that smile, feeling the laughter on his lips as Dorian chuckled between kisses. “Of course, Dorian. Of course.”