Safe
Was it insomnia or cold that kept you up through the night? It hardly matters now. The angry swelling in your ankle has reduced only slightly, despite the elevation, and aches brutally in the bitter cold. You give up on sleeping some time before dawn, struggle with your boot until you manage to wedge your swollen foot into it. The pain only intensifies. You limp your way out of the rotunda, and moan pitifully at the frigid wind outside. It’s still Solace for the Maker’s sake! Curse these mountains to the Void!
You remove yourself from the worst of the wind when you go down into the courtyard, but it’s still colder than you’re comfortable with, and your ankle is in absolute agony. You spot Iron Bull in the training ring and limp over to him automatically, even though training is the last thing on your mind.
He spots your limp. “Okay, you didn’t have that when you left my room,” he says, pointing down at your leg.
“Sssssh!” you hiss, despite the fact there’s really no one out there to hear him. “I twisted it. I didn’t want to go back to the healer right after I got bloody knuckles healed.”
“Well, you can’t learn anything on that. Let’s go get it healed,” he says, standing up out of his stretch with a grunt. “I’m a little surprised you showed, actually. Thought you might need some time off after yesterday.”
“When I woke up, I came out without thinking,” you say honestly. “I’m not keen on going back to the healer’s tent, however. Particularly not with you. After the story I told last time, they might think you twisted my ankle yourself.” You pause. “Or killed the man who did.”
Iron Bull raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I gotta hear that story sometime. I’m not worried about my reputation, though. Come on. Walk there, or I’ll carry you again.”
The idea of being picked up and tossed over someone’s shoulder while actually conscious is even worse than the knowledge it happened when you were black-out drunk. You quickly begin shuffling towards the healer’s tent. You glance over at Iron Bull. Where is the pang of fear you normally get when you see him? After yesterday, you would have thought you’d be petrified to be near him, but all you real feel is residual embarrassment whenever you think about how you lost your mind.
The lingering doubt about Ben-Hassrath mind tricks comes back to you, sending tingling fear shooting through your body. You’re afraid, because you’re suddenly not afraid of Iron Bull. It seems foolish, when phrased that way, but you’ve seen what a Ben-Hassrath can do to a person.
“Bull,” you say suddenly. “What did you do in Seheron?”
He eyes you cautiously. “You sure you want to know that, kid?”
“It’s like it was with knowing when you were there… I don’t want to know, but I think I need to,” you say, uncomfortable with the amount of honesty you have on display. It’s an unfamiliar feeling.
“I would say… I was similar to what Leliana is, here.”
“A spymaster?”
“I suppose. I handled the information, commanded squads of men…”
Just what you didn’t want to hear, of course. You sigh, and shake your head. Iron Bull was likely the cause of the deaths of many of your good friends, and it’s entirely likely he has heard of you, just hasn’t connected the memories from Seheron to the you in the present. You’d like to keep it from him.
“You don’t look too happy,” he comments.
“I’m not. I don’t know how to balance the fact you seem like an alright guy with the knowledge that you’re likely indirectly responsible for the deaths of most of my friends… or the knowledge that you’re likely directly responsible for the raid that allowed me to escape slavery.” It’s such a bitter lie that it almost burns your tongue coming out. You had all but forgotten what guilt feels like. Iron Bull’s decisions may have put you through hell in Seheron, but no one’s responsible for the deaths of your fellow slaves but you.
You manage to look at Iron Bull’s face, but it does you no good. You can’t read his expression. You sigh again. “Come on… let’s get me fixed up so I can work out my issues with violence like a normal person.”
“Harder! You’re couldn’t disorient a squirrel with a hit like that!”
You slam your fist into Iron Bull’s stomach harder, wincing and trying to ignore the jarring, trembling pain it sends up your arm. When he tightens his muscles, it’s like punching a goddamn wall. No wonder you bloodied yourself on him yesterday.
