"Yes, well," and he applauds himself for the levity he manages to inject in his voice, "luckily I'm company enough for both of us."
Which is to say, Dorian has no intention of skipping away just yet. For one, the Bull clearly needs something or someone to ground him, and considering the only other option is the darkspawn, Dorian is the best choice. And for another— Dorian doesn't want to be alone. Not yet. Not until he has to be.
"When you're ready, I'll travel alongside you. For as long as either of us can." Knowing their luck, their paths will diverge and send them in opposite directions. It's just that sort of day, Dorian expects. "That wisp should stay close to you, but— it's not exactly intelligent. You may have to hide it, in case there's trouble."
He grunts, unhappy at the idea of touching the thing, but- well. On the list of awful shit happening right now he guesses that doesn't really rate.
Or, it shouldn't. Still does, kind of. Might not be so bad, if he only knew a little less about what the thing actually is.
Doesn't matter. The Bull's getting his shit together.
"I'm going, I'm going," he grumbles, like that 'when you're ready' had been Dorian pushing him to get going. It wasn't, he knows, but it's easier to act like he should be acting, that way.
If he wants to get going, he's going to have to go back to crawling. Have to get on his knees - well, knee - like the space is even smaller, as small as it was, crawling not like he's ready to fight but like a wounded thing, a deer or something after a hunter's badly aimed shot.
But that's what he is. It's what he needs to do. He leans against the wall, hunches over further, manages to fall onto his good leg. Takes a breath.
Okay. Next. Dorian's going to follow him. No good trying too hard to convince him otherwise, especially not when pretty much everything the Bull's got is stuck somewhere near the back of his thoughts, the instincts, stuck on something far away from the well-ordered surface of his mind.
If Dorian's going to follow him, he's going to need something to follow. A voice.
"Let's go," the Bull says, voice that little bit farther from the crack again, low down to the ground. "So," he starts after that, putting something brisk in his voice as that pressure squeezes at his chest and winds tight through all his muscles, forcing the effort in to sound something close to casual. "While you've got me here, there anything you've been wanting to say? Anything that you want to ask? Get as rude as you want. Not like anyone else is around to hear it."
With the wall between them, the force of Dorian's glare in response to the Bull's grumbling is completely lost on the Bull – not that it particularly matters, given that there wasn't nearly as much as heat as Dorian tried to imbue it with.
He hears the faint sound of movement – scraping, shifting, the stirring of dirt against stone – and carefully follows it, the fingertips of one hand brushing against the wall between himself and the Bull. He'll have to pull away and climb through to get to the hallway, but for now, Dorian keeps pace with the Bull.
It's a slow pace. The Bull is in a bad way, Dorian reminds himself again. The worry already percolating low in his gut is starting to grow.
"Oh, what a lovely invitation," and Dorian forces himself to sound amused. "'As rude as I want.' I doubt you truly mean that. Surely even you must have some limitations."
If he tried to laugh at that, there's no way it wouldn't come out wrong. Not like Dorian's convinced anyway, but there's a limit. He's keeping this act up for a reason.
Think. How flirty would the Bull usually get here? Or- Dorian showed some genuine interest right before all this happened, the Bull remembers. Weird to feel all this pressing at him from the inside, watching his hands press against the stone and drag the rest of him along, and think of that, think of the triumph he felt then.
Something to look forward to, he'd thought. That might still be true.
The Bull would get a little more serious then. Wouldn't he? In case Dorian really needed the info. He'd make it a little bit of a joke too and he tries to wrap his mind around that, make himself figure out the balance, the mood of it that should be coming to him.
"Who, me?" he says, leaving it up to fate whether any of his answer comes out sounding light and joking or not. "Nah. Don't hurt anyone in a way they didn't ask for, or that would need to get treated afterward. Bloodplay makes things a little weird. Other than that, depends on who I'm with." He'd had to pause a couple times during that to take slow, deep breaths, and now he does it again. Then he focuses. "Why? How rude have you been wanting to get?"
For a second or two, Dorian wonders if the Bull is having his own conversation, wonders how badly the other man hit his head. Probably worse than Dorian had, if the Bull's current train of thought is any indication.
It takes him a little while before he realizes the Bull is talking not about his limitations, but his limitations. As in—
"Ugh."
He almost makes himself sound appropriately affronted, but it's tempered by his volume, by the hesitation that keeps him from responding immediately. There's too much effort in the Bull's voice, too many pauses, and Dorian grits his teeth against that twisting feeling of helplessness.
"Now is hardly the appropriate time for this." He tries to make his tone sharp, brusque, but he doesn't quite manage it. "Or is sex really the only thing ever on your mind?"
"Had worse things on my mind," he says, watching the rubble blocking part of the path as he gets closer to it, and the words come out too serious, missing the humour he was supposed to put in them.
It makes the path narrower, scraping at his shoulders. He could stand, he finds himself thinking, jump over the worst of it, and he knows pain, he could handle the pain-
But any pressure might make the ankle heal worse. Or, this time, maybe it wouldn't heal at all. No brace in the world, no matter how many strings the Chargers want to pull to get it designed, is going to make up for that.
He'd go home, he thinks. The Iron Bull is a mercenary captain. Hissrad is an agent of the Qun. Once both have had the last use wrung out of them, they would send him home to teach. A quiet life. The Chargers would have to fend for themselves. Or dissolve the whole company, maybe, depending. The Inquisition wouldn't have a use for a warrior who couldn't fight. Maybe the Qun would send someone else.
The stone walls brush the drying blood and scabs on his arms and his shoulders, press against his skin. He angles himself differently, a little, and it doesn't help. He grits his teeth. He keeps pulling himself through.
If Dorian said anything, the Bull realises he would have missed it. Bad idea to point it out. "So what do you want me to talk about?" the Bull asks, a little edge in his tone. If Dorian did say something that he didn't hear, that has as good a chance as anything else at blending in to the conversation, maybe not letting on.
That's a bit closer to the truth than Dorian was trying for, and Dorian immediately winces with it.
"I suppose it's a better way to pass the time than most things," he offers, forcing a sort of grudging delivery. "Maybe not every hour of the day, but some of them."
Dorian expects some sort of rejoinder – another attempt at keeping the conversation going, as halfhearted or forced as it may be – but he receives only silence in response. He waits for another second before quietly venturing, "Bull?"
Another beat of silence before the Bull finally responds – and the fact that the man hasn't responded to what Dorian said doesn't miss his notice. He bites on his lower lip again before he finally lets the levity drop his voice.
Shit. He must have really missed something, then. The Bull stops crawling for a moment, closes his eye to try to think. That doesn't shut out the stone on either side, the awareness that he might well be shut in here for good, the hard, relentless pounding of his his heart. He tries to think over all of it, to how he normally would handle this.
He opens his eye to his world, this tiny pool of unnatural green light. He takes a deep breath. Does his best.
"I'm not bleeding out or anything." Casual. Good. Keep on pushing for casual. Keep going. Tell the truth in a way that makes it a truth, at least. Neither of them is going to be completely reassured by anything, not really, not unless they get out of this, but the Bull might be able to give Dorian enough to work as an explanation. "If that's what you're worried about. This place is just... what do those guys say to trick tourists into paying them for tours? It's thought provoking. Just giving me a lot to think about."
Should he add a joke? Might not be totally on the mark right now, with Dorian worried enough that he's demanding the truth like that, but there's a chance it'll prompt Dorian into dropping the question before he can dig for a different answer, prompt him into playing along like he has been.
Okay. Go for it. A little one.
"I know every word out of your mouth is like gold though, big guy. Not trying to ignore you; I know you can't stand that." Or Dorian couldn't, if he ever found anyone capable of ignoring him. Dorian's pretty good at making that impossible. So play into that, and hope Dorian's just close to reassured enough that he agrees to play into it a little bit, too.
"The ruins we saw earlier didn't provoke nearly as many thoughts, and those were in much better shape." Dorian doesn't take the bait. Maybe he ought to and continue providing the Bull a distraction – but as it stands, evidently Dorian hadn't been nearly as diverting as he had hoped.
The Bull sighs, stares at the stone, works to think over his options. He doesn't have a lot. More honesty, that's pretty much the only one. Or, take the honesty that was in there and clarify it. He can't just say he's just off his game in here, not without having to lay out the sort of details he doesn't really want set down in words, not if he can help it. But all Dorian really wants to know is that the Bull's not in some kind of immediate danger, that he isn't dying over here while Dorian is stuck on the other side of that wall with nothing he can do but listen.
