A/N: Written for Venndaai in Chocolate Box 2018.
When Dorian awoke, the world was shaking. That in and of itself would no longer be considered unusual - the world could be expected to regularly shake, crumble, and burn at varying intervals - but the rock dust in his facial hair meant that they would probably have to move before the sun finished rising.
The Iron Bull stood at the mouth of the cave. It was impossible to tell how long he'd been up; none of them looked anything less than worn these days. He nodded once at Dorian in greeting before jerking his chin in the direction of the latest explosion. "Gaatlok."
"Have the Qunari moved on the South, then?" Dorian peered into the dim pre-dawn gloom, but the only movement he was able to detect was a couple of birds flitting among the trees, dark feathers almost invisible.
The Bull grunted. "Not so sure about that. They definitely sent agents when things went tits up in Orlais, but with the Vints at their borders? The Antaam should have dug down to defend Par Vollen."
"Is it possible that someone else is using the powder?" It was a sign of the times they lived in that that was even a question worth asking.
"Ordinarily, I'd say no. But, well...shit." Dorian chose not to pay the Bull the discourtesy of acknowledging what he didn't say - that exactly how fucked they were depended entirely on who had the powder now. Either the Venatori had gained ground and the situation in Par Vollen was worse than they'd realized or the Qunari were rattled enough to give up one of their most carefully guarded secrets to save the world. It was hard to say which possibility was the most unsettling.
The Bull had held his left arm so strangely still through the exchange that Dorian almost feared something was wrong with it - some unmentioned injury after a battle resurfacing with dire consequence. Then he noticed the paper crushed and nearly hidden within the Bull's fist. Of course, he should have realized - it was the wrong season for crows. "How is Cremisius?"
"The Chargers turned up a lead on where that demon army came from. Apparently this Elder One's got in good with the Wardens." Dorian swore colourfully. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?" It was, very pointedly, not a Qunari turn of phrase. Maybe a slip, a blur between the line of cover and assimilation. Maybe a deliberate prod. Dorian hadn't divulged much of his own history beyond the immediately necessary and if he had any suspicions of his own, the Bull's face never gave the game away.
"She taught me most of those words, actually."
The Bull laughed - sharp, but genuine. "Good for her."
They tied a red strip of cloth around a tree branch about twenty paces from the cave where they'd made camp, location carefully chosen so that anyone approaching from the front who might be looking for such a thing would spot it before anyone else who might have found the cave would spot them. Provided the whole forest didn't burn down by nightfall.
"We could try to send one of the birds after her," the Bull said. "It would be risky - might lead them to her, might lead them to us - but at least she wouldn't come back to a burned down forest."
Dorian could feel eyes boring holes into his back, but he ignored them and turned to give the Bull his most blandly despairing expression. "Have a little faith in our companions, will you? Sera will know where to find us."
"Yeah? One of your 'feelings' tell you that?" He didn't quite stoop to drawing air quotes with his fingers, but the sentiment was there. Dorian's smile was a grim answer. "I wish you'd knock it off with that cryptic crap."
"Maybe I will, once you stop answering questions I didn't ask."
"Ben-Hassrath. It's not something you turn off." The Iron Bull shrugged. "If I could figure out how you do your thing, maybe it wouldn't bother me so much."
"You never know - I could be communing with the Fade, consorting with demons. We Tevinters do so love our party tricks." The Iron Bull only snorted, glancing at him sidelong through his one eye. "What, not going to vow to put me down should I ever succumb to the dark arts?"
"Think we've got enough people trying to kill us as is."
"Regrettably true."
"Keep blowing up the other guys and you're good with me."
When they finally turned around, Dorian was unsurprised to find nobody there.
Dorian had nearly bolted after noting the man's obvious Tevinter origin. Only the knowledge that they'd already found him and that there was probably nowhere to go stayed him. That and he'd agreed to this meeting, fool that he was. Might as well see it through.
The man stood politely on his approach. "Cremisius Aclassi, representing the Bull's Chargers."
"Dorian," he said and admitted no more, even when Aclassi raised an eyebrow in clear invitation. Anger at his father still ran deep, but he would not willingly lead danger to his doorstep. "If I'm not mistaken, that's the mercenary company contracted to the Inquisition. My, whatever brings you to my neck of the woods?"
