Breaking Point

You spend the night angry. At first you’re angry at the men who ruined Sera’s little outing. Even if it was a terrible idea to begin with, you have no doubt that without the crowd and the slurs, it would have been an enjoyable evening of stealthily looking at Sera’s butt while she climbed. You even pass through being angry at Sera for her reaction to your perceived “elfiness.” What the Void was that about? In general, however, you’re just… angry. Frustrated. Sleep-deprived, relief-deprived, with more pent-up energy than you know what to do with, and no end in sight. You get very little rest, and when you finally give up and rise, you’re greeted with a fog that’s rolled in overnight.

Immediately, you’re on edge, frayed nerves coming undone a little further. Logically, you know that Skyhold gets foggy sometimes, especially at night, and that this is normal fog, not the magical or alchemical thickness summoned up by Fog Warriors. But some things go deeper than logic.

You consider, briefly, skipping training with Iron Bull. You could head straight to the rotunda, bury yourself in work, and refuse to go out until sunlight burns away the fog. At the same time, however, you really want the stress relief that comes with physical exertion, and Iron Bull always seems to know just how you need to stretch. You head towards the training yard, and nearly jump out of your skin when you see a horned outline through the fog. It’s obviously just Iron Bull—he has a very distinct outline—but the sight still jars you. It’s too familiar. You’ll feel better once he’s closer, once you can see his face.

And you do, a little. Iron Bull is becoming disparate, separated from other Qunari in your mind, which was no doubt his goal with spending all this quality time together. Ben-Hassrath tricks. You’re not sure how you feel about it. It’s no doubt a good thing to not panic every time you see a Qunari that lives in the same fort as you, but you dislike the idea of Iron Bull inserting himself into your mind as someone you can trust. You need to keep in mind, that however kind he appears to be, all Qunari are loyal to the Qun first. And you and the Qun have never gotten along.

If Iron Bull notices that you’re more on edge than normal, he doesn’t comment on it, instead starting you on some stretches. You feel like you’re hyper-focused in the silence, so you talk, just to create noise.

“Is Krem not joining us today?” you ask, voice strained with effort.

“Nah. He’s already going to be black and blue from the beating you gave him yesterday.”

You snort. “If he bruises that easily, he shouldn’t be a mercenary.”

“You hit harder than you think, Emma. Which is one of the reasons that, from today, you’ll be practicing on me. I don’t bruise easily.”

You pause mid-stretch and stare blankly at him. “What?”

“You can only get so good punching at air and dummies. You need to practice on a real person, and I can’t really ask Krem to come out here and get beat up by you every morning… besides, he said no.”

“Well… I suppose punching you was the end goal, to begin with,” you say hesitantly. You’re not too confident about the idea of actually hitting Iron Bull, when it comes right down to it. You can’t quite convince yourself that he isn’t going to punch you back, and a single right hook from him would probably knock you unconscious.

“It’ll also do you good to practice grappling with a larger opponent.”

Oh, Maker. If you had thought you might freak out when Krem grabbed you… Your horror must show on your face, because he quickly adds, “Don’t worry. We’ll take it slow. We can take breaks when you need to, and if you get to stressed out, you can calm down by pounding me in the stomach a few times.” That is kind of tempting.

You finish up stretching, then, with Iron Bull walking you through every step, you line up to punch a Qunari in the gut. You’ve had dreams like this, often somewhat unpleasant ones; it feels surreal, and the fog isn’t helping the dreamlike sensation. When you take a deep breath and strike, you’re surprised by how thick and tough his skin is. It isn’t like punching a human. Humans have more give. It helps you feel like you’re punching a statue, a bit, as you swing into a second strike.

If Iron Bull feels the strikes, he certainly doesn’t react to them, he just corrects your posture, and you continue much in the same way you would if you were fighting a practice dummy. You find you’re getting a bit more into it, however. You do have a bit of a violent streak in you, and the sounds and sensations of violence are pouring adrenaline into your body. Iron Bull seems to be reacting in a similar manner… Or perhaps his increased breathing is more of a side-effect of being punched repeatedly. He does seem to need a break after a while, and suggest that you practice the same hold escapes as you did the morning before, only with him. Without even stopping to think if it’s a good idea, you nod in agreement, perhaps a little eager for the chance to do more than just punch.

