"Long before morning I knew that what I was seeking to discover was a thing I'd always known. That all courage was a form of constancy. That it is always himself that the coward abandoned first. After this all other betrayals come easily."
This muck is never going to come out.
Dorian sighed. It was future-muck, and, by extension, should be of no small interest. Researchers and natural philosophers should flock to his soggy robe, bottle up the goop and dirt that caked the hemline where he'd trounced about in what was – he was loathe to admit- probably sewage water.
The technicalities of the jaunt through time he'd taken with Ellana perplexed him even still, days after, in the safety of a dilapidated hut in the sad excuse of a village the Inquisition deemed their home. Their path seemed linear – a collection of lived experiences he and the Herald had experienced in sequential order. The future for everyone else though – for that oversized Qunari with the rippling muscles, for the sassy dwarf and the disgruntled Seeker – that future had never happened and lingered nowhere in their minds.
But for the Herald and himself, the same could not be said. He saw the claws of the bleak future rippling through the lithe elf they called the Herald. Saw it in the distance she put between herself and her comrades, and in the silence that pervaded in their conversations. He had seen them too, emaciated and aglow with a force of terrible, potent power, but they had been strangers then. Were still strangers now.
He had first met their spymaster when she, without pause, sliced his dear friend's throat open, sent Felix tottering, lifeless to the ground as if he were nothing but an automaton, human form without human feeling. He had watched the human with her red hair and cold justice embrace death, and then, miraculously, found himself shaking her warm, living hand only days later.
So the memories remained for the Herald and him. The remembrances that haunt the Herald's eyes and the future muck of the dungeons beneath Redcliffe that stained his robes – somehow, they had moved through time and space and retained everything that the others had lost.
Dorian knew he ought to be more intrigued. That the events in Redcliffe were, without a doubt, the single most fucked-up thing that ever happened to him. The trip through time bore all the makings of a most excellent scientific paper. But it was hard to maintain the objective distance of a scholar when allied with the parties involved, when seated in the mess hall across the dwarf who remembered nothing, when the only other witness to the insanity had zero inclination to discuss what had transpired.
He had tried, on the journey back to Haven, to engage the Herald on the topic. He hadn't wanted to, but he knew he was the only person in all of Thedas who could even approximate empathy at the situation. Dorian wasn't much for empathy, and his was a paltry, dishonest fiction compared to the true loss the Herald had experienced. But even he was not immune to the social obligations invoked from body language and overt cues. When the Herald had stood suddenly in the middle of the meal, turning and disappearing into the gloom beyond their campsite, Dorian found himself moving without thought, making to follow before his mind computed what his feet were doing.
It's not your place. You have nothing to offer. The mind finally caught up, offered chastisement to the rest of his body, but his feet propelled themselves forward and after the elf.
The contrast was stark. The Herald he'd met in the Redcliffe chantry was all rapid fire action, barked orders and rift-closing majesty. She was no mage, but she wielded the immense magic of her hand with a practiced ease that suggested she learned quickly. When she connected with the rift, elation and energy surged through Dorian's veins: this was a power more awesome and monstrous than anything he had witnessed before.
And then the rift was gone and the Herald's spell was over. He'd tried to recover quickly, dropping pithy statements and bowing elegantly as he introduced himself.
She hadn't been impressed. To be fair, if it wasn't for the mark, she wasn't much to sneeze at either. She was pleasing to the eye, he supposed, but her elfy-ness was abject – her eyes were large and luminous, a green that unsettled him with their intensity. Her cheekbones were high, the planes of her face becoming expressive if she let them, and her daggers seemed like extensions of her elegant limbs. But she was a small thing, quick with her smiles and quicker still with the questions she dispensed like bolts from the dwarf's crossbow. Swift decisions and able command – if her own words were to be believed and it was, indeed, random fate that brought the Inquisition the Herald, then he could see why some preferred to say she was a chosen of Andraste.
Still, Dorian hadn't been sold. The mark was impressive, yes, but great power requires greater wisdom to employ it well. It wasn't until after Alexius' spell, not until it was just the two of them, floundering for purpose and understanding in the dark future below Redcliffe. He had watched her accept his explanation with a glib remark and little surprise. Instead, she'd elected action, did instead of asked, and shown humble regret and honest apology as they encountered each of her comrades.
It was only at the end, when Leliana charged into the demon hordes, arrows spent and options limited, that Dorian needed to douse her with sense. She'd made to join them, her martyring friends, to negate all their efforts and let emotion win out over sense. Dorian had grabbed her arm – a slight limb, and so decidedly alive beneath his fingers – and pulled them back to the present.
He supposed that moment of hesitation was the beginning of her unravelling. Had paved the way for the Herald in front of him now, perched on a clifftop looking out over shadowy Hinterland, knees tucked under her chin. Arms wrapped tight around herself as if she could will herself into unbeing, vanish into nothingness through sheer desire alone.
