Chapter Text
Skyhold
Dorian paced back and forth in the narrow, dimly lit alleyway of Skyhold, the chill biting through his stylish yet impractical clothing. He always chose fashion over function, even in moments like these. His constant shivers punished him for it.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he whispered to the cold night air, his breath forming small clouds.
Roaming the castle was out of the question. It was too late to run errands but too early to expect the rest of the inner circle members to be asleep. If he wandered about, they would talk to him, and that might finally make him burst.
The raucous, bustling sounds of the tavern broke through his thoughts just as a young man crashed through a window, shattering the glass and laughing as he landed with a hard thump on the snow-covered pavement.
Dorian grimaced, knowing it would leave a bruise. The man didn’t hold the same concern, teeth shining in the moonlight as he grinned, breath fogging the air.
“Again!” the man shouted before clambering back inside, oblivious to being watched. It was Krem, one of the Iron Bull’s Chargers, and second in command. Dorian gritted his teeth, knowing the group was having after-dinner drinks, which meant that Bull was there with them.
Idiot, idiot, idiot.
Such a brute should be the last person Dorian wanted to see after embarrassing himself all day. Fine silks, creme de tarte, and rolling in satin were how a mage such as he should cheer himself up, but in Skyhold, there were simply none of those things. Save for his colleagues, Skyhold was full of faces that smiled at Dorian and pretended not to be afraid. Everyone knew Tevinters like him practiced blood magic.
As if I’ll possess their dead pets, he thought with a curl of his lips. I just might.
He halted his movement to avoid alerting a drunken couple staggering past his shadow between the buildings. The voices belonged to Dalish, the nickname derived from her elven tribe, and with her was another elf who certainly wasn’t Dalish. His lips curled slightly higher as he logged the gossip. Who he’d tell it to, he knew not, but gossip and the tea was a habit from home that stuck.
A beat, and their hurried steps were gone. He returned to his stressed pace, deciding that he should be able to bother whomever he wanted whenever—namely Bull: “It’s The Iron Bull. I like having an article at the front.” The memory echoed bitterly in his mind.
Dorian tuned out the tavern’s singing and focused on the spot in front of him, calling forth the Fade—the realm parallel to the human world. It would shorten the distance between him and Bull’s door, one of the many uses of magic. His goal was to avoid walking inside, vulnerable to the prying eyes of the Chargers.
I’ll wait until Bull returns.
He blinked, acknowledging the energy toll the rift takes, then stepped forward, willing his body to push to the other side.
Iron Bull. To Bull.
~*~
Helisma stared at Dorian, her expression as blank as the scroll that had fallen from her chest to the library floor.
“I—I didn’t mean to—” Dorian stammered, realizing his break in composure. She’s tranquil, but surely she doesn’t deserve such violence.The day had been long—five disputes, four research concerns, a crying elf, servants’ rants, and, and—
Dorian’s shoulders slumped, unable to find an excuse for his outburst. He had thrown the parchment, but how was he to know she’d be behind him?
Helisma said nothing, kneeling to pick up the scroll: Tevinter Imperium Ranks and Magistry. A scroll that explained his upbringing, left on his desk with no explanation, the word "magister" crossed out and above it scribbled: slaver .
Even glancing at it made his heart pound angrily and his stomach churn. He snapped out of it and whipped around, seeing a few apprentices in the library hurriedly return to their work, awkwardly avoiding his gaze.
“Great, they’ll talk...” he muttered, running a hand through the shaved back of his head. He cleared his throat. “I do apologize, Helisma. I shouldn’t have yelled or thrown that. Perhaps, I can make it up to you.” He didn’t want to be in her debt, but what choice did he have?
“No, that is alright.” She had already replaced the scroll on the shelf and now shuffled stiffly to a table to write. “I will return to work,” she said in a monotone, dipping her quill in ink, showing no semblance of emotion or desire, only duty. As though she couldn’t want. Seeing it sickened him.
Dorian nodded, eager to leave the conversation lest he grow irritated again. Just say something! Just yell! She couldn’t. He turned to the opposite corner of the library, making eye contact with Clemence, an alchemist.
The man said nothing, looking through Dorian just as much as he looked at Dorian. For a tranquil, Clemence made a lot of expressions, but that didn’t mean they were conscious. He was just like Helisma. A tranquil mage. One who’d failed the mage test—theHarrowing, a chance to resist the temptation of demons or be shackled to never feel emotions again.