You were hesitant, at first, nervous that striking him again might send you back into the foggy hell of Seheron. Not to mention your guilt at the bruising he still displays… But Iron Bull found a good way of motivating you without reminding you of Qunari long past: pissing you off. Every insult he hurls your way has you striking harder and faster. You’re not thinking about Seheron. You’re not thinking about anything, other than how much you want to wipe the smirk off that damn face of his.
It’s a rogue swing that does it, after a particularly galling insult towards the stature of elven women burns your pointed ears. Aimed up, instead of across, catching the man off guard. Most Qunari would not begin to guess that a slight elven woman could strike them in the face, and, in truth, you have to jump into your uppercut to manage it. But the swearing—Qunlat is a language that lends itself well to curses—and flow of blood from Bull’s nose is worth the effort.
“Oh my!” you say, faking surprise. “What’s this?” You’re unable to keep from shaking your hand from the force of the impact… it feels like you damn near broke a finger. “It seems as though my delicate elven hands have done you harm!”
“Ow, you little shit,” he says, but the glint in his eyes is more amused than angry. “I think you broke my nose!”
You pause. “What, really?” You lean in, curiously, to his doubled-over form. “Let me see.” He moves his hand, as if to let you see his bloodied nose, but in your distraction, you don’t see his mischievous look until it’s too late. An arm wraps around your chest as Bull drags you over in a headlock. With a shriek, you lose your balance, knocking the both of you into the grass. He rubs the top of your head with the knuckles of his other hand as you squeal, writhing in his grasp, alarmed, but not panicked.
“Ow! Son of a bitch!” you swear, but there’s laughter in your voice. “You’re getting blood in my hair! Ow! OW! Faccia di stronzo! Salaud! Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo!”
“Wow, you swear attractively,” Iron Bull says, laughing.
“Fuck! Ow!”
“Call me a fucker in Tevene, it’s hot.”
“Get off me you horned bastard!”
Iron Bull, still laughing, consents to release you, and you collapse into the grass, shoulders trembling with suppressed laughter. You can’t hide the grin on your face, though, especially when you see the state of his face. “Ow, wow, I might have broken your nose!”
“Sure as hell feels like it!” he says, wiping off his bloody hands on the grass. “So, what’s all that Tevene you said mean?”
“You should ask Dorian.”
The healer gives you a look that could cripple as the two of you stand before her once again, both covered in Iron Bull’s blood.
“Technically, ser, he’s the only one who needs healing. I’m fit as a fiddle.”
“And how did your… friend… get injured so quickly?” the older lady says, eyeing the shirtless Qunari. “So soon after he takes you in for healing, at that?”
You take a deep breath. “Well, you see, serah, we were walking along, innocent as you like, when my tall friend here spotted something glinting upon one of Skyhold’s many rooftops. Well, when he pointed it out to me, I thought, for the betterment of the Inquisition, we ought to see what it is! But even my Qunari partner, tall as he is, could not quite reach is. So, of course, he gave me a boost up, but I’m afraid that in the process of reaching for the alien object, I struck him quite violently in the face with my shoe.”
“Oh, Maker…”
“And, of course, startled, he fell, and in the tumble, we both got quite bloody! I’m fine, though. If you could be so benevolent, however, as to repair my friend’s… face…”
Thank the Maker for Iron Bull’s perfectly neutral face. The healer rolls her eyes exaggeratedly, mutters a prayer up to the heavens, but deigns to heal poor Iron Bull.
The two of you manage to get away from the healer’s tent before laughter overtakes you again. Iron Bull slaps you on the back as he thunders with glee.
“Where’d you learn to lie like that, you little snake?”
“There isn’t an alienage rat alive who doesn’t know when to lie to a hahren,” you say with a snort. “Besides, my story was more believable than me breaking your nose.”
“No wonder you and Varric get along,” he says with a snort. “That sounds just like something he’d say.”
The comment sobers you, slightly, bringing your mind back to Varric’s and Solas’s absence.