Pretty reasonable thing to want to know. It's not too much to ask, this push that the Bull explain that to him, one way or the other.
He's going to explain. He's going to figure out how to say it to set Dorian's mind at ease, or as close to it as they can right now. Alright.
"Just my leg," the Bull says, dropping the try at putting any humour in his tone in hopes that will help Dorian believe it. Sure he might have been trying to deflect when he said he wasn't bleeding out, but that doesn't mean it wasn't true. Important to emphasize that. "Isn't even bleeding that much, like I said. It's just-"
Here's the tricky part. He speaks a little slower, figuring out how to say it as he goes. How to explain it in a way that's honest enough to maybe satisfy Dorian, but makes it feel a little lighter than it is.
"Those ruins we saw earlier," the Bull starts, and pauses for a second to think. "Those were a little friendlier to a guy like me. These ones aren't, uh, as easy for a qunari to get around in. Getting through that's just kind of- distracting. That's all. If it's a promise that you need, Dorian, I promise: If I can't get out of here and die, it's going to be because I got stuck in this little- this hallway for a month and starved."
Might not be reassuring in the normal sense. In fact, that Bull felt himself tense up even more just hearing that come out of his mouth. But if that's what Dorian needs to hear to calm some worry about how hurt the Bull is, then maybe it's worth the price of saying it out loud.
He takes a slow breath. He keeps talking.
"Won't be because of the fall. You don't have anything to worry about. Not about me, anyway." You're the one exposed alone where the darkspawn can get at you, is the implication there. What he maybe should have done a better job at pushing Dorian toward from the beginning, if he hadn't needed- wanted Dorian here so much. Worry about yourself.
It's not the most reassuring thing Dorian has heard today.
But it's— better, admittedly. Better than imagining the Bull bleeding and bleeding and bleeding on the other side of the wall while Dorian chatters incessantly. Better than imagining the man with half of his bones shattered while he forces himself forward by sheer willpower alone. Better than imagining the Bull slowly dying while Dorian waits, powerless.
Still, the Bull is injured. And he's— stuck? Or at least entrapped in a narrow space. That's enough to make anyone anxious, which explains the Bull's earlier distraction. Perhaps— perhaps that's what had been bothering the Bull earlier, when the two of them had fallen behind, when the Bull had asked to play those silly little games. Wandering deep into the earth, with stone at every side, knowing that one bad quake might spell their doom—
Dorian takes in a slow, rallying breath, steeling his nerves. All right. If anyone is going to get them out of here, it will have to be Dorian.
"Luckily," he says with far more confidence than he genuinely feels, "I've every intention of finding a way for both of us to escape. I refuse to die down here, and neither would I let you do something so tedious as starve to death."
He slips over to the hole in the wall, the one leading to the hallway that winds further into the— compound? building? – and listens intently for any movement. Nothing worrying, save for the low groan of settling stone, the skitter of dust and rocks still falling after the earlier quake. He thinks he hears the distant echo of unintelligible chatter, of hissing and and grunting, but Dorian can't be sure if it's real or if it's an offering of his imagination. He decides it should be safe enough to travel through – or at least, as safe as anything can currently be.
Returning to the wall he shares with the Bull, he presses a palm against it.
"Are you able to progress at all?" Clipped, brusque, though Dorian does nothing to bury the undercurrent of concern that threads through his voice. "And answer truthfully, if you would. I'm losing patience for your attempts at distraction."
The Bull huffs, amused, appreciative. It's a little surprising to be feeling that way right now when most of his mind is so busy yelling at the rest about how completely screwed he is all safe here in this tiny hidden space, but for a second he feels it anyway. There's something about getting called out, sometimes. At the right time, when he needs to hear it. Dorian's getting pretty good at doing that.
"If there's anything at the end of this, I'll find it. Just might take me a while to get there." He sighs at it, having to admit it, but if more detail is going to help Dorian trust that the Bull is being straight with him- "Have to crawl to get there, but I can move."
He takes another, slow breath. Commit. Now that Dorian knows that the Bull isn't dying over here, it's the right time.
"I'm good to scout out a way out. I don't find one, or I don't find you out there, we'll try to come back and meet back here. That sound good?" He takes a slow breath, makes sure his voice sounds even, businesslike. It's just another day, and he doesn't need any voices, any people, to cut through the dark in here at all. "I'll be alright."
While he would normally lapse into silence, he instead offers a quiet, "I'm thinking."
Dorian is still reluctant to part, and he frowns at the Bull's offer. The childish part of him wants to wring his hands, but instead he hears his mother and various nannies tutting at the back of his head. Instead, he contents himself with adjusting his gloves.
But the Bull has offered their only real recourse, and Dorian sighs.
"It does seem to be our only option." The words are offered grudgingly, and Dorian finally frees his staff from its holster at his back. The fall has damaged it slightly, has dented the handle and bent the metal grip slightly out of shape. If these ruins don't kill him, Dorian thinks with a touch of humor, Evelyn surely will. Still, the focus at the head is intact, and the blade is still serviceable. He'll be fine.
Then, he adds with a touch more force, "You had better be in one piece when I find you. If we're both forced to return here, then I'll tear this damned wall down myself."
A final option, though it's far from ideal. There's a reason why he hasn't attempted it already – matters of structural integrity, of drawing attention. Still, it's nice to at least have something that resembles a backup plan, if all else fails.
Another rallying breath, and Dorian's voice softens as he pushes away.
"Yeah," he murmurs, and tries, knowing it won't work, to listen for the sound of Dorian's footsteps. "You too."
And then it's just him. Him, and the dark, and the stone on every side, and the beating of his heart. And the spirit giving him that light.
Be creepier if the thing could talk, anyway. He's probably better off.
He's been hurt worse than this, had to move quicker, without any backup to even hope for. The part of him that's saying this is just as bad as that, that this might be worse, that part of him is full of shit, and what he needs to do is move.
He moves.
Without anyone else to focus on, anybody else to think for, the world goes away. If the Bull was thinking of anything right now, he might say that makes all this easier. Worse, maybe, but easier. Easier to forget that there's anything but the stone beneath his hands, pain throbbing up his ankle and across his skin, in his muscles, the dark in front of him and the unnatural green shining off his hands and his breath quick in his ears. The sound of his leg dragging behind him. There's a rhythm you get into.
The way out takes him by surprise. He realises he's been seeing light for a while and when he looks up and sees the break in the wall it's coming from his heartbeat stutters, he leans against one wall in that way that doesn't really give him any more room but lets him pretend it does, and he breathes. And he breathes.
Dorian. Dorian is waiting for him.
He rolls onto his foot. He leans over on the wall. He stands, and looks at the pile of rubble in front of him, and feels the rest of the world starting to come back.
Rubble's up to his thigh. Nothing to do but try and climb over it.
He leans against the wall, lifts his leg. Tries to still his foot but it swings on his ankle without any input from him, and between leaning against the wall and breathing through the pain he doesn't catch the big stone knocked off the top of the pile before it's falling, the clatter echoing off the walls as it goes.
Might not be a problem. The air is dank here, wet and old, strong enough here to make the darkspawn smell hard to untangle from the rest of it. Hard to tell for certain.
The safe thing would be to turn back.
No one's here to keep it together for; when the thought makes his already tense muscles go stiff, makes his heart gamely try to go faster than it already is, he doesn't try to hide it.
He's here to find a way out, anyway. So he's going to find a way out. He finishes hopping over with his good leg, tries to make it quick enough that he can lean back on the wall, on the rubble, and not put any weight on his bad one.
Good. Next.
He still has to stoop but he can see just enough to tell that a little ways off, the room gets wider. There's a doorway there across the room. More than one, maybe. But behind this doorway there's light. The Bull hunches over against the wall and hops his way toward it.
And then, too late, he hears a noise. The smell starts getting stronger. The Bull starts thinking very quickly.
Getting to the doorway is his only chance. It's a shitty chance, but not letting them surround him might be all he has. He keeps moving, leaning on the wall with one hand, finally trying to untangle that cloth from around his horns with the other and winding it hurriedly around his face. The moment he wraps it over his mouth keeping his breathing under control is impossible but it doesn't matter, because it's done. A little optimistic, maybe, thinking he's going to live long enough to care whether he swallowed any tainted blood here, but it's done, and he's still moving-
But he isn't moving quick enough. The darkspawn are here. He shifts his posture - if he's going to die, he's going to do it at least looking like he's on his own two feet - and slings out his axe, battered but whole, grits his teeth, waits until one comes close enough that he can reach it just by pushing off with one foot and he roars, the sound filling the space and spilling outward, out the doorways and into whatever's behind. Into the open air that he's never going to see.
