These will be brief vignettes ranging across the timeline for Ren Trevelyan and the Iron Bull. If you have any suggestions for scenes you'd like to see, please feel free to send them to me.

He was being dragged, both his arms held in iron grips, the pants he wore ripping as his ass scraped along the ground. The Iron Bull tried to struggle, but whoever was holding him would not be budged.

That was impossible. No one had the strength to hold him. No one except—

He craned his neck, one of his horns catching painfully on the ground as he did so. There was a sickening crack as a piece broke off. But he finally managed to see who was holding him. Two Qunari. What the fuck were Qunari doing here?

For that matter, where even was here? Some kind of desert, hard-packed sand beneath him, bits of it getting into his clothes, stinging as they dug into his skin. The sun beat down unmercifully, and sweat was rolling off his body. He had to squint in order to see anything, the glare shining in his eye.

The Iron Bull twisted and struggled again, trying to break free. Even among his own people, he had always been larger and more powerful than most. He should have been making some impact. The sweat on his wrists should have made them slide in the grip of his captors. But there was no movement, not even the suggestion of any loosening of their grasp.

Panic was rising in him despite his best efforts to remain calm. His memory was blank—he didn't know how he had been taken or why he was here in the blazing sun of the north being dragged along the sand by two fellow Kossith. And what of his kadan? If he was a prisoner, she must be …

No. There was no point in thinking that way, and nothing he could do about whatever her situation might be, not as long as he was functionally helpless in his current situation. And how the fuck far were they planning to drag him? His pants felt like they were in tatters. For that matter, so did his ass.

He tried to call out to the men holding him, but to his horror he found that his lips were sewn shut. Like a saarebas. But he was no magic-user. He had never had any magic. Why would they need to sew his mouth closed? Had there been some sort of mistake? Did they have the wrong man?

For that matter, who the fuck were they, and where the fuck was here?

The panic was rising in him, beginning to take over the rational part of his mind. He twisted his body and dug his heels into the packed sand as hard as he could and tried to kick, and nothing altered the steady rhythm of the two Qunari's steps or shifted their grip even a fraction.

At last, when the Iron Bull thought he might go out of his mind, they stopped. The momentary relief of no longer being dragged was all too soon obliterated by the pain of his legs and ass, rubbed raw by the friction against the sand. He had lost one of his old battered boots at some point, too, he noticed with a totally incongruous pang of loss. He had loved those boots. They had carried him through a lot of weird shit and always brought him out the other side.

The Qunari holding him began pulling him along again, and he cried out in pain, his lips burning as they strained against the thread holding them closed. Only then did he become aware of the building he was being dragged toward. He had seen that building before, but where?

One of the Qunari opened the door, the creak of it and the musty, oily, metallic smell—the smell of blood and fear—sending a chill straight to the Iron Bull's bowels.

No, not the Iron Bull. Not here. Here he was Hissrad.

Hissrad. 117421842. One among many, in a place where the exceptional was stamped out early on. On the threshold of the place where he had been remolded, rechiseled.

Reeducated.

"No!" he tried to shout, fighting to move his lips, to make a sound more intelligible than the bellowing of an enraged animal. He wouldn't go back there, he wouldn't submit himself to the way of the Qun again. That had been the right answer for him once, but it wasn't anymore, and would never be again. "NO!"

All his struggles, all the incoherent screams that tore at his lips and burned his throat, made no difference whatsoever. He was inexorably dragged closer and closer to the dark doorway where everything would change, where everything he had worked to become, everything he cherished about himself, would be burned away, and only a shell would remain, ready to be molded into whatever shape the Qun required.

Try as he might to get free, he couldn't seem to do so, and his body was wearying of the struggle, the muscles betraying him in a way unusual for him. He couldn't remember the last time he hadn't been able to push through exhaustion and win through to his goal.

No, he could at that—deep in the ground, in those tunnels of the Sha-Brytol, where his kadan had seen his deep weariness and held him while he slept. And he knew what lay beneath the heavy inertia on his muscles, now, the lassitude that was threatening to take him in the face of the loss of everything his was: despair. Because if he was here, being taken to the reeducators, his kadan was dead. And what was there for him without her? Did it even matter who he was if she wasn't at his side?

He let them pull him into the darkness of the building, let them shackle his arms above his head and secure his legs to the floor. Well, he let them in the sense that he didn't bother to fight—there had been no indication thus far that he could have done the first thing to prevent them even if he had tried.

Try as he might, he couldn't make out the faces of the men shackling him. They didn't look familiar. In fact, it was hard to bring them into focus. Was his one good eye going? He supposed it hardly mattered, at this point. Whatever they intended to make of him, he wouldn't last long.

He felt something strange at his left hand, the sensation of a much smaller hand fitting itself inside his palm, cool nimble fingers threading between his to hold his hand, and he clutched at that familiar feeling even though he knew nothing could be there. If this was all he had left, a phantom hand in his, he would cling to it as long as he could.

Around him were the familiar clanks and clangs of hammers hitting metal, the smell of the furnace. He remembered the sizzle of the heated rods as they touched his skin, and a scar throbbed in response to the memory.

"Ashkaari."

The word was a whisper in his ear, soft and affectionate, and he shook his head to clear it. Only two people had ever called him that: his kadan, who was not here, and his old Tama, who was probably long gone by now.

The word came again, "Ashkaari", somehow clearer and sharper in his ear than the sounds of the reeducators preparing their tools.

"Tama?" he said into the darkness, surprised to find that his lips were no longer sewn shut. Had someone cut the threads while he was hearing and feeling ghosts? "Tama—" It was on the tip of his tongue to apologize, to tell her how much he regretted letting her down as he had the first time he came to this building, when Seheron proved too much for him and he gave up on his people's fight there. But he remembered the spirit-kid Cole telling him that Tama had been glad he got away, glad he was free of the Qun. Hard as that was to believe, Cole had never been wrong about someone's feelings before, and the Iron Bull. Hissrad. 117421842. Ashkaari wasn't going to start doubting him now. "Tama," he said again, the word a plea.

"Ashkaari." There was an urgency in the voice, and he realized that it wasn't Tama after all. It was the other voice, the one he longed for, and he felt hot tears welling in his good eye, the empty eye socket aching. He closed his eye, wishing the reeducators would hurry up and get it over with.

"Damn it, Ashkaari." The phantom hand left his, and he felt it grasp his horn, shaking his head violently. Startled, his eye flew open—and it was all gone. The heat of the desert, the sounds of the hammers, the smell of molten metal, the blurred faces of his fellow Qunari. Instead, his eye fell on a bright shaft of moonlight streaming in through the window, and the worried face of his beloved gazing into his.

Sitting up with a cry of relief, he clutched her to him, pressing his face into the crook of her neck.

Morvoren wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him close. "You wouldn't wake up."

"I was … I don't want to talk about it."

"I've never known you to have a nightmare before."

"Never had anything to lose before. Never had anything to be afraid of. Except demons," the Iron Bull added after a moment's thought. "Fucking demons."

"Hey, remember the deal? I fight the demons, you fight everything else." She leaned back to see him better, caressing his cheek with her right hand. The left one had been lost to the Anchor a year or so back, and she had made great strides in learning to fight one-handed. "Nothing is going to take you from me."

"Not even the Qunari?"

"Not even."

In the aftermath of his nightmare, as the fear receded, other emotions were stirring, and he settled her more intimately in his lap, letting her feel what he felt. "You think you could take on the entire Qun?"

"If I had to." She tilted his head up and kissed him thoroughly, leaving no doubt in his mind that if anyone could banish those particular demons, it would be her.