At first, you’re doing fine, although Iron Bull’s sheer size throws you, a little. You wouldn’t say you failed to notice how large he was before—you were always acutely aware of that. But it’s different when that bulk is coming at you. You find yourself relying more on your small posture to twist out of the way than striking at sensitive places to escape. You don’t know when it switches from training to fighting, in your mind. You don’t even realize it happening until Iron Bull moves into the next grapple, pinning your arms behind your back, and your adrenaline-filled mind and body both go insane. You snap away automatically, but of course the grapple holds.

Thick fog, choking. This isn’t supposed to happen. Wrong place, wrong time.

With a strangled cry, you writhe desperately, smashing the back of your head uselessly against your captor’s chest. It serves only to disorient you.

War horn, too close, sounds of flesh being torn in the fog, bursts of sickly red all around you. “My slaves, where are my slaves?”

And then, a miracle… the grip loosens. You hear the Qunari say something, behind you, but the second you have even an instant of slack, you wrench yourself free, nearly dislocating your shoulder in the process.

Oh, Maker, where’s Falon? Spear through his chest, bleeding out on the ground.

The second you gain traction, you kick off, intending fully to run, though you don’t know where to go. Anywhere but here. Then an arm wraps around you again, and you scream.

Strong arms grip you, wooden bar of a spear tight against your neck. Fuck, this is it, this is how you fucking die.

You thrash uselessly as a larger body wraps you up, one arm successfully pinning both of yours. You scream again, terror and rage and righteous fury, and feel power starting to leak out of your skin. No, you have to keep it under control, if the Qunari sees…

Dragged off, where are they taking me, oh Maker, Andraste, someone.

At a third scream, a hand presses over your mouth, not cutting off your air, but silencing you. You can barely thrash at this point; every time you find a new muscle to wrench, it’s forced still. Panic screaming behind wild eyes, you sink your teeth into the hand over your mouth, feeling the Qunari tense behind you.

”Don’t struggle, child,” in the common tongue. “We’ll take her to Salit,” in Qunlat, they don’t know you understand.

You bite as hard as you can, shaking your head in a useless attempt to tear skin as thick as leather. You chew, you gnaw, but the hand holds fast. Unable to break free, you slowly begin to recognize the sounds from the Qunari as speech. His voice is gentle, such a sharp contrast to the strength of his body that it confuses you.

“Hey, it’s alright. Breathe. Breathe.” Instincts are all you have at the moment, and you find yourself breathing deeper automatically. “Good. Focus on where you are.” All you see is fog. “You’re in Skyhold. See the walls?” …Yes. Walls. Walls keep enemies out, so why is there a Qunari here? As your desperate struggle stops, your muscle slacking as you attempt to make sense of your situation, the Qunari’s grip loosens. When you don’t immediately bolt, he releases you further. As soon as you can, you break up away, but instead of running, you twist to see your captor. He doesn’t look the same as you remember.

Grey skin and sweeping horns. Tight cells, burning flesh.

“Emma.” It knows your name. “Do you remember me?”

And you find you do.

“…Bull?”

“That’s right. Come on, Emma, deep breaths. We’re gonna work through this.”

“Th… The fog…” your voice doesn’t sound like yours, too high pitched, strained.

“Don’t focus on the fog. Look straight ahead. Focus on me.”

You don’t want to. Something, someone, could come behind you, a spear through your back, just like Falon. He was fifteen, just a boy and just a slave, but what would those Qunari savages care?

“Come on, look at me.” He steps backwards. Unbidden, you follow him, feet silent on the damp ground. It’s a strange sensation; you feel like you’re chasing him. He continues to back up, and you continue to advance, not actually closing any of the distance between the two of you, but keeping up. The panic isn’t gone, and you feel no more connected to your body, but you’re starting to remember that you had been striking him not long ago. You want to be doing it again. Your eyes narrow slightly, watching his movements intently. You stalk after him, matching each of his longer strides backwards with several small, light steps of your own. Waiting for him to start running, or to lunge. But he does neither.