A moment later there's a noise of pain and he's sprawled out on his side on the ground, skin covered in dried blood and deep scrapes and gouges from the fall, side heaving fast with his breaths, hand clenched around the handle of his axe.
It's not the death he wanted. A stupid death born out of being too weak going into this compounded, probably, by a couple dumb little mistakes, downed before he can even fight and dying for nothing at all - but, hey, the silver lining: if no one's around to see it, maybe they'll tell themselves he put up a good fight. He's still, at least, got a couple more swings left to take. He isn't going to waste them.
Dorian keeps chalk in a pouch on his belt – one never knows when one will need to set a magical ward, after all – and as he climbs through the broken wall, he pulls it out. Well, he pulls the largest piece out, at any rate. It seems to have been cracked and crushed in the fall, and Dorian is hardly surprised. It's large enough for his purposes – that is, to mark his way in order to navigate his way back to the dilapidated office.
There's a dwarven embassy in every major city in the Tevinter Imperium, but Dorian has never had reason to step foot in one. It's not until his time with the Inquisition that Dorian has had reason to admire these underground settlements. There was an instructor at one of the many Circles Dorian attended who had a formicarium, where ants constructed delicate mazes and chambers. Dorian is reminded of it every time the Inquisitor has cause to bring him down into some all but forgotten thaig.
He's careful to keep quiet the entire time, trying to ignore the ugly stink of darkspawn, trying to ignore the sickening way his head throbs. He passes by rows of old rooms, by ancient stone furniture, by old shattered wooden carts. He passes by piles of skeletons – the former denizens of the thaig, Dorian wagers – and feels the weight of spirits pressing against the Veil.
Felix never told him what happened when he, his mother, and their family retainers had been attacked. An unbearable memory, Dorian had assumed. Felix hadn't wanted to talk about it, and Dorian now realizes with a twisting lurch that he hadn't wanted to listen. Dorian was an awful friend, he thinks. He wonders how it was that Felix could stand him, all those years.
But he remembers Felix at his worst. Remembers how pale and gaunt he had been, how weak he had become before Dorian and Alexius had managed their first small breakthrough. A combination of time magic and magical tinctures had managed to buy Felix a few more days – but that hadn't been enough for either Dorian or Alexius. Those days soon became weeks, then slowed to months, then finally became an extra year or two when they hit the limitations of their combined skills.
Neither of them mentioned the use of blood magic, but Dorian knew it was hovering distantly at the back of Alexius' mind. Nothing was ever enough.
He remembers, too, the sweat on Felix's brow, his ashen complexion, the shadows beneath his eyes and hollowing out his cheeks when he surged into Dorian's little camp on the outskirts of Redcliffe. Felix had told him of the Venatori's plans to march on Haven, rushing to stuff Dorian's pack with extra rations, extra supplies, before Dorian even had a chance to react.
Dorian nearly refused to abandon Felix a second time, but as he shouldered his pack, as he prepared himself to run, he grabbed hold of Felix's elbow, had said, "Try not to die."
"There are worse things than dying, Dorian," Felix had told him.
And now, Felix is gone. Dorian refuses to fail anyone so spectacularly ever again.
The Bull is wandering in the dark, injured and lost, and Dorian won't fail him. If Dorian dies, then the chances of the Bull's survival plummet almost exponentially. His stomach twists at the thought before he forcibly shoves it from his head.
Dorian's wandering finally brings him to a dead end, and he curses, feels frustration and real fear starting to curl up and grip his throat, making his eyes sting and water. One side is completely collapsed, and the side that remains intact is made almost impassable by the fallen debris. The lyrium lamps built into the columns that remain still glow gamely, and an idle part of Dorian wonders if this was an area of some import to have gone to such efforts to light it.
He turns to double back when he hears it – the distant crash of something heavy falling. He freezes, pressing himself into a shadowy corner and curling his hand around the wisp to conceal the light. There's no movement around him, and he allows himself a deep breath before pushing away.
It's impossible to ignore – the screech and hiss and guttural shouts of darkspawn finding prey. The abrupt familiarity of the Bull's battle cry. The clash of metal against meat and bone and more metal. The stone distorts the sound, makes it impossible to tell how close or far, but the wisp floats away from him, hovers near a heavy stone door blocked by rubble. Somehow, Dorian just knows, and terror churns in his gut, freezing his heart, before determination burns through him.
The time for stealth is done, it seems.
Which is just as well, because Dorian acts on instinct. He shoves both of his arms forward, the head of his staff aimed at the pile of stone, and shoves. The Veil reacts, a wave of force sending the stones scattering with a thunderous boom and clearing his path. He rushes forward, and when another heavy stone door blocks his way, he presses his fingertips to his temple, shoves out another telekinetic wave to force it open.
Better to be angry, and so Dorian is. Better to be focused, and so Dorian is that, too. Better than being terrified. Better than thinking about being torn apart. Better than thinking about helplessly wasting away. Better than living with the thought of surviving by selfishly abandoning and betraying the Bull.
From this close, the darkspawn stench is horrendous, trapped in by the stone around them, and Dorian concentrates on keeping his mouth shut – a helpful tip, Lieutenant Renn, thank you. They hardly seem distracted by his abrupt entrance, focused they are on their current target.
His spells come out with a near dizzying speed. First, a barrier to coat the both of them in flickering blue light. Then, a column of fire to take out the genlock attempting to take advantage of the Bull being knocked to the ground. Then, a Fade Step to close the gap between himself the Bull, and Dorian swings his staff down, slamming the focus against another genlock's head, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone.
It's his first thought. Well- his first thought is appreciation for the obvious power in Dorian's entrance. That boom before Dorian forces his way in, the fire. But that part happens in the background of his mind, automatic. The kind of thing that doesn't really count as a thought so much as a reaction.
His second thought is about swinging his axe at the nearest genlock's knees, about the need to angle the hit so the thing falls back from Dorian, instead of toward him. "You need distance!" he shouts, not daring to look up at Dorian again because his range of vision's shitty enough right now as it is, but knowing too well what he saw. "Your mask!" Not that Dorian doesn't know he doesn't have that little piece of protection on him any more. There's no way he doesn't know. But it feels important, right now, to remind him.
Better chance that Dorian will back away if the Bull backs away too. Not something he'd do normally - the right move is still to try and bottle the darkspawn, however many or few there are, up at the doorway - but it's not like he's going to be able to help with that, not like this, so he starts pulling himself backward, glancing around to make sure the path from him to the wall is clear. If he can get his back to a wall again, that won't be nothing.
If Dorian had time enough for it, he would shoot the Bull a glare that would practically scream, You think I don't know?
As it stands, he only manages a grunt in response – it's all he can offer while he focuses on keeping his lips pressed tightly together. The Bull lops off a genlock's legs below the knees, and when it falls back, Dorian stabs his staff's blade through its throat, ensuring it won't remain a problem. Distance is a luxury he cannot afford at the moment – not if he means to defend the Bull. The Bull has the right idea, falling back, and Dorian takes a careful step to keep the two of them close together.
Southerners tended to be wary of mages as a rule. Summoning a bit of ice to cool a drink or a bit of fire to light a candle was liable to spur someone into screaming, "Abomination!" But if that mage happens to be a necromancer? Well, the mage would be lucky to escape unscathed. It's why Dorian uses spells from that specialization sparingly. But this situation is desperate, so Dorian doesn't hold back, like he normally might.
Dorian doesn't turn, though, only keeping the Bull in his periphery while he focuses on the room at large. He splays a hand before clenching it into a fist, gathering the energy of the recently killed. It surges through him, gives him a burst of power, and he channels it into a wall of flame that bursts to life around the two of them in a semi-circle, protecting them from the bulk of the darkspawn charging into the room while still giving the Bull room to back himself toward the wall.
He reaches across the Veil, grabbing hold of a few curious wisps and pressing them into the bodies of the dead darkspawn. The corpses rise, wreathed in the swirling, violet light of Dorian's magic, and leap through the wall of flame to attack their enemies.
The Bull stares, his backward crawl slowing as he watches corpses lifting themselves up, powered by Dorian's magic and by something else, something that just by the skin of Dorian's teeth balances on the right side of possession. Not being able to see all of it, a head caved in and still upright, a reaching hand wrapped in glowing purple, just glimpses caught through a wall of fire - there's something about seeing it that way makes the whole thing look worse.
