Chapter 4: Sex and Assassins

Summary:

Bull has sex, talks about sex, all while keeping one eye and two ears open for a Chantry sister who can't say the Chant of Light to save her own life.

Notes:

**Trigger Warnings for Chapter***
Lethal acid damage
Suicide

The Hinterlands reminded Bull vaguely of the chaos of Seheron. The only plus side was that it could have been worse. Templars, broken off from the Templar Order, were making a stand against mages who were itching for a fight after being sheltered and cooped up all their lives in the Circle. The mages, former circle mages and apostates, were taking advantage of the chaos to wage war against the Templars. But then there were the rebel mages, the peaceful ones, who had taken refuge in Redcliff. Then there were the outlaws, the Fade rifts that shat out demons, and the occasional signs of the dwarven criminal cartels.

Yes, the layers upon layers of factions here in the Hinterlands felt like Seheron. It felt like home. It was chaos, but a pretty chaos because the Hinterlands were painfully picturesque and beautiful amongst all that death and calamity.

Samahl was frustrating to work for, but Bull kept that frustration to himself and never voiced it. It's not that Bull didn't like the guy. The Herald just seemed like he wanted to get involved in everything and took unnecessary risks. Samahl took on jobs and requests that should have been taken on by others, not by the one person in all of fucking Thedas who had the only known solution to getting rid of the rifts literally in his glowing hand.

But there was a benefit to Samahl's many acts of kindness. The people knew his face, his name, and his story. He was the face of the Inquisition, and it was a kind face quick to smiles and compassion. It made the people trust the Inquisition more, and it made the Inquisition's goal to gain back order in the Hinterlands much easier. It was a good strategy, but Bull had no clue how the man slept, or ate, or relaxed. When Bull was resupplying in Haven, Bull would often see Samahl consulting with Cullen, Leliana, Josephine, or Casandra, or sometimes all three of them all at once as they walked side by side outside or in the halls of the Chantry. Bull saw Samahl sometimes in the tavern, but Bull knew it was never for pleasure. He drank ale on occasion, but it was so he could fit in and talk to people about the goings on of Haven. If Samahl played his lute, it was not usually for his own benefit, but for the benefit of the refugees, templars, mages, and pilgrims that had joined their cause.

And Samahl did all this morale boosting and strategizing despite the giant hole that stared down at all of them like a giant "fuck you" in the sky.

Iron Bull sometimes initiated an entirely different way of helping with morale while he was at Haven.

The people who had joined Haven seemed to be of five different minds when it came to the presence of Iron Bull, the only Qunari, at least to Haven's knowledge, that resided in the camp. The first category was terrified of speaking or looking at Bull. The second category were the ones who did not really look at him at all, like Solas, unless Bull said something clever. The third section were people who were openly hostile who, on occasion, made threats. Bull was usually able to manipulate the situation enough that those hostile people were sitting with him in the tavern having drinks by the end of the night. The fourth section were people who actively talked to him, perhaps hoping to befriend him for various reasons, or who were like Flissa, Haven's bar keeper, who was terrified of him but wanted Bull to feel welcome despite her terror. Bull encouraged those friendships. He had a network of these friendships now, including Flissa, that unknowingly helped him keep tabs on what was going on around Haven.

Then there were the people in the fifth category. These were people who saw him and immediately wondered what it would be like to ride him from dusk till dawn. People in this fifth category either thought of him as something forbidden, something they wanted to fuck and feel appalled about afterwards, or they seemed to forget what Bull was and saw only the fact that Bull was loud, obnoxious, horned, and huge, and they wanted to see if he was huge in other places.

When a slew of refugees came in from the Hinterlands with horrible injuries, caused by both Templars and rebel mages, Bull had Stitches lend a hand. Stitches was a veteran when it came to seeing disgusting, horrible, and mortifying injuries. He had been a healer during the Fifth Blight, and had seen injuries, mostly Darkspawn related, the likes of which Bull could only imagine. During the time Stitches tended to the Hinterlands refugees, a Chantry sister named Merewald worked beside him. She was buxom, cheerful for the sake of the refugees, and exhausted. But when she made eye contact with Bull after Stitches taught the sisters, among other things, how to treat demon claw wounds, her dark eyes widened and dilated.

