Chapter Text
At the heart of the trouble, it turns out, is Dorian's staff.
Not the metaphorical one, with which Bull's yet to get acquainted, but his actual mage's staff, crafted for his hand alone and lost during their escape from the Venatori. The Inquisitor's in the same fix.
On the fourth day since they returned to the Inquisition camp at the hidden spring, they set out towards Montsimmard. Vivienne, who should be on her way back from Val Royeaux, has been alerted by swift courier. If they were closer to Skyhold, the Undercroft and Dagna's worktables would hold a solution, but Vivienne's contacts near her old Circle will hopefully do the job: procure the materials and craftsmanship to make new staves.
Lavellan and Bull take to their horses while Dorian tethers his mount to the back of a supply wagon and bundles himself in between sacks of grains and beans with a book and a blanket. Cole's gentle, dappled mare trundles alongside the train; the kid prefers to ride on top of a cart.
The road slides into a craggy, switchbacking climb, hindering their pace to a near crawl. When Dorian emerges to squint at the sunlight and grumble that the jostling gives him a headache, Bull dismounts to walk beside him a while.
"Never really got the charm of travelling in carriages."
"Mock me all you wish." Dorian sighs. "I have been declared infirm, as you may recall. Weary of mind and body. Nourishing food and light exercise only—though I am getting ready to set someone on fire for properly atrocious ale."
The camp surgeon was rather more curt about Dorian's treatment regime, but Bull will allow that was the gist.
"Might find you some at the waystation. Let me know if I can help with the exercise." Bull skims his fingers along the nape of Dorian's neck and feels him swallow, then laugh.
"You were the one that elected to wait."
"There's another funny human thing. You think that sickbed romps are some height of a life-affirming good time. Far as I know, recovering makes you achy and tired before there's any fun involved."
Dorian slaps his book lightly against Bull's forearm. "You have been too deep in Cassandra's stash again. There are a few southern books beyond the filthy romance genre. Romantic filth. Whichever."
Snatching the volume from Dorian, Bull prepares to use it in a canny counterargument, only to be foiled by the faded, embossed title including the words "invocation" and "treatise". No wonder it made Dorian's head hurt.
He hands the book back before Dorian's quirked eyebrow dips into a scowl. Dorian's steps dither across the scree littering the road, and fall into a pace beside Bull's heavier strides.
It's not his new awareness of Dorian as such that throws Bull for a loop. He's fine with the knowledge. He was more than fine with Dorian pulling him behind a loaded wagon that morning, to kiss him for a precious minute in the midst of breaking camp. That's true even if he can't rightly remember if he's ever gone three days between first kissing someone and then bedding them with great enthusiasm. This subtle lockstep of seduction is slow for his usual style—and his means, as mobile as his life has been.
Bull would've gauged it as not being Dorian's style, either, though his reasons are probably different. Tevinter high society smothers most liaisons that curl outside their tightly laid, gilded little boxes of propriety. That much Bull's picked up from between Dorian's scant lines on the matter.
They walk behind the wagon, arm brushing against arm, and Bull wonders where they're headed.
"So," he says, drawing Dorian back from looking steadfastly ahead. "This staff issue. It's got to be a big deal if we're making a detour, but what's it mean? You're not as effective without it."
"Not as efficient," Dorian retorts. "I am a senior enchanter. There's no spell I need a staff for—at least not any we'll require between here and Montsimmard."
"I'm not slighting your magely prowess. Just curious."
"It's a question of economy. A staff is like a spyglass or a pulley." An evocative gesture accompanies this. "You can strain your eye trying to see across a distance, or haul up a load by main force alone. The staff focuses your will and lightens the casting."
"A pretty complicated pulley, if we're getting a week out of our route for this." They were supposed to head straight into the Emerald Graves.
Before Dorian can counter with Do pulleys summon lightning storms, it's a metaphor, you great clod, Bull continues, "But you're still good, right?"
"If any highwaymen should drop out of the sky, you'll have my barriers. Don't fret."