Dorian snatched up his leather burlap sack and stuffed the few readings he had collected into it. Maybe Cullen would be finished training the knights and could be enticed into a game of chess, or perhaps Lavellan would have need for his expertise. Anywhere but the library was better, anywhere without so many Ferelden mages.
Anywhere.
~*~
“What is it?” Bull was still, speaking calmly, but he couldn’t deny that his shadow flinched when Dorian materialized in front of his door from a rift of the Fade.
Quite the risky entrance for such a scaredy-cat, Bull thought, unable to help admiring the dramatic entrance, it took balls of steel to pull that off, especially since magic always made him itch for his axe.
Dorian stood just inside the threshold, hating himself for not stepping into the hallway, for assuming Bull would be drinking with the Chargers.
Bull’s assessing gaze took in Dorian’s disheveled appearance—he noted the tension in Dorian’s shoulders and the fatigue etched on his face. Something’s different. Concern crept into Bull’s usually stoic demeanor.
“What’s wrong?” Bull asked in that knowing tone of his, voice a low rumble that sent a shiver up Dorian’s spine.
Dorian avoided Bull’s eyes, displaying weary frustration rather than the indomitable wit he was proud of. He regretted not considering his fatigue before using magic to shortcut out of the castle, and then to Bull’s space. He usually had more than enough stamina—usually.
“Dorian,” Bull’s voice drew nearer, his concern palpable.
Dorian angled his head to the ground, mentally chastising himself for the trouble. I should be drinking or enticing a soldier, not be here looking like a fool. My hair’s a mess.
He didn’t look up, feeling Bull’s heat closing in. To his dismay and relief, Bull didn’t touch his shoulder or angle his chin to force him to peer into that one good blue eye. The pieces were on Dorian’s board, and that didn’t please him after losing two games to Cullen. He cracked his neck, bones sounding like rusty gears on a watch rather than of a man who boldly entered Bull’s domain.
“Dorian, talk to me,” Bull’s deep voice was steady in that thick Qunlat accent of his, but there was a flint of unease in his eye as he searched Dorian’s face for answers. The patch over the other eye hid the depth of his concern.
After a long pause, Dorian straightened his pompous back defiantly.
“Bull,” he said firmly.
“Yes?”
“I…” Dorian struggled to find the words, feeling adrift in Bull’s comforting present, lost in the relief of that grayish face. His palms began to sweat.
“Yes?” Bull prompted gently.
“Well…” Dorian hesitated, letting the word drag out, his gaze tracing over the scarred cheek and eyepatch that marked Bull’s rugged features. A pang of horror and guilt touched him for not having a reason for poofing himself there—for intruding.
“Do you want to play this game all night?” Bull’s eye twitched slightly, his frustration showing.
Dorian wished to gladly accept the fight offered and deliver a hurtful retort. You just pretend to care. You secretly hate mages. But the words stuck in his throat and he let the thoughts run into the floor. Bull stood like a broad shadow in the dim room.
The fight escaped him, and he mumbled out instead, “Restrain me, tie me up, I don’t care.” Shame colored his voice. “I deserve it.”
“This…” Bull raised a brow, choosing his words carefully. “…isn’t a good idea when you’re like this.”
Dorian narrowed his eyes. “It’s what I want. Aren’t you always asking what I want?” To bury the blasted thoughts.
Bull lowered his shoulders, leaning against the wall with both hands at his hips. “Is this what you need?”
No. “If you refuse, I’ll find it elsewhere,” Dorian snapped, pivoting abruptly to study the distorted shadow of Bull’s horns on the wall.
“So you need to be begged to stay,” Bull almost sighed out the phrase, carefully watching Dorian’s demeanor. “Yet you act like you’re waiting for applause.”
Dorian pouted again, turning his head to meet Bull. “I always assume there’ll be applause.”
Bull’s lips spread in neither a frown nor smile. His eye traced from the tip of Dorian’s hair to his twitching shoulders, reading the fatigue with ease. The two were quiet for a moment. It felt violent.
“You’re shaking,” Bull observed.
“I am not.” Dorian crossed his arms tightly.
“You’re still shaking,” Bull insisted.
“Then hold me still!” Dorian shot back in frustration.