Dorian opened his mouth to say something, but, for once, no words came. His usual tack – some admixture of sarcasm and wit – seemed woefully inappropriate, but he was not capable of stark sincerity for this woman he had only just met. Instead, he settled for stepping out into the clearing, making to sit next to the Herald. At the sound of her voice, he froze.
"I'll be back shortly, Dorian." She didn't look back at him. From this angle, all he could see was her dark hair and the slope of a cheekbone. "Thank you."
For what? The wind tousled his hair and he wished again that his warmer robes weren't covered in sludge. He recognized the sound of a dismissal in her words. It was probably for the best anyway – what consolation could he, a renegade Tevinter mage, noble bred and book learned, offer to someone like her? She was so clearly better than the rest of them – she'd pled for mercy for Felix, apologized to Cassandra for the future she couldn't avert, nearly got herself killed to appease people who would never be.
And she offered the mages alliance and a home, equal footing when it would have been so easy, so justifiable, to demand more. Alexius was spared and the mages were made partners. She had power at her finger tips, the ability to subjugate them all to her will, and she walked away from it.
How could someone like him have anything to offer someone like her?
Dorian turned away from her and her palpable distress. It was easier, and wasn't that what he'd always done? The easier path? Anger at Alexius instead of co-operation and intervention. Alcohol instead of emotion.
He'd felt worthless then, when he'd walked away from the Herald, left her alone on the clifftop facing the emptiness around her. And maybe it was that moment and that emotion that prompted his actions. Changes he hadn't expected from himself – an offer of alliance he didn't know he wanted to give.
But when the handsome Commander lit her up for her recklessness, Dorian had decided enough was enough. She'd lived through a hellish future and made it back, saved all their hides, only to be strung up for choices she'd made when decisions needed to be quick and confident? Dorian didn't know how he felt about all the mages in Thedas running free, out of circles and abounding with liberty, but he understood irony well enough. Personal doubts aside, he had to stand with the Herald on this one.
"They should have been conscripted under staunch terms." The Commander was pacing the war chamber, hands gesticulating his controlled rage. "We have nowhere near the resources required to monitor them all!"
"We cannot preach a doctrine of equality and order and trounce around Thedas enslaving those we deem 'too dangerous'!" The Herald, Cassandra at her side, seemed bigger somehow, in this overlarge room. Her expression was set in stolid determination as she defended her decision, and her eyes simmered with the stronger emotions she was clearly repressing.
"Regardless of what was the wisest choice, the deal is made." The spymaster interjected, stepping towards Cullen, as if to mollify him. Dorian would still have to get used to this version of the woman; the earlier one he'd met had been aged and sunken by magical torture, exuding a bitterness that made this Leliana look downright optimistic by comparison.
"The implications of this decision are far-reaching," The Commander stopped pacing, put a gauntleted hand on his sword hilt. "We are taking dozens of mages to face a gaping hole between our world and the Fade. A hole that spews forth demons."
"Yes, yes, and we know that all mages lose all sense of self-worth, dignity, and independent will at the very sight of a demon." Dorian cannot help but interject. Ellana turns, surprised to see him; she had not realized he was present, casually leaning against the doorframe of the room.
"I do not mean to generalize, mage," The word sounds like an insult on the Commander's lips, and Dorian begins to think that maybe he isn't so attractive after all. "But you cannot deny that the threat of summoning or possession is stronger in the presence of the Breach."
"Well then, I will be sure to smack the first weak-willed mage I see on the side of the head." He strides forward to stand next to the Herald and rests a hand on his hip.
He is surprised when the Herald turns to address him, a look of unexpected pleasure on her face.
"You're staying then?"
Was it that feeling of helplessness earlier? That feeling that he could offer her nothing, when he had so vividly seen all she could offer the world? In the aftermath of their romp through time, she had talked down a crazy Tevinter cultist, politicked politely with the King and Queen of Ferelden, and brokered an alliance with the leader of a rebellious group, potentially quelling an entire war.
Or was it the moment that she'd sealed the rift in the Redcliffe Chantry and turned to him without pause, demanding answers. She did not hesitate when she acted. He wanted that surety of motion for himself.
And, a smaller part of him admitted, there was the mark. Green, mysterious, overrun with a power that felt so different from the magic he'd known since birth. How could he walk away from a chance to study such a singular phenomenon?
"Of course I'm staying, darling." He put an arm around her shoulder and was mildly surprised when she tensed. Most women responded to his nearness more positively. The silly things. "Where else would I find such constant entertainment? You lot haven't stopped bickering since we set foot in this Maker-forsaken town."