If he was watching just anyone do that, some mage he didn't know, it would be easy to say no one should have that kind of power. But when it's someone on his team, someone he's seen down and vulnerable and trying not to look like he's hurting, someone who'll boast all day but doesn't know how to take a compliment, who worries about him, who's risking something worse than death on the off chance he'll be able to get the Bull out of this - when it's Dorian, who will use his magic on stupid little things as easy as breathing and doesn't know how to leave a man behind-
It's weird. Still creepy as shit, but it's weird. How this can be up there on the list of the freaky crap he's seen, and not feel like a threat.
"Neat trick," the Bull says, the smallest hint of something unsettled running beneath his voice that could be coming from anywhere. It probably isn't, actually, only just from the one thing; it's been a really shitty day.
He starts dragging himself a little faster again.
"Out the way you got in, while they're busy? Is all this going to last that long, or are we going to have to run for it?"
We. Run. A couple words are doing a lot of work in that sentence there. The Bull can retreat, anyway, after some kind of fashion. It looks like Dorian's not going to leave him behind to run off himself, so they'll have to figure it out.
With that bare bit of space, Dorian finally gives himself a moment to glance over his shoulder, to take in the Bull's state.
Something wrong with one of his legs, or else the Bull would be moving more quickly. Broken knee? Broken ankle? In the light of the flame he sees the drying blood on what's exposed of the Bull's skin – not nearly dark enough for any of it to have come from the darkspawn.
"I can do this all day," he says – there's no smugness in his voice, no false bravado. It's a simple, grim fact, born of absolute resolve – an answer without fully explaining himself. The fire wall will fade, the shambling corpses will eventually become too damaged for the spirits to maintain their holds, but Dorian will do everything he can. He'll keep casting his spells, because there's little point to him if he can't.
He splays out a hand against, curling his fingers toward his palm as he draws out the energy of another darkspawn slain by his corpses. He grips his staff with both hands, swinging the focus up over his head and slamming it down. Behind the wall of flame, the spectral image of a skull appears overhead, yawning its mouth wide until it flickers out of existence, and the darkspawn shriek and scream as they scatter away, minds momentarily overtaken by Dorian's Horror spell.
The wall of fire is starting to flicker, starting to shrink, and Dorian shouts over his shoulder, "Get to the door! I'll cover you."
If the Bull didn't already have every reason in the world to take this seriously, Dorian's tone would do it. He hurries, getting close enough to the wall in the next couple seconds to lever himself up, then takes an instant to judge the distance from where he is to the door. If he angles his leg right, holds himself a certain way, goes fast enough, the brace will take enough of his weight to keep him up. That's sort of what it's for, after all - keep that spot from slipping too far a certain way. Almost what it's for. It might be dented and bent up, it has to do the job.
And if that makes it worse, gets the whole damn ankle that much closer to being done for good - well. Dorian isn't going to leave until the Bull does. Which means they're getting out of here. Anything that happens after that has to be worth it.
He's not going to make Dorian wait, or spend so much energy on this now that it's going to mess Dorian up later. There's no time left to hesitate. So he doesn't hesitate. He goes, hunching below the ceiling, leaning forward so the bent bottom lip of the brace digs into the top of his foot with every step, breath whistling in and out between clenched teeth and then he's through the doorway, not a good idea to stop or it will be that much harder to get going again but he has to stop once he's got that semblance of cover, has to make sure that Dorian's coming behind him.
He leans back against the wall, all his weight on his right foot, chest heaving fast and teeth still clenched. "Dorian!" That will be enough to get him here. It had better be. The Bull will be ready to start moving again the moment Dorian makes it back here too - his body isn't going to like it but if he can lean on this wall and kind of hop, put as little weight as possible on that ankle, then for a while he can move. If he doesn't try to put any real weight on it then he won't collapse, and until that happens, he knows how to use the pain.
He only half-listens to the Bull moving behind him, keeping more focused on the darkspawn to prevent them from flanking the two of them. He fires blast after blast from his staff – simple shots while he recovers his energy.
What he wouldn't give for a lyrium potion just about now.
The genlock corpse missing its legs finally collapses, too damaged from the way its former brethren hacked at it. The spirit it contained slips away, returning to the ether, and Dorian has mind enough to offer it a quick word of thanks before he gathers more energy to himself. Another fresh corpse surrenders its energy to Dorian, and it bolsters Dorian's mana, fills him with vigor.
Just in time, as the fire wall finally burns out.
Dorian's corpses and various spells have made a decent dent in the horde, but he can hear more of the things climbing over themselves to fill in the gaps of their fallen. They're far too enthralled by the idea of fresh meat, Dorian would wager.
His fingertips touch his temple – just beneath the swelling from when he had smacked his head during the fall – and his magic rushes away from him again in another psychic blast. The closest darkspawn stumble away, some of them knocked clear off their feet. Dorian finishes the job by sweeping a hand upward, unleashing a fireball that explodes and burns several of the darkspawn alive.
The Bull shouts his name, and Dorian wreathes himself in magical energy again, letting it shoot him through the narrow gap of the doorway. Cold air swirls around him when he stops, and he spins, both hands balled into fists as he punches upward, raising a jagged wall of ice to block the door.
It's a temporary measure, at best – and even now, he can hear the darkspawn attempting to hack and claw away at it, shrieking and grunting and letting out those hideous, guttural moans. Dorian rushes to the Bull's bad side, and while he's uncertain if he can fully support the Bull's weight, he assumes any assistance is far better than none.
"We need to keep moving." Dorian is breathing heavily, ignoring the strange hollowness starting to grow in his core – a side effect of casting too much, too often. Magical exhaustion, in a way. He's learned how to work through it, and he puts those skills to use now. "There's stone I can use in the next room to block them in."
"Got it," the Bull says, intending to lean on Dorian only as much as he has to to keep from slowing them down. No time to argue about it, no time to figure out if there's a way he can put any real weight on Dorian without knocking Dorian over. There's only time to go. "Lead the way."
The Bull lets out a hard breath with every other step but he sets a quick pace, and with that pace he gets there. Once they get into that next room he keeps moving, wanting to give Dorian enough room to work, and once he has the Bull leans there, takes a moment to force his breathing to slow down a little, to sit there with the pain.
"Might buy us some time," he manages, shifting his focus over after that moment to concentrate on Dorian again, gaze moving over him to look for any signs of injury, or darkspawn blood, or anything worth worrying about at all. First time he's seen Dorian since before they fell and it's hard not to compare it, to take how it felt watching Dorian standing there next to him whole and safe, wondering what expression Dorian had been wearing behind that mask, and set that next to what he's seeing now. He wonders how much everything between then and now messed his sense of time up, whether it all feels longer than it actually was. How long it's actually been. How far away the rest of their little group might be. "What are the chances the boss heard some of that? We weren't really quiet, and sound seems like it carries down here."
Dorian tucks himself beneath the Bull's arm on his bad side and wraps an arm around the Bull's waist to help stabilize him. He shoulders as much of the Bull's weight as he can – or, more accurately, as much as the Bull allows – and hurries them into the next room.
Behind them, the darkspawn howl and screech, knocking down more of the ice wall, but it holds, for the most part. By the time Dorian has led the two of them into the half-collapsed hallway, only the top portion has broken enough to allow one darkspawn to poke out its head. Dorian obligingly splays his hand and flicks his wrist, freezing the creature in place.
He leaves the Bull propped up against a nearby wall, clear of the doorway, and quickly returns to his position. An arrow whizzes through the gap of the doorway, missing Dorian's cheek by mere inches, and he grits his teeth. Green energy surrounds him as he calls upon the Fade, arms thrown out to either side, and he commands the stone boulders to fully barricade the door. They obligingly roll and float into place, and once they've dropped and settled, sending out a cloud of dust, Dorian lets himself finally take a breath.
He's shaking, he realizes. Probably from the fading battle high, but also probably from the revulsion coursing through him and twisting his stomach, and also from the exertion of casting so many powerful spells in succession. His head throbs, now that he's letting himself notice, and he feels a little nauseated – but Dorian would rather chalk that up to his exhaustion and his concussion than to the possibility that he's somehow just been infected with—
Dorian's mind quickly jerks away from that train of thought.
He glances over at the Bull, and realizes the man is examining him closely.
"I'm fine," Dorian says quickly, and he manages to sound suitably convincing. He's— well, he's not, but he would wager he's in far better shape than the Bull. "If we're lucky, we'll have made enough of a racket that half the Inquisition could find us."
He hurries toward the Bull, moving to tuck himself the man's bad side again.
"We need to find someplace safe so I can tend to your wounds."
