There's a difference between knowing you're going to be the one holding things up and seeing it, feeling every second go by knowing how close they could be getting to being somewhere safe and feeling how close they actually are. What does it matter if he keeps the ankle in good enough shape that it can heal if they never actually make it out? If a good man dies down here still trying to carry the Bull's dead weight?
He's been trying to stop babying the thing. Needing to keep the thumping of the staff quiet is getting in his way a little, but he isn't as slow as he was. There's still nothing to funnel the pain into, though, nowhere to put it, so when he answers his his voice is as much a grunt as actual words. "I'm good to go. Need to find a way out of here. Not like there's anywhere safe enough to stop anyway."
Not that the Bull has wasted a lot of attention looking for one. Might help him out if there isn't one, though, if Dorian wants to fight him on this. The Bull wasted their time already, even though it had felt like an okay risk then, before he spent all this time forcing himself along inch by creeping little inch. It had felt like an acceptable risk while he'd been coming down from almost dying and thought maybe Dorian needed a mental reset about as much as he did.
Maybe that was the right call and maybe it wasn't, but if that was the one break he got to call then he's already called it. Easier to get through it if he keeps moving.
Practicality demands they keep going. Practicality demands that if they have a chance of surviving this, they need to find a means of escape as soon as possible – before the darkspawn find some alternate route, now that the beasts know they're here, before another quake collapses the ruins atop them.
Dorian has never been a particularly practical man, however, and while he knows the Bull is right, that doesn't meant that Dorian likes it.
He exhales sharply through his nose – a poor substitute for one of his more theatrical sighs – before he turns to continue on down the hallway. Still, he can't stop himself from demanding imperiously over his shoulder, "You will tell me when you need to stop."
"You'll know," he says, because Dorian will. Either he'll need to stop because Darkspawn are on them, or because his leg gives out. Pretty obvious either way.
No need to be irritated at Dorian, the Bull reminds himself. This is what he likes about the guy - the concern for the people around him, how deep it goes. It's the pain he's irritated with, after falling into the rhythm of stepping with the one foot, setting the staff carefully on the ground, put as much of his weight as he can on that side, breathe, do it all again. And then do it again. Keep on doing it. Fall into the mindset of it. Enough time doing that and it's starting to get to him.
With no talking to focus on, he falls into the mindset of it again. Until the smell of darkspawn starts getting stronger in his nose, strong enough to break the rhythm when he stops, torn for a second between shoving the staff back into Dorian's hands where it belongs or heading double time toward the nearest break in the wall which, if they get lucky, might just lead them somewhere safer.
He puts a hand on Dorian's shoulder, jerks his chin toward the path in front of them, and shakes his head. Then he tilts a horn toward that spot in the wall where some of it is cracked, leaning against the rubble of something fallen behind it at an angle that might just give the Bull enough room to crawl in.
He moves himself to the spot, leans against the wall so he can hold Dorian's staff out to him, and nods toward the little space. The Bull made the mistake of letting darkspawn get too close once, and doesn't know how recovered Dorian is yet from pulling him out of that. Better to be cautious now. If he's lucky whatever's on the other side won't be as shitty as it looks.
Dorian's sense of smell isn't quite as acute as the Bull's, which makes it a testament to how recognizable the stench of the taint is that Dorian manages to sense it, all the same. Still, he has no way of gauging how close or far it is, whether or not they should risk continuing in that direction – until the Bull stops their progress.
Close, then, Dorian assumes. Uncomfortably so, if the change of route is any indication.
On instinct, he presses his lips tightly together, nodding at the Bull's direction and waving for the other man to proceed. He follows close behind, and when the Bull indicates the small space, Dorian frowns with uncertainty. The crevice seems snug, even to Dorian, and he looks a little pointedly at the Bull as he takes back his staff.
It is, admittedly, better than facing whatever darkspawn horde might be lingering around a corner; Dorian could manage some of his earlier spells, true, but he had been lucky to have those corpses to work with early in the battle. There was no guarantee he would be so fortunate again. Reluctantly, Dorian flicks his fingers, sending his wisp ahead of him to light the way, before slinging his staff into its holster at his back.
He offers the Bull one more heavy look – something that says stay close – before easing his way into the small space.
That pointed look when the Bull showed Dorian their little detour was weird. Not weird that Dorian would give it, maybe, but it felt weird to get it. Maybe he's reading too much into it and Dorian's just not thrilled about going in there for his own sake, but no one's known enough about him to give him that kind of look at a time like this in a pretty long while.