The Commander scowls at him, and Dorian wonders if he's sensitive, or if his instant dislike has more personal roots. When the stern man speaks, he turns to Leliana.
"Do we need another loose cannon mage tramping around the camp?"
"Dorian is a member of Tevinter nobility, Cullen." The Antivan ambassador interjects this time. "His connections may prove necessary – we have little foothold in Tevinter."
Dorian snorts at the thought, but says nothing. Now is not the time to share the exact nature of his Tevinter 'connections'.
Beneath his arm, he feels the Herald sigh. The Ambassadors and Cassandra continued on, points and counterpoints, and Ellana reached up and grasped the hand on her shoulder gently. She wore no gloves, and her tapered fingers were warm and calloused against his own. It was the hand that bore the mark, he noted dimly, but he felt nothing but skin and life against his knuckles. Gently, she lifted his arm and removed it, turned to face him and met his grey eyes with her own darker ones.
"I'm glad you're staying, Dorian." The force of her sincerity surprises him. He is used to the tangential compliments and guarded words of Imperium dinner parties – her forthrightness is foreign to him. "There is no one I'd rather be stranded in time with."
Dorian hadn't realized he'd made an impression. From his perspective, she was the one who took charge, solved problems, got them everything they needed so that he could cast his spell and undo that horrible future. Her words resonate within him, and he is unused to the feeling, to so apparently being the object of appreciation. He reacts, knee-jerk, the only way he knows how.
"It's not personal," He says with a glib half smile. "But let's not do that again any time soon, shall we?"
She laughs then, and it is the first time he has seen mirth on her face since they came out of that vortex of the future. The Ambassadors bicker on, and she smiles at him. The laughter was gone quickly – this smile is small and sad.
"Josephine will sort out quarters for you."
He wants to say something to her then – something to capture the lightness of their shared moment, but then she is gone. She slips away on silent feet and he wonders how she has learned to be so soundless. Is that part and parcel of the Dalish elf way of life?
He decides he will spend the day finding out. Not from her, because she so evidently has no interest in show and tell, but through the grape vine. Her companions are a diverse bunch, and their co-operation proves equally varied.
"If you want to know about her past, ask her yourself." Cassandra barely even looks at him when he approaches her later, in the training yard. "It is not my place to share her secrets."
"Ah, so you are a confidante then!" Dorian laughs at the glare she sends his way and strolls off to more promising quarry.
The furry Warden with the perpetual frown proves more forthcoming. "She is a good person." He sharpens his blade and he too does not look up at Dorian. What is it about these people and eye contact? "She has a strong moral compass, when she wants to."
The skinny elvish girl with the bad haircut calls him a prissy Vint slaver and gives him the slip, and the Orlesian First Enchanter does not deign to acknowledge his trite inquiries.
Dorian is beginning to feel a tad neglected when he encounters Solas. The villagers whisper about this one – an elf with no Clan and considerable magical ability. But Dorian is happy to find in him a fellow scholar, and they talk for longer than he intended, arguing about spirits and slaves and spirits as slaves. The tone of their conversation is not friendly, but Dorian did not expect to find friendship in Haven. He is satisfied that he is, for the moment, engaged in academic debate, and he senses the same from the elf.
"You should test your ideas on the Herald, not me." Solas states suddenly, seeming to tire of his insistence the spirits were form without shape, fit to serve. "She is always eager to learn, and her ideas and preconceptions are more malleable than my own."
Eager to learn, eh? That was something – he hadn't pegged her for a scholar but Solas goes on to insist that she read quite widely. Because Dorian was hoping for a little more than these fleeting observations, he headed to the one place he knew was bound to have answers.
He found Varric and the strapping mostly-shirtless qunari side by side at the bar. He felt the eyes of the townsfolk on him, heard the whispers and stood straighter, shoulders back. There was nothing they could say or speculate that he hadn't heard before – the Tevinter Imperium prided itself on the fear it generated amongst its southern neighbors, and Dorian had witnessed the aftereffects of that fear throughout his travels in Ferelden.
"Might I join you, gentlemen?" A smile and a flourish made him harder to refuse, he knew.
"As one of the privileged few who witnessed whatever the fuck went down at Redcliffe, I'd say you've earned yourself a barstool." The dwarf hopped over and made room for Dorian between the pair of them.
"And a stiff drink." The qunari's voice rumbled. Dorian had known only a handful of qunari in his lifetime, and he'd never been as close to one as he was now. Dorian didn't try to hide his assessment of the man – broad shoulders gave way to strong arms, and faint scars rippled along the surface of the qunari's dark skin. Impressive, Dorian decided. Iron Bull slide a tankard along the bar to Dorian, holding his gaze, and the mage nodded his thanks.
"So, how you coping with what the future brings, Sparkler?" They had argued over this nickname already. Varric insisted that he had no say in the matter. At heart, Dorian didn't reallymind.
