It was only by chance that Dorian had picked up the communication crystal in the first place. He'd shuffled it away the day he'd received final word of the Inquisitor's death—away to some box in some drawer of the desk that occupied most of one corner of his private office in the Tevintris Curia. Then, this, many weeks since he'd returned to Tevinter after Lavellan's Dalish death rites, he'd merely been filing away paperwork after an arduous session in the Senate and stumbled upon it once more.

Which leaves him, here, sitting in the plush, finely leathered armchair of his office, clutching the faintly glowing crystal, and wearing an expression between fond nostalgia and heartbreak. After what must be several minutes, he reaches into the crystal with his magic, and whispers, "Are you—are you there, Amate?"

There is no response. Dorian cannot decide if he is disappointed or relieved.

"If you can hear this, " he continues, regardless, "wherever you are, you must know that I am so, so terribly sorry, my old friend."

This must be something like prayer, he thinks. His shoulders slouch forward with the weight of this almost-confession, yet he feels as though tremendous burden lifts from him.

Until there's a hiss from the crystal.

Dorian's heart leaps into his throat. He casts the crystal away from him, and it thuds dully onto the desk. Taken aback, body tremulous, Dorian keeps his frightened stare on the stone now lit only by the soft dawn light streaming in from the high windows of the office. It can't be, he's thinking, it's impossible.

Once his head has cleared, somewhat, he realizes, someone has probably nicked the late Inquisitor's crystal, thinking it a bauble, or perhaps Josephine is taking it into storage.

He takes the crystal up once more and activates it. He catches the end of a hushed, urgent, gruff voice: "—dan, you've gotta say something if you're in this thing."

"This is Dorian Pavus," he barks. "Identify yourself."

"Dorian?" inquires a voice that Dorian now recognizes as that of Iron Bull. "Well, I'll be an ass-fucked nug."

"Bull? Why do you have Lavellan's communication crystal?"

There's a loud chuckle and an intake of breath that sounds a lot more difficult than Dorian is sure he's heard from the Qunari. And he's heard a lot from him.

"Is that what this is? I used to catch him with this thing at all hours of the night, laughing, shouting, consoling—anytime I'd ask who he was talking to, he'd just smile real big and say, 'A friend, Bull.'"

Dorian has to grin, partly at the memories Bull brings to mind and partly due to his impression of the Herald. "Yes, I do believe some of our more heated debates did escalate to shouting."

"Well, I'm just glad my lover wasn't secretly going nuts and talking to himself or—" Dorian has to imagine the shudder. "—Demons."

Dorian tries, again, "You still haven't answered, Bull. Where did you get this?"

A sigh. "I've been carrying this around since..." He doesn't have to finish. Since he died.

"I understand."

"Yeah." There's what Dorian has to assume is a Qunari-sized sniffle. "Anyway, this is strangely fortuitous timing. The Chargers and me, we're in Nevarra. The City, to be precise."

Dorian straightens sharply in his seat from surprise. "That close? What are you doing there?"

"Escort request for some Royal Scholar out of Val Royeaux. Had hoped to get in touch with an old contact buddy of mine, too, while I was here, but from what I understand he's out to Weisshaupt, and the stuff going on out there... Well, I haven't heard from him. I don't know. Not my Chantry, not my Sisters."

Dorian groans and rubs his face with one hand. "Of course, there are Ben-Hassrath in Nevarra."

"Don't get your silks in a twist, Magister Pavus. There are, but they've been there so long, you've been dealing with them without even realizing. And this guy wasn't Ben-Hassrath, anyway. Far from it."

"Forgive me," comes the reply as said Magister sinks back into his chair, "if I am not immediately overcome with relief."

"Well, if you aren't, I could always help with that. Especially the overcome part."

Dorian cannot help the lewd smile that spreads across his. "Iron Bull, are you flirting with me? A Qunari savage propositioning a member of the Magisterium!"

"The Iron Bull; remember the article." A short chuckle. "And I was more outright saying we should screw."

"How charming! I daresay this is what passes for subtlety among your people."

"Yes, yes. But what do you say, hmm? It's only a few days' ride to somewhere halfway. I've got a little town just off the Imperial Highway in mind. Or the rest of the boys could smuggle me and Krem into Minrathous, if you could keep a Qunari invasion out of the ears of the Magisterium."

Dorian was silent for a moment, contemplating. Then, with a thrill of adrenaline, he spoke: "As much as I'd love to be subjected to a, ah, Qunari invasion, I confess, I'd much rather see you as far from Minrathous as possible. But yes. I would like to see you." Resolute.

"I'll let the boys know."

"And I should get back to—what, what was I doing?"

Over the next few days, the communicator crystals rarely stays silent for more than a half hour at a time. Since Bull is no mage, Dorian keeps a passive mana font feeding the amulet to keep the line open. Bull and he swap banter as he leaves word of his holiday with his servants—recently freed from their indenture to the estate and retained with handsome salaries—and closes his personal office for the Senatorial recess. Bull's tales of jobs and high jinks along the way make the days of travel pass far more quickly.

But then, he is there, at a small tavern in a quiet town Dorian thinks his father and he might have visited in his childhood. Waiting for Bull to show up. And he is nervous, in all ways good and bad.

