Chapter 5: You Calling Me a Coward?

Summary:

While out in the middle of the Fallow Mire fighting a revenant, Bull's realizes Samahl's hero complex is going to make him lose his mind someday.

Notes:

***Trigger Warnings for Chapter***

Undead walking corpses
Major and Minor Injuries
Blood and Gore
Magical violence
War violence

Rifts in the Fade could occur anywhere. They were often in the middle of fields, beaches, and forests, but Bull had also seen them in court yards, public buildings, and, just last week, in a farmer's home. Samahl had closed that little rift too. Bull's new boss seemed to be getting better and better at closing them efficiently. He was also gaining allies for the Inquisition all across the Hinterlands and Thedas.

Their most recent allies included Vivienne, or "Madame de Fer" as she liked to be addressed. She was as regal as a queen, strong as a Tamassran, with a headdress shaped like horns and an attitude and glare that could kill, but with grace. She had been court enchanter of Empress Celine's court. If there ever was a mage who was more against the mage rebellion, it was her. And yet she had specifically reached out to the Herald, an apostate Dalish mage, requesting that she have an active role in the Inquisition.

The other newest member was "Warden" Blackwall. Bull liked wardens. They were useful to have around and made jobs that included hunting darkspawn easier. They were . . . weird. They smelled strange and some of them had these haunted looks in their eyes as if they were continuously waking up from nightmares. Years ago, when Bull was still part of the Fisher's bleeders, Bull had met Warden Commander Sarath Surana, the Hero of Ferelden—Surana had thought the name was ridiculous too—during a job in the deep roads under Orlais. Though she seemed completely sane, Surana still had that haunted look in her eyes. She was a mage in full plate armor. She was also, as Bull had discovered, happily and unfortunately monogamous.

Blackwall wasn't a warden. He didn't smell like a warden. He didn't act like a warden. He didn't look like he was plagued by the same type of nightmares that had kept Surana up at night. But he clearly was plagued by something. Regret, maybe. Blackwall also didn't fight or think like a warden. Bull had spent long enough on that job with wardens Sarath Surana, Nathaniel Howe, Alistair— Ben-Hassrath reports said he was the bastard son of the late Ferelden King Maric—and Oghren, a very inebriated dwarf, to know some of the tricks wardens used to track their prey.

Bull was certain Leliana knew Blackwall wasn't a warden. Afterall, the spymaster had known Commander Surana for years and knew how wardens operated. Leliana must have kept Blackwall despite the deception because he boosted inquisition morale now that all the wardens were missing. Blackwall was also a good battle instructor.

With the growing number of allies of the Inquisition, there was always unwanted attention. News of the Herald of Andraste spurred a power hungry Avvar chieftain to capture and hold hostage several Inquisition soldiers as a challenge to the herald. And Samahl had met that challenge. The Avvar chieftain was no more, and his followers had scattered after Bull, Vivienne, Blackwall, and Samahl killed their chief.

It was the reason why Bull was soaking wet, his bones aching from old injuries, as they trudged through a shithole called the Fallow Mire. It had been a fishing community called Fisher's End. A plague had completely depleted its population and most of the corpses had never been tended. Now the mire was silent, dead, and smelled of rot and the heavy odor of bog.

Samahl was taking the lead. Behind him trudged the rescued Inquisition Soldiers. Their eyes were haunted, their gaits unsteady. Bull could feel this place weighing down on his mood.

Suddenly, Samahl stopped walking and clutched at his own hand. Vivienne stiffened beside him. In the distance, Bull saw a flash of green light. "Now what?" Bull growled.

"That's another rift, darling," Vivienne said wittily, and her condescending tone was actually appreciated. Bull could always trust Vivienne to be gracefully sardonic in the middle of a shithole like the Fallow Mire even when her clothes were soaked and rain poured down her face.

"I thought we got rid of them all," Blackwall grunted.

Samahl smiled grimly. "My hand says otherwise."

The hair stood on the back of Bull's neck. "Boss," he growled.

"I see them," Samahl whispered back. In the fog, Bull could see moving, slithering, shambling shapes. The Fallow Mire, filled with death, had the added horror of not only demons spat out by the rifts, but shambling corpses possessed by those demons.