"I'd very much like to avert that future, if possible." He said with a delicate sniff of whatever homebrew resided in his mug. He made a disapproving face, but took a swig anyway. Here in the shadow of the Forstback mountains, he supposed one couldn't be too picky with one's drinks. "You two would as well, if you know what's best for you. Neither of you looked too hot in future land."
"Ugh." The qunari slammed his mug down. Dorian suspected he didn't intend the force – with arms that large, was it even possible to do anything gently? "That shit is all fucked up. Do we have to talk about it?"
Dorian recognized this reaction. Especially down south, many people regarded magic with suspicion and distrust, and the weirder it got, the deeper their distrust ran. Avoidance was a key tactic in the face of the incomprehensible. Dorian didn't understand it – doesn't understanding the unknown dispel the fear? – but he recognized the knee-jerk opining for blissful ignorance when he saw it.
"That's just as well." He said quickly. "I came here looking for gossip after all."
Bull snorted into his mug, but Varric raised an orange eyebrow, seemingly intrigued at the chance to tell a good story.
"What about, oh fearful magister?"
He scowled at the term, but he knew Varric was teasing.
"What else but our fearless leader? I want to know how she got so, well, fearless."
"You and everyone else got questions about her." Bull said with a huff.
"And there aren't a ton of answers to go around either, though that didn't stop Nightingale from strapping her to a chair and demanding the truth." Varric sounds disapproving, but Dorian isn't sure.
So, there were trust issues among Inquisition leadership. He supposed that the presence of misgivings shouldn't be surprising – anyone who walked out of the Conclave explosion alive was worthy of suspicion. But he wondered how deep it ran. Something about Ellana disarmed distrust, and he couldn't imagine that such feelings were that widespread.
But Varric went on and surprised Dorian with the highs and lows of the Herald's past. From what the dwarf had gathered, she'd travelled through much of the Free Marches and lived in Kirkwall for a time, working in a smuggling crew. He hadn't expected that – most semi-religious justice-touting organizations would not endorse an ex-con as their mascot.
He supposed it all came down to the mark. Ellana was an able fighter and took charge with a natural grace, but at the end of the day, her position in the Inquisition was only granted because of her mark. And she was rattled now, clearly fazed by what she had seen in the would-be future. Was she strong enough to pull through, or was Dorian getting involved in a cause that would soon be without a frontline leader?
"I don't know much about why she left Kirkwall," Varric was saying, and Dorian forced himself to attend. It was so easy for him to get lost in the slipshod meandering of his own thoughts. "But I know her father was killed in a blood magic demon summoning."
"What?" Dorian and Bull interject at the same time. The dwarf had been almost blasé as he rattled off her list of experiences. It was clear he wasn't making the Herald's life a story for his books – he was simply reciting the facts as he knew them. Dorian wondered at that – Varric had a storyteller's voice, and yet chose not to use it on Ellana. Was the issue too close to home? How could that make sense if Varric documented the entire life of his so-called best friend, the Champion of Kirkwall?
There was a noise behind them, a throat being cleared. Guilty, three pairs of eyes turned, knowing what they would find.
The Herald stood behind them. She'd changed out of her fitted leather armour and instead wore a white shirt with a dark vest and brown breeches. Someone has dressed her, Dorian suspects. The colours offset the olive of her skin with just the right amount of contrast, and the leather belt that held a dagger is inlaid with a delicate scrolling pattern. Her chestnut hair is out of the braids he has seen so far, and it cascades around her face and over her shoulders, is pushed back behind one delicate tapered ear on the left side of her face.
"If I knew you were going to be sitting around gabbing about me," she says, letting a hand fall to her hip, "then I would've joined you sooner. You know, to stoke the rumours and all that."
They are all stunned for a moment. Each of them was at Redcliffe; each of them had seen the withdrawal that came after. Ellana had turned inward, refused to let her guilt be assuaged or her fears released by their platitudes, their concern and their deliberately lighthearted banter. That Herald was nothing like the one in front of them now, crooked smile and light in her eyes. What had prompted the change?
"Are you all going to stare or is someone going to buy me a drink? I am the Herald of fucking Andraste, after all."
They laugh then and move over to a table. Bull orders a round and they settle in for the long haul. Varric launches into a story about Hawke and her grumpy elven lover, and he has them all roaring in minutes.
Is this how she plans to cope? Dorian wonders, eyeing Ellana speculatively as the slight elf downs her second pint. For so small a frame, the woman certainly seemed to hold her own with drinks. Dorian knows this strategy, knows that the bottom of a bottle would provide none of the closure she's seeking. He didn't want to let her do this, deflect, avoid instead of confront. He opened his mouth to speak, but the Herald cut him off.