It's alright. He'll keep it together a little better this time. There's someone in front of him to focus on as he lowers himself carefully to the ground, as he twists to fit his way through the gap and inside. Rubble and stone sitting crookedly against one another make the ceiling low for as far as Dorian's creepy spirit thing illuminates. Which isn't really that far, so hey, maybe they won't have to go too far before the space starts to open up. You never know.
Dorian being in front of him helps. He wishes he could say, even to himself, that it's just because being behind Dorian is such a nice view, but it just does him good. Reminds him he's not still stuck in the same place he fell off that cliff into, in that weird, indefinite stretch of time after Dorian left, dragging himself along in a space a lot like this and feeling his focus, his reality, starting to go a little loose.
There's someone else in here, and that helps him keep his sense of direction, his sense of time. That's one thing he learned in that weird, in-between period after Seheron: once those things start to come loose in your head, that's when you've really lost it.
It isn't that bad. There's some good reasons it isn't that bad and, after the worst of that smell has passed - the heavy footsteps getting closer and then right outside, the growls and grumbles and whatever passes for darkspawn talking to each other, the sound of heavy armour, one smacking something hard against the wall right next to their heads and the Bull's too deep, too regular breathing sounding louder in his ears than it might actually be, the pain a hot, welcome thing inside him, a distraction - after the worst of that has passed, after the smell has started to fade, then the Bull can share with Dorian what exactly isn't that bad about it, about being crowded inside here.
"Might be better staying in here 'till we hit a dead end," he mutters once it's safe to, in a voice that would have sounded normal back before anybody called him the Iron Bull. His voice could weigh heavy more often back then, come out curt and to the point. At least, when he was talking to the ones who called him Hissrad. The others needed someone friendlier.
His voice is some kind of normal, anyway. So that's fine.
"If we can pass that hallway out there and find some of the bigger rooms again we'll be better off. Fight out there would have been more close-quarters than your last one. Too close. Even if I could still fight between you and them."
It is, as he predicted, a small space – large enough for the Bull to pass through, admittedly, but not easily, and Dorian wants to ask how the other man is faring, whether or not it might be wiser to shuffle back the way they came to save the Bull some trouble.
The impulse is interruped by the sound of footsteps, by the distant snarling, hissing, growling of darkspawn, made alien and indistinct by the small, enclosed space. Dorian freezes, tossing up a hand and flexing his fingers, bringing the wisps in close to dampen the light. He doubts the cracks in the wall are large enough for the wisps' glow to seep through, but Dorian would rather be cautious than risk the darkspawn figuring out where they are and smashing down the wall to get to them.
He freezes as the noises come closer. He lifts up his free hand to clamp his palm over his nose and mouth – both to block out the stench and to trap in any sounds that might escape him – but he quickly remembers himself, remembers the Bull's earlier warning, and bites down on his lips instead. When the darkspawn finally wander off, Dorian lets out a near silent breath through his lips.
He glances back at the Bull, brow creasing at the heaviness in the other man's voice. There's logic in the plan, of course – the Bull has been nothing but infuriatingly reasonable during this entire predicament – but Dorian doesn't hasten to agree just yet.
Instead, he whispers, "Are you all right? This can hardly be comfortable for you."
"I'll be comfortable back at camp," the Bull says, then takes a moment to try and lighten his tone just a little, lessen the risk of sounding like he's snapping at Dorian. He isn't; Dorian's doing great. He's glad that Dorian's here asking him these questions, even if he could stand to talk about something other than how he's doing right now.
"Plenty of uncomfortable crap waiting for us out there too, so." The Iron Bull's usual ease is more slippery than it should be, his voice hitting it in a glancing blow and then ricocheting off somewhere a little too tense, trying a little too hard. He lets out a quiet, frustrated little huff. He can do better than that. "If you want to go out there and take it all on with no real backup, you let me know and I can get out of your way."
Dorian trails off, uncertain. They either suffer through the discomfort in here, or they suffer through the exposure out there, and neither option is what Dorian might consider palatable.
Especially not when the darkspawn are disconcertingly close, judging by the sounds from only moments ago. Stepping out of the relative safety of this crawlspace would in all likelihood lead them into a confrontation neither of them is ready for, and they'd either be torn apart of left sickened by the taint – all because Dorian was concerned about comfort.