With that, Dorian hoists himself back up onto the wagon, It's an answer, meant to reassure, if not in the way Bull sought.
That night they rest at a waystation, a wind-whipped huddle of buildings jutting out of the parched landscape. Most of the soldiers and drivers pitch tents or crawl into the covered wagons to sleep, but a log-fire is lit in the longhouse for the Inquisitor, her company, and the handful of wounded that they have along, casualties of scouting the Wastes.
Bull makes a bed on the wallside bench, meant to double as sleeping space. The split log will burn slow and heat the room, and in the meantime, he has his cloak and blankets.
Dorian wanders in smelling of soap and sage, his steps loose and careless after whatever bath he managed to put together. He fumbles his way onto the bench where it turns at a right angle above Bull's head, along the corner of the house, and rustles his blankets until they're probably one wrong turn shy of strangling him.
Bull listens. He always listens, up to the verge of sleep, but this time it's not a sweep for suspicious noises. Dorian's movement pulls at him. His shifting in the liminal light of the fire, a muffled epithet, a long sigh as he settles. He lies on his side under the blankets and sheepskins, curled up to preserve his own body heat.
Before, Bull kept track of Dorian as he would of any ally: to make sure he was holding up. He can hear Lavellan snoring lightly on his other side on the bench. Outside the shuttered window, a horse stamps, a bird cries. A guard hangs a pot for tea above the crackling log, setting the wrought-iron hooks clattering against each other.
Groaning at the ring of the hooks, Dorian buries his face in the flax-husk pillow. Bull hums wordless sympathy at him.
What Bull should do would be to untwist his mind from Dorian and go to sleep. For once no one's going to wake him for a watch. He's thought that thought with finality when hesitant fingers curl over his own. He flung a hand up to stretch the arm, but now Dorian's hand covers his upturned palm, dry and a little cold.
"Good night." Dorian's voice slurs into a sleepy mumble.
" 'Night." If the drowsy clasp isn't worthy of comment, Bull's not going to start. The weight of Dorian's hand, lingering long after its grip has relaxed, trails him down into slumber.
As they travel west, the rumpled patchwork of the land smooths itself into low-lying woods and rivers hemmed with fields. Spring stretches over the crops and wild meadows alike, stirring them to colours that range from the dreamy greens of new wheat to the jewelled shades of early flowers. Cranes dance in the mists of marshy valleys and gulls soar above Lake Celestine like scraps of frozen spume.
Leaving the wagon train to unload and resupply at the Inquisition outpost near Val Firmin, their party of four continues towards Montsimmard at a quicker clip. Favoured by the weather, they gain sight of the city's red granite walls a day ahead of schedule. The road wends past a steep-lined fort, its towers decorated with the remains of burnt banners. The fiery sword of the Templar Order, shredded by flame. The quartered circle of the mages. The only thing that moves is the wind singing under the arc of the scorched gatehouse.
The Montsimmard Circle was ransacked by its own mages—those who chose to rebel. In places the walls of the main keep are tumbled and torn, stone fused into streams of rough glass by spellfire.
No one suggests a stop, but they rein their horses into a walk. Lavellan's face is sharp and pensive, Cole's faraway. Both have reasons for their apprehension. Dorian's gaze lingers on the melted walls, and Bull watches him watch the destruction.
These might not have been the mages standing in the ranks of the Inquisition, but they've taken a lot of comers and not always asked many questions. Behind the thoughtful frown Bull reads a kind of fascination on Dorian's face. Academic curiosity or wondering about the Circle's fall? This was Vivienne's home. Would she see it restored?
"Such a pity," Dorian says.
He could mean the Circle or its violent breaking. He openly endorsed Lavellan inviting in Fiona's mages as allies on equal standing.
Bull doesn't ask then. They have a few miles left until Montsimmard proper, and he lets his thoughts stew—fester—for that while. They've been stewing since the desert, after all.
Dorian is wicked wit and ferocious self-possession, thorny kindness and the unexamined vulnerability of a sleepily offered hand. He holds hopes Bull scarcely knew he was entertaining.