Bull's tent was in a cluster of tents owned by the Chargers just outside the town gates. It was nightfall, just when most of the Chargers were enjoying the tavern after a tough mission of their own, and Bull had a moment of quiet. He was sitting on a stump sharpening his axe with a whetstone. The Qun was a way of life focused on balance and order. There were acts, rituals, and traditions even in the military that could help with balance even if you were in the thick of a war. Tending to a weapon was one of those rituals. Bull's physical weapons were not extensions of himself like they were for soldiers. He would not be executed or shamed if he returned to the Qun without his axe. But the weapon he had constantly, no matter what weapon he had in his hand, was his mind. Keeping his mind organized, balanced, and sharpened was important. Using a whetstone on his axe was therapeutic. He imagined that he was doing that with his mind. It was a time he put aside all of his thoughts and focused on the task at hand.

But Bull always left a part of his mind very much aware of his surroundings, so it was no surprise to him when he saw Merewald come to a stop in front of his tent. He had heard her the moment she exited her tent a few rows away from the Chargers. Merewald cleared her throat hesitantly. "Hello, Iron Bull," she said with a smile.

Bull wiped down his axe, sheathed it, and put away his whetstone. "Hey, Merewald," Bull said with a huge grin. "How are things going?"

Merewald sighed and glanced at the Breach. "Well, it's still there, so not well," she said. She shook her head. "No. Sorry. I promised myself I would focus on it less."

Bull glanced up at the Breach. "Kinda hard not to," he said. "And you don't have to stop yourself from talking about it. Not for me." Bull leaned back a little on the stump and smiled. "I can take it."

Merewald's dark eyes looked at his muscles and then stared back up at his face. She pushed a few strands of blond-red hair away from her forehead and tucked them back into her Chantry hood. "I wanted to thank you for sending over that healer," she said. "Stitches. He's saved a lot of lives."

"We're happy to help in whatever way we can. No matter who we are or what we believe, we need to work together in this."

Merewald bit her lip. "I've been thinking of ways to . . . to thank you." Her face turned bright red and she looked away. "I . . . I shouldn't be asking for this. But by the Maker, ever since I saw you . . . I shouldn't. I'm not . . . I'm not one of those women who want those things and only those things. I'm not easy or a . . . a scarlet woman. But I just. . . I want—"

Bull smile disappeared completely as his face took on a serious look. "Merewald, I think where I come from has very different views about sex than down here."

Merewald's face grew redder, but she was caught by the look in his eye and the kind but firm tone of his voice. "What are those views?"

"Sex is something the body needs, just like food, or medicine. It's not something you should ever be ashamed of needing. Merewald, you save lives every day. You're strong, compassionate, and you do all this even when people you save are not thankful." Bull stood up and slowly broke the distance between them. He heard Merewald breathe in deeply, but she didn't back away. He kept some distance between them, but he could smell the faint scent of elfroot on her clothing. He held one of his hands out to her. Her wide eyes gazed up at his face. "So, let me thank you," he said with a smile.

Merewald shuddered. "Oh Maker, yes," she whispered and, with the command of a Qunari Tamassran, she pulled him by the hand towards his tent.

Out of the Chantry garb, Merewald was plump, beautiful, and nearly desperate for some contact and intimacy. Her kisses were fierce, and her moans deep when his hands came up to her beautiful full breasts as she rode him, her blond-red hair spilling over her back as she gasped and sobbed. He brought her to orgasm three times in his tent, and afterwards he held her as she sighed and smiled sleepily, the lines of exhaustion on her face gone. Bull silently reveled in the feeling of being close to someone like this. As much as he liked sex, he liked this part too, the quiet aftermath and soft words. Bull ran his huge fingers delicately through her hair and she smiled up at him warmly.

What followed next was pillow talk that gave Bull incite on the Chantry, on more inhabitants of Haven, and on Merewald herself, who was originally from Denerim. Merewald also expressed her concern about a new Chantry sister named Margot who did not seem like she fit in that much with the others. Merewald had been attempting to make Margot feel more welcomed among them and she suspected Margot was not actually from Orlais like she claimed, but was on the run and trying to start a fresh, honest life doing good work for the Orlesian Chantry. Merewald suspected Margot was originally from Tevinter.

After Merewald left with one more passionate kiss for Bull, Bull put on just enough clothes to look presentable—which meant he wore trousers, boots, but no harness or shirt—and stepped out of his tent. He stared up at the Breach and swore.

Then he saw movement just outside of the circle of flame lights from the fires. Bull made his way past tents and fires, greeting people with back slaps and waves, before he followed the footprints in the snow that led towards the water.