(It makes him think of Alexius, pacing in their laboratory as they waited for some potion to brew. I left ahead of them to attend to business in Minrathous. If I hadn't been so selfish, if I hadn't been so single-minded, if I had only just been there—)
He shudders at the thought, and he lets out a slow breath of his own.
"You're right." Continuing today's trend, of course. His voice is quiet, a little shaky. "I don't like our chances out there."
He lifts his gloved hand, splaying his fingers and letting the wisps drift again – as much as they can and for as much as it helps within this confined space.
"You'll tell me if you need a break?" A question, this time, because Dorian's judgment thus far hasn't been quite on target.
"Sure," the Bull says, the dry humour in his voice wound tight like a short string stretched across a long bow, ready to snap the moment an arrow draws it back. "You'll be the first to know."
Because if it really comes to that, Dorian will be the first to find out, one way or the other. If it was a little easier to do, the Bull would be laughing right now. As if he hasn't needed a break since this whole thing started - wanted one, anyway. But if it makes Dorian feel that little bit better to think the Bull might put them both back into danger just for his own peace of mind, the Bull can let him pretend.
Because he isn't the only one shaken up here, is he? The Bull would have to be a lot more out of it than he is not to notice Dorian's shudder, the unsteady undertone that crept into Dorian's voice for a moment. Only happened once the Bull brought up the idea of Dorian fighting darkspawn though, the way that would inevitably end right now, with Dorian's only backup mostly just a dead weight carrying an axe. What the Bull needs to do, what Dorian probably needs him to do, is find Dorian some kind of distraction. But his mind isn't really his own right now; like it or not, it's only going to obey him so far.
"If we do go back out there keep me in front," is what his mind comes up with for him. "We'll stick close to walls, find a corner, try to let you keep your distance." If he can make that work. If he can stay upright long enough to be any kind of barrier between the darkspawn and Dorian at all.
He can, if it comes to that. He's going to make it work. It's the closest thing to comfort that he has, even if it isn't quite enough. "I would just give you this stupid mask," he mutters, frustrated, "if I knew it was clean."
Dorian can't help it – he breathes out a mirthless chuckle.
"That's hardly a plan," he says, though a small part of him admits that's it's suitably dramatic. The Bull, standing with only the assistance of some sturdy dwarven wall, acting as a barrier between the darkspawn and Dorian. Under normal circumstances, that would be their exact arrangement. In their current predicament, it would practically be a death sentence for the Bull.
Still, it's nice to know that even the Bull is inclined to a few poor ideas, and it helps Dorian to focus.
The offer gives him pause, however, and his expression softens.
"Even if it were clean, I wouldn't take it. I've seen what Blight-sickness does." He presses his lips together, thinks briefly of Felix, pale and weak in bed before Dorian and Alexius made their first breakthrough. "I wouldn't wish it on anyone."
He steels himself and forces himself to continue through the narrow space – and if it gives him an excuse to look forward, to keep himself turned away to hide the unease on his face, more's the better.
"I studied the taint for a while." He works to keep his voice casual, level. He's discussed this with the Inquisitor before, of course, but they had been at Skyhold – quite far away from the threat of sickness. "The effects of it on the living – on humans, at least. My mentor and I were searching for a means to cure it, though as you can likely tell, we weren't successful."
The Bull steels himself, too, and starts moving again. He focuses past the distress signals crowding into his thoughts. Sure it's too small but he still fits. And sure, if another earthquake hits while they're in here they're dead. But if they leave this little space it could get a whole lot worse so there's no point in worrying about any of it, no matter how close, how immediate the danger feels. He tries to focus on Dorian's voice instead.
It isn't as hard as it could be. Dorian's got a nice voice, even manages to make that my-shit-doesn't-stink accent sound good, and it's always easier to pay attention to people when what they're saying is important. Easier when it gives him something to think about, gives him some pieces to put together with other fragments of what Dorian's told him.
"That what the two of you fell out over?" he asks, instead of thinking about twisting to squeeze through a bend in the path, about the way doing it scrapes hard enough at the scabs over his shoulders to get a couple of them bleeding again. It's big enough for him. It's big enough, and that's fine. What needs paying attention to is Dorian, and fitting together a picture of his past. "Your research hit one too many walls? Or-" and there's an indirect, almost delicate way to ask this, even if he can't get that tight-wound thread out of his voice for long enough to get his tone to match. "-Were you working on a time limit? Stopped looking for that cure once it hit?"