Bull cast his eye on the rescued soldiers. They were hungry, tired, and cold. None of them could fight. They would be a burden. The youngest, an archer who was a snip of an elf, was shivering in his armor as another soldier half-carried him with an arm around his back. "Boss," Bull urged again.

"I know. Blackwall. Vivienne. I want you to lead Marcus, Merin, Delila, Gwaren, and Assan to the nearest camp. Bull and I are going to hold them off."

"Understood," Blackwall said, and Vivienne formed a magical shield over the weakened soldiers, and they retreated.

Samahl walked forwards towards the approaching demons and corpses. Bull matched his stride. "Would you like to join me in another little skirmish?" Samahl asked.

Bull chuckled darkly. "Sure, Boss. It's a date."

A shambling corpse let out a creaky, eerie moan and charged towards Samahl. Bull carved through the corpse with his axe. Samahl raised his staff and two wet, decaying corpses exploded as lightning tore them apart. Bull fought down the urge to gag at the smell of foul and charred flesh. A spindly green demon that walked as if it were on stilts disappeared and reappeared behind Samahl. "Boss!" Bull yelled, but Samahl was already darting away on a jagged sheet of ice. The spell skidded Samahl over mud and water, the watery bog surrounding him freezing as he sent fire and lightning upon his enemies from a distance. His face was set in a deep grimace and his marked hand jerked and flashed with light, and Bull suddenly realized that it hurt. The mark actually hurt Samahl. All this time, and Samahl's nonchalance at closing rifts had been a fucking ruse that, until now, had been perfect. But Bull had never seen Samahl this exhausted before. Maybe that's why Bull could suddenly see past the mask to the pain beneath it.

The ice stopped the corpses in their tracks. Bull decapitated five of them in one swing, the crack crack crack crack crack of their necks reverberating loudly like the rapid tapping of a drumstick on wood. The spindly demon, sensing the presence of the retreating soldiers, attempted to rush past Bull. Bull hacked at it with his axe, again and again, till its limited attention was on Bull completely. It screamed in his face. Bull roared back and sliced through its emaciated chest with his axe. The demon dissolved into a green mist that seemed to stretch and thin as it swirled back towards the flashing green light in the distance.

"Bull!" Samahl shouted. "We need to get closer to the rift!"

"Right behind you!"

The grin Samahl gave Bull was wild, almost feral, and full of determination. They charged through the mire, causing such a commotion that no demon or corpse could get past them to attack Vivienne, Blackwall, or the rescued soldiers. A toothless corpse charged at Bull. Samahl threw out a hand and a wall of solid ice shot forward. It slammed into the corpse, encompassed it, and sliced it into pieces before it fell apart into the bog. Bull killed another demon, a wisp of a thing, that dissolved when he sliced through it. As it faded away, Bull heard it emit a heartbroken cry that made him vividly remember a sleepless night in his bed at the kid dormitories. His hands were tiny, his horns little stubs, and he was too afraid to fall asleep because he just found out from Tears that he'd visit the fucking Fade if he slept.

"Bull!" Samahl barked.

"Fuck," Bull cursed and snapped himself out of it. He needed to get rid of these fuckers before he lost his mind.

The rift was hovering in a circle of stones surrounded by dead trees and dead, walking corpses. The moment Samahl was twenty paces away, the rift reacted to the close proximity of his mark. The rift flared up and demons manifested into being around them and undead rose from the water. But the demons Bull could see were the wispy, wimpy ones, the lesser demons that seemed to accompany more powerful demons that were ripped out of the Fade by these rifts. Maybe, just maybe, they were nearing the end of the fight.

That thought lasted for a measly two seconds.

As the veins of Samahl's lightning split through three wispy demons, a clawed hand made of shadow materialized. In an instant, it closed around Samahl's chest and dragged him fifteen paces till he came to an abrupt and gruesome halt on the end of a great-sword held by a giant corpse.

The undead creature was in full armor. Its face sneered with an eternal grin, for its lips had long since decayed away. But it had eyes, and those eyes glowed eerily in the dim light of the mire. There was a sickening crack as it struck Samahl's face with an armored fist. The Herald crashed facedown into the water and stopped moving.