Aclassi returned to sitting at his table and indicated that Dorian should do the same. "Someone in the area's been doing some damage to Tevinter mage camps. Didn't expect it to be one of their own, though."
"You expected correctly," Dorian said and couldn't resist a toss of his head. It was so hard blending in when standing out was your first line of defense. "I am not with the Venatori."
"Trust me, if I thought you were, we wouldn't be talking right now."
"Of that, I have no doubt." There was a dark-haired elven woman at the bar with a dagger on her belt; that in and of itself wasn't unusual. That she had spoken to no one in the entire time she'd been there was. "As charming as my company is, surely this is more than a social call."
"Our commander is feeling out his opportunities, should he be inclined to break his contract."
Dorian tried not to show how badly that prospect startled him. He had his own reasons for being wary of Inquisition forces, but last he'd heard, even the Chantry had begun expressing reserved support after the Herald of Andraste managed to unite the Templars and mages under one banner. "Well now, that sounds bad for business."
"It's not a choice we'd be making lightly."
Dorian gestured to his tattered robes. "I'm afraid I'm rather short on funds at the moment. Shocking, I know."
"We're not asking you to hire us."
"Then what are you asking for?"
"Information to start with. These...Venatori, did you call them? Seems like you know more about what's going on with them than just about anybody's willing to say." Aclassi leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, body language carefully open. "If I tell my commander this is worth our time, maybe we give you a little more firepower to throw at them, maybe we have your back next time they decide to retaliate. I'm sure we could work out something mutually beneficial."
"So, what? You're proposing a partnership, then?"
"Of a kind. If you're interested."
A familiar hat at the edge of the room. Ah. He probably shouldn't have felt as relieved as he did, still worried about the implications of that partnership. It would certainly simplify negotiations in the here and now, however. "If you would excuse me for a moment." Aclassi's eyes followed him to the door. When he passed the bar, the elven woman shifted slightly, but didn't get up. His caution, at least, hadn't been misplaced. As to whether their offer was legitimate...well, he'd know for certain in a minute. Either way, he had a feeling this would be his last night in this village.
The Inquisition had gained something of a reputation for accepting help from all quarters. An objectively positive attribute when one considered the nature of the problems they were facing, but politics were rarely so sensible.
Alexius had been certain that the Herald would come for the mages. So had Dorian. He had hidden and waited and planned and hoped, but each day the sun rose to share the sky with the breach and Alexius's magic grew more reckless in its application and help never arrived. And then Felix disappeared.
Dorian nearly gave himself away searching for him, certain that even now Alexius would have never let anything happen to him, but turned up nothing. He had no time to grieve over what he feared to be true; if Felix was...gone, then he was truly without allies.
He didn't quite run the full distance to Haven; despite the Inquisition's work, the roads leading out of Redcliffe were still plagued by battles between Southern Templars and rebel mages and neither group bore much love for the Imperium. Misdirected as any confrontations may have been, taking that risk wouldn't have left Dorian any less dead for the effort.
None of that danger had prepared him for the dread conjured by his first meeting with the Herald of Andraste.
Dorian had been the first offer of help that the fledgling Inquisition had turned away, even if it had happened so abruptly that few even knew he'd been there. It would turn out that he was something of a trendsetter in that regard.
Well, of course there had been Cole, if one counted him. Nobody did.
Dorian and the Iron Bull had become incredibly proficient at fighting back to back within a relatively short time - they'd had no choice in the matter. They were better when they had Sera to fill the gaps in their abilities, of course, and nothing compared to the early days when they had the full strength of the Chargers at their disposal. However, with the Bull's axe at the front line and Dorian thinning the herd through fire and lightning, they were more than enough to deal with small groups of the Elder One's followers and rift spawn. Flatteringly, the latest encampment they'd harangued seemed to think there were more than merely two rebels hiding in the hills.
Unfortunately, that meant that when they scoured the area, they came out in force.
It was a stupid mistake, really. They'd mapped the area, marked the locations of the rifts. They should have noticed which way they were being driven much earlier.
The fear demon lived up to its name when it split the Iron Bull's back; the sound of his shout would reside in Dorian's dreams for many nights to come.