Dorian is faring better than the Bull in this small space. Dorian is by no means a small man, but he's managing comparatively well; the walls don't grab at him quite as insistently as they do the Bull, and Dorian has space enough to maneuver with only a little difficulty.
"We hit a wall," Dorian says slowly. He presses his lips together, remembering how ragged they had both felt in those last few days, how thin their tempers had become. "Alexius and his family had been abroad, but Alexius returned home earlier to attend to business. His wife, son, and their retainer were attacked by darkspawn. His wife was killed, and Felix was sickened with the Blight.
"We were making remarkable progress until it we couldn't. We had bought Felix weeks, then months, maybe a year or two, but nothing more. Alexius and I had been working nonstop, and we were both exhausted. Our failures weighed heavy upon us, and even when it became clear that an outright cure for the Blight was beyond us, Alexius insisted we continue.
"In return, I was... unkind." An understatement, admittedly, but the heaviness in his voice will surely give him away, regardless. "We argued, and in the heat of the moment, I ultimately told Alexius that we needed to give up this fool's errand, that he needed to accept that Felix was going to die."
Dorian pauses when the light of the wisp illuminates the edge of a crack in the wall. He listens intently for any signs of movement, but when he hears nothing, he continues.
"Needless to say, Alexius did not take that well. We yelled a bit more, and I flounced away."
The Bull takes a moment longer than he wants to taking that in. It's not that there's anything wrong with what he heard, there's just a lot of extra, useless crap in his head to shove through before he can clear a space for it, and this isn't the kind of thing he wants his frustration to get in the way of so he has to beat that back, too. So he's slow right now, can't handle this the way he should be; that's just something that he has to deal with. Getting all frustrated about it doesn't have a place here.
Maybe this is the only way Dorian could tell him this though, here and now, when they're here in the dark together with darkspawn somewhere on the other side of one of those walls. The Bull's seen that before. People will tell you all sorts of intimate, sensitive, or just plain terrible info when they're hip deep in shit, in the dark, part of them thinking this is it, they're really going to die here. Something about that tends to make the guy standing shoulder to shoulder with you feel a lot more trustworthy than he did when things were calm and quiet, back when the two of you felt safe.
But then again, Dorian's already shown the Bull some trust, hasn't he? A little. By Dorian's standards. Maybe this isn't something Dorian's going to feel weird about having told the Bull, later. The Bull's going to have to think over that when thinking starts coming easier again.
"You said Alexius wouldn't have liked finding out his son was serving you breakfast," the Bull murmurs, because thinking out loud is going to help his thoughts flow a little easier. "I thought that was just because he was... I don't know, a high-class 'vint, had ideas about servants or something. Assumed that was what you meant."
Which isn't to say there wasn't a little bit of that going on. But if Dorian's friend was that sick that puts a different spin onto it. Easy to assume when you don't know, not see some hint of truth that's there.
The Bull's quiet again, for a much shorter moment. "You flounced out, though. 'Flounce' really the right word?"
Maybe that tension that won't leave the Bull's voice is a good thing. He might as well make it work for him, anyway. In this case it might help make it harder to read any hint of gentleness or judgement into the question, make it sound less like he's pushing Dorian to reframe his part in what went down and more like he's just asking for clarification. This is how he'd normally handle it, he thinks. Just asking questions.
Dorian lets out another chuckle, though it's warmer this time. "No, you weren't wrong in that assumption. Felix was of the opinion that I worked myself too hard and took it upon himself to act as my caretaker. Alexius was of the opinion that Felix had no business sneaking into the kitchens – partially because of Felix's station, but also because he didn't want Felix interrupting the well-oiled machine that was their kitchen staff.
"Felix's sickness put a stop to those late night kitchen raids, for good or for ill."
He pauses, testing slab of stone that slants overhead. It seems stable enough, unlikely to fall on them as they pass underneath, but Dorian still gestures to it on the off-chance the Bull hadn't already noticed it – which he almost certainly already has. The Bull is frighteningly observant, even at the worst of times. Still, it helps Dorian to feel a little useful.
"It was almost certainly a flouncing," Dorian replies, and while he still keeps his voice low, he manages to imbue it with false brightness. "I stomped off in a huff before Alexius could have the satisfaction of throwing me out of his estate, and we drifted apart. I was tired of chasing after this impossible goal and wanted to turn our attentions to something more attainable. In that moment, I was so certain that I could snap him out of his delusions – instead, I only drove him further into them."