The Bull nods, part of him focusing on his breathing, another part feeling Dorian next to him. Helpful, in a way he bets Dorian doesn't mean it to be; it's not like Dorian can hold most the Bull's total weight with anything other than magic, but the Bull can try and feel just how steady Dorian is now, look at how he's doing up close, try and gauge a little better how much all that took out of him.
It's something he'd be doing anyway but it helps, having something to focus on that isn't him. Someone else's problems. Maybe Dorian's feeling the same way. If someone can get something that isn't terrible out of this whole damn ankle thing, then Dorian should get to have it. They both probably need every little piece of whatever keeps them going that they can get right now.
"Yeah, and I bet you need a rest." He looks around, decides on a direction, takes a slower, bracing breath. Leaning mostly against the wall and a little against Dorian, the Bull starts moving. He can add some more 'not terrible' to this, he thinks. Not a lot, but for the moment, they've got time. They're alive. The mood might not get a whole lot better, but that doesn't mean the Bull can't do a better job now than he did crawling through that hallway earlier.
Dorian's here, not just a voice that was only half as strong as his heart pounding in his ears but here, close enough to see, to feel. The ceiling is too low, still, but the room is open. Not great, maybe. But better. So the Bull can do better.
"After doing all that, I mean." He pauses, takes a breath against the pain that sounds louder trapped inside the mask. Keeps going. "Hot damn, what a show!" Another pause, shorter, quieter, and after he takes that second for himself he makes his voice kind of smug and teasing. "Sometimes I almost think you actually could take me on, if you really wanted to."
Dorian manages to let out a laugh – just a puff of air that manages to hint at amusement.
"I could absolutely take you on," he replies, just the right amount of haughty, "and it would be your own fault for underestimating me if I found reason enough to best you."
The Bull is warm at his side, and more importantly alive. Perhaps the Bull had downplayed the seriousness of his injuries before, but Dorian is gratified, at least, that he hadn't been completely lying. The man is mostly intact, and while Dorian can't mend all of his hurts – he has only rudimentary knowledge of healing spells, after all – he can at least do a bit to patch things up.
He hesitates for a bit before he slowly ventures, "I'm surprised you were impressed."
There's a touch of caution to his voice. Dorian is hardly ashamed of his skills and would be the first to applaud himself, but he knows the Bull's relationship with magic is fraught, at best. And according to some people – mostly plebeians with no understanding of the nuances of magic – necromancy isn't that much better than blood magic.
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Which is to say, Dorian has no intention of skipping away just yet. For one, the Bull clearly needs something or someone to ground him, and considering the only other option is the darkspawn, Dorian is the best choice. And for another— Dorian doesn't want to be alone. Not yet. Not until he has to be.
"When you're ready, I'll travel alongside you. For as long as either of us can." Knowing their luck, their paths will diverge and send them in opposite directions. It's just that sort of day, Dorian expects. "That wisp should stay close to you, but— it's not exactly intelligent. You may have to hide it, in case there's trouble."
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Or, it shouldn't. Still does, kind of. Might not be so bad, if he only knew a little less about what the thing actually is.
Doesn't matter. The Bull's getting his shit together.
"I'm going, I'm going," he grumbles, like that 'when you're ready' had been Dorian pushing him to get going. It wasn't, he knows, but it's easier to act like he should be acting, that way.
If he wants to get going, he's going to have to go back to crawling. Have to get on his knees - well, knee - like the space is even smaller, as small as it was, crawling not like he's ready to fight but like a wounded thing, a deer or something after a hunter's badly aimed shot.
But that's what he is. It's what he needs to do. He leans against the wall, hunches over further, manages to fall onto his good leg. Takes a breath.
Okay. Next. Dorian's going to follow him. No good trying too hard to convince him otherwise, especially not when pretty much everything the Bull's got is stuck somewhere near the back of his thoughts, the instincts, stuck on something far away from the well-ordered surface of his mind.
If Dorian's going to follow him, he's going to need something to follow. A voice.
"Let's go," the Bull says, voice that little bit farther from the crack again, low down to the ground. "So," he starts after that, putting something brisk in his voice as that pressure squeezes at his chest and winds tight through all his muscles, forcing the effort in to sound something close to casual. "While you've got me here, there anything you've been wanting to say? Anything that you want to ask? Get as rude as you want. Not like anyone else is around to hear it."
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He hears the faint sound of movement – scraping, shifting, the stirring of dirt against stone – and carefully follows it, the fingertips of one hand brushing against the wall between himself and the Bull. He'll have to pull away and climb through to get to the hallway, but for now, Dorian keeps pace with the Bull.
It's a slow pace. The Bull is in a bad way, Dorian reminds himself again. The worry already percolating low in his gut is starting to grow.
"Oh, what a lovely invitation," and Dorian forces himself to sound amused. "'As rude as I want.' I doubt you truly mean that. Surely even you must have some limitations."
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Think. How flirty would the Bull usually get here? Or- Dorian showed some genuine interest right before all this happened, the Bull remembers. Weird to feel all this pressing at him from the inside, watching his hands press against the stone and drag the rest of him along, and think of that, think of the triumph he felt then.
Something to look forward to, he'd thought. That might still be true.
The Bull would get a little more serious then. Wouldn't he? In case Dorian really needed the info. He'd make it a little bit of a joke too and he tries to wrap his mind around that, make himself figure out the balance, the mood of it that should be coming to him.
"Who, me?" he says, leaving it up to fate whether any of his answer comes out sounding light and joking or not. "Nah. Don't hurt anyone in a way they didn't ask for, or that would need to get treated afterward. Bloodplay makes things a little weird. Other than that, depends on who I'm with." He'd had to pause a couple times during that to take slow, deep breaths, and now he does it again. Then he focuses. "Why? How rude have you been wanting to get?"
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It takes him a little while before he realizes the Bull is talking not about his limitations, but his limitations. As in—
"Ugh."
He almost makes himself sound appropriately affronted, but it's tempered by his volume, by the hesitation that keeps him from responding immediately. There's too much effort in the Bull's voice, too many pauses, and Dorian grits his teeth against that twisting feeling of helplessness.
"Now is hardly the appropriate time for this." He tries to make his tone sharp, brusque, but he doesn't quite manage it. "Or is sex really the only thing ever on your mind?"
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It makes the path narrower, scraping at his shoulders. He could stand, he finds himself thinking, jump over the worst of it, and he knows pain, he could handle the pain-
But any pressure might make the ankle heal worse. Or, this time, maybe it wouldn't heal at all. No brace in the world, no matter how many strings the Chargers want to pull to get it designed, is going to make up for that.
He'd go home, he thinks. The Iron Bull is a mercenary captain. Hissrad is an agent of the Qun. Once both have had the last use wrung out of them, they would send him home to teach. A quiet life. The Chargers would have to fend for themselves. Or dissolve the whole company, maybe, depending. The Inquisition wouldn't have a use for a warrior who couldn't fight. Maybe the Qun would send someone else.
The stone walls brush the drying blood and scabs on his arms and his shoulders, press against his skin. He angles himself differently, a little, and it doesn't help. He grits his teeth. He keeps pulling himself through.
If Dorian said anything, the Bull realises he would have missed it. Bad idea to point it out. "So what do you want me to talk about?" the Bull asks, a little edge in his tone. If Dorian did say something that he didn't hear, that has as good a chance as anything else at blending in to the conversation, maybe not letting on.
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That's a bit closer to the truth than Dorian was trying for, and Dorian immediately winces with it.
"I suppose it's a better way to pass the time than most things," he offers, forcing a sort of grudging delivery. "Maybe not every hour of the day, but some of them."
Dorian expects some sort of rejoinder – another attempt at keeping the conversation going, as halfhearted or forced as it may be – but he receives only silence in response. He waits for another second before quietly venturing, "Bull?"
Another beat of silence before the Bull finally responds – and the fact that the man hasn't responded to what Dorian said doesn't miss his notice. He bites on his lower lip again before he finally lets the levity drop his voice.
"Bull, tell me truthfully how you are."
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He opens his eye to his world, this tiny pool of unnatural green light. He takes a deep breath. Does his best.
"I'm not bleeding out or anything." Casual. Good. Keep on pushing for casual. Keep going. Tell the truth in a way that makes it a truth, at least. Neither of them is going to be completely reassured by anything, not really, not unless they get out of this, but the Bull might be able to give Dorian enough to work as an explanation. "If that's what you're worried about. This place is just... what do those guys say to trick tourists into paying them for tours? It's thought provoking. Just giving me a lot to think about."