“So, it’s a bit late, but do you wanna get some breakfast?” he asks after you’re quiet for a moment.
“Oh, no I’m—“
You’re rudely interrupted by a loud, long, and extremely audible roar from your stomach, reminding you that you’ve not eaten since the day before last.
“Ah… perhaps some breakfast, before work…”
You do, finally, get to your rotunda, and as soon as you do, you settle down for a long day of working, hopefully without interruption. You really need to get this work done. Weeks of nonsense have delayed you enough. You tear through the translation, willing your sore body to obey you. When hunger makes your hands shake, late in the evening, sheer force of will stills them. You don’t stop, other than to stretch tight muscles to prevent cramps, until the sun has sunk over the horizon. Not to eat, not to rest, not even to relieve yourself. Not until you throw your quill down in brutal satisfaction, and cry, aloud, “Finished!”
Part of you wants to take the papers right up to Leliana, but you know you need time yet. They must be organized, then tied together, at least loosely, and you also need to decide which finished pages to take, to show off what the finished product will look like. You can do it in the morning. For now, it’s time to reward yourself. You had taken a day off, previously, at your friends’ insistence, but now you exit the rotunda to take rest time out of your own desire. A huge, ancient Tevinter tome, translated in two weeks. You are still, unquestionably, the god of linguistics.
You find yourself heading to the stable with quick steps. You don’t see the horsemaster as you enter, although you do spot Blackwall, sitting under a lantern and carving some piece of wood with a knife. You give him a slight bow as you pass. “Ser Warden,” you say politely. He only grunts in response, but doesn’t move to stop your entry.
Deft fingers pocket snacks for Revas as you move through the stables. It’s quite a shock for you when you find him already attended, more of a shock when you see by whom. Jealousy fills your heart at the way the elf is stroking your beloved Revas, although you know quite well that you’re being silly. He’s a friendly hart, and he likes elves, in particular. But to see him butting his nose gently into the hand that belongs to a Dalish? It fills you with distaste as much as the sight of the man himself.
The vallaslin is, however, faded. It’s likely this man is no Dalish, even if he was raised that way. You urge yourself to stave off judgment, even with distaste churning in your stomach. You wait for the man to notice you, which doesn’t take long, as Revas quickly swings his head towards you, whuffing his excitement. Despite the fact that you don’t want to be overly close to the Dalish, you walk towards Revas as the hart strains against the wall of his stall in an attempt to get closer to you.
“He likes you,” the Dalish man says, sounding pleased. The marks on his face dedicate him to Ghilain’nain; you find yourself unsurprised.
“Thank you.” You feign politeness. “I was lucky enough to ride with him earlier this week.”
“Oh! You must be the linguist. Dennet told me about you. I should have recognized you; I saw you falling off Revas from the upper levels of the barns.”
It’s lucky that your default expression is severe, or the man might have noticed how displeased you were by his statement.
“You did very well for your first time!” The man is cheerful, and seems completely unaware of the burning passion of your scorn. Only Revas butting you in the chest can break your glare, and you move to gently stroke the playful hart.
“You should visit to ride him more,” the Dalish continues. “The harts here never get enough socialization or riding. The Inquisition keeps them, but rarely takes them into the field. If you’d like, I could give you lessons?”
“My plate is quite full up of lessons,” you say, keeping the acid from dripping into your voice. Even your dislike for this man can’t keep you from wanting onto Revas again, however. “…I believe Sundays are my rest day, however,” you admit. “And I would like to ride him again.”
The man positively beams. “Excellent! My name is Belassan, by the way. What’s yours?”
“Emma,” you say shortly, paying the majority of your attention to Revas and his wandering lips and nose. He’s searching for the treats he knows you have hidden away, and you have to be careful not to get knocked into by one of his horns. Even Belassan steps away as they swing this way and that.