"You two were dead in the future."
Oh. So she didn't need his help to face her demons. Of course, why would she need him for anything, after all? Varric and Bull say nothing.
"The red lyrium glowed from behind your eyes and you didn't sound like yourselves. I don't know if you drank it or just spent too long around it, but by the time we found you, you were already done."
She sits next to Dorian, their chairs close enough for him to feel muted warmth from her body, but even he has to really listen to hear the hollow words. Her voice is soft, her eyes on her drink. The table is still; across from them, Varric and Bull wear uncertain expressions. And what could you say to a woman who told you what your death would look like if the stars lined up in all the wrong ways?
"Here," she shifts, leans to her right, shoulder brushing against Dorian's as she pulls something out of a side pocket in her vest. A notebook, leather-bound and worn. She flips it open and puts it on the table.
"Bloody hell boss, I didn't need a visual." Bull scoffs loudly, but he is drawn to the image. In charcoal, the Herald has rendered the qunari's face, and from his eyes seep the hints of the mist that Dorian had seen. The signs of a red lyrium contagion; as Dorian's grey gaze flits from the page to the qunari, he is struck at the likeness the Herald has captured. Though the future-Bull on the page is melancholic, the customary fury between his brows trodden down by months that Dorian and Ellana knew nothing of, the same defiance comes through in the eyes of the drawing and of the real qunari.
"Did you draw that, Gemstone?" Varric reaches forward, stubby fingers revealing curiosity, and he gently flips through the notebook. One page back in the notebook is Varric, a portrait that begins at the shoulders and bears the same troubling unwellness from Bull's picture, the unease that red lyrium endowed. On the facing page, the Herald has sketched out an image but has not finished – Dorian doesn't need the details to recognize the scene though. Leliana, reaching behind her shoulder and finding no arrows. Varric on the periphery, Bianca in hand. Bull, charging into a demon horde that seemed limitless, disappeared into dark scribbles on the page. The moment before they'd jumped through the time rift and back to the present.
"You died for me." She looks them in the eyes now, first Varric, and then Bull. "I won't forget that."
"It looks to me like our lives were forfeit anyway, Gemma."
"Still. It is no small amount of courage."
Bull shrugs, leans back in his chair, and, oddly, there's a smile on his face.
"Good to know I went down fighting."
"You've got a good eye for folks," Varric says, reaching forward to flip further through the notebook. He peeks up at the Herald, raising an eyebrow. "May I?"
The Herald nods and leans back. There are so many sketches, some just hesitant outlines, and others rendered in full detail, shaded, sculpted, like the ones she had showed them. Her horse pawing the ground angrily, Blackwall soothing at its head. Vivienne at the foot of the stairs in an Orlesian palace, a simultaneous combination of elegance and disdain in her bearing. Varric flipped through in no particular order, jumping back, launching forward, when suddenly, Dorian started.
"Give me that," He pulls the book out of the dwarf's hands and flips back to a page, just before the images from future-Redcliffe. It's his face and shoulders, and they're slightly twisted, a three-quarters view. She's paid careful attention to the folds of his robe, the arch of his mustache, the slope of his cheekbone.
But he's unsettled because this isn't what he thought 'Dorian' looked like. The Dorian in her drawing is not smiling, not posed with confidence and vigour. There is none of the ego that came through in the portrait of Vivienne, none of the mischief that she'd captured in Sera.
Instead, the Dorian in her notebook appears uncertain. His eyebrows are furrowed, as if in thought, and his expression whispers of a hopefulness that is quashed by a domineering pragmatism – he looks like he wants to believe in something, but can't let himself.
Dorian looks up from notebook and meets the Herald's eyes. She is watching him, her face an expressionless mask. He envies her that – he has no idea what his face says right now, but he certainly has no control over it.
How can she see right through me?
She must've drawn this just after they met. Based on the drawings that came before and after, there was no other chronological juncture when she could've sat and sketched.
There in the Redcliffe Chantry, they'd talked for… what? One extended moment when the plan unfurled, and then he was gone. He thought he'd mastered the encounter with his usual flourishes and verve; he tried to remain ambiguous, but alluring, a combination deliberately chosen to ensure her curiosity and co-operation. All of that strut, that performance, and she this is what she'd seen all along?
Her eyes are deep and Dorian knows that Varric and Bull are watching them. Wondering what in Thedas is going on. But when he meets that emerald gaze, the hubbub of the bar fades and the watching eyes don't matter. He feels so vulnerable – if this is what she'd seen when they first met, what must she think of him now?
She had observed the worthlessness inside of him right from the start, and yet she'd smiled when he said that he was staying. Her joy then was genuine, as was her laughter just moments earlier as she sat next to him slowly getting drunk.