Should he add a joke? Might not be totally on the mark right now, with Dorian worried enough that he's demanding the truth like that, but there's a chance it'll prompt Dorian into dropping the question before he can dig for a different answer, prompt him into playing along like he has been.
Okay. Go for it. A little one.
"I know every word out of your mouth is like gold though, big guy. Not trying to ignore you; I know you can't stand that." Or Dorian couldn't, if he ever found anyone capable of ignoring him. Dorian's pretty good at making that impossible. So play into that, and hope Dorian's just close to reassured enough that he agrees to play into it a little bit, too.
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"How badly injured are you?"
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Pretty reasonable thing to want to know. It's not too much to ask, this push that the Bull explain that to him, one way or the other.
He's going to explain. He's going to figure out how to say it to set Dorian's mind at ease, or as close to it as they can right now. Alright.
"Just my leg," the Bull says, dropping the try at putting any humour in his tone in hopes that will help Dorian believe it. Sure he might have been trying to deflect when he said he wasn't bleeding out, but that doesn't mean it wasn't true. Important to emphasize that. "Isn't even bleeding that much, like I said. It's just-"
Here's the tricky part. He speaks a little slower, figuring out how to say it as he goes. How to explain it in a way that's honest enough to maybe satisfy Dorian, but makes it feel a little lighter than it is.
"Those ruins we saw earlier," the Bull starts, and pauses for a second to think. "Those were a little friendlier to a guy like me. These ones aren't, uh, as easy for a qunari to get around in. Getting through that's just kind of- distracting. That's all. If it's a promise that you need, Dorian, I promise: If I can't get out of here and die, it's going to be because I got stuck in this little- this hallway for a month and starved."
Might not be reassuring in the normal sense. In fact, that Bull felt himself tense up even more just hearing that come out of his mouth. But if that's what Dorian needs to hear to calm some worry about how hurt the Bull is, then maybe it's worth the price of saying it out loud.
He takes a slow breath. He keeps talking.
"Won't be because of the fall. You don't have anything to worry about. Not about me, anyway." You're the one exposed alone where the darkspawn can get at you, is the implication there. What he maybe should have done a better job at pushing Dorian toward from the beginning, if he hadn't needed- wanted Dorian here so much. Worry about yourself.
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But it's— better, admittedly. Better than imagining the Bull bleeding and bleeding and bleeding on the other side of the wall while Dorian chatters incessantly. Better than imagining the man with half of his bones shattered while he forces himself forward by sheer willpower alone. Better than imagining the Bull slowly dying while Dorian waits, powerless.
Still, the Bull is injured. And he's— stuck? Or at least entrapped in a narrow space. That's enough to make anyone anxious, which explains the Bull's earlier distraction. Perhaps— perhaps that's what had been bothering the Bull earlier, when the two of them had fallen behind, when the Bull had asked to play those silly little games. Wandering deep into the earth, with stone at every side, knowing that one bad quake might spell their doom—
Dorian takes in a slow, rallying breath, steeling his nerves. All right. If anyone is going to get them out of here, it will have to be Dorian.
"Luckily," he says with far more confidence than he genuinely feels, "I've every intention of finding a way for both of us to escape. I refuse to die down here, and neither would I let you do something so tedious as starve to death."
He slips over to the hole in the wall, the one leading to the hallway that winds further into the— compound? building? – and listens intently for any movement. Nothing worrying, save for the low groan of settling stone, the skitter of dust and rocks still falling after the earlier quake. He thinks he hears the distant echo of unintelligible chatter, of hissing and and grunting, but Dorian can't be sure if it's real or if it's an offering of his imagination. He decides it should be safe enough to travel through – or at least, as safe as anything can currently be.
Returning to the wall he shares with the Bull, he presses a palm against it.
"Are you able to progress at all?" Clipped, brusque, though Dorian does nothing to bury the undercurrent of concern that threads through his voice. "And answer truthfully, if you would. I'm losing patience for your attempts at distraction."
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"If there's anything at the end of this, I'll find it. Just might take me a while to get there." He sighs at it, having to admit it, but if more detail is going to help Dorian trust that the Bull is being straight with him- "Have to crawl to get there, but I can move."
He takes another, slow breath. Commit. Now that Dorian knows that the Bull isn't dying over here, it's the right time.
"I'm good to scout out a way out. I don't find one, or I don't find you out there, we'll try to come back and meet back here. That sound good?" He takes a slow breath, makes sure his voice sounds even, businesslike. It's just another day, and he doesn't need any voices, any people, to cut through the dark in here at all. "I'll be alright."
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Dorian is still reluctant to part, and he frowns at the Bull's offer. The childish part of him wants to wring his hands, but instead he hears his mother and various nannies tutting at the back of his head. Instead, he contents himself with adjusting his gloves.
But the Bull has offered their only real recourse, and Dorian sighs.
"It does seem to be our only option." The words are offered grudgingly, and Dorian finally frees his staff from its holster at his back. The fall has damaged it slightly, has dented the handle and bent the metal grip slightly out of shape. If these ruins don't kill him, Dorian thinks with a touch of humor, Evelyn surely will. Still, the focus at the head is intact, and the blade is still serviceable. He'll be fine.
Then, he adds with a touch more force, "You had better be in one piece when I find you. If we're both forced to return here, then I'll tear this damned wall down myself."
A final option, though it's far from ideal. There's a reason why he hasn't attempted it already – matters of structural integrity, of drawing attention. Still, it's nice to at least have something that resembles a backup plan, if all else fails.
Another rallying breath, and Dorian's voice softens as he pushes away.
"Be careful, Bull."
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And then it's just him. Him, and the dark, and the stone on every side, and the beating of his heart. And the spirit giving him that light.
Be creepier if the thing could talk, anyway. He's probably better off.
He's been hurt worse than this, had to move quicker, without any backup to even hope for. The part of him that's saying this is just as bad as that, that this might be worse, that part of him is full of shit, and what he needs to do is move.
He moves.
Without anyone else to focus on, anybody else to think for, the world goes away. If the Bull was thinking of anything right now, he might say that makes all this easier. Worse, maybe, but easier. Easier to forget that there's anything but the stone beneath his hands, pain throbbing up his ankle and across his skin, in his muscles, the dark in front of him and the unnatural green shining off his hands and his breath quick in his ears. The sound of his leg dragging behind him. There's a rhythm you get into.
The way out takes him by surprise. He realises he's been seeing light for a while and when he looks up and sees the break in the wall it's coming from his heartbeat stutters, he leans against one wall in that way that doesn't really give him any more room but lets him pretend it does, and he breathes. And he breathes.
Dorian. Dorian is waiting for him.
He rolls onto his foot. He leans over on the wall. He stands, and looks at the pile of rubble in front of him, and feels the rest of the world starting to come back.
Rubble's up to his thigh. Nothing to do but try and climb over it.
He leans against the wall, lifts his leg. Tries to still his foot but it swings on his ankle without any input from him, and between leaning against the wall and breathing through the pain he doesn't catch the big stone knocked off the top of the pile before it's falling, the clatter echoing off the walls as it goes.
Might not be a problem. The air is dank here, wet and old, strong enough here to make the darkspawn smell hard to untangle from the rest of it. Hard to tell for certain.
The safe thing would be to turn back.
No one's here to keep it together for; when the thought makes his already tense muscles go stiff, makes his heart gamely try to go faster than it already is, he doesn't try to hide it.
He's here to find a way out, anyway. So he's going to find a way out. He finishes hopping over with his good leg, tries to make it quick enough that he can lean back on the wall, on the rubble, and not put any weight on his bad one.
Good. Next.
He still has to stoop but he can see just enough to tell that a little ways off, the room gets wider. There's a doorway there across the room. More than one, maybe. But behind this doorway there's light. The Bull hunches over against the wall and hops his way toward it.
And then, too late, he hears a noise. The smell starts getting stronger. The Bull starts thinking very quickly.
Getting to the doorway is his only chance. It's a shitty chance, but not letting them surround him might be all he has. He keeps moving, leaning on the wall with one hand, finally trying to untangle that cloth from around his horns with the other and winding it hurriedly around his face. The moment he wraps it over his mouth keeping his breathing under control is impossible but it doesn't matter, because it's done. A little optimistic, maybe, thinking he's going to live long enough to care whether he swallowed any tainted blood here, but it's done, and he's still moving-
But he isn't moving quick enough. The darkspawn are here. He shifts his posture - if he's going to die, he's going to do it at least looking like he's on his own two feet - and slings out his axe, battered but whole, grits his teeth, waits until one comes close enough that he can reach it just by pushing off with one foot and he roars, the sound filling the space and spilling outward, out the doorways and into whatever's behind. Into the open air that he's never going to see.