Standing on one of the docks of Haven, staring out at frozen ice, the bobbing boats, and the acid green reflection of the breach, was Samahl. Bull could tell it was him not by the clothes but by the stance. Samahl held himself rigidly. The blade of his staff was digging into the wood of the dock. Any snow that fell near Samahl instantly melted and Bull couldn't help but feel a chill race up his spine. The mage was actively keeping the cold away from him with an ease that was unnerving, more unnerving somehow than seeing the elf rip through someone with lightning. From the look of the perfect circle of melted water that surrounded Samahl, and packed snow just beyond the circle, the herald must have been standing on the dock for a half an hour or more.

Samahl turned his head slightly. Bull knew he had been heard. He hadn't been making an effort to hide. "Come out here often?" Bull said with a grin.

Samahl laughed with surprise, not at his presence but at the pickup line, and turned fully to face Bull. The Herald's face looked wane and exhausted in the eerie glow of the Breach. "I do, actually," Samahl said.

Bull stood beside the Herald on the dock. "Yeah, I see it now. There're permanent indents from your staff here, here, here, and here," Bull said, indicating with his boot all of the nicks Samahl's staff blade had made in the wood of the dock.

Samahl grimaced. "Didn't realize I was leaving marks," he mumbled.

Bull laughed and fought an instinctive revulsion as the warmth of Samahl's temperature magic grew to encompass Bull as well. "I don't think Haven's going to mind, Boss," Bull said.

Samahl laughed. The two of them stood in silence for a while until Samahl said, "So. . . How did you get the name Iron Bull?"

"I picked it," Bull said. "We don't have names under the Qun." Samahl did not act surprised. He must have already known. "Just, I don't know, job descriptions, I guess. When I came to Orlais, I chose 'The Iron Bull' for myself."

One of Samahl's red eyebrows arched slightly. "But why specifically 'Iron Bull?'"

Bull's face split in a wide, slow grin. "This may surprise you . . . but I really love hitting things. Also, it's 'Thee' Iron Bull, technically. I like having an article at the front. It makes it sound like I'm not even a person, just a mindless weapon. An implement of destruction." Bull heard the sound of movement again, somewhere in the evergreen foliage and just beyond the harsh green light of the Breach. Whoever they were, they were willing to wait till the Herald was alone. "That really works for me."

"I'd actually like to know more about the Qunari," Samahl said.

"You writing a book?"

Samahl's eyes turned back to the Breach. "It's your culture and I'd like to know you better."

"You could just ask."

Samahl smirked. "I am," he said.

"All right," Bull said with resignation. "What do you want to know?"

Samahl thought for a moment about this. After a few seconds, he finally said, "I've heard there's no marriage among the Qunari."

Bull roared with laughter. "That's the first question you ask?"

Samahl blushed. "I was curious," he said.

"No marriage. Yeah, that's true," Bull said. "Qunari love our friends like anyone does, but we don't have sex with them." Except for me. But I'm not a good Qunari. Bull very quickly shoved Vasaad to the back of his mind where he compartmentalized grief and shame.

"Qunari don't have sex?" Samahl said incredulously.

Bull grinned and thought of the ride he had just given Merewald in his tent. "Oooh, we definitely have sex. There are Tamassrans that will pop your cork when you need it."

"Seriously?" Samahl asked with raised eyebrows.

"Yes. It's not a big deal like it is here. It's like, I don't know, going to see a healer. Sometimes it's this long involved thing, takes all day and leaves you walking funny." Bull's eye darted to Samahl's face as a red flush darkened his angular cheeks and then darted back to the icy water. "Other times you're in and out in five minutes." Bull clicked his tongue twice. "'Thank you! See you next week.'"

"That sounds . . . different," Samahl said.

"Yup," Bull said proudly. "Still, it's more fun here. Fewer rituals, more making it up as you go along." Then Bull grinned and faced Samahl fully and stared at Samahl's red hair. "Plus. You folks have red heads. Hmmmmm. Red heads."

Samahl cleared his throat and covered his mouth for a moment to smooth out his smile. "The Dalish . . . are a bit different when it comes to sex."

"You don't say," Bull said. Samahl's ears were almost as red as his hair.