Bull widened his eye in surprise, taking in Dorian’s tired eyes, repeating the words in his head as though hearing them were a trick. The vulnerability of the request struck a chord within him.
“That’s… honest,” which concerned him more. “I’ve half a mind to check if there’s a unicorn outside.”
Maybe he should applaud.
Dorian frowned, feeling his energy drain further as Bull invited him in, even though he was already inside the room—blast his rude Tevinter nature.
In that moment, the fire sputtered and died down, leaving only the dim glow of two candelabras. Even with one eye, Bull could see well, while Dorian squinted against the shadows.
“Where do you need to be held?” Bull asked in the dark.
The question made Dorian throw up a little in his mouth, having never been asked such a wretched thing before, ever. It was a queer contrast coming from someone who looked rugged like Bull.
Dorian glanced toward the large sylvanwood rocking chair by the fireplace, next to a smaller human-sized chair. He knew the smaller chair was typically used by one of the chargers to excitedly deliver intel or cry over petty scandals to their leader, Bull. Dorian had spread some of those scandals, secretly, of course. He wasn’t fool enough to have a rumor trace back to himself.
Allowing Dorian space to collect his thoughts, Bull crossed the room and pulled the larger chair in front of the fireplace, nudging the smaller aside. He knelt down to gather fresh wood, his bad shin causing him to grimace and curse audibly in the quiet room.
Dorian blinked back to reality. “I can light it.” He received no response. Your leg, you big oaf! “Bull, I said I can!”
Bull hummed in response, tapping two tinder stones. Dorian’s heart picked up, impatience mounting. Why won’t he let me help? His thoughts stopped, catching the twist of Bull’s lips as Bull smiled—that wry, twisting smile—and met his gaze with a compassion so deep that it made Dorian’s breath catch.
“Just wait. I’ll fix it for you.”
“Fix… what?” Dorian whispered.
“Today.”
“I asked to be held.” He regretted the words.
“So that you can fix today,” Bull replied calmly.
Shut up. Dorian stepped back, retreating back into his thoughts with arms wound tightly around himself. His fingertips pressed cold iciness into his skin. Why can’t he just snap at me or tell me to leave? Why do you always have to be civil?
Bull rose with a grunt, watching the flames flicker with a satisfied look. Then he shuffled to the rocking chair and raised a brow at Dorian’s tense posture, narrowing on his fingers. “Stop overthinking. You’ll hurt yourself.”
The words stilled Dorian, and he paused to face the reality of his own silly, vulnerable request. He ran a finger across his greased mustache for comfort. Then he took one step toward Bull—all six feet of him meaning naught compared to a Qunari.
“Dorian.”
“Never mind, this is stupid. I shouldn’t have come here, just consider it a joke—“
“Dorian.” Bull’s impatient voice cut through. “You are not a joke.”
Finally, the rough tone gave him a reason to fight, to push back.
“Why not?” Dorian snapped, clenching his fists, his tongue sharp like the knifed, pointed end of a Tevinter court jester’s hat. “Do you think these words mean anything but a ruse? That you want to give me what I need? How ridiculous!”
“Why is that?”
Dorian’s heart picked up. “I’ve had a horrible day, and you think you can fix it like sharpening a greatsword. You're not a blacksmith.”
Clever clog. Bull narrowed his eye as Dorian continued.
“Say I feel like a piece of shat-covered ironbark left in the sun, will you fix that too? If I’ve felt like that all day, can I be fixed like this chair!?” It wasn’t Bull’s fault, but it eased Dorian to yell at him, leaving an electric current up his arms as he waited for a further challenge, fingers tight.
Bull’s brows furrowed, taking in each word carefully, turning them in his mouth, and then placing them gently back into the world. “That is a very elaborate insult to your own self, Dorian, and me.”
Dorian swallowed, shifting awkwardly. Yell back. “I am the scholarly one.”
Bull smiled faintly. “Then I’ll be the dumb one for now.”
“Fine.” Please.
“I know this is hard for you, but I am not joking. You know that you can trust me to fix it, whatever it is,” Bull finished, his tone sincere.
Dorian clenched his hands tighter, knuckles light as he looked at the wooden floor. He could smell meat pie in the pub below and hear the bustle of activity. “Like your band of mercenaries? Like Krem? or Dalish?” He lifted his head slowly.
Well, maybe Dalish is fine with her harem of women. And Krem is smashing through walls... eventually he’ll hit gold.
