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They stumbled out of the eluvian, and the Iron Bull let Ren down.
Back on her feet again, she whirled on him immediately. "What the fuck was that?"
"You can't kill him," he said. "I wasn't going to bring doom on the whole world by letting you stay there and get killed yourself. I couldn't."
"That was not your call to make." Seeing Cole staring at her in distress and Solas turn away out of delicacy, Ren reined in her temper. Morrigan was sinking woozily into a chair, still reeling from her dip in the Well of Sorrows, it appeared. Ren hoped she enjoyed it, whatever it brought her; she had certainly asked for anything that came.
Ren stalked out of the room, the Iron Bull behind her, and they took to the battlements, both feeling that there was more to say.
As soon as they found themselves in an open stretch, she turned on him again. "How dare you! That was my job, taking on Corypheus. You had no right to interfere!"
"How dare I? You fucking promised you were never going to pull that crap again, and then, next time Corypheus shows up, there you are, trying to stay behind and fight him on your own again."
"That's what I'm here for, in case you've forgotten." She held up her hand, the Anchor's glow facing toward him. "This says that as long as Corypheus lives, I can't rest until I kill him."
"You can't do that alone!"
"Yes. I can. I have to. At the end, that's what it's going to come down to—him and me."
"And me. Because as long as Corypheus lives, I can't rest until I make sure he doesn't kill you." The Iron Bull's voice cracked on the words.
Ren sighed, looking out over the battlements. "I seem to recall someone saying to me once that who lives and who dies is never going to be my call. That as leader of the Inquisition, I had to accept that people were going to die for it. Well, guess what? One of those people is probably going to be me. And if I have to accept that, then so do you." She closed her eyes briefly. "That could have been my moment. He had lost everything; there were no tainted creatures there for him to jump to. It could be over now, but you had to make the decision for me, and now we have to wait, and try to bring him to bay again, and who knows what he's going to do in the meantime." Feeling very tired, she said softly, "You had no right to take that decision from me. No right. You wanted me to be the Inquisitor—you're going to have to learn to live with the consequences and let me lead."
And she left him there on the battlements, heading down into Skyhold proper to see what could be made of the mess left by the Arbor Wilds and the Temple of Mythal.
The Iron Bull stood where she had left him, struggling with her words. She was wrong about Corypheus—she couldn't have killed him in the temple. She was too tired, had expended too much energy battling her way through the Temple, and Corypheus had been enraged. He would have brought everything he had to bear on her, and she couldn't have stood under it. And the Iron Bull was by no means as sure as Ren was that there had been no tainted bodies nearby; he thought Corypheus would have found a way.
But on the other hand, she had been right to throw his own words back at him. How could he expect her to let him stand at her side, to fight and to fall in her defense if necessary, if he couldn't even consider the idea of her dying? He had made her the Inquisitor; he had set out specifically to mold and shape her into the leader she had become, and he'd done a damned good job. As had she. He had to be able to step back and let her lead, as she had said … but could he do it at the cost of her life?
This thing with her had blossomed so unexpectedly into something he'd never imagined possible that he had lost sight of where it had started. Had allowing it to reach this pitch of emotion and fevered happiness put her in danger by making him fear for her life? That had never been what this was supposed to be about; it was supposed to be about what she needed, not about his feelings.
Slowly he made his way down the stairs to the gardens, and through them into the main keep. He needed to think, he knew that, but he didn't want to. Every time his mind went near the thought that he had to step back from her, from the way they were together, and give some consideration to the idea that he might lose her to Corypheus, he shrank away. Maybe that was shameful, but he had to face it; she had changed him in a fundamental way, given him something he had never looked for, and at the same time he had lost something, too: his perspective, his objectivity, his stoicism.
As he went by Varric, the dwarf looked up. "Hey, Tiny. Our fair ambassador was looking for you; said if I saw you to send you her way."
"Josephine? She was?"
"So she said."
"You know what it's about?"
Varric shook his head, but as always, there was a sense that he knew more than he was saying. Something in his face was soft, almost sympathetic.
The Iron Bull's curiosity was piqued; what could Josephine have to say to him? She was friendly enough, but usually busy with the nobles who came to visit. Whatever it was, it had to at least be a distraction from his dark thoughts. He knocked on the door of her office.
Josephine looked up with relief in her eyes, along with something else the Iron Bull couldn't quite put his finger on. "You got my message, I see. Do come in. And—lock the door. I don't wish to be disturbed."
"Sure." He did as she asked. "Something wrong?"