Bull was charging towards the armored corpse, his axe singing through the air. The axe wedged itself into the creature's breast plate, and Bull shoved it back with a roar. He grabbed the back of Samahl's robes and pulled the Herald free of the water and onto the bank. Bull let go of his robes. He couldn't turn around to check if Samahl was moving or breathing.

The corpse slammed its shield against Bull so hard his teeth rattled together. The corpse brought down its sword. Bull blocked it, baring his teeth, and pushed the armored corpse back with a growl that resounded through the clearing before he sliced down on the corpse's sword with his axe. The ancient sword broke in half.

"Get back!" Samahl shouted hoarsely.

Bull ducked and weaved away, avoiding a shield bash, as a fiery glyph formed under the corpse's armored boots. The monster burst into flames and let out a scream that sounded like a thousand swords screeching against one another. It turned away from Bull. Bull watched Samahl stagger to his feet, sending bolt after bolt of fire at the armored corpse. The corpse raised a hand towards Samahl. "NOT AGAIN!" Bull roared, and brought down his axe on the corpse's armored hand and sliced completely through metal and bone. Then he hamstringed the corpse. It fell to its knees. Bull slammed his axe into its side. The armor cracked. His axe wedged deep. He could smell the awful scent of fetid decay secreting from the gashes in its armor. Bull tore his axe free again and raised it high. The corpse, despite all its bulk, managed to turn and look up at him with its glowing red eyes, its lipless and toothy smile wide.

Bull slammed his axe down on the corpse's helmet once, twice, five times till the axe broke the helmet and the skull beneath. The corpse collapsed and a green mist escaped its broken mouth to return with a resounding boom of sound into the rift. "DIE, YOU SON OF A BITCH!" Bull roared.

Samahl stumbled towards the rift and reached out for it with his convulsing hand. The green crystalline light of the rift pulled towards him like a thread, twining around his hand. Samahl gasped in agony. The sharp ringing sound of the rift reverberated through the air at the same moment a lightning bolt blasted and cracked through a tree a half a mile away. Then Samahl pulled his hand back and the rift in the air was gone with a shockwave of power.

Samahl fell to his knees in the mud, gasping, coughing, and threw up. Bull strode quickly towards him, strapped on his axe, and took a knee beside him. He put a giant hand on the Herald's back. "Samahl," Bull said sharply.

Samahl wiped his mouth with the back of his sodden sleeve and laughed breathlessly. "Revenants—don't have—mothers, Bull," Samahl wheezed. His hand was white knuckled around his staff and his other hand clutched at his chest. The dark blue of his robes was darkening with blood. Blood was dripping from an open wound above one of his red eyebrows.

Bull shoved a hand into the pouch at his side and took out a healing potion. He popped the cork and held it to Samahl's lips. "Drink it. Try to keep it down," Bull murmured.

Samahl raised a shaky hand to the flask and drank the potion. His face scrunched up as he swallowed it all down. "That's so vile," he croaked.

"The worse it tastes, the better it works," Bull recited from his Tamassran. Bull put the empty flask back into his pouch and Bull wrapped an arm around Samahl's back. "I'm carrying you," Bull insisted.

Samahl braced an arm on Bull's shoulder. "Thanks, Bull," he whispered.

"No problem, Boss." Bull easily picked up Samahl and walked swiftly towards the direction he knew one of the camps was in.

It was raining, cold, dismal, and Bull's adrenaline was gone. He was walking with the reserve energy of someone who had no more patience for anymore bullshit. Without the brilliant green light of the rift, the light of Samahl's healing spell seemed to be swallowed by the darkness. Bull could barely see the bog in front of them. "You're hurt too," Samahl wheezed.

"Don't worry about me," Bull responded firmly. The shield bash was going to leave a horrific bruise, but Bull suspected Samahl's skull was cracked. Bull could heal later.

After a few minutes of Bull trudging through the rain, Samahl's spell sputtered and died. Samahl's staff fell from his hand into the mud. Bull frowned with worry. "You awake, Boss?"

"Unfortunately," Samahl said dryly.