A moment later there's a noise of pain and he's sprawled out on his side on the ground, skin covered in dried blood and deep scrapes and gouges from the fall, side heaving fast with his breaths, hand clenched around the handle of his axe.
It's not the death he wanted. A stupid death born out of being too weak going into this compounded, probably, by a couple dumb little mistakes, downed before he can even fight and dying for nothing at all - but, hey, the silver lining: if no one's around to see it, maybe they'll tell themselves he put up a good fight. He's still, at least, got a couple more swings left to take. He isn't going to waste them.
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There's a dwarven embassy in every major city in the Tevinter Imperium, but Dorian has never had reason to step foot in one. It's not until his time with the Inquisition that Dorian has had reason to admire these underground settlements. There was an instructor at one of the many Circles Dorian attended who had a formicarium, where ants constructed delicate mazes and chambers. Dorian is reminded of it every time the Inquisitor has cause to bring him down into some all but forgotten thaig.
He's careful to keep quiet the entire time, trying to ignore the ugly stink of darkspawn, trying to ignore the sickening way his head throbs. He passes by rows of old rooms, by ancient stone furniture, by old shattered wooden carts. He passes by piles of skeletons – the former denizens of the thaig, Dorian wagers – and feels the weight of spirits pressing against the Veil.
Felix never told him what happened when he, his mother, and their family retainers had been attacked. An unbearable memory, Dorian had assumed. Felix hadn't wanted to talk about it, and Dorian now realizes with a twisting lurch that he hadn't wanted to listen. Dorian was an awful friend, he thinks. He wonders how it was that Felix could stand him, all those years.
But he remembers Felix at his worst. Remembers how pale and gaunt he had been, how weak he had become before Dorian and Alexius had managed their first small breakthrough. A combination of time magic and magical tinctures had managed to buy Felix a few more days – but that hadn't been enough for either Dorian or Alexius. Those days soon became weeks, then slowed to months, then finally became an extra year or two when they hit the limitations of their combined skills.
Neither of them mentioned the use of blood magic, but Dorian knew it was hovering distantly at the back of Alexius' mind. Nothing was ever enough.
He remembers, too, the sweat on Felix's brow, his ashen complexion, the shadows beneath his eyes and hollowing out his cheeks when he surged into Dorian's little camp on the outskirts of Redcliffe. Felix had told him of the Venatori's plans to march on Haven, rushing to stuff Dorian's pack with extra rations, extra supplies, before Dorian even had a chance to react.
Dorian nearly refused to abandon Felix a second time, but as he shouldered his pack, as he prepared himself to run, he grabbed hold of Felix's elbow, had said, "Try not to die."
"There are worse things than dying, Dorian," Felix had told him.
And now, Felix is gone. Dorian refuses to fail anyone so spectacularly ever again.
The Bull is wandering in the dark, injured and lost, and Dorian won't fail him. If Dorian dies, then the chances of the Bull's survival plummet almost exponentially. His stomach twists at the thought before he forcibly shoves it from his head.
Dorian's wandering finally brings him to a dead end, and he curses, feels frustration and real fear starting to curl up and grip his throat, making his eyes sting and water. One side is completely collapsed, and the side that remains intact is made almost impassable by the fallen debris. The lyrium lamps built into the columns that remain still glow gamely, and an idle part of Dorian wonders if this was an area of some import to have gone to such efforts to light it.
He turns to double back when he hears it – the distant crash of something heavy falling. He freezes, pressing himself into a shadowy corner and curling his hand around the wisp to conceal the light. There's no movement around him, and he allows himself a deep breath before pushing away.
It's impossible to ignore – the screech and hiss and guttural shouts of darkspawn finding prey. The abrupt familiarity of the Bull's battle cry. The clash of metal against meat and bone and more metal. The stone distorts the sound, makes it impossible to tell how close or far, but the wisp floats away from him, hovers near a heavy stone door blocked by rubble. Somehow, Dorian just knows, and terror churns in his gut, freezing his heart, before determination burns through him.
The time for stealth is done, it seems.
Which is just as well, because Dorian acts on instinct. He shoves both of his arms forward, the head of his staff aimed at the pile of stone, and shoves. The Veil reacts, a wave of force sending the stones scattering with a thunderous boom and clearing his path. He rushes forward, and when another heavy stone door blocks his way, he presses his fingertips to his temple, shoves out another telekinetic wave to force it open.
Better to be angry, and so Dorian is. Better to be focused, and so Dorian is that, too. Better than being terrified. Better than thinking about being torn apart. Better than thinking about helplessly wasting away. Better than living with the thought of surviving by selfishly abandoning and betraying the Bull.
From this close, the darkspawn stench is horrendous, trapped in by the stone around them, and Dorian concentrates on keeping his mouth shut – a helpful tip, Lieutenant Renn, thank you. They hardly seem distracted by his abrupt entrance, focused they are on their current target.
His spells come out with a near dizzying speed. First, a barrier to coat the both of them in flickering blue light. Then, a column of fire to take out the genlock attempting to take advantage of the Bull being knocked to the ground. Then, a Fade Step to close the gap between himself the Bull, and Dorian swings his staff down, slamming the focus against another genlock's head, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone.
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It's his first thought. Well- his first thought is appreciation for the obvious power in Dorian's entrance. That boom before Dorian forces his way in, the fire. But that part happens in the background of his mind, automatic. The kind of thing that doesn't really count as a thought so much as a reaction.
His second thought is about swinging his axe at the nearest genlock's knees, about the need to angle the hit so the thing falls back from Dorian, instead of toward him. "You need distance!" he shouts, not daring to look up at Dorian again because his range of vision's shitty enough right now as it is, but knowing too well what he saw. "Your mask!" Not that Dorian doesn't know he doesn't have that little piece of protection on him any more. There's no way he doesn't know. But it feels important, right now, to remind him.
Better chance that Dorian will back away if the Bull backs away too. Not something he'd do normally - the right move is still to try and bottle the darkspawn, however many or few there are, up at the doorway - but it's not like he's going to be able to help with that, not like this, so he starts pulling himself backward, glancing around to make sure the path from him to the wall is clear. If he can get his back to a wall again, that won't be nothing.
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As it stands, he only manages a grunt in response – it's all he can offer while he focuses on keeping his lips pressed tightly together. The Bull lops off a genlock's legs below the knees, and when it falls back, Dorian stabs his staff's blade through its throat, ensuring it won't remain a problem. Distance is a luxury he cannot afford at the moment – not if he means to defend the Bull. The Bull has the right idea, falling back, and Dorian takes a careful step to keep the two of them close together.
Southerners tended to be wary of mages as a rule. Summoning a bit of ice to cool a drink or a bit of fire to light a candle was liable to spur someone into screaming, "Abomination!" But if that mage happens to be a necromancer? Well, the mage would be lucky to escape unscathed. It's why Dorian uses spells from that specialization sparingly. But this situation is desperate, so Dorian doesn't hold back, like he normally might.
Dorian doesn't turn, though, only keeping the Bull in his periphery while he focuses on the room at large. He splays a hand before clenching it into a fist, gathering the energy of the recently killed. It surges through him, gives him a burst of power, and he channels it into a wall of flame that bursts to life around the two of them in a semi-circle, protecting them from the bulk of the darkspawn charging into the room while still giving the Bull room to back himself toward the wall.
He reaches across the Veil, grabbing hold of a few curious wisps and pressing them into the bodies of the dead darkspawn. The corpses rise, wreathed in the swirling, violet light of Dorian's magic, and leap through the wall of flame to attack their enemies.
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If he was watching just anyone do that, some mage he didn't know, it would be easy to say no one should have that kind of power. But when it's someone on his team, someone he's seen down and vulnerable and trying not to look like he's hurting, someone who'll boast all day but doesn't know how to take a compliment, who worries about him, who's risking something worse than death on the off chance he'll be able to get the Bull out of this - when it's Dorian, who will use his magic on stupid little things as easy as breathing and doesn't know how to leave a man behind-
It's weird. Still creepy as shit, but it's weird. How this can be up there on the list of the freaky crap he's seen, and not feel like a threat.
"Neat trick," the Bull says, the smallest hint of something unsettled running beneath his voice that could be coming from anywhere. It probably isn't, actually, only just from the one thing; it's been a really shitty day.
He starts dragging himself a little faster again.
"Out the way you got in, while they're busy? Is all this going to last that long, or are we going to have to run for it?"