Sera's addition to their group turned out to be a...rocky transition point. Dorian had only barely moved on from his - somewhat unwarranted in hindsight, admittedly - tense beginnings with the Iron Bull. His sense of social etiquette was finely honed for success at parties hosted by the Imperium's upper class; he was at a bit of a loss when it came to dealing with an angry elf from Ferelden who looked like she'd never met a barber and had a not-totally-unfair grudge against more than one category under which Dorian could be classified. That she and the Bull already got along so well almost made things worse. Sometimes Dorian almost thought he felt the stirrings of camaraderie, but just as often he was certain that their differences were irreconcilable.
"So what happened between you and the boss, Sera?" The Bull was using his 'conversational' tone - the one that put townsfolk spooked by the sight of a large Qunari at ease. "Last I saw, you two were pretty friendly." And there was the subtle current of innuendo in his tone that made previously skittish townsfolk bat their eyes and smile. Dorian stared sullenly into the fire and wished they'd chosen somewhere warmer to rebel against forces threatening the world.
"Didn't fit the Inquisition." The mocking lilt of her voice suggested it was a direct quotation. "Arse."
"That's the nature of power, unfortunately," Dorian said. "You get a little taste of status and you can't even hear the voices of the little people anymore."
"It's not like that," Sera snapped. "You didn't even know her, so shut it."
It was on Dorian's tongue to point out that Sera hadn't really known the Herald for that long either, but he turned away, unexpectedly scalded by the rebuke. When Sera wandered away, muttering something about "finding somewhere to piss without rashvine" and "bloody Magister pissbag, what does he know", the Bull casually bumped Dorian's shoulder. He might have passed it off as an accident of girth, except that they hadn't touched once in the entire time they'd been sitting.
"Don't mind her," the Bull said, "she's got some hurt feelings to sort through, but I think she actually likes you. Just...maybe sleep with your boots on for a few nights. Can't promise you won't be sticking your footsies in druffalo dung otherwise."
In his delirium, the Bull kept calling him 'Kadan'; a sentiment he at least understood, even if he was missing the context. He wondered who it was the Iron Bull saw when he looked at him through the haze of fever.
"A nail hammered too harshly splits the board, spoilt and rendered without purpose. A tool is beyond use when that use is beyond sense. Tama, is this all I'm meant for?"
"Is that supposed to mean something to me?" Dorian let Cole linger in the corner of his eye as he squeezed the makeshift washcloth again before applying it to the Bull's forehead. He silently fretted over how quickly it seemed to grow warm, but truthfully knew too little about healing to judge what was normal. He wondered where Sera was now - not that her bedside manner was likely to be any better, but at least she'd be company.
"The Iron Bull is here and not here. Pain splits the darkness, but beyond that, heat burning through to the center of him. It makes him think of the jungle."
"Infection will do that to you."
"You wanted to know. You want to understand, but you won't ask."
"Not my business, really." Dorian waited for the rejoinder, for his private thoughts to be flung out in front of him with as much care as the wind had for leaves; Cole seemed stubbornly resistant to the idea of boundaries. It wasn't that he was looking forward to it per se, but only a few of his acquaintances had any talent for banter and right now they were...well. He'd take an argument if it was the best he could get. It never came and the next time he found the courage to raise his head, he was alone in the camp with an unconscious Qunari.
He sighed and stared at his hands, pruned with water, but still dirty under where the nails had cracked. "Precisely." Nobody answered him.
Sera had an arrow notched, but the tip was nearly in the demon's face without firing. Dorian slammed his staff against the ground, hasty and formless in a way that his tutors would have scolded him for, but the demon hesitated as ice spread over its body. Then the Iron Bull came from behind, axe swinging in a hard arc.
"Shit, yes." The Bull slammed his axe into the ground next to bits of shattered demon, hollering enthusiastically in victory. Sera's arrow soon joined the odd collection, rolling briefly through the grass as she nearly fell over in laughter.
"By all means, let's stop to celebrate in the middle of a battlefield like savages," Dorian said.
"Oh, lighten up, Dorian. You know, you're not half bad when you're not being a tit."
"Such praise. Am I swooning? I think I might be."