A mage is fire and madness hidden under tenuous wraps of humanity. A dangerous thing, caged for its rare and crucial uses, bent into submission only by its merciless mastery of itself.
There's enough Ben-Hassrath left in Bull to know that the copper masks and sewn mouths, fortified walls and templar swords are as much for the captors as for those held in bondage. They're a promise to the others, those called normal and common: we keep these forces of nature so you are kept safe.
The inn isn't anything out of the ordinary: passable beds, food smothered in cheese and butter, the smell of new wood in the bathhouse walls, and the splitting from their tight unit of four that private rooms grant. Even that rhythm of together and alone has become rote since Bull pledged himself to guarding Lavellan. In the wilds, sleeping rough, they hardly piss out of sight of each other. Civilisation brings the chance for solitude, or, more germane right now, privacy.
Dorian's not the first 'Vint Bull ever looked to bed. For them all, tumbling a Qunari had the decadent tang of scandal, but for the men, it didn't stop at that. Neither Lavellan nor Cole cares a whit that they'll fuck at the first decent opportunity. Even so, Dorian draws Bull aside to kiss him and resolutely sleeps on his own side of the communal tent, still needed in the crisp Cloudreach weather.
Maybe long-learned caution holds him back. Bull doesn't think a hasty romp behind a corner or tree would satisfy either way.
He did sort of promise Dorian a bed. To treat him softly in the wake of his adversity, both physical and arcane. It was only Lavellan's Dalish lore that saved him from the despair demon.
It was a nearer miss than they've had in a while. A victory both more stark and more clouded than Bull could've pictured. They all live. Dorian's safe, in his right mind, and regards Bull with a startling depth of feeling.
And Bull learned that standing on the ground of Dorian's innermost thoughts. It's really not within his normal rules of operation. But they sorted it out to an acceptable degree, and if the not-so-covert gestures Dorian points his way are anything to go by, they're not done with each other.
Bull takes his turn in the bath, scrubbing himself clean and settling into the tub. Meant for communal use, it's more the size of a small pool, built into the floor, and he's happy for the chance to stretch himself out in it.
The afternoon is long, and he's got nowhere pressing to be while Lavellan begins her enquiries. The water steams. His thoughts wander.
Bull and his lusts tend to have a candid relationship. If the other parties are willing, he indulges them as simply and readily as he can. Sometimes he watches his boys make eyes at unreachable people—or, as the case may be, each other—and lose their heads in their fancies until time, drink, or their comrades' relentless mockery clear them.
From that angle, his own tightening longings ought to have earned him plenty of crude commentary by now. Losing your touch, Chief? How's it we haven't heard the 'Vint make noises through your door?
Eh, have you looked at his face? He's in it, he's rotting mooning.
Dorian might make some interesting noises, once you got him to bed. With his velvet voice and whip-quick repartee roughened by need, his nimble fingers seizing Bull's arms, his proud posture gone loose with want.
He lets himself think of Dorian. Dorian soft and tired, opening his arms with unbearable hope. Dorian prickly and amused, shivering at the brush of Bull's fingers on his skin. Dorian as he might be: wound free of his reservations, naked and near, come to him.
Or leaned back in the throes of feeling, ready to snap. Those beautiful hands in his grip. That solid, well-made body on top of him. He feels his cock swell between his legs in the tepid water, and imagines sliding it in between Dorian's slickened, strong thighs instead.
It's all a tangle of things his mind is too eager to summon. How does he like it? Is he quiet or loud, slow to warm or prone to going up like dry tinder? Does he want to tell or be told?
Bull has a handful of educated guesses, pressed into the back of his mind like leaves between vellum pages. His hand wraps around his cock and wants to dwell on those images, not just finish with the middling attention he'd usually give.
It feels like a weird gaffe to sate himself on heated thoughts when there's a real person in his reach. Doubly so now, because Dorian isn't—can't be—a quick and merry diversion.