The Bull's gaze darts to the stone when Dorian gestures to it and when he gets there he ducks his head, not wanting to risk bumping it. He holds himself very still as he moves underneath. He looks down at the stone and rubble beneath his face, too close and thick with shadow, and he tries to think of nothing at all, until he's through and can look up at Dorian and at the light in front of him. He moves his attention onto that, forcing it away from his own too-loud breaths and locking it back onto Dorian instead.
Dorian. What- right. Dorian's old mentor, the only person from Dorian's past who actually sounds like a friend sick with the Blight, the falling out that left Dorian spiralling without anyone safe to go to. Yeah. That's still right there in the Bull's head, even if the crap crowding inside his mind dragged him away from it for a second.
Yeah. Okay. Dorian. Think over it.
The Bull's first instinct here isn't the right one; he's too old, he reminds himself, to go explaining to people how they feel, to tell Dorian what to think about the whole thing, to tell him exhaustion and stress and grief can make all sorts of things start looking like good ideas, like Dorian doesn't already know. Maybe he doesn't. The Bull will have to figure it out; he doesn't want to misstep here. "What did he do?" the Bull finally asks, voice heavy. "Keep working on it on his own?"
Dorian hesitates, hearing the weight in the Bull's voice – and he wonders, briefly, if it's judgment. If it's disapproval. There the 'Vint goes again, Dorian's imagination helpfully supplies, showing off what a selfish bastard he can be.
Thankfully, good sense – or, perhaps, a bit of ego-preserving denial – reminds him that it's more likely that the Bull is focused on his own pain, on his own discomfort, on their frankly shitty circumstances. The world does not actually revolve around Dorian and his poor life choices, as much as it probably should.
"He all but abandoned his responsibilities in the Magisterium, dedicated all of his time, effort, and resources to curing Felix of the Blight. I suspect that's what drove him to ally with the Venatori – the vain hope that the ancient magic they were studying might unlock some secret to Felix's sickness."
Dorian pauses for breath, lets that familiar, ugly wash of guilt flow through him. If Dorian had swallowed his pride earlier, if he had only returned to Alexius the moment he had realized how ridiculous he had been and begged forgiveness, maybe Alexius wouldn't have abandoned all of his ideals to serve Corypheus. Maybe he and Felix would still be alive right now.
"I'll never know for sure. In the end, the Venatori killed them both – Alexius for failing them, and Felix for helping me."
"Helping you?" the Bull asks, because offering condolences might make it that much harder for Dorian to get the story out the way he needs to. Some people do well with that sort of thing, need something softer and sympathetic, and maybe it's just the Bull's perspective, his need to power through his own shit and out the other side colouring his judgement, but right now Dorian doesn't seem the type. Clarify Dorian's story first, let him finish going over it. Figure out how much sympathy Dorian needs after that.
"This back when you came and warned us at Haven?" There's some stuff, still, that the Bull doesn't know about that time, some of the little details. He put enough together afterward to make a good report, but it's always good to put all the other pieces together when you can get them confirmed. Always, but especially now, when the Bull needs anywhere that isn't here to send his mind to while his body keeps on crawling though the dark.
"He must have been able to keep Felix going for a while, if it was Felix who was in contact with you then. So, you and Alexius argued, you had other shit to deal with for a while, then Felix was still able to get in touch with you in Redcliffe?"
Other shit to deal with. The Bull's control over his tone might not always be as tight as he wants it to be right now, but he says that part without a hesitation or a hitch. He remembers too well what Dorian looked like then, when they were in it together, when Dorian still thought it was real. He remembers Dorian standing guard in front of a body, remembers the magebane and the expression on Dorian's face.
Better gloss over that part of Dorian's history unless Dorian wants to bring it up. It isn't something that the Bull's going to bring up himself, not when the topic's already pretty sensitive as it is.
Might not be a lot about the last year or two of Dorian's life that isn't. Guy's had a hard time of it. That's not something the Bull's going to say either, that Dorian's had it pretty rough, but he wonders what Dorian would say to him if he did.
Dorian smirks without humor at that quaint euphemism for the memories the Bull saw.
"That's one way of describing it."