"He means 'thanks'." The Bull ruffled Dorian's hair roughly, catching him in an unprepared squawk. He reached to do something similar to Sera, but she rolled nimbly out of his path, cackling unsympathetically at Dorian's plight.
"Let's do that again," she said.
The Bull released Dorian, hefting his axe over his shoulder with a grunt. "Not so big on the demon part, but as long as it ends with its fleshy bits on the ground, fine by me."
"Ugh, gross. Ruined it now."
Maker help him, maybe Dorian was a little bit fond.
He worried about Sera. He listened for the whistle of arrows in the wind and searched for red among the colours of the forest. She had taken care of herself for many years before she'd met them, he knew. She had more resources at her disposal than even the Bull; Ben-Hassrath contacts could be pulled or compromised, but there would always be 'people'. But the Inquisition's reach grew by the day and Dorian feared never knowing almost more than confirmation that the worst had come to pass.
He worried about Cole - kept expecting to see him in shadows or hear him whenever he set off alone, but didn't. He hadn't for days and that was the problem. He knew from experience that Cole could bleed, red and terrifyingly like a human; he didn't know if that was normal or if it meant the same thing to spirits as it did to people. Cole was a bit...unprecedented.
He still worried about the Iron Bull most of all.
When a physical relationship developed between Dorian and the Iron Bull, it was not that much of a surprise, really. Centuries of war and cultural strife did not actually render tall, muscular horned men any less attractive - quite the opposite, as it turned out. Physical, however, was all that Dorian anticipated it ever being. A nice, no-strings attached romp for the end of the world. Neither had anything to gain out of pursuing more nor anything to lose out of staying as they were. Simple enough.
The cuddling, he was less prepared for. The Iron Bull slept with his face awkwardly mashed to the ground, angled to give his horns clearance, all so he could sling one arm over Dorian's waist to pull him to his chest. Dorian had become used to Ferelden's cold - or, rather, he had become used to the inevitability of feeling it. It settled in his bones, deep like an ache, something that no proximity to campfire could ever chase away. The Bull's body heat didn't change that, but it was still...considerate. More so than he would have expected or asked for.
Dorian rested more comfortably than the Bull, but sleep always visited him second.
The day the Iron Bull's fever broke, Dorian did nothing so dramatic as weeping, but he might have rested against a tree to breathe deep, shuddery breaths for a moment or two. The Bull regained his strength by slow measures, but day by day he kept his eyes open for longer, kept down more solid food, made it far enough away from camp to relieve himself unaided. Dorian kept an eye on the wound, but it looked considerably less angry than it had in days and seemed well on its way to healing.
"Will it scar?" the Bull asked.
"Almost certainly," Dorian said. "Unless you know someone particularly adept at healing magic, you don't cut through that much muscle and get to keep your flawless complexion, I'm afraid."
The Bull looked pleased. "Good. Wouldn't be worth it otherwise."
"I despair of you," Dorian said, more warmly than he'd intended. Apparently near-death experiences made him sappy.
"Let me make this very clear: the Inquisition is not here to solve your petty political squabbles."
How long? Slow rage crept through Dorian's veins like poison, displacing the blood that had fled to rush in his ears. How long? followed by Do they know? Somehow, even finding out the truth about Alexius hadn't been this devastating. If even the Herald of Andraste was in league with the Venatori, then what hope was there?
He must have managed to keep his face suitably placid because the Herald gave him barely another glance before dismissing him.
"Cole," Dorian said, almost surprised by his own lack of surprise, "I've been wondering where you've been."
"I've been here, but you always forget."
A thin thread of panic worked through Dorian like a shudder. The idea of holes in his memory was nearly intolerable. Even so, he said: "I'm sorry." He meant it; being forgotten sounded worse.
"You hurt, but I don't help," Cole said, like that justified everything. Maybe to him, it did.
"Even so, I'd...appreciate knowing where you are."
"Why?" And then, before he could answer: "A hidden thing that cannot be hidden from, two things you wish you didn't have to fear; I make you uncomfortable."
"That's not wholly inaccurate, I suppose. Still, I'd prefer to endure some discomfort than worry that you're dead in a ditch somewhere."
Cole paused and then: "Thank you." Dorian didn't entirely know how to respond to that.