"It's never done without a relationship. It is important. Family is just as important. When my magic manifested, the Keeper . . . well . . . in Dalish clans, they often keep the number of mages down to just a few, but my Keeper kept me in the clan because she insisted that I needed to stay with my family. So, I grew up with all of my siblings and my parents."

"Family is important to the Dalish, but if you are a mage, you might not grow up with one," Bull mused.

Samahl's hand tightened on his staff. "Yes. It's not a practice I like."

"It is practical and lowers the risks," Bull said simply. "Makes sense to me."

Samahl shot Bull a calculating look. "Some clans abandon their mage children in the woods if there are too many mages in the clan. Is that practical? Does that make sense?"

"Abandoning a mage who might be a danger to themself and to others in the woods, where they might be possessed? No, that doesn't make sense. But having other clans raise a mage child because there are too many in another clan? That makes sense."

"Taking in mage children from other clans does not happen as much as it should because of numbers, resources, and power." Samahl frowned. "And deep-seated superstition. The practice of abandoning children in the woods is barbaric, but struggling clans think it is necessary."

Bull did not speak his opinion about the matter. The Qun had its own ideas about mages. All mages were dangerous, unpredictable, and needed to be controlled. Leashing mages was unfortunate but necessary.

And yet the temperature magic that could have, in an instant, completely vaporized the two of them out on that dock in the middle of the night was kept under Samahl's dragon bone-sturdy control. How many years of dedication had it taken for Samahl to be this confident and in control of such horrible abilities? Iron Bull was only pleasantly warm, instead of on fire, because Samahl was just that controlled. What would it take for Samahl to lose that control?

Bull decided to make his risk assessment of Samahl's magical control later. He could feel eyes on his back.

"I would ask you questions about your culture too," Bull said, "because it's your culture and I want to know you better." Samahl snorted as Bull threw the words back at him. "But I already know a lot about you."

"You don't say, Ben-Hassrath," Samahl said dryly with a smile.

Bull laughed. "We researched your name. It means 'laughter.'"

Samahl looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "You all thought the meaning of my name was important?"

"Everything can be potentially important."

"Laughter," Samahl said. "The best medicine."

Bull laughed. "Is that a Dalish proverb or something?"

"It is something I heard in the fade once." Samahl said this so casually it was like he was talking about the harvest, baking bread, or knitting, and not the Fade. "'Laughter is the Best Medicine.' I don't know why I was named for laughter. Perhaps my mother thought I'd be great at telling jokes." Samahl smiled grimly as he stared up at the Breach. "But I can't fix the world with laughter. What else did the research say about me? I can tell you if it's true."

"You've got five younger siblings and doting parents, so I already knew your clan did not give you up. Your mother is known for her swordsmanship even in Wycome and you were following in her footsteps before your magic manifested. Your father is a well-known healer. You never married anyone, or rather, bonded with anyone. I almost forgot you Dalish don't call it 'marriage.' Your Keeper had a possible lady in mind for you, Talari, but you didn't go through with it."

Samahl smirked. "I'm impressed. It's all true. But do the Ben-Hassrath know why I didn't go through with the bond?" When Bull said nothing, Samahl said, "A bond among the Dalish is for life and for love. I love Talari, but being the way I am, I could never love her the way a bonded partner should."

"And the way you are is . . . what?"

"I am attracted to men," Samahl said with no hesitation. He watched Bull for a reaction. "I'm guessing you aren't offended," he said.

"Nah. You'd know if I was offended."

Samahl smiled. "I highly doubt that. Orlesians may have their masks, but you do not need a mask to hide behind." Samahl became hesitant. "I can't tell at all what you are thinking. You are my bodyguard, and yet some of your loyalty is not actually to me. And sometimes . . ."

"Sometimes what?" Bull asked suspiciously.

Samahl shook his head. "Nothing."

"It can't be nothing, not with that face you're making."

"It's not something that can be helped." Samahl squared his shoulders and faced Bull full on. "However, at the risk of actually offending you and not knowing if I have, are you open to encounters with more than just women? Or open to encounters with mages?"

Bull chuckled, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as his voice lowered in pitch, and Bull watched in pleasure as Samahl shivered. "I am open to encounters with anyone who has caught my eye."

Samahl gulped, his face flushing red. "I see," he said, and Bull watched as Samahl fought away another smile. Samahl looked up at the moon. "I should sleep," he said. "It is late."

Bull couldn't help his smirk. "Are you telling the time by the moon?" Bull asked fondly.