It has been some time since those confessions between the Qunari and Tevinter outcasts at Skyhold after the Inquisitor's death. And the subsequent days spent in each other's arms. And his eventual inability to ignore his calls back to the Imperial Capital. And Dorian simply doesn't know if Bull still feels the same.

If anyone were to ask, of course, he'd dismiss such a question—"Of course, he misses me. Who wouldn't miss me? I'm a national treasure!"—but now, left alone with himself...

"Dorian!" the crystal rings out, "I'm here. Meet me 'round back."

Ripped from his reverie, Dorian stands and exits the tavern after putting down coin for the mediocre wine he'd been sipping.

Wending his way around the simple stone exterior of the booze hall, surely enough, he finds a large, cloaked figure with painfully conspicuous headgear waiting for him. Wordlessly, he beckons the mage to follow him through snow-heavy winds and slushy streets, far, far into the fringes of the town.

Just as sunset tinges the sky in shades of fire, just once Dorian is certain he can smell the livestock, Bull directs him through the servants' entrance of a decidedly exceptionally comely home. Once inside, the Qunari removes his cowl with a gasp and pants as he unwraps it from himself.

"Piece of crap snoufleur leather crap!"

Dorian can see the sweat on Bull's distressed visage, and it brings a broad smile to his own. Once Bull sees it, he immediately returns it and, moving close and taking Dorian's face in his hands, raises Dorian a kiss, tender, intent, but ultimately chaste.

"You're looking good, Magister Pavus," he says once it has ended. "I'm so glad you could make it out here."

Dorian lets out a sappy chortle, then, replies, "As am I, Bull. Immensely." It's then that Dorian smells food. "By the way, I wasn't aware any Tal-Vashoth had been granted property or title, and certainly not so far south."

"No, no," Bull says, waving one hand and taking Dorian's in the the other to lead him further into the domicile. "This place belongs to that contact I mentioned. His wife has very generously offered to put us up for as long as you can spare."

"She doesn't know I'm—"

"As far as she is concerned, you are my plus one and not a jot more."

Dorian takes Bull's hand in both of his (still not quite enough to cover it) and squeezes. "You've thought of everything, haven't you?"

The face that turns to meet Dorian's unexpectedly soft expression is one of pure lechery. "Oh, I've thought of quite a bit, Tevinter."

When they finally reach the dining room, it is lit only by the warm glow of a single candelabra in the center of an intimate table, and a slave, human, is just uncovering the second of two splendid-looking dishes set on either side of it.

Bull directs Dorian to one chair and practically pushes him into it so he can scoot the wooden legs along the floor and in toward the table while he takes the seat immediately opposite.

"So," Bull prompts as he starts to run his knife through what appears a considerable section of the haunch of a large land beast, "Let's catch up. For real. How's the month been?"

Catch up they do. Bull speaks of the homesickness the Chargers have felt, collectively, for the Inquisition. Dorian talks of the ever-beleaguering politics of the Imperial Senate. And in no time the meal is finished and they're stands as the table is tended to by three or four more slaves. They are then joined by their apparent hostess, Dorian believes, who is dressed in gorgeous velvet and satin with elaborate embroidery all along the trim that bears a striking resemblance to Old Tevene heraldry. .

"I bid you both the most heartfelt of welcomes," the Lady says in an accent Dorian cannot place for the life of him. "I trust the meal was satisfactory?"

Dorian offers her a bow from the waist. "Simply exquisite, madame."

Bull, on the other hand, gives her what appears to be a bone-crushing hug. "You know your food is always impeccable, Antonia."

She smiles warmly, hugging Bull back and nodding in acknowledgment to Dorian. "You both flatter me. Since my husband's absence, entertaining has been my greatest joy."

Just then, a slave enters, whispers into Lady Antonia's ear and passes into her hands a sealed missive with the seal of a silver griffon on it. She smiles to her guests, then, excuses herself, and she and slave both exit.

Bull, then, puts a hand around Dorian's waist and murmurs, "For our part, this is where it's going to get good."

Much later, and in far fewer clothes, Mage and Warrior lay upon the generous bed of a room in Lady Antonia's guest wing, wrapped around one another, panting as each comes down from their respective release.

"So good," Bull pants into Dorian's neck. "Have you—since we last—?"

Dorian shakes his head. "No, no one else," he confesses, "I'd hoped something like this..."

Bull chuckles and pulls Dorian closer to himself. "Damn, you are divine."

Choked laughter is his only response. "A statement with quite different meaning in this country."

The Qunari shakes his giant horned head, still occasionally gasping. "Fair point, kadan, but—"

And then, as it only could, disaster strikes.

Or Lady Antonia does.

With a screech of "Ebost issala, hissrad!" she leaps from the shadows with a dagger that plunges straight through Bull's back and into a lung, if Dorian guesses right.

But Dorian is too focused on Immolating their attacker to double check too closely. So, he only perceives the groan of pain from Bull, the shriek of fear as most of the Lady's body is set aflame, and the rush of the adrenaline making this all possible.

The woman is flung backwards, slamming into a wall, then, sinking to the ground in tears and sobs, though if Dorian were to listen more closely, he'd know it wasn't simply from the newly charred flesh of her body. But he isn't listening to that.

Because Bull is starting to convulse.