Dorian's heart hammered in his chest, staff too far away to grab inconspicuously. He'd been so stupid. He shouldn't have stopped to rest the night so close to Haven, should have got as far as fast as possible.
The boy was spindly, staring unblinking from under a wide-brimmed hat. He didn't look like much, but he'd entered Dorian's room undetected. It didn't take physical strength to hurt someone, as Dorian well knew.
"I'm Cole," the boy said, "and I want to help. So do you."
When the sky split for the second time, there was no grand event to warrant it. No Conclave explosions, no dead Divines, no Heralds walking from the Fade. Just an otherwise mild day and then the Breach began spreading again, like a slow sickness.
The Iron Bull stood bathed in green, a solemn statue, almost harder to look at than the sky. "Well," Dorian said, "this is very, very bad."
"Yeah," the Bull said, unmocking; if he felt the words were inadequate, he didn't show it. "You got any 'feelings' you wanna run by me?"
Dorian glanced at the corner where he knew Cole would be before he could think better of the impulse; he was not particularly comforted by what he saw. To be fair, he couldn't be certain that his own face didn't mirror the same naked fear. When he turned back to the Iron Bull, he was met with a patient, expectant expression that set a weight in his gut. "Ah. And when did you realize?"
"Ben-Hassrath."
"Ah," Dorian said again, feeling very eloquent today. Perhaps the more important question had not been when the Iron Bull had known, but rather when he had decided that knowing didn't matter. After all, the Bull was still here and Dorian still had a head on his shoulders; that had to count for something.
"What about you, kid?" the Bull asked, addressing Cole directly now. "What's our game plan?"
"I made a friend, but he wouldn't help us. A mistake to unmake a mistake; not what he wanted, but still what he asked for. The world is delivered into the wrong hands and this too was Pride." Cole turned to them and the shadows under his hat in the green light made his gaunt features ghastly - a shadow of the truth of what Dorian knew him to be. "He might want to help now."
The Bull made a face. "This friend of yours - he a demon too?"
Cole turned back to the Breach.
If one wanted to figure out when things went wrong, one need only have paid attention to the Herald of Andraste's inner circle. Even the most observant might have missed the Tevinter mage whose help was spurned (and most probably would have agreed, besides), but the departure of the elven apostate was appreciably more memorable. The Herald's anger was swift and unforgiving; considerable Inquisition resources were diverted from aiding refugees and warding off demons to searching for a wayward mage to no success. But maybe this, too, was not so strange. After all, the Seeker was nearly as furious and the apostate had been the closest thing to an expert on the Breach at the Inquisition's disposal.
The dismissal of the Red Jenny could also be seen as reasonable. The Inquisition was growing in power and standing, of course they would want to consider their allies more carefully.
Even the Qunari mercenary made some sense - no one really trusted or even understood the Qunari.
But when the Revered Mother's gentle chastisement fell suddenly silent? When the Knight Commander's forces found their leadership usurped? Somebody should have noticed something. Somebody should have said something. Somebody should have done something.
A reformist magister had coined a phrase about bread and frivolities shortly before his assassination. Good to know that history was ever burdened with unlearned lessons.
The most amazing thing about the end of the world was that life went on. Every town they passed through, people continued to live their lives as best they could with demons baring down on them and the sky shining like a fractured mirror, living until something stopped them. Dorian wasn't even entirely sure whether the attention he and the Iron Bull drew was because the world at large was kind of threatening as of late or because a Tevinter mage and Qunari would always raise some eyebrows this far south.
Sometimes the Bull took Dorian's hand when they walked, a twisted fulfillment of a silly boy's dream, one he'd never dared voice and never hoped to have for real. Still, the Bull's hand was warm where everything else was cold and Dorian enjoyed it more than was probably sensible.
The Bull was holding Dorian's hand when they found the scrap of red fabric on the fountain - a match for the one that had been unceremoniously arrowed into their camp that morning. He couldn't begin to guess what manner of garment it had been in its former life.
The Bull bumped his shoulder. "Ready to be big damn heroes?"
"Not really," Dorian said and he meant it. But, with the Bull's palm pressing against one hand and Sera's signal clenched in the other, he smiled; if nothing else, he meant that too.