The Herald took the book from his hands, let her fingers slide along the backs of his, and closed the volume with a gentle thump. Still holding his eyes, she smiled.
Unwittingly, Dorian smiled back.
The Herald looked back to the others across the table.
"Thanks for listening." She flipped her hair, encouraging dark locks out of her eyes. "I feel better."
"No problem, boss." The qunari was happy to let the moment pass. "You'll feel better with a few more rounds in you though."
"You're damn right I would." She laughed, and though she didn't look at Dorian again, he felt her presence. Her awareness of him and her acceptance of him.
When he decided to join the Inquisition, he told himself he did it for her. He thought that if he worked hard enough, he'd have something to offer, both to her and to her cause. But as he wrapped his hands around another mug and launched into a story about Tevinter dinner parties, he knew that it wasn't for her that he was staying.
He stayed for himself, and for the way Ellana made him feel he could be. She knew what he was; she wasn't fooled by the bluster. But she took a chance on him anyway, and that was more than anyone had done before. His differences – mage, Vint – didn't scare her. He wanted to believe, did believe, that she would understand the other differences too.
Her belief in him – that's what made his decision. He stayed because he so desperately wanted to prove himself worthy of that belief.
Now that the horde of mostly crazy mages was parked in Haven, it looked to Bull like the boss was doing everything she could to keep herself out of the camp.
They were back in the Hinterlands now, and Bull was beginning to wonder just how many pelts of ram wool and racks of meet the Crossroads' really needed. So while Sera and the Herald were a sight to behold – crouched, unseen, until they would stand, bows drawn and swiveling to follow their quarry – this avoidance strategy could only go on for so long.
Not that he was going to discourage the boss. She was, after all, the one footing the bill for the Chargers.
She was also mighty good at keeping him amused – killing dracolisks, bears, the odd Templar or two. And now this.
He deflected her charge by pivoting forward on one foot, ramming his shoulder into her torso. She had no weight behind her – the contrast in their sizes was completely ridiculous – and went flying. But she turned the blow into a backflip and landed in a crouch, fingers of one hand braced on the ground between her feet. Then she was moving again, a blur as she ducked out of reach of his axe.
Bull let out a frustrated grunt. She was relentless. She launched in, elbowed his stomach, kicked at his ankles, thwacked his back with her blade and he was grateful they'd wrapped the weapons in cloth for their sparring match.
"Enough!" He roared, reaching out and grabbing one of her twiggy arms. He lifted, and her feet came off the ground – she twisted and kicked but his arms were long enough to hold her out of reach.
Blackwall barked out a laugh from where he sat, stoking their campfire.
The Herald stilled, hung limp and glared at him. In the gathering night, her eyes were dark and indistinct.
"You could have done this the whole time, and you still humoured me?" Her voice is flat.
Sera cackled.
"Really, Sticks, you thought he was trying?" Bull doesn't understand the ratty blond elf half the time, but he likes her. Likes her enough not to contradict her – he had held off in some ways, yes, but that didn't mean that fighting the Herald was easy.
"I wanted a good fight." He turns his attention back to the elf who dangled, feet a foot off the ground. She weighed more than he'd expected , but then, when she hit him, he'd realized she packed more muscle than he'd expected too. He knew she was quick; her strength caught him by surprise. "You gave me that."
Most folks he'd sparred with, human or elf, would've protested by now. He couldn't imagine her shoulder felt good, bearing the brunt of her weight. But not the Herald. He was learning so much about her that wasn't worth recording in the Ben Hassarath reports.
For instance, their sparring match taught him just how much she hated to lose.
Her legs swept up as she folded herself in half – the amount of core strength that needed! She's got to have a wicked set of abs, Bull thought absently before his brain processed what she was doing. Her legs wrapped around his arm and tightened. Her thighs twisted viscously and Bull's arm twisted, his hand flexing open as he let out a grunt of pain.
Her wrist now free she pushed back, scrambled over his shoulders as she dropped down to wrap those same legs around his torso, squeezing. Her knife came up to rest against his neck but his hand gripped her wrist and pulled the blade away. He panted as her legs squeezed tighter – she was not going to get him to call mercy.
Instead, he staggered about in the increasing gloom, thwacking backwards into a tree. He heard the Herald grunt as the wind rushed out of her, and then she was off his back and he was free. He spun, tried to find her.
Blackwall and Sera had fallen quiet by the fire. The dancing red orange light was all Bull had to work with – the night surrounded them full and completely now. The boss was in her element, and Bull recognized his chances were slim.
He didn't hear her, but he felt the air shift as she launched out of the darkness to strike at him. He parried clumsily and swung his axe. She dodged back, then slipped in under his arm to strike at his stomach.
With a shout, he bent his knees and hoisted her off the ground again, one arm around her midsection. She let out a startled yelp, but Bull was in full fighting mode now. He hefted her up with one arm and sent her flying towards a tree.