Samahl grinned and pointed to himself. "Dalish, remember? Good night, Thee Iron Bull." This time Samahl smiled. "And . . . thank you for stopping by to talk to me."

Samahl walked off the dock, taking the warmth with him, and Bull swore loudly from the rapid switch in temperature. "Fuck, it's cold!" Bull complained.

Samahl laughed. "That can be very easily fixed!" Samahl called as he walked away. "Coats are comfortable. You should try one sometime."

"Nah, my horns'll ruin it. Hey! Next time we talk I want to talk more about sex!"

Samahl walked faster away from the docks and Bull could suddenly see the exact location of the spy hidden in the foliage as they moved to follow Samahl through the trees, turning their back to Bull. The figure raised up what looked like a throwing knife. Bull stepped fluidly into the foliage and grabbed the thin wrist and an equally thin neck. Bull felt the thin wrist break under his fingers. The throwing knife in the person's hand dropped and impaled a tree root below. The root immediately began to turn black as the fast working acid at the tip of the blade turned the root into mush. Bull had done it all so quietly that no one, not even Samahl, had heard anything.

Bull recognized Margot, Merewald's new, shy, and mysterious Chantry sister, the one who was having trouble fitting in with the other sisters, staring up at him with horror and fear.

And before Bull was even able to open his mouth to interrogate, the person who called themselves Margot bit down on something in their mouth: a capsule filled with the same acid that tipped the throwing knife, the same acid that burned through the tree root.

Ten minutes later, Bull found Leliana speaking with one of her scouts in the Chantry. When she saw Bull approach, she did a double take at the emotionless look on his face. Bull silently nodded his chin towards Haven's gates.

Bull led her out of the gates to where he had Skinner, the first Charger Bull had found after the assassin's suicide, standing guard over the corpse of the assassin. Skinner's sharp eyes caught sight of Bull and she nodded silently to him in greeting as he approached with the Left Hand of the Divine. Leliana crouched down to survey the gruesome scene among the evergreens. "Tell me what you know," Leliana said.

"She's been keeping tabs on Samahl for days now," Bull said. "Called herself Margot. Kept mostly to herself. Orlesian. But she has a fake Tevinter accent she let slip in sometimes and she purposely said parts of the Chant incorrectly in conversation."

"You know the Chant?" Leliana asked with surprise.

"I spent years in Orlais. I know the Chant better than I want to." Bull nodded to the corpse of Margot. "She snuck out here to assassinate him. I talked to him for a while out here and she didn't attack. She killed herself before I could question her."

"What's your guess on who she was?"

"My guess?" Bull said. "Your Chantry sent an assassin of their own and wanted to make it look like a Vint assassinated Samahl. This was a suicide mission. She wasn't expecting to make it out alive even if she was successful with the assassination. The throwing dagger is Tevinter, but I haven't seen that kind of throwing knife in 20 years with Vint assassins. There're newer toys out there, and she's too young to be tossing around the old ones. A dated throwing dagger, a fake Vint accent, and purposefully messing up verses from the Chant of Light? If I were a Vint assassin trying not to be found out as a Vint, I would just shut up."

Leliana shot Bull a look over her shoulder, her dark cowl hiding half her face. Then she gave a sigh. "Yes, I agree."

"Why?"

"We've been keeping tabs on her too. I had my suspicions about assassins from the Chantry. One of the chancellors must have sent her." Lilliana and Bull glanced at each other and must have gone through the same thought at once, but neither of them voiced it. Chancellor Roderick was an opponent of the Herald's, but he was not the type to send an assassin. Chancellor Roderick's weapons were public defacement and slander, not acid-tipped daggers and assassins. "Did Samahl see this happen?" Leliana asked.

"No."

"Good."

"Good?"

"She's just another assassin hired by another person who wants him dead. I'm here to keep track of those persons, not him." The former Left Hand of the Divine contemplated the dead assassin with calculating and cold blue eyes. "Now, the question is if she has anything on her to show us who hired her."

Two of Leliana's subordinates approached. One was a new recruit who, immediately upon seeing the corpse, turned green and hurried over to a bush to be sick in it. When the recruit found their composure again, they walked back over to Leliana. They were shaking a little, but their jaw was clenched stoically.

Leliana gave one final nod to Bull and Skinner. Bull and Skinner took their leave. They could hear Leliana begin to lecture to the recruits about acid and the damage it could do in the right or wrong hands.