In Qunlat it was called dumaar, a moment that left its imprint on you permanently, frozen in perfect clarity. The Iron Bull had collected quite a few in his admittedly colorful life, some triumphant, others that made the bile rise in his throat when he considered them. This, luckily, had been one of the former.
They'd been half a day from Skyhold, walking across the depressing swamps of the Fallow Mire and back into the hilly expanse of southern Ferelden. The sun was high in the sky, and though it beat down on them somewhat aggressively, bringing up beads of sweat on his brow that trickled down into his eyes, it felt fabulous in comparison to the cold, shitty, unceasing rain.
In fact, Harding had just been commenting that her underthings were finally dry when a huge rippling scream tore across the plains and very probably made her re-dampen them.
The entire party ducked instinctively while both packhorses reared up, eyes rolling in terror. The one Krem led dumped its load, gravity letting it shimmy out of the panniers. Krem pulled his wrist free of the reins just in time and the horse bolted. To his left, Mira unbuckled the second horse's panniers and gave it a ringing slap on the rump, sending it galloping off after its companion as another scream rung out.
Ataashi...
The word whispered across his brain as the great beast appeared, majestic wings unfurled, all rippling muscle and death and instinct and power, blotting out the sun.
Andaraan Ataashi runan suk-san alaan...
"Glorious." He said, finally wresting his brain back to Ferel.
"Fuck. Oh fuck. Godsdammit." Krem murmured at his side, drawing his broadsword. "Fuck fuck fuck."
The thing's head snapped around and its impossibly graceful body followed, cutting the wind, riding it, slipping down toward them bonelessly. It had seen them.
Ahead, Mira drew her sword, setting her shoulders, bracing her legs, roaring, meeting its will with her own, reaching her left hand up into the sky, the arcane energy of the Anchor flaring. She parted the fabric of reality, the unseen realm shimmering around and above her as the great beast bore down on them.
His sword was in his hand, the blood thundering in his ears, primordial forces, rather his brain, setting him in motion.
The long battle itself he remembered only in snippets, flashes of images, the smell of coppery acrid blood, the heat of the fire it spat at them barely grazing his flesh.
It had worked out well, Cremisius, Mira, and himself on the front line, Sera and Harding at range, Cole striking from the shadows.
They fought until sundown, falling into a rhythm the group had perfected in the Mire, fighting swaths of murderous Avvar and hordes of undead. In another situation his body would have been burning from exertion, but the sacrament of deadly combat had taken ahold of him completely. It blotted out the pain of a hundred scrapes and burns. It kept him upright when he should have been downed, kept him moving. He protected the Inquisitor. He fought the beast. When she struck the fatal blow his heart sang.
And, of course, he developed an erection that could have been used as a battering ram. It was a damn good thing he'd taken to wearing plate armor tassets.
Mira let go of her broadsword, which was still buried in the dragon's eye-socket up to the pommel. She slid off of its giant muzzle, drenched in blood and snot and...whatever it was dragon eyeballs were full of.
Her legs wobbled, then folded as her feet hit the ground, and she half sat, half fell, onto the scorched grass. The Iron Bull drove his sword into a furrow the creature had torn into the earth, moving toward her. She fell back onto the grass, spread-eagled, fumbling at her breastplate.
"Are we...all...alive?" She called out breathlessly.
Krem came into view from the other side of the massive corpse, dropping his gloves and wiping his brow with the back of his hand. Sera was behind him. She tore her helmet off and spiked it at the ground.
"Face down, arse up, surly dragon tart! We're big bloody heroes!" She cackled.
Krem smiled wryly, rolling his gaze over to Sera. "By that...she means 'yes', Inquisitor." He said, bending at the waist, hands on his knees, breathing ragged.
Bull sat in the grass beside Mira in the shadow of the great beast. She finally succeeded in peeling off her bloody, dented breastplate. It landed beside him with a dull thud. The best blacksmith in Thedas wouldn't be able to hammer that thing back into shape. He wondered if her torso was mostly intact beneath her mail.
"Y'alright, Inquisitor?" He asked, leaning back on his hands, sounding casual.
"I need a fucking beer." She said, her eyes rolling over to him.
And beer was hopefully in her future, but he had his own plans for her as well.
They camped that night, and Bull lay in his little tent all night, submerged in sounds and images; the Ataashi hissing and spitting fire, raking at him with claws the size of his forearm. He saw its final moments, Mira running, covered in black blood, blade raised, mouth open in a roar, unheard over the din. She gathered her strength and leapt. The battered creature turned to look...
Bull sighed, noticing that he was, once again, visibly aroused. At least he had his own tent.
Noticing the response of his body made his mind switch gears. Unbidden, a scene from their last encounter floated past him.