Bull is in too deep for that, and his thoughts too mixed. Beyond idle ideas of what Dorian wishes or enjoys lie darker imaginings: Dorian's eyes glowing with green fire, his sonorous voice marred by a demon's grinding, grotesque delight. They slash at him like stubborn brambles, twined into thickets of sweeter memories.
He wishes he knew how deep in too deep is, this time.
On the Inquisition's coin, they all have their own rooms. Supper is a downright sumptuous affair after weeks of travel bread and increasingly mysterious stews. Something to make up for last time, Lavellan says, already oblique about the mess in the Wastes. Eager, maybe, to put it behind them, though Bull knows she's not one to forget. Now they're all clean and replete, the dirt and dross of the journey shaken free.
Dorian gestures at the half-full jug of wine on the table. "No one will protest overmuch if I steal the rest, I hope?"
"Oh, do," Lavellan says. There's something studied to her tone, a conscious effort to treat Dorian easy.
"You gonna steal all of it, 'Vint?" Bull starts, before seeing the glimmer in Dorian's eye.
"Bring your cup." Dorian tucks the basket-wrapped jug under his arm, and they leave Lavellan to pick through the remains of the late-winter fruit that made up dessert.
Dorian's stride across the common room is practically brazen for him, with the unsubtle glances he throws at Bull. It's been a week. Bull should—does—need little more.
Dorian's looks are warm and his mouth will be warmer, firm and familiar. He leaves a waft of jasmine in his wake, though his hair is conspicuously loose, kinking as it will when left free of oils. A concession to Bull's newfound liking for running fingers through it, to Dorian's occasional despair?
They'll go upstairs, latch the door, drink the wine. The intent between them has grown to dark ripeness, demanding to be heeded.
Lanterns stand scattered across Dorian's room: the narrow table, the windowsill, the bedside bench. The bed smells of lye and clover and rose, the sheets new and strewn with herbs. Dorian's things clutter most surfaces: a kohl pot here, a notebook there, a bundle of shirts spilling from his open rucksack.
Everything's quiet and inviting, and Bull needs to find his words and open his mouth.
"Dorian." He drops his cup on the table. Dorian stops in the middle of reaching to fill it, instead lowering the jug and meeting Bull's gaze.
"You'd like to talk first, then?" He tugs a stool close with his foot. "That is fair."
Poise and raw hope mix in Dorian. He probably thinks he conceals the latter, yet it's the very thing that trips Bull: how much, underneath his airs, Dorian wants.
Wants him, specifically.
"Yeah." Bull half feels like a fool. "Set a couple things straight."
"Something remains in doubt?" Dorian arches an eyebrow. "Have I misinterpreted the repeated smouldering glances all week? You don't in fact wish to fornicate in the filthiest manner the bed can sustain?"
Bull tries for a laugh and finds a rasping one. Dorian's hand rests on the curve of the jug, fingernails standing out against the bronze of his skin.
"Stop sidetracking me and we can get to that bit sooner."
Dorian folds one leg up, ankle on top of his knee, and leans forward. "This is the most sensible seduction I've had in a long time. I am listening."
"This..." What can encompass Bull's trouble? You let a demon—sorry, a spirit—in your head, and that stumps me a bit? "This whole mages and control thing. How does it work?"
"With all these questions, one might think theory of magic gets you going."
"Screw you," Bull says, without venom.
"I rather hope you will. You've had a mage in your company for years, and you've never asked her this?"
"She's a bit more subtle than you." Dalish rarely gets up to anything extravagant. Bull knows the hints of her barriers and bolstering glyphs, but she only pulls out the fire and ice for tougher fights when they can be sure about the lack of an audience.
Out of sight, out of mind. "Guess I didn't think about it much." She never went all glowy-eyed and gravel-voiced on him, at that.
