Doubt
The Inquisitor found his vanguard hunched over a map, surveying Cullen's latest round of annotations alongside Cassandra's recommended plans of attack.
"Bull. You have a minute?"
"I have more than one, if you brought beer," the Qunari replied, before looking up and flashing a small smile at the sight of the pair of tall mugs in the Inquisitor's hands.
"I hope those're both for me, Sir," he said, drawing a laugh out of the Inquisitor as he walked over to take a mug from his hand. "You humans really need to work on your tolerances."
"I'm trying, trust me," the Inquisitor said, as the two of them walked over to a stone bench and sat down. "Give me a few more run-ins with demons and I might be able to drink you under the table."
The Iron Bull laughed, smiling as he took a long pull from his mug.
"That'd be something," he said, "but I'm pretty sure Cassandra would have some sharp words waiting for you."
The Inquisitor shrugged, taking a drink. The Iron Bull frowned, concerned by the unusual detachment in his commanding officer's green eyes. It was an odd look for someone in his mid-twenties, more at home on the face of a battle-scarred warrior. It was a look the Iron Bull had seen in his fair share of mirrors since leaving the Ben Hassrath, but for the Inquisitor to already be cracking around the edges… that was a very worrisome thing indeed.
"What's on your mind, kid?" he asked, the formality gone from his voice.
The Inquisitor was quiet for a few long moments, and when he spoke at last his voice was a far cry from the impassioned, powerful presence it made at the Inquisition's war councils.
"How do you do it?" he asked at last, looking over and up at the Iron Bull.
"I do a lot of things," the Qunari replied, giving the Inquisitor a small smile. It was met by a tired chuckle in return. "What specifically do you mean?"
"I mean acting like you're not in the process of going totally insane," the Inquisitor said, taking another drink. "The things we've seen, the things we've done—I'm not going to pretend my hands were clean before I wound up here, but…" he sighed, hanging his head. "This is something else. I don't know how much longer I can keep fighting, Bull. How do you do it?"
"Well, I'm going to be an asshole and answer your question with a question," he said. "Why are you still here?"
"Because I have to be," the Inquisitor said. "Because I'm the only one who can close the tears in the Fade."
"Well, there's your problem right there, kid," the Iron Bull said, allowing his voice to become something close to paternal. "Duty can only carry you so far. Believe me, I know. And it'll carry you even less if you come at it like a burden. You think the demons we're out there killing are mindless?"
The Inquisitor paused, unsure where the Iron Bull was going with this.
"Well, they certainly act like it."
"Might seem that way, sure, but they aren't. They're driven. They have wants, needs. Desires. They might be fighting for selfish reasons, but those reasons are their own. If you want to be able to fight something like that, you need a drive that's just as strong."
The Inquisitor laughed bitterly.
"Hard to match a being that's literally desire incarnate."
"You know what I mean," the Iron Bull replied, taking another swig before trying a different approach. "I had a conversation with the Arishok once, a couple years ago, a little before I left the Ben Hassrath. The Arishok—back when he was just a Sten— traveled with the Hero of Ferelden back during the Fifth Blight. Word was, he was even in the group that recaptured Fort Drakon and went toe-to-toe with the Archdemon.
"I asked him how the Hero had managed not to crack under all that weight," the Iron Bull continued. "The Arishok told me one thing. He said, 'A witch gave him a ring, and he never took it off.' How's that for cryptic bullshit, right?" The Iron Bull laughed, shaking his head before he continued as the Inquisitor found himself smiling. "But I got the message, eventually. The Hero wasn't fighting to save the world from the Archdemon. I mean, he wound up doing that, sure—but he was really fighting for the people he loved. His friends, his comrades. That was what kept him going.
"So, now that I'm done with my sappy inspirational crap," the Iron Bull finished, draining the rest of his mug, "That's my advice. Find something to fight for that matters to you. That's what'll keep you going. You can definitely give good speeches about sticking together, kid. So tell me: do you really believe that, or are you full of shit?"
The Inquisitor looked over at the Qunari, seeming equal parts surprised and hurt.
"Of course I believe that," he said. "I don't lie to any of you. Ever."
"Good. Then act like it. We're all here to fight for you. Return the favor and fight for us."
The Inquisitor smiled, and this time it was genuine.
"I'll do my best."
"From what I've seen, your 'best' will be more than enough," the Iron Bull said, smiling in kind. "Now, I have weapons to sharpen. You all right?"
The Inquisitor nodded.
"I'll be fine. Thanks for the talk."
"Of course."
The Iron Bull rose and walked out of the room, leaving his empty mug on the bench next to the Inquisitor. He'd only taken a few steps down the hallway when he stopped, smiling.
"You have something to say, little bird?"
"That I wish you'd stop calling me that," Leliana answered, walking up to stand next to the Qunari. "And thank you, for talking to the Inquisitor."
"You all need to stop thanking me so much," the Iron Bull said, a smile in his gruff voice. "I might start getting used to it."
The two of them continued walking down the hallway, leaving the Inquisitor smiling on the bench. A moment passed in silence, before he rose to his feet and walked over to the maps. Looking down at them, and the notes that dotted the parchment in black ink, he began to plan the Inquisition's next move.
...
...
A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it! Man, I can't wait for October.