Bull hollered out a hearty laugh that echoed against the ceiling, shoulders shaking, the tension in the room easing.
Blasted, did I-
Bull grinned. “Yes, you did say that out loud, and trust me, they will get a kick out of it. I care for those idiots, Dorian. I’m everything to them. A big brother, boss, mentor-“
“Punisher.”
“Well, sometimes they need discipline.” Bull extended a hand toward Dorian, his eye focused. “That is not what I intend for you.”
Dorian pouted. “But I’ve been bad.”
Bull cleared his throat, caught off guard. “I mean, I throw them off the balcony when they misbehave.”
“I could get into that,” Dorian muttered, raising his eyes as he pondered over the inviting hand. Slowly, he stepped out of his boots, slinking over to Bull like an ambrosia crawling to its last sip of water. His palm finally held Bull’s, and instantly, he was guided into a warm embrace.
“You’re not one of my chargers, Dorian,” Bull’s voice was muffled against his dark, greasy hair, “You’re someone I’m needed by.”
I don’t need you. Dorian’s cheek touched the burning skin of Bull’s chest, feeling the warmth of Bull’s touch on the back of his neck. Bull’s fingers were like fire. Fire. Unable to resist, he snapped his fingers—the fireplace roared, pushing heat into the room, the flame raucous and burning like it were performing a grand show.
Bull gently pushed Dorian’s shoulders and stared down, shaking his head. “You have to mettle, even if I’m here to help you.”
Dorian sniffed. “I’m a Tevine, we always mettle.”
Bull released his grip, the cool air replacing where his hands were as he settled into the rocking chair with a huff of effort. The chair creaked under his weight, but the ancient wood pushed back with pride. “Well?”
Dorian glared into the lap in front of him, chest aching.
“Well what?” He knew what.
“Sit down, so I can hold you.”
He hoped Bull would forget with all the talking and glanced at the door, then the closest window.
“Maybe it’s not too late to leave,” Bull mused, echoing Dorian’s thoughts in front of him with a roll of his eye.
Dorian scoffed, hating Bull’s intuitive nature. “Perhaps I’m just checking that it’s locked, the night is still young.”
Bull’s eye narrowed. “Sit. You’re stalling-”
“Don’t patronize me,” Dorian hissed with a flick of his hand, taking steps closer until his knees touched Bull’s shins. “I’ll do what I said, but picking me apart will give me a headache.”
Damned Qunari spies with their axes, horns, tattoos, killing evil Tevinters—he couldn’t think of any insults that sounded negative.
“One moment…” Dorian closed his eyes and raised a hand, whispering an incantation.
Bull shifted uncomfortably. “What are you-“
“Shh.”
Quieting his mind, he reached mentally from the tavern a mile away to his quarters in Skyhold castle. The summoning circle drawn around his room responded, and he brushed past his vanity with makeup, the velvet chair, and, ah, there it was, his softest blanket folded on the bed.
“Appear,” he commanded. The blanket missed his hand, falling into Bull’s lap. Sigh. “I’m out of practice.”
“Vasheden,” Bull swore, surprising Dorian. He grasped the sides of the chair, steadying himself. “I didn’t know you could do that.”
Had it been any other mage casting in front of Bull, they might have been hauled across the room then cleaved with the six-foot axe by the bed. Dorian smirked slightly to hide his shiver.
“All that flair for a blanket? You should start a delivery company.”
Dorian’s mustache curved upward. “Did you expect me to sit here uncomfortably? On nothing but muscle? You’ve lived on the Storm coast so long, you’re like the very stone itself.”
Bull grinned widely, unfolding the tousled blanket. “Quite the nice compliment.”
Dorian scoffed, watching Bull spread the edges of the fabric over his body in a sloppy canopy. Bull tilted his horns with a smirk that made Dorian clench his toes in his socks, anticipating a response he knew he’d despise.
“Ready to be held by TheIron Bull?”
Dorian choked back a laugh, straightening his posture to bury a flashback of the first time he’d been to Bull’s room. A much spicier time. “Maker’s breath, you do not have to keep a title for a name.”
Bull laughed at him, beaming with an expression that forced Dorian to clear his throat. “I like the adding the article, it—“
“—makes you sound like a mindless weapon of destruction,” Dorian interjected, hiding a smile behind a fist.