The Bull doesn't know all of it, of course, because Dorian didn't see fit to elaborate, but he knows far more about that part of Dorian's life than anyone else, save Dorian's parents. It's still strange, and it's still awkward, and Dorian still feels the cold clench of shame when he thinks too long on it – but to the Bull's credit, he hasn't brought it up again, hasn't spread around rumors to embarrass Dorian.
"After my argument with Alexius, we fell out of contact for a while – until Alexius tracked me down to recruit me for the Venatori. He needed my assistance to refine our research. I, on the other hand politely declined, only to be contacted by Felix, who had concerns about his father's newest acquaintances. Fell in with the wrong crowd, you see. His friends were becoming poor influences on him, were dragging them out to the ass-end of Ferelden.
"I went to Redcliffe, and Felix fed me information. We tried to piece together the Venatori's plans, tried to discern to whom they reported and what it was Alexius sought to gain by allying with them. It was only after Alexius was killed that we realized things were moving far more quickly than either of us had imagined. Felix stayed behind, determined to buy me some time while I ran to warn the Inquisition."
Dorian has already told this story to the Inquisitor, of course – it was difficult then, and for as much as he maintains an almost conversational tone, it's just as difficult now.
"Once we reached Skyhold, I tried to send word to him through a mutual contact in Redcliffe and was informed that he and our fellow countrymen had seemingly disappeared. I can't imagine he would have willingly left with the Venatori, nor can I imagine what use the Venatori might have had for a man already living on borrowed time, whose most influential connection was someone they had already murdered."
Dorian trails off, slowly exhaling through his lips to ease the ugly knot in his chest.
"Yeah," the Bull murmurs, focusing on Dorian's voice, on what he can see of him. It's not a great time for the Bull to have this conversation, even though this might be the only time that Dorian could; it's taking so much to hold off the stupider parts of his mind, still yelling about the weight above him and the pressure against his shoulders and the dark, like he hasn't already noticed any of it, that it's hard not to feel like he isn't handling this like he should.
He tucks Dorian's words away, just in case. If he says the wrong thing now it's not like he can take it back, but he can at least try to figure out the right thing, later.
If he can't figure out how much sensitivity or sympathy Dorian needs right now, he might as well just say what he's thinking. Not saying anything would probably be worse, after Dorian shared all that.
"It's harder to deal with when you're never really going to know," he says and, though it might be halfway hidden by all the tension in the Bull's voice already, the words have the weight of his own memories behind them. "Especially when it's someone who was good to you like that."
There's some things even the Ben-Hassrath aren't good enough to find out. That applies to this, too; their spies aren't exactly the kind of people who get welcomed in by the Venatori, so there's not a lot of sense in offering to have his people try to look into it. Or maybe there is. Maybe there's still something there to find, if Red's people haven't looked already. Another thing for the Bull to tuck away and think about once he can.
"Don't know if this helps or not," he says, still kind of flying by the seat of his pants on how to handle this, "but if it was me, that's how I'd want to go out. Going up against some evil assholes to save a good man's life, not getting sicker and sicker till I died in bed."
Well. The Bull had to go and say that, didn't he? "Save a good man's life," when Dorian has been foolish, selfish, and churlish his entire life. Felix, on the other hand, had never been anything but a kind, generous man, who deserved far more than the universe saw fit to give him.
It should have been Dorian to make the choice to stand his ground and send Felix ahead. It should have been Felix who warned the Inquisitor of the impending assault.
It should be Felix here, trying to make light of this shitty situation. What's the worst that could happen? Felix would ask. I can't be more blighted.
Dorian carefully folds that thought away, pushes aside the guilt along with it.
Instead, he glances over his shoulder, sympathetic and a little curious. Gently, he asks, "Who was it you lost?"
"Uh-" He shouldn't be surprised, should he, that Dorian asks. The Bull had practically offered, answering the way he had. He hadn't really meant to. Hadn't been thinking. He stares at the walls ahead of them, feels the stone against his skin, tries to figure out the right way to answer.
Is it shitty of him to be a little glad the honest answer is also the one that means he doesn't have to bring up any one specific memory? Maybe not. He can still drag it all up in one big ugly wad of crap and maybe Dorian will see the honesty in it all the same, won't think the Bull's trying to wiggle out of uncovering the same parts of himself that Dorian just did.
"You going to think less of me if I tell you I can't remember all their names? You kind of..." 'After year five it kind of starts to blend together' is the course his mouth's trying to run down, and his mind changes itself at the last minute. There's giving a genuine answer, and then there's going down a road that's going to end in a lot more detail than the answer really needs. Hopefully whatever it is he ends up saying instead will be enough.