"While you were in the Arbor Wilds, I received a letter for you." She handed it to him across the desk.
The writing wasn't familiar to him, clear and elegant and sharply pointed. "Do you know what this is?"
"It comes from Corentin Trevelyan."
The Iron Bull lifted his head, meeting Josephine's eyes. Ren's father? Josephine waited, holding his gaze squarely. "You'd like me to read this now so that we can discuss the contents," he said.
"Yes."
He nodded, breaking the seal on the parchment and sinking into the chair across from Josephine's desk, glad that it was a sturdy piece of furniture that didn't creak under his weight.
To the mercenary captain The Iron Bull:
Dear Serah,
It has come to my attention that you are involved with my daughter, Alys Trevelyan, who styles herself as "Ren". As I learned long ago that counseling Alys on what is best for her is so much wasted breath, I take this moment to speak to you man to man about my daughter's future.
I have done considerable research on you since I first heard of this liaison, and it is my impression that you are a man of the world, and a man who understands what the responsibilities of those in positions of power are, to themselves and to their people. I confess, I never expected my daughter to become the head of such a powerful entity as the Inquisition. After the death of her mother, I am afraid she rather got lost in what I perceived to be the greater necessity of training her brothers as my heirs; that she has managed to teach herself all the lessons that I should have given her speaks volumes about her resourcefulness and her strength of purpose, and eternally shames me for my neglect of her.
It is apparent to me that someone who can rise from Alys's unfortunate lack of upbringing to the position she now holds can achieve a greatness unparalleled in Thedas, and with her, the Inquisition. But, as I think we both know, she cannot do so in a relationship with a Qunari. No matter what the situation may be between you, the world is not ready for such a liaison, and it will come back upon her at some point, probably when she most needs the support of those who will not approve.
And so I speak to you as a father who wants to see his child reach the pinnacles she seems so evidently destined for—if you care for my daughter, if you also wish to see her become all that she can be, let her go. If your purpose in this relationship is more mercenary, I am not fool enough to think I can outbid the position of paramour to the Inquisitor, but I would be willing to provide whatever incentives are in my power. Should that fail … there are other ways, but they are far less pleasant for both of us, and I would hate for our sakes and for Alys's to have to resort to them.
People I respect feel you to be a man of honor, however, and it is my hope that they are correct and you will see the necessity for the course of action I am asking you to take. Not for me, certainly, or for yourself, but for her.
Cordially yours,
Corentin Trevelyan
The Iron Bull rolled the parchment back up. It was absolutely silent in the room; he was aware of Josephine's eyes on him. They had been fixed on him the entire time he'd been reading the letter. At last, he lifted his head and met her gaze. "You know what that said."
"I have a good idea." There was sympathy in her look, but it was unyielding for all that. "He is not wrong."
"No. He's not." The Iron Bull wasn't sure what to make of the overall tone of the letter. He sounded like a different man than the one Ren described. Then again, she saw her father with the biased eyes of childhood; there was nothing to say he might not have changed as he aged, or have been different all along than she had thought him to be.
And it didn't matter, in the end, what Bann Trevelyan's motivations or goals might be; because, as Josephine said, he wasn't wrong. Ren could indeed shake the world to its foundations, if she willed it, as Blackwall had said to her so long ago. But she could never achieve half of what she was meant to do, half of what she deserved, with him at her side. The world was not ready for that; probably wouldn't be in their lifetimes.
"What will you do?" Josephine asked him softly.
He stood up, tapping the edges of the rolled parchment in his hand so they lined up evenly. "I think that's between me and the Inquisitor, don't you?"
"Yes. I believe it probably is." The sympathy was stronger on her face than it had been before, as she read his answer in what he didn't say.
The Iron Bull could feel the weight of Josephine's gaze as he unlocked the door and left the room. He went straight upstairs, glad that Ren was out, stretching out on their bed and burying his face in her pillow, surrounding himself with her scent. He would do what was right, what she needed, what she deserved, but it would be like tearing his heart out to do so. He was going to need some time to get used to the idea.
Ren had spent her day catching up on paperwork, checking in with the various people who kept Skyhold running, and going over equipment in the Undercroft with Dagna and Harritt. A long session in the War Room with Morrigan and her advisors had raised almost as many questions as it had answered. Corypheus and his dragon were gone, no one knew where, but there was a general feeling of certainty that he would lick his wounds and then be back at them, possibly attacking Skyhold directly, as soon as he was able.