Bull laughed. "Don't be like that. Keep me company. Look at the pretty rain. And bog. And mud."

"And the blood and gore all over us."

"See? You think it's pretty too!" Samahl snorted. "You gonna get that staff?" Bull asked. "With this mother of all bruises, and I'm sort of carrying you like a princess, I don't think I can bend over and take your—ah, thanks."

Samahl's staff levitated up from the mud and landed back in the mage's hand. "Were you seriously going to say, 'I don't think I can bend over and take your staff?'" Samahl asked.

"Dirty, Boss! Dirty!"

Samahl laughed and coughed violently for about a minute till he was leaning heavily against Bull and breathing raggedly. "You're ridiculous," Samahl gasped, and his healing spell flashed back to life as he placed his hand on his wounded head to heal it. Bull managed to find the energy to pick up his pace.

When they finally got to a camp, Inquisition soldiers startled with alarm. "Herald!" they said in shock.

Samahl opened his mouth to speak but Bull took charge of the situation. "We need blankets and all the elfroot and healing potions you can find," Bull said swiftly. "Did Vivienne and Blackwall get here with our missing soldiers?"

The soldiers looked at each other in confusion. "We didn't see them," one said to the other. "The soldiers were found?"

Samahl tapped Bull's shoulder with his staff. "Let me down," Samahl said weakly.

Bull's arms tightened around the Herald. "Nuh-uh."

"There are seven of them still out there," Samahl bit out through clenched teeth. "None of those soldiers can fight."

"They all could be safe at another camp," Bull grunted. "You're not going out there to. . . oh crap."

Bull and Samahl watched with no small amount of terror as a brilliant green light filled the sky. But it wasn't another rift. They sighed in utter relief when the brilliant blaze of light took on the shape of a peacock for ten long seconds till it faded away.

"That's Vivienne's signal," Samahl said. "They're all safe." Samahl raised his staff towards the sky. Bull held himself back from recoiling. A brilliant but silent purple blaze of lightning split the sky like a sword from Samahl's staff three times. It was Samahl's signal for "all is well." Then Samahl's hand dropped limply by his side and his staff fell from his hand. He didn't pick it back up this time.

A scout held aside the flap of a tent and Bull strode in. A lantern was lit and a cot was prepared with blankets and furs. A pile of linens for drying were set on the opposite cot. Bull carefully laid Samahl down on the cot and leaned back to see Samahl's face in the lantern light. The elf's face was grey, bruised, and bloodied. His eyes were closed. "Samahl?"

"Still here," came Samahl's weak reply.

"I'm going to help you out of these clothes. Are you all right with that?"

Samahl opened one eye and stared up at Bull fixedly. He was more awake and alert than Bull had realized. "You're asking if I want to get out of these Dread Wolf-taken bloody robes? Why, yes. Yes, I am all right with that."

Bull laughed quietly. "All right, all right."

Bull proceeded to unbuckle and unbutton Samahl's ruined robes. Samahl assisted as much as he could, but after the third attempt to help, he gasped with agony. "Let me, Boss," Bull said quietly. Samahl sighed and let Bull take control. Bull pulled Samahl's arms out of his robes and set the ruined robes aside. Then Bull unbuttoned the bloody undershirt and rolled it off Samahl's heavily tattooed shoulders. Samahl's wound was already half healed from his spell, but it was red and dark with blood. He helped Samahl out of his breeches and held out one of the linens for Samahl to take. Bull got a glimpse of shapely legs and muscular thighs before Samahl pulled the dry linen over his legs and waist. Bull rummaged through his belongings and pulled out the potion Stitches had concocted. "Here," Bull said, "Drink this." He pulled out the cork and passed it to Samahl.

Samahl looked at the bottle curiously and blanched when he caught a whiff of it. "Bull, you're not supposed to drink this," he said, his teeth flashing in the lantern light with a grin. "It looks like a poultice. You put it on the wound."

"Ah. That explains the taste," Bull mused.

"Is that what you had me chug down earlier?" Samahl asked.

"Maaaaybe?" Bull said.