"Please." She said. Her skin tasted salty on his tongue. The folds of flesh under his fingers were impossibly soft. Human women were very delicate in specific areas, even extraordinary women like Mira. Luckily, he knew just how to touch her, how to wring pleasure out of her in perfect contrast to the tension in her shoulders and arms, the fist he had buried in her soft hair.
She shivered, letting her body go slack for a moment before hissing and straightening back up. She was caught between the impulse to relax and let her release take her, and gravity. When she sagged, the ropes around her wrists and behind her back pulled just so. It wasn't quite pain, just enough to keep her (quite literally) on her toes. The astaarit configuration was versatile like that-with a few adjustments he could use it in interrogations and more enjoyable moments with equal success.
"Please." Mira gasped again, so close. It would have been so easy to slide into her again, to feel her come from the inside, all warm wet breath and rippling flesh...
...But he didn't. Not until she asked him to. He kept her balanced on the razor's edge, one hand stroking gently, the other pulling her hair, putting his mouth next to her ear.
"Please what?" He whispered.
Scout Harding giggled from the tent immediately next to him, piercing the silent night and tearing him away from his favorite part of a very pleasant memory.
"Shh, Lace!" Krem's distant voice grumbled, half laughing.
Bull narrowed his eyes, scowling and throwing an arm over his face. Normally he would have been happy his Lieutenant was getting laid, but at the moment it only highlighted how empty his own bedroll was.
"Nehraa kosluun." He grumbled, shifting uncomfortably in a tent made for a much smaller race of people. People without horns.
They finally arrived back at Skyhold when the sun was directly overhead. No one had been seriously injured in the previous day's fight, but they were all sore, bruised, and singed. Not to mention covered in the dried residue of a dragon's vital fluids.
"Thank the Maker." Harding breathed as the massive portcullis before them started to creakily rise, bits of rust and rock dust dropping from the impressive winches on either side of the gate.
The Seeker and the Spymaster were upon them before they even made it into the courtyard, talking over each other, hustling Mira off for a debriefing. She cast a wry half-smile over her shoulder, eyes finding his for the barest instant, one eyebrow arched.
"All of you! Tavern! Start without me!" She said, Leliana on one side, Cassandra with an iron grip on her other elbow.
"That's what I like to hear." Krem called after her retreating form. "I think the Chargers have rubbed off on her, boss." He added, grinning up at Bull.
"Good." He said lightly. "As long as we're not talking about the way you all smell."
"Hey, can we get into the good stuff?" Sera called after the Inquisitor, but she was now almost at the top of the stone steps and engrossed in conversation with Cassandra. The trio of women turned the corner and disappeared.
"Feck. Cabot's beer's terrible. Like floor cleaner and dirty socks." She sighed.
"Only in winter." Harding said helpfully. "Now we're into 'pisswater with a twist of lemon' season."
"Relax, friends." He said. "It just so happens that I've been saving a little something for an occasion such as this."
It seemed as though his plan for the Inquisitor had been interrupted, but he was Ben Hassrath, born and bred. He didn't mind playing the long game.
"I'll grab the rest of the company." Krem said, heading up the stairs.
"I'll see who else I can wrangle up." Harding said, following him.
Cole gasped, and Bull saw that his eyes had gone distant and unfocused- a sure sign that his unique brand of weirdness was incoming.
"He doesn't make sense." Cole said, tremulously. "He wanted to live before, but now he just looks out the window, slipping, silently, toward the sea. She wants to say the words, but they aren't there. She can't say the right words. They forgot that she could love him. How could they forget?" He finished plaintively.
Bull and Sera looked at each other for a moment.
"Ohhh-kay, kid. Why don't you come with me and grab the casks?" Bull asked.
Cole's pale eyes snapped over to him, focusing, then looking away. He bit his lower lip, looking at the ground, brow knit. He looked like a frightened kid. A frightened, semi-corporeal kid made of demons and knives.
"No! You're not nice, The Iron Bull." He snapped, attention fully on him now, only to turn and scurry off up the stairs and away.
"Hey! Kid..." Bull called after him, confused. Cole didn't turn around.
"What was that about?" He turned and asked Sera, hands on his hips.
Sera sighed, rolling her eyes.
"Well you aren't nice, are you? You're a bossypants Qunari arsehole with a face like a brick wall and you kill people for money."
"Nobody's perfect." He shrugged.
"Hah. Remember that when I'm off me tits in a few hours. 'Don't be mad at Sera for yakking up in yer helmet, Inquisitor,'" she said, pitching her voice low, "'Nobody's perfect.'"
"Deal." He said dryly. "Just keep your stomach contents away from me, please."
"Is this 'good stuff' you're talking about that mara...mary..."
"Maraas-Lok, yes."
"Woof, no promises." She said, wincing.