Morrigan had become even more insufferable, if possible, now that she held the wisdom of the Well of Sorrows within her. Ren didn't regret the decision not to drink from the Well herself for a moment. She wanted no part of whatever ancientness was whispering in Morrigan's ear.
The only bright spot in the sky was Morrigan's revelation that Corypheus's dragon was not only not an Archdemon, it was also the key to destroying Corypheus's invulnerability. Morrigan felt sure that she had a way to defeat the dragon, which meant that Ren was back to having a prayer of defeating Corypheus.
She felt badly about yelling at the Iron Bull; he had done only what he had pledged to do from the beginning, watch her back and save her even from herself. And he had been right, she would have been throwing her life away had she stayed. But she had wanted so desperately to have it done … she looked ahead to a wearying wait, never knowing where Corypheus was or when he would strike. But if she had stayed, and fought, and lost, the Inquisition would be in a much worse position right now. The Iron Bull may have saved them all by dragging her away.
It was with that thought in mind that she climbed the stairs to their room, thinking about all the ways she could make it up to him; ways she was likely to enjoy as much as he would.
She didn't see him when she came up to the room. "Ashkaari?" she called. The intimacy of the name thrilled her, as did the sight of him when she found him braced against the railing of the mountain side balcony. His massive shoulders stood out against the starry sky. Ren's eyes moved down over his muscular back and over the firmness of his ass.
"Seen enough?" he asked after a moment.
"Never." She went to him, putting her arms around him and kissing his back. "Wishing on a star?"
He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Not my style, kadan."
"Is there nothing you wish for?"
There was a faint stiffness in him that she probably wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't had her face pressed against his back. But his voice when he answered was normal. "No use in wishing; you want something, you go get it. Or you get used to the idea that you can't have it."
"What has there been that you wanted and couldn't have?"
"Peace in Seheron," he said shortly.
"I'm sorry. That must have been horrible." Ren hesitated. "You don't talk about it much."
"No point, really." He turned around, tilting her head back with a finger under her chin. "You worried about me?"
"Sometimes. You keep things in. I can't help wondering if some day your head's going to explode." At his chuckle, she smiled briefly, but it faded as she remembered what she had wanted to say. "I'm sorry—about earlier. I was … I just wanted it over with."
"I know, ataashi. You have a valiant heart; you don't shrink from a fight. It's one of the things I love about you. But sometimes knowing when to run is as important as being willing to stand and fight."
"I suppose," Ren admitted unwillingly. Part of her felt a glow at how casually he dropped 'love' into the conversation. It was a tremendous step for him.
"Don't worry about it," he said, his thumb stroking her cheek. He remembered that moment in the Temple, watching her ready to fight at whatever cost it may be, and the chill that had seized him before he carried her through that mirror.
Ren remembered it, too, and the way she had turned on him afterward. "I shouldn't have blamed you because I couldn't kill him."
"You will, kadan. When the time is right."
She stood up on her tiptoes, kissing him softly. Then she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him again, more thoroughly this time. "How do you want it?" she breathed in his ear, her tongue running along the sensitive edge.
He chuckled softly. "Isn't that my line?"
"It's always about what I want. Tonight, I want it to be about what you want."
"You don't have to make anything up to me, kadan."
"I want to."
He looked down at her, her face lit up at her own cleverness, turning his desire to give her what she wanted back on him, and his heart constricted. For her future, her potential, he had to end things between them, to give her the space she needed to become everything she could be. And he wanted her to have that space, couldn't wait to see what she did with it, the woman she would eventually become. So even though she wouldn't understand, he would do it, and do it cleanly. But … not now. He would give himself this one last night with her.
"Ashkaari?" she said when he didn't answer.
The Iron Bull put his hands on her ass, pulling her against him, and he dipped his head closer to hers. "What I want is to have you spread out before me, and to use my mouth and hands on you until you're begging me, 'please, Ashkaari'."
"Well," Ren said breathlessly, "if you insist."
He stopped her mouth with a hungry kiss, lifting her in his arms and carrying her into the room. He laid her on the rug in front of the fireplace and stripped her clothes off her, admiring the way the firelight played across the lines of her muscles and the curve of her breasts.
And then he set to work, as much for himself as for her, moving over her body thoroughly, memorizing her taste and her scent and the sounds of her pleasure, including the hoarse "Please, Ashkaari" that he had told her he would call from her. And when she had said it often enough, he fit himself inside her, stroking her slowly, slowly, making it last with every ounce of strength that was in him before finally surrendering.
They lay together in front of the fire, listening to the crackle of the flames, lost in their own thoughts.