“…rather than a person,” Bull finished, smiling. To Dorian, his smile felt even more ridiculous in tandem with the scars stretching above his eye patch.
The entire visage of Bull made Dorian eye-roll and wish he was back in Tevinter with servants and real pillows, a well-dressed court with platters of small food, books everywhere and… father. He shook his head. Never mind.
“Alright,” Dorian relented finally.
Bull’s eye bore into him, observing each crease of Dorian’s forehead. What are we going to do about you and this thinking?
“Dorian.”
The mage acquiesced, rotating his body to lower himself into Bull’s lap, careful as though he might break a Qunari warrior. Bull supported him with a hand, watching Dorian turn toward his torso, long legs folded together into the chair such that his knees touched Bull’s chest. Once he settled a shoulder against Bull and wrapped himself in the blanket with an ear to Bull’s chest, Dorian cleared his throat.
Ba-dum. Ba-da-dum.
“Excellent. Was that so hard?” Bull’s voice rumbled softly in his ear.
“Terrible.”
“Imperious? Like the Tevinter Imperium?”
“Very.”
“Harrowing? Like the mage harrowing?”
“You’re a sh*t. We don’t have those in Tevinter.” Dorian sighed, eyes growing heavy as he curled up, feeling foolish. Half of his body heated from the fire while the other half melted into Bull’s sturdy build. There was silence, save for the cracking flames mirroring the calm emotion of its caster—him. Bull extended his bad knee, using the other leg to rock the chair slightly.
This isn’t completely bad. Dorian buried the thought, tracing a knuckle over the maze of scars on Bull’s chest.
“What happened today?” Bull asked gently. “I heard that you yelled at a tranquil.”
Dorian tugged at a tuft of the blanket fur. “Helisma.”
“What did she do?”
He sighed, freeing his hands. “Nothing.”
“No?”
“She never does anything. It's me.”
“Oh.”
Dorian tilted his head up, eyes cracked open through a squint. “I didn’t mean to hit her, and no, she wasn’t hurt, but she should have been.” The fire cracked louder, mirroring the turmoil in his unsteady chest. “She feels nothing, she cannot feel! This kingdom treats mages like we’re sick and in need of a cure!”
Bull shifted his hold, allowing Dorian to bury his forehead under his chin. He had killed enough mages in battle to know some were quite sick and murderous. The cure he’d given them had been a swift cleave with his axe.
“And what about you?” Bull asked, softly, putting his thoughts aside.
Dorian’s eyes watered. “I didn’t know before… that so many mages hurt people here. Magic is free in Tevinter.”
Bull made a sound.
“The Qun-“ Dorian felt Bull flinch and then tighten the hold, silently urging Dorian to choose his words carefully. “The Qunari bind their mages, you sew their lips shut.”
“Mages are dangerous.”
Dorian frowned. “Fereldens tranquilize mages if they’re weak, sealing their magic.” Like Helesma and Clemence.
“Weak mages turn into demons. Big bad demons.”
“Not all of us do. It’s wrong,” Dorian whispered.
“More wrong than Tevinter slavery?” Bull challenged. “Your country runs off it.”
Dorian crossed his arms, uncomfortable, knowing his own privileged life had come at a cost somewhere down the line.
“Magisters use weaker mages for their power,” Bull’s words were rigid.
“I’m a magister...” Dorian grew quiet to a whisper “... but I don’t steal power or abuse people.” He had no right to defend Tevinter while belittling another land. There was little point even debating about magic with Bull. Qunari weren’t exempt from possession by magic.
I… am dangerous.
“Does it bother you?” he asked in a hurried tone as Bull lifted him to stretch his knee, then gently placed him back down. “That I’m a necromancer?” He looked up with desperate eyes, met with Bull’s furrowed brow.
“Should it?”
“You don’t like magic!”
“No, I don’t.”
“But I’m a mage.”
Bull angled his head down to lock into Dorian’s brown-eyed gaze, a surprising intensity in his eye. Then, unexpectedly, Bull broke into a chuckle. “Are you sure you don’t need to be held by a scholar? I’m supposed to be dumb today. This sounds like smart sh*t.”
Dorian scoffed. “I came to you, not some scholar.”
As if you’re really dumb, he thought silently, recalling what little he’d learned of the Iron Bull in just a couple of months. Mercenary leader. Hisrad. Spinner of tales. Weaver of lies.