You’re not sure when he reaches the wooden lean-to, pushed up against the side of Skyhold’s outer wall, but when he enters the open building, you follow him in. When you realize there are walls around you, you panic, slightly, but the open doorway soothes you. The fog is out there. You’re in here. And there’s an open door if you need to escape. You turn your focus back to the Qunari… Bull. Iron Bull. It seems important that you remember that.

“Emma. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

You narrow your eyes, looking for the trick. You shift your body so that you’re between him and the exit, in case he intends to bolt.

“Talk to me, Emma.”

You reach for your voice, but find your throat muscles so tense and tight that your voice comes out as a strangled gasp. You try again. “You’re… not them.” Are you trying to ask? Trying to convince yourself? You aren’t even sure what the words leaving your mouth mean. “But you’re like them,” you add, eyes narrowing.

“How am I like them?”

“Qunari.” You spit the word out like venom. “Ben-Hassrath.”

“I am both those things. Does that make me like them?”

“Yes!” you snarl. Then, quieter. “No… I don’t know. Maybe.” Your fists clench and unclench by your waist. Memories, unbidden, and flashing through your mind.

They told you about them, the Ben-Hassrath. They can change your mind, with words and drugs. Make you a slave, make you not-you.

“You look like you want to be hitting something, Emma.” The quiet voice makes your ears twitch. You do. You want to be burning this pathetic hut to the ground with him inside it. With both of you inside. You want to just burn the whole fucking world down. But you know all of that is unwise.

“Me and the boys back in Seheron had an exercise for dealing with stuff like this.” He begins to move, and your muscles tighten, preparing to run, or to pounce, depending on what he does. He moves slowly, deliberately, and you watch him through dilated eyes. Only the looseness in his own muscles keeps you rooted where you are, uncertain whether the situation calls for fight or flight. Slowly, he nudges a stick towards you. It can’t even be called a staff… more like a broom handle. You stare down at it, then up at him, uncomprehending.

“Better than bloodying up your fists,” he suggests. “Can’t have you breaking a hand.”

You eye it, and him, for a moment longer, before snapping it up in the same smooth motion as you charge him. He drops into a defensive stance, and you crack the stick down, across his raised arms. A hiss of satisfaction escapes you at the sound.

“I didn’t want to be there!” you shout, uncertain as to why. “I didn’t ask for any of this bullshit! None of us did!” You strike with the stick, blindly, as rising tears burn in your eyes, blurring your vision. “And then you! You stupid fucking Qunari! You thought we were all just goddamn Vints, couldn’t tell the slaves from the soldiers!” Wham! Another strike emphasizes your screaming. “You only fucking picked me up because I was a kid! No little girls in the army!” Smash. “Even you stupid, motherless Qunari know that!” Crack. “And you stick me in a cell with some fucking monster and I didn’t fucking ask for this!”

Another crack, louder this time, as the useless stick shatters, breaking into shards against Iron Bull’s side. With a strangled cry, you launch yourself at him, all flailing limbs and old hatred. You bloody your knuckles on him after all, striking at his chest and arms until you lose sensation, until you’re not sure if you’re seeing his blood or yours. At some point, he falls backwards, and you follow him down, kneeling on his stomach as you burn your energy, rage, and panic against the wall of his body.

Eventually, your arms are too heavy to move. They hang uselessly, resting against Iron Bull’s body. And you’re aware, once again, that this is Iron Bull, and that he’s let you beat him, as promised. But the realization comes through a fog, and your body, suddenly as heavy as your arms and mind, collapses against him, breath coming in gasps and wracking sobs.

You’re aware of arms wrapping around you, of the world shifting as you’re lifted up, but you’ve no strength to fight, and no desire to. You’re halfway to unconsciousness already, your wretched, sleep-deprived mind sinking towards the Fade.

8