We. Run. A couple words are doing a lot of work in that sentence there. The Bull can retreat, anyway, after some kind of fashion. It looks like Dorian's not going to leave him behind to run off himself, so they'll have to figure it out.
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Something wrong with one of his legs, or else the Bull would be moving more quickly. Broken knee? Broken ankle? In the light of the flame he sees the drying blood on what's exposed of the Bull's skin – not nearly dark enough for any of it to have come from the darkspawn.
"I can do this all day," he says – there's no smugness in his voice, no false bravado. It's a simple, grim fact, born of absolute resolve – an answer without fully explaining himself. The fire wall will fade, the shambling corpses will eventually become too damaged for the spirits to maintain their holds, but Dorian will do everything he can. He'll keep casting his spells, because there's little point to him if he can't.
He splays out a hand against, curling his fingers toward his palm as he draws out the energy of another darkspawn slain by his corpses. He grips his staff with both hands, swinging the focus up over his head and slamming it down. Behind the wall of flame, the spectral image of a skull appears overhead, yawning its mouth wide until it flickers out of existence, and the darkspawn shriek and scream as they scatter away, minds momentarily overtaken by Dorian's Horror spell.
The wall of fire is starting to flicker, starting to shrink, and Dorian shouts over his shoulder, "Get to the door! I'll cover you."
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And if that makes it worse, gets the whole damn ankle that much closer to being done for good - well. Dorian isn't going to leave until the Bull does. Which means they're getting out of here. Anything that happens after that has to be worth it.
He's not going to make Dorian wait, or spend so much energy on this now that it's going to mess Dorian up later. There's no time left to hesitate. So he doesn't hesitate. He goes, hunching below the ceiling, leaning forward so the bent bottom lip of the brace digs into the top of his foot with every step, breath whistling in and out between clenched teeth and then he's through the doorway, not a good idea to stop or it will be that much harder to get going again but he has to stop once he's got that semblance of cover, has to make sure that Dorian's coming behind him.
He leans back against the wall, all his weight on his right foot, chest heaving fast and teeth still clenched. "Dorian!" That will be enough to get him here. It had better be. The Bull will be ready to start moving again the moment Dorian makes it back here too - his body isn't going to like it but if he can lean on this wall and kind of hop, put as little weight as possible on that ankle, then for a while he can move. If he doesn't try to put any real weight on it then he won't collapse, and until that happens, he knows how to use the pain.
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What he wouldn't give for a lyrium potion just about now.
The genlock corpse missing its legs finally collapses, too damaged from the way its former brethren hacked at it. The spirit it contained slips away, returning to the ether, and Dorian has mind enough to offer it a quick word of thanks before he gathers more energy to himself. Another fresh corpse surrenders its energy to Dorian, and it bolsters Dorian's mana, fills him with vigor.
Just in time, as the fire wall finally burns out.
Dorian's corpses and various spells have made a decent dent in the horde, but he can hear more of the things climbing over themselves to fill in the gaps of their fallen. They're far too enthralled by the idea of fresh meat, Dorian would wager.
His fingertips touch his temple – just beneath the swelling from when he had smacked his head during the fall – and his magic rushes away from him again in another psychic blast. The closest darkspawn stumble away, some of them knocked clear off their feet. Dorian finishes the job by sweeping a hand upward, unleashing a fireball that explodes and burns several of the darkspawn alive.
The Bull shouts his name, and Dorian wreathes himself in magical energy again, letting it shoot him through the narrow gap of the doorway. Cold air swirls around him when he stops, and he spins, both hands balled into fists as he punches upward, raising a jagged wall of ice to block the door.
It's a temporary measure, at best – and even now, he can hear the darkspawn attempting to hack and claw away at it, shrieking and grunting and letting out those hideous, guttural moans. Dorian rushes to the Bull's bad side, and while he's uncertain if he can fully support the Bull's weight, he assumes any assistance is far better than none.
"We need to keep moving." Dorian is breathing heavily, ignoring the strange hollowness starting to grow in his core – a side effect of casting too much, too often. Magical exhaustion, in a way. He's learned how to work through it, and he puts those skills to use now. "There's stone I can use in the next room to block them in."
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The Bull lets out a hard breath with every other step but he sets a quick pace, and with that pace he gets there. Once they get into that next room he keeps moving, wanting to give Dorian enough room to work, and once he has the Bull leans there, takes a moment to force his breathing to slow down a little, to sit there with the pain.
"Might buy us some time," he manages, shifting his focus over after that moment to concentrate on Dorian again, gaze moving over him to look for any signs of injury, or darkspawn blood, or anything worth worrying about at all. First time he's seen Dorian since before they fell and it's hard not to compare it, to take how it felt watching Dorian standing there next to him whole and safe, wondering what expression Dorian had been wearing behind that mask, and set that next to what he's seeing now. He wonders how much everything between then and now messed his sense of time up, whether it all feels longer than it actually was. How long it's actually been. How far away the rest of their little group might be. "What are the chances the boss heard some of that? We weren't really quiet, and sound seems like it carries down here."
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Behind them, the darkspawn howl and screech, knocking down more of the ice wall, but it holds, for the most part. By the time Dorian has led the two of them into the half-collapsed hallway, only the top portion has broken enough to allow one darkspawn to poke out its head. Dorian obligingly splays his hand and flicks his wrist, freezing the creature in place.
He leaves the Bull propped up against a nearby wall, clear of the doorway, and quickly returns to his position. An arrow whizzes through the gap of the doorway, missing Dorian's cheek by mere inches, and he grits his teeth. Green energy surrounds him as he calls upon the Fade, arms thrown out to either side, and he commands the stone boulders to fully barricade the door. They obligingly roll and float into place, and once they've dropped and settled, sending out a cloud of dust, Dorian lets himself finally take a breath.
He's shaking, he realizes. Probably from the fading battle high, but also probably from the revulsion coursing through him and twisting his stomach, and also from the exertion of casting so many powerful spells in succession. His head throbs, now that he's letting himself notice, and he feels a little nauseated – but Dorian would rather chalk that up to his exhaustion and his concussion than to the possibility that he's somehow just been infected with—
Dorian's mind quickly jerks away from that train of thought.
He glances over at the Bull, and realizes the man is examining him closely.
"I'm fine," Dorian says quickly, and he manages to sound suitably convincing. He's— well, he's not, but he would wager he's in far better shape than the Bull. "If we're lucky, we'll have made enough of a racket that half the Inquisition could find us."
He hurries toward the Bull, moving to tuck himself the man's bad side again.
"We need to find someplace safe so I can tend to your wounds."
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It's something he'd be doing anyway but it helps, having something to focus on that isn't him. Someone else's problems. Maybe Dorian's feeling the same way. If someone can get something that isn't terrible out of this whole damn ankle thing, then Dorian should get to have it. They both probably need every little piece of whatever keeps them going that they can get right now.
"Yeah, and I bet you need a rest." He looks around, decides on a direction, takes a slower, bracing breath. Leaning mostly against the wall and a little against Dorian, the Bull starts moving. He can add some more 'not terrible' to this, he thinks. Not a lot, but for the moment, they've got time. They're alive. The mood might not get a whole lot better, but that doesn't mean the Bull can't do a better job now than he did crawling through that hallway earlier.
Dorian's here, not just a voice that was only half as strong as his heart pounding in his ears but here, close enough to see, to feel. The ceiling is too low, still, but the room is open. Not great, maybe. But better. So the Bull can do better.
"After doing all that, I mean." He pauses, takes a breath against the pain that sounds louder trapped inside the mask. Keeps going. "Hot damn, what a show!" Another pause, shorter, quieter, and after he takes that second for himself he makes his voice kind of smug and teasing. "Sometimes I almost think you actually could take me on, if you really wanted to."
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"I could absolutely take you on," he replies, just the right amount of haughty, "and it would be your own fault for underestimating me if I found reason enough to best you."
The Bull is warm at his side, and more importantly alive. Perhaps the Bull had downplayed the seriousness of his injuries before, but Dorian is gratified, at least, that he hadn't been completely lying. The man is mostly intact, and while Dorian can't mend all of his hurts – he has only rudimentary knowledge of healing spells, after all – he can at least do a bit to patch things up.
He hesitates for a bit before he slowly ventures, "I'm surprised you were impressed."
There's a touch of caution to his voice. Dorian is hardly ashamed of his skills and would be the first to applaud himself, but he knows the Bull's relationship with magic is fraught, at best. And according to some people – mostly plebeians with no understanding of the nuances of magic – necromancy isn't that much better than blood magic.
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