“I just want to know if I bother you.”
“Repeat that,” Bull said, his smalt eye piercing.
The fire crackled and flickered, unstable and blistering.
“You’re in my arms. Hell, you’ve been in my bed—“
“Once.”
“And you’re wondering if I despise you?“ Bull grinned widely. “Maker’s breath, you need me.”
“I hate you.”
“That may be true. I’ve killed so many mages, I could’ve started a staff collection.”
That’s war, idiot.
Dorian huffed and unfolded his arms to push a fist at Bull’s jaw as Bull laughed. “Sappy damnation! I mean if you had the choice—”
Bull interrupted him by taking his chin and drawing his face in for a rough kiss. The motion startled Dorian, and then the kiss softened, making him melt and exhale when Bull broke away.
Dorian’s chin remained tilted upward, his voice an irritated hiss even as his heart raced. “You are trash."
Bull grinned, voice booming from his chest. “That’s my prerogative. You need me to fix things, Dorian. You’re clever, but you’re scared you’ll start throwing things at tranquils. Next time it might be a soldier, maybe the Inquisitor, and hopefully not,” he chuckled, “I’ve seen Boss fight. She’d kick your ass.”
Dorian growled, unfolding his legs to turn away, sitting against Bull’s chest and facing the fire, almost bumping Bull’s chin with his head. “Only today... I won’t do it again.”
Bull adjusted the blanket over Dorian’s shoulders again, holding him close as promised. The flame heated crimson, much to Dorian’s dismay. The fire had been responding to him. Fool’s fire. He raised a finger and Bull quickly covered his hand. “Leave it.”
Dorian’s face boiled, watching the flame redden a deeper red. “You just like knowing what I’m thinking, and that’s cheating.” He smacked Bull’s arm lightly.
“Then tell me what is going on in plain words. Can’t you?”
“Yes! Damn it!” The flame roared high as Bull smirked, tightening his embrace, until the wood cracked softly. Dorian calmed, shoulders sagging. Magic was only as energetic as the caster.
“Why did you get upset today?” Bull asked.
“I was tired.”
“Are you sleeping well?”
The sounds in the tavern below died down, indicating that the cooks would be closing soon. Dorian wished he had brought wine or ale. He shook his head, shifting his weight off Bull’s bad knee, and then placing a hand over it.
“No, but it’s more complicated than that.”
“I’m good with complicated.”
“Well, I don’t want to talk about sleeping,” Dorian grumbled.
“I do. It’s important. Being in bed,” he whispered in Dorian’s ear, making the back of Dorian's neck heat up.
“Sleeping or being in bed?”
“Both.”
He could feel Bull’s smile.
“Now,” Bull said, “Tell me more about how you’re feeling.”
“Take your brace off.”
“What? sh*t.” Bull shifted his weight to look Dorian in the eye, bewildered. “What are you on? You keep changing the subject.”
“I thought you could keep up, Hisrad,” Dorian mumbled. “I’m not myself. And, no, I didn’t drink before coming here, or any other local delights. I only had one cup of tea today.”
Not three or four, just one.
“No wonder you lost it.” Bull whistled, pushing aside the furry blanket to unstrap his leather knee brace.
Dorian flinched at the clang as the metal latch hit the floor, and then he brushed a hand over Bull’s leg, feeling the puffy shin twitch. “I‘ll ice it. You should have told me it was swelling.” Part of him marveled at the trust that Bull would allow him to use magic and the other half was angry that Bull had suffered in silence.
Bull tightened, eyes locked onto the calming fire as Dorian’s hand transferred cold into the muscle and cartilage.
“I’m not a living doctor, but that should help,” Dorian sighed.
“Hm.” Bull hummed as the pressure in his knee eased, thoughts drifting back to Dorian. “When were you last held like this?”
Dorian rolled his eyes, not eager to return to the subject.
Within a moment, he wet his lips to speak slowly, “…my father. He used to hold me as a child and whisper gossip of the land by the fire. He’d say I'd take his place in the magisterium one day. I'd drift off eventually, then a servant would carry me to bed.”
Bull hummed again. He needed you.
“A servant, not a slave. I know, how fitting for a grandiose magister.”
“No, I’m thinking that’s a long time without affection.”
Dorian jabbed his elbow into Bull’s rib, earning a grunt. “Don’t you dare insinuate that I’m old! Besides, I don’t need affection to survive. I’ve survived well enough looking this good.”