“Where are you from, Emma?” the man asks. You wish he’d stop trying to make small talk.
“Ferelden,” you say, dodging your head backwards to avoid a rogue horn as Revas attempts to fit his snout into your pocket. You finally relent to slip him a treat, if only to save yourself from getting a busted nose to match Bull’s.
“Oh, really? Me too!”
You eye him. “I was unaware that Dalish were really ‘from’ anywhere. Was your clan in Fereldan your whole life?”
“More or less. I was from Clan Sahlinan.”
“Ah.” That explains a lot. “Was?”
“Yeah, I, um… Left. A while ago. Anyway, I was young when all that craziness with the Blight was going on.”
“As was I.” This is turning into the opposite of relaxing. You give Revas a last fond pat, determined to come back when this man is somewhere else. “I should be going,” you say, not bothering to say it politely. You could punch this man in the face and he would probably still be smiling. Sera would delight in your hostility towards the other elf, no doubt, and the thought chafes you slightly, but it’s no use. You simply don’t like him. Clan Sahlinan didn’t have your hostility in particular. They had done well in the fifth Blight. But Dalish always chafe at you. Perhaps if you can get over yourself long enough to get his story out of him, you’ll find he left for a good reason. Perhaps he found his kin as insufferably smug as you do.
You’ll find out another time. You bid the man farewell and stalk out of the barn, not bothering to acknowledge the unfriendly Blackwall. You’re actually relieved when you see Iron Bull in the courtyard. Ugh. What are you now, to go from hating a man to being happy to see him in a single day? Despite your fresh self-loathing, you walk towards him, cheered slightly when he sees you and waves you over.
“Your face looks more sour than usual, kid! What were you doing in the barn?”
“Visiting Revas,” you say shortly. “I finished my translation of the tome; thought I’d take some time off for the rest of the evening-“
He cuts you off. “All I’m hearing is celebration. You should come to the tavern!”
“Oh no. Ooooh no,” you say, waving your hands in front of you. “No way. Not after what happened last time.”
“What if I promise not to give you any more Dragon Piss?”
“No way!”
“Awww, c’mon. You broke my nose; you owe me!”
“I most certainly do not!” you snap, despite the fact that his joking jabs remind that you do, actually, owe the Qunari quite a bit.
“Me and the guys are gonna be playing Wicked Grace. You could join in, maybe have a few drinks…”
Hmm… You do enjoy a chance to swindle drunk mercenaries out of their pay. It’s practically a hobby. “…Maybe just a few hands,” you relent.
“That’s the spirit!” Iron Bull exclaims, clapping you around the shoulders and leading you towards the bar. Ah, well… What’s the worst that could happen?
A goodly number of drinks and a large pile of gold later, and you’re beginning to question your self-control. Oh, the Chargers and, in fact, the whole tavern, are having a good time, drunk and laughing at the luck on display from the bookish elven lass. Which is good, as you’ve accumulated the majority of their coin. You’re getting a bit deep into the drink yourself, however. People keep handing you things. Mugs, mostly. There has been more than one joke about you possibly throwing them at a Templar. You threw a mug at the last fellow to make one.
Despite your attempts at remaining more sober than last time, as your mood improves, you become freer with the drink, and as you drink, your mood improves. It spirals out of control rapidly, until you find yourself largely unable to walk.
The men have all gotten up to return to their quarters, the night’s celebrations largely done. There’s a lot of jovial back-slapping and laughter. When you stand up to leave, however, you suddenly and dramatically notice you’re even more intoxicated than you thought, and promptly fall over. Luckily, or unluckily, depending on how you look at it, Iron Bull is there to catch you.
“Aaaah, yooouuu,” you slur at him as you drape your weight effortlessly over him. “Lookit you, catchin’ me. I think you like it.”
“What happened to ‘one or two drinks,’ kid?” he says, with a smile that’s much more handsome than you remember.