There was a scratch at the tent flap. Bull stood up, almost poked a hole in the tent with one of his horns, and he walked in a stoop to the front of the tent. He accepted the healing potions and turned back around. Samahl was holding a hand over the wound on his forehead with a glowing hand. Bull sat gingerly on the opposite sleeping cot. "Here," he said, passing him a healing potion.

Samahl took it. "Thanks," he said quietly. He drank the potion. Bull popped the cork of another potion and drank it down. He immediately began to feel the strange tingling throughout his body that warned him that magic was affecting him. Bull battled down the aversion in his gut and let the spell from the potion and the elf root take its course. The bruise in his side numbed a bit. And yes. The potion definitely tasted better than a poultice. It was minty fresh.

After a moment of washing his hands, Bull pulled his cot closer to Samahl and cleaned Samahl's wound. Despite the size of his hands, he was skilled with them. Bull administered the poultice carefully to the wound. Then he applied some to the cut on Samahl's forehead. In his state of near exhaustion, Bull stared at the slender muscles of Samahl's torso and at the dark tattoos marking his skin. Bull wondered how far Samahl's tattoos travelled down his body beneath the linens. The tattoos were as beautiful as the person they inked.

It was then that the two of them caught each other's eyes and froze. Despite the chill of Samahl's skin, Samahl's face was red. His eyes were smoldering. The lantern light shined on his red hair. The breath Bull took was steadying and long. He looked back down at the wound and continued to tend to it. A loud, heated silence fell between them.

When Bull was done tending to Samal's injuries, Samahl pulled the blankets over himself. Then he settled back down on the cot and stared up at the sloped canopy of the treated-leather tent. "Bull . . . I know you are here because of an order, but there must be a better way to spy on the Inquisition for the Ben-Hassrath than following me into swamps infested with walking corpses. Sticking close to Josephine would give you better information to send back."

"Watching her negotiate with nobles is not as exciting as field work," Bull said gruffly.

"But it's less risky."

Bull laughed. "Oh really? Those nobles can be dangerous."

Samahl laughed quietly. "Yes, they can be. And, by guarding me, you'll get to face not only them, but crazy Avvar who hold people hostage to get to me, undead, Fade rifts that can suck you into the Fade, the whole of the Chantry. Oh, and don't forget the demons. Lots of demons. And the danger is only going to get worse. If you have any doubts, or if you feel the pay isn't worth the risk, then—"

"Are you calling me a coward, Samahl?" Bull asked smoothly.

Samahl's eyes widened in surprise. "What? No! But you needn't risk—"

"I spent almost half your lifetime fighting in Seheron. I'm Ben-Hassrath. I lead a team of mercenaries. Death and I are old friends, but like annoyed friends 'cause death doesn't like to keep me around. So, why's it sound like you're telling me to find work somewhere else?"

Samahl looked down at his hand. "This mark made me infamous. If you guard me, you'll become a target."

"That's what a bodyguard is for. We become targets by default. Do you believe I don't know the risk?"

"No. I know you do."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I don't want you killed on my behalf."

Bull stared at him silently for a long moment. "Samahl, people follow you because they want to close that Breach as much as you do. Some of them will be killed on your behalf. Some already have."

Samahl winced as if he were physically wounded again. "And that scares the shit out of me," Samahl snapped. His eyes widened. "Sorry," he muttered. "I didn't . . . You're right. Forget I said anything."

"Kind of hard to do that, Boss."

Samahl managed a smile. "Then don't mention it again. Please," Samahl added.

They both fell silent as Bull pulled off his sodden clothes in the lantern light and dried himself with the linens. He could feel Samahl's eyes on him a few times, but each time he looked over his broad and pale shoulder, Samahl was either looking up at the tent canopy or his eyes were closed. Bull dried off as much as he could and wrapped one of the longer lengths of linen around his waist for Samahl's sake. When he was done and had settled himself gingerly into the cot, he saw Samahl was asleep and cocooned in blankets. Even in sleep, the Herald frowned with worry, as if even in his dreams he were weighing risks and lives. Bull pulled off his eyepatch and set it aside. He lay down on the cot, squirmed around a little to get as comfortable as he could, and closed his eye.

If the Herald continued along this road of worry, he would completely burn out within a few months.