As her body connected to the trunk with a solid thump, he cursed himself for letting his instincts win. That was probably too much. She was the boss after all.
But then Ellana was gone. In his moment of thought, he'd lost sight of her. He spun, ears perked as he tried to find her.
"You are so done, Muscles." Sera's taunt was light and Bull ignored her.
A rustling from the leaves above was all the warning he had. Rustling and then a solid weight crashing into his shoulders as she fell out of the tree above him.
The weight knocked him to his knees and Ellana scrambled off, braced herself, and sent a punch right into the side of his face.
Bull fell backwards, sending dirt flying as his back hit the ground. Ellana hopped up, perched on his chest, and rested her dagger at his throat. In the scuffle, the cloth binding was gone. The steel was cold and Bull knew how sharp it was.
She leaned over, a savage grin on his face. Bull couldn't help it – laughter bubbled out of him and she was cackling too, sitting back on his stomach and pushing hair out of her face. It'd come out of her bun, the dark strands, and Bull had been contemplating grabbing a handful of it to slow her down.
He'd refrained from all those dirty tricks, but he was happy to see she'd exercised no such reservations. Ellana was small. She had to fight with what she had. She wasn't like Cullen; propriety and honour didn't mix with the elf on the battlefield.
"You are one crazy elf, boss."
She grinned at him, teeth bright in the night. Standing, she offered him a hand.
"Crazy. Maybe." She tilted her head. "But I won, didn't I?"
Bull grinned back. He couldn't resist.
He took her hand and pulled her, sending her face first into the dirt next to him.
She was silent for a moment and he wondered if he'd gone too far. Then her laughter bubbled up into the dark as she rolled on her back; she was laughing so hard tears formed at the edges of her eyes. The Herald's voice was normally low, but when she laughed she sounded so much like a normal woman, a woman who wore dresses and bought ribbon and did her hair up pretty for dinner parties. Bull's laughter alongside hers was low and deep, loud in the crickets and the stillness of the night.
All of these moments that didn't fit into his reports. The Ben Hassarath were breathing down his neck, insistent in the letters they sent, always demanding more. But what could Bull tell them? The Herald was batshit crazy, sometimes reckless and sometimes bleeding-heart merciful?
That she laughed and rolled in the mud and was hyper competitive to a fault? That she surrounded herself with Thedas biggest collection of discarded goods, strong-principled rejects with agendas of their own? A rogue Vint magister, an insane vigilante elf, a sullen Seeker and hermit Grey Warden?
"You two should join us here." Ellana's laughter had stilled and now she stretched a hand up in front of her. Thin fingers stretched, flexed open and closed. "The stars are beautiful."
Bull glanced over at the Herald. Her face was still now – the mirth was gone, replaced by a contented, thoughtful look. The others walked over, Blackwall, without his armour for once, settled in next to the Herald and Sera folded herself down by Bull.
"Does that Chantry have an answer for what makes the stars?"
The Herald's voice is soft and the question genuine. No one answers. The Qun doesn't give a shit about the stars, Bull thinks, but he does not say the words. Sometimes it's just nice to lie around and not think about anything. The Herald seems incapable of doing that though. She's always full of questions – asks him about Seheron, about his past, about the Qun. About the damn stars and the people they know. She needs to learn how to relax.
"I'm going to have to face the Breach again when we get back." The Herald has folded her hands on her stomach now. Next to her, Blackwall grunts his assent.
"You can do whatever you want, big hat." Sera chirps.
"I know Sera, but I have to do this." The Herald ignites the green on her hand and Sera yips.
"Why you got to always be waving that thing about?"
Everyone seems fascinated by the mark on Ellana's hand. The Ben Hassarath had questions about that and Bull explained as best he could. She doesn't know why she has it – or so she claims. It closes the rifts. It's a tool and she's learned how to use it. What more is there to say?
"You are the only one who can do it, Herald." Blackwall is gruff and sometimes he and Bull don't agree. The man puts everyone else first. Help the refugees, train the weakest soldiers, let the Herald run him ragged demanding lessons in this, that and everything under the sun. But Blackwall always concedes. Bull doesn't understand his willingness to help. Beyond keeping the Chargers in line and the Herald alive, what other responsibilities should he have? Bull respects the Warden; he's good with his sword and fun at the bar once you've got a few pints in him.
"I know," Ellana says, and the crickets chirp on around them. She twists her wrist and the green light goes out. Darkness surrounds them again. By the camp, the fire crackles. Overhead, the stars glitter.
She falls asleep there, and so does Bull. Blackwall, always responsible, takes watch and when Bull wakes he's got elves on both sides of him, huddled close against the chill of the night.