No, you need to be needed.
The fire lowered. Dorian leaned against Bull who rocked them both slowly. “Still, I can’t help but feel a fondness toward those days.”
“Times were simpler, you only had to be a child.”
“Yet now I have to be a man,” Dorian said quietly, jaw tightening, “I know I’m not fulfilling my duty. It’s a crime to be gone this long, but… I refuse to give father the satisfaction of thinking I’ll return.”
“Hm.”
“Even so, I’m fear that I’m losing it each day. How couldn’t I be? The food is terrible.”
Dorian said nothing else, staring into the fire as the flames changed to a gentle red with hints of rose then shifted to marigold as his thoughts flowed. Minutes passed as he followed the smoke, wondering if he could examine himself the way Bull did, fixing pieces like a puzzle.
“I’ll find Helisma tomorrow. She may be tranquil but a small gift should hit some nerve.”
Bull’s chest heaved behind him, aligning their breaths.
“And I‘ll apologize to the apprentices.”
Silence.
“Being a runaway doesn’t mean I have to be sorely inept at apologies.”
Further silence.
“Bull?”
Dorian turned his head, hearing Bull’s quiet snores in his ear. Scoff. “And I’m the old one?” A pang of guilt hit him; he hadn’t considered that Bull might be tired.
Yet he felt relieved that Bull was too asleep to see the fire’s soft pink flames, twirling, reflecting foolish hope like a maiden reading a love letter, then shifting to cyan, reflecting an unsteady heart. He knew Tevinter mages wouldn’t stop tracking him, endangering both him, Bull, and the inner circle. Not unless the sender died. Not unless father dies.
~*~
Bull opened an eye, sensing the absence of weight in his lap, save for the meticulously wrapped blanket around him that reached up to his neck and draped over his shoulders. The room was dimly lit by gray light seeping through his large frosted window. He shifted slightly, feeling the cool touch of his reattached knee brace. Ice magic? A soft snore reached his ears, prompting him to turn in the creaking chair.
Dorian lay at the far end of the large bed, surrounded by an array of summoned pillows that hadn't been there before. He was nestled among them, wrapped in Bull’s sheets. His face contorted in discomfort, brows furrowed even in sleep.
Bull's gaze drifted to the dying fire, its embers crackling and popping against the remnants of wood, casting shadows that flickered across the room.
As he leaned closer to the fire, the flames seemed to respond with desperate shades of blue, almost as if they mirrored the turmoil he sensed in Dorian, like a sea of sorrow, vast and endless. Concern tightened in Bull’s chest.
Oh, Dorian.
Let me in, let me help, he wanted to plead, but he knew that such forwardness would only force Dorian to retreat further into his shell, into the small space that he’d convinced himself was safe, trembling muscles tucked tightly.
Bull had eyes—well, an eye. He understood the imposing height that Dorian wore as a human man towering over the servant girls and elves. But sometimes Dorian looked so small that Bull wanted to pull his back straight, make him arch and stretch like a cat. Untangle his spine, rearrange it if need be.
If Dorian would let him, he’d be willing to show him how to breathe and release it all, but Dorian was proud, practiced, and proper. The mage brought out a protective instinct in Bull that surprised himself, and Bull wondered how far he would take his adoration of Dorian. If it would conflict with his role as a spy, as leader of the Chargers.
If he left Dorian well alone, there would be no one to reprimand him, to punish him for it. But he’d punish himself. He’d beat himself like he was a warrior turning the other way in the face of battle.
The chair creaked as he turned to look at Dorian again.
With a resigned nod, he rose from the chair, the blanket slipping from his shoulders as he moved silently across the room. He stood beside the bed, noticing how Dorian's face relaxed under his gaze, even while asleep. It filled him with pride, and he reached out to brush a lock of hair away from Dorian’s sweaty forehead with a feather-light touch.
“You’re not alone in this, Dorian,” Bull murmured quietly, and then he returned to the chair by the dying fire, draping himself to combat the Winter draft.
The flames cast dancing shadows, flickering in harmony with the gentle rise and fall of Dorian’s chest.
For now, Bull kept watch, his thoughts drifting between the fire’s dying embers and the slumbering mage in his bed. There was much to ponder, much to resolve, and much to plan for. He’d open up Dorian and free him, no matter how long it might take.
***