“Was havin’ a good time. Wanted a distraction. S’not like I’m gonna get any sleep, ‘n’ soberin’ up awake s’a bitch.”
Iron Bull frowns, trying to steady you on your feet. You don’t cooperate, flopping loosely against him. “Still can’t sleep?”
“S’no helpin’ it,” you say with a wave of your hand. “S’just a pro’lem I have.”
“Can you seriously not walk, or are you just being a brat?” asks Iron Bull, and his words remind you of Solas with a sharp, bitter pang. “Did being mildly bratty get you far in life up until now? Din’samahlen.” You say nothing, just continue to flop uselessly.
“If you don’t walk, I’ll pick you up,” he threatens, likely expecting your pride to carry you onto your feet and out the door. Instead, you stick your tongue out.
“Well, do it then! E’ryone knows you wanna!”
With a grunt, he sweeps you up, one arm on your back and the other under your knees. You whoop like a child being tossed into the air; your head spinning the way it is, that’s certainly how it feels.
“Wow! So this’s what the climate’s like so high up!”
“If you’re pleased with yourself, tell me where your damn room is,” Iron Bull growls, though if there’s vitriol in his voice, you’re too far gone to notice it. You wrap an arm around his neck, pulling your face next to his and pointing dramatically forwards.
“Onwards, towards adventure!” You then collapse back into his arms in a fit of giggles.
“Oh for…”
“Forward, mighty steed!”
“I’m going to drop you.”
“Bidonista!” you exclaim, wrapping your arms around his neck in preparation.
“If you’re going to swear at me, at least have the courtesy to use Tevene. I can close my eyes and pretend you’re some Tevinter lady I’m sweeping off to bed.”
“I could be a Vint,” you say with a scoff. “Speak it better than most ‘em.” You raise yourself up again to hiss into his ear, “Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris? ”
“Oooookay, we are getting you to a bed, any bed. If Krem hears you talking like that, poor man might not be able to control himself.”
“Onwards and upwards!”
You cling to him in the chill of the night, uncertain as to where you’re going and largely unconcerned. You rather enjoy the sensation of being carried, and if you close your eyes, you can almost forget about the disconcerting horns.
You recognize the room he carries you into. “Thank the Maker,” you slur. “You’ve got blankets.”
“The Inquisition didn’t give you any?” The concern in his voice, banked slightly by irritation, makes you smile.
“One; an itchy mess of a thing. I hate the cold.” You’re moving about on your own volition now, so Bull sets you down. All you do, however, is stumble over to his bed and flop into it.
“I’ve only got one of those, you know,” he points out sourly. You’re already cocooning yourself in the warm, soft blankets you missed so sorely last night. “Alright, I’ll take the floor,” he says, walking over. “At least give me one of my own blankets, e-“
You attempt to grab him by the wrist and pull him off balance. It probably would have worked on Sera. Iron Bull is, however, significantly larger than you, so your mighty tug does little more than make him look at you funny.
“S’a big bed, stupid,” you mumble, already feeling half-asleep. “Yer not gonna try anything.” You stifle a yawn against your shoulder.
“I’m not sure that’s—“
“Y’ain’t got nothin’ I haven’t felt pressed against my ass in the mornin’. M’not gonna put you out on the floor, but I’m not sleepin’ on it either. S’too cold fer that bullshit.”
He sits down on the edge of the bed, seeming hesitant. You toss a blanket at him, clobbering him right in the face, tiredly delighting in how it tangles in his horns. “I like you, Bull,” you admit. “I don’t like that I like you. Can’t stop worryin’ the fact I like you is some fuckin’ Ben-Hassrath trick. But… Yer fun to be around, and you got my back. Can’t say that ‘bout most people. So I’m gonna try to stop worrying about you bein’ Hissrad, and try to enjoy you bein’ Bull.”
“…Thanks, kid.”
You have a vague recollection of the way the bed creaks as he gets in, before your world fades to blissful, dreamless black.