There are so many versions of the Herald that are entirely incomprehensible to him. For instance, later that day when they return to the Crossroads to turn in the pelts and meat they have gathered, the Herald makes a friend.
She's crouched in the corner by the healer's hut, cooing softly at something. At first, Bull thinks he better leave her alone. Must be some weird elf thing. But then he hears her giggle, and the sound is so girlish he just has to know what's brought it out of her.
He walks over, and the Herald looks up when his shadow covers her kneeling form. There's a look of sheepish guilt on her face.
"What are you doing, boss?"
She clears her throat, turns, and stands. Her arms are wrapped around something furry and dark.
"Uhm."
"It's a cat." The thing peers at Bull with big green eyes. It's black and ratty, but from the way it cuddles up close to Ellana's chest, it's clear that the creature's made a friend.
"Yes, it's a cat." She meets his eyes as if daring him to saying something more.
He just chuckles and shrugs.
"You're the boss, I suppose."
The cat follows her everywhere as she concludes their business at the Crossroads. She must've fed it or something, Bull thinks distantly. The qunari don't keep pets and especially aren't interested in something so small and so apparently defenseless. Blackwall tries to pet it but it skirts deftly around his hand and curls up against the Herald's legs. She looks down at it and smiles before bringing her gaze back to the lieutenant they've left in the village.
When it's time to head out, he expects her to say goodbye to the mangy thing. But instead, she pulls out her cloak, folds it, and rigs a makeshift sling around her torso. The cat protests as she lifts it off the ground, but it seems to recognize that Ellana is its best bet for continuous feeding and affection.
This is not what the Ben Hassarath want to hear, Bull thinks as he mounts up after the Herald, following her lead. The Inquisition's most vital asset has taken a pet and plans to ride all the way back to Haven with it curled up against her chest. Breaking news indeed.
The cat becomes a fixture around Haven, much to the amusement of the townspeople. At first, it stayed cautiously inside Ellana's hut with her, but as the days passed it grew bolder, venturing out and staying close to the Herald. It followed her to the war room and sat on the table, purring softly as she pet it and listened to her advisors. It followed her out into the training yard and sat at a respectful distance as she sparred with Cassandra. And it curled up with her when she sat beneath a tree or on the pier, her sketchbook out and her eyes downcast.
It was here, with the damn cat by her side, that Bull found her. They had been back in Haven for almost a week now.
"Hey Boss."
She looked up at him a smiled. He took that as an invitation, settled down next to her. He glanced down at the notebook in her hands, watching as her charcoal swept in and out, highlighting and shading. He looked up at the scene before them, and then down at her notebook. She was capturing the moment – Cullen in front of the men, barking orders and looking stern. Rylen, hand on his hip as he awkwardly tries to look imposing. The men in ranks, poor stances and shields held too low. Her sense of atmosphere was perfect. Something else not worthy of his reports – the Herald likes to draw. She's pretty good at it.
"How are the Chargers settling in?"
This is what she'd done last time he tried to have a conversation with her. Bull didn't deliberately seek out conversation that often. Damned if he was letting himself be sidetracked by her again.
"Boss." Bull turned his one good eye to regard the Breach. You could nearly hear it humming if you looked at it for long enough – the green mists swirled, monstrously huge, in the sky. "You've got to do something about that."
Next to him, she sighed. Her cat, curled contently against her outstretched leg, looked up, blinking at her.
"I nearly died last time." She didn't look at him as she spoke. Her green eyes remained trained on the Breach.
He didn't know that. He'd heard only the stories – she was the Herald of Andraste, she'd stood alone against the Breach and stopped the demons that poured through it with a wave of her head. Having seen her close the rifts, he'd known it couldn't have been so effortless. That sealing the Breach temporarily must've taken much out of her because even the simple, small rifts sent her to her knees, gasping and panting.
"A demon came out of it." She closed her notebook, tucked the charcoal in a pocket. "The biggest demon I'd ever seen."
"We'll be with you boss." Bull knew what it meant to be afraid. In Seheron, nobody could be trusted, and every time you slept, you prayed that you'd wake up the next day. Seheron was a different type of fear. A fear you couldn't see and a tension that was with you always. But big enemies, demons and monsters – that was fear Bull could handle. He could offer the Herald something against that type of fear.
She turned to him and studied his face. He met her gaze solidly.
She nodded.
"Thanks Bull."
He nodded back and stood, walked away. She didn't like the discussions. He'd learned that about her by watching Josephine or Red try to sidle up to her and get answers. For all her questions, when it came to herself, she preferred to do instead of discuss. He'd wanted her to know he had her back. But he didn't want to daunt her with the threat of a long talk and feelings shared. He knew she didn't need that. She was the Herald – this was what she was meant to do.
The next day, she announced that they were marching on the Breach.