"Now you want a lesson in thaumaturgical safeguards before I render you incapable of whole sentences." Dorian's smile is almost indulgent. "Spirits are drawn to mortal emotions, as you know. When mages tap into the Fade to fuel a spell, we momentarily open a channel through the Veil. Spirits take notice of such openings, and thus, we risk an intrusion." His fingers form a steeple, then fold between each other. "Am I boring you yet?"
"No." Unsettling, maybe, but not boring. "Feelings attract demons, and so does magic. I suppose making senior enchanter includes knowing how to keep 'em off you."
"Perpetual vigilance." Dorian hikes one shoulder into a shrug. "Even Tevinter does test its mages. No one wants a fumbling aspirant to burst out in demons in the middle of a high street. Terribly awkward for the whole family." A crinkle of concern deepens between his brows despite his verbal frippery.
The unasked question winds through the air. Bull swallows to wet his mouth. "What about if you're distracted? I mean, enough to be overwhelmed."
"We've been through a great number of life-or-death situations together. You've seen me under fire. That isn't proof enough of my mettle?"
If Dorian is asking that straight, Bull's doing a piss-poor job of checking himself. He can feel one thing and show another, but this time, both are genuine. He wants and he worries.
"I have, yeah. I didn't mean—"
"You meant me, not some hypothetical mage in distress. For a professional liar, that was not much of an obfuscation."
"I wasn't trying to bluff you." Much. Only enough to cover the disquiet churning in his gut. "Just get a grip on this."
"Do define 'this' for me, Bull." There's an unqualifiable strain to Dorian's expression, and the softness in his voice has changed tenor.
"You. Being a mage." Being with a mage, wanting to see Dorian come apart with pleasure, wanting to make that happen. Knowing the dangers that may lie hidden in such loss of control. "I can't say I've got a lot of first-hand experience here. You're doing better and I'm damn glad of it."
"But you don't trust me." Gingerly, like the movement hurt, Dorian stands. "You think I'm going to—what? Dangle my restored self as bait for the first spirit that comes to pluck at my yearnings?"
"I don't think anything." Bull nearly bites his tongue. "As in, I'm trying not to assume. I know what you're made of, you've saved my hide enough times for that. I just—" He slips and slides across another pause that Dorian could use to picture the worst. "I just need to know you're gonna stay you."
It strikes home like a crossbow bolt, and Bull sees the moment that the impact staggers Dorian. Sees his fists ball with white-knuckled pressure to steady him against its force.
"I made a pact. At an utter lack of options, I took the one that saved my life. It saved your life."
"That thing took over you, Dorian." As much as Bull tries to speak soberly, horror strokes a chilling claw along his spine. "I fucking watched you tear at your own face like that could pull it out."
"Yes, because our dear meddling magister bound it with blood magic!" Dorian's throat flexes. "Oh, I admit, that was entirely my mistake. It doesn't change the fact that I did not agree to let a blighted demon into my mind."
"Doesn't seem like they usually ask for permission." Fuck. This whole conversation is fast tipping down the hill.
"What is it that you want from me? A change in the order of the world?" Dorian snaps. "If this is some profound case of cold feet, I assure you that I understand the word 'no' in six languages."
"Look, I don't know how this magic crap of yours works! But I sure as I live am not gonna risk something going tits up again." Bull's heart works like a trip-hammer, in painful, rapid thuds.
"There's a difference between a liaison and a demon-summoning!" Dorian's anger surrounds him like welling smoke, hot and rancid. "Trust me, I have never confused the two. But that's the problem, isn't it? That when it comes down to it, you have not moved past the Qun. Handling a mage in full command of his faculties is beyond you."
A mage is havoc and devastation clothed in the skin of a feeling, sentient being. Dorian has never been taught to see himself as anything lesser or limited, has never had to suppress his humanity, his right to be as he is.
"If I still thought like a Qunari, I'd have cut you down on that landing." It would've been a mercy. Bull might be sick where he stands.
"Get out." Dorian sounds like he's on the brink of choking. He's hunched over the table, hands shaking against the top. "Andraste keep me, get out of my sight."
Out of options, denied the chance to either regroup or explain, Bull obeys him.