"I don't know," is the 'whatever' that comes out. Maybe he's not dragging up the whole ugly wad of crap after all. At least, out loud. Who knows, maybe he did. Maybe implying it is enough. "I'm not saying having it happen in front of you is better, but it's... there's something there. You know for sure there's nothing else that you can do. They just don't come back one day, it slows that down. Gives some part of you something else to chew on."
He's quiet for a moment. Focuses on the pain that hasn't let up in his leg, the sound of the brace the Chargers gave him dragging across the stone, the bits of loose rock and dust under his hands. No sound of waves here, no smell of salt and old fish and that one particular kind of spice. Nothing but the dark and his mind still yelling at him about things that aren't worth yelling about, the musty, damp smell of a dark space gone too long without the open air and not being able to enjoy Dorian's ass just a couple feet in front of his face.
The Bull's not exactly safer here and now, but even with the darkspawn, he thinks maybe the company is better.
"You asked Red to look into it? She might be able to get something out of your contact that you can't." And then a little piece of his own crap, in case that makes this feel less like the Bull skipping out on an answer and more like the only answer he has to give: "Sometimes it... changes things a little, once you know for sure. Not every time, but sometimes."
Dorian makes the logical leap – the Bull is talking about Seheron, then. Or, perhaps more accurately, the Bull is thinking about Seheron, considering he didn't offer much of a response to Dorian's question at all. The lack of an answer is unsurprising, at this point; for as much as the Bull seems to enjoy prying truth out of the people around him, he's never quite as forthcoming with it, himself.
Now, however, isn't exactly the time to try and probe the Bull for more information. The name of the game, at the moment, is distraction. Filling in the terrible, yawning silence. Dorian files the information away, however.
Dorian continues crawling through the narrow space, chewing over the Bull's final question. He had not, in fact, considered it. For one, utilizing the Inquisition's resources, tying up someone else's time with answering his personal questions feels selfish. For another—
Well. If he's honest, as much as he knows the answer, he almost doesn't want the concrete confirmation. A small, whimsical part of him almost wants to leave open the possibility that Felix had survived; that he was in hiding somewhere, biding his time before making his triumphant return.
"I'll consider it," he says slowly. "Though I'm sure her time and efforts are better spent elsewhere."
"She knows how to prioritise," the Bull points out, more to make sure Dorian knows than to push him. This is Dorian's loss, and Dorian's decision about what he needs in order to deal with it. Still, it's something to say. Need something to say that's worth focusing on, instead of something to look at. Having Dorian here is good, but not even he can do enough to improve the view.
The Bull's gaze roams over what space there is in front of him, fruitlessly. His horns scrape against stone when he moves. The sound of it, the feeling, fills the little box in his mind where he's keeping all the useless crap contained, pushes its lid just far enough aside that a little shudder slips out.
He holds himself still, muscles tense. He keeps on crawling. Focuses. A few seconds later than he'd intended to, the Bull keeps talking, jaw as tense as the rest of him, eye fixed on the back of Dorian's head, on Dorian's shoulder washed in the spirit's bizarre, lame little light. "She wouldn't send anyone to check it out unless she could spare them."
The Bull takes a slow, very even breath. He tries to find whatever solid foundation just slipped out from under his voice so he can shove it back in and realises he's clearing his throat as he hears himself do it, a tell that was supposed to be trained out of him decades ago. He was fine a second before. Couldn't answer Dorian's question right.
He was managing before, anyway.
He's managing now. He's good. It is what it is. And that's fine. "If this is like the, uh-"
Like the other crawlspace Dorian left him in, or whatever the tiny little hallway was originally meant to be. Like the one it kind of feels, right now, like he never left. Shok ebasit hissra. The line's already pushing itself, urgent, inside his thoughts by the time he knows he's thinking it.
Kind of macabre, that a line from a death prayer's the first thing his mind latches onto right now - he's probably got their conversation about losing people to thank for that - but parts of it actually aren't far off here; in a pretty literal sense, there's nothing in here to struggle against at all. It's fine. He'll be fine. The only thing that set this off was the stray scrape of a horn against a wall where he'd thought he had open space, and it's going to pass just as easy into something he can manage again.
"-that other place I was in," he finishes, again a couple seconds after he meant to. Some detritus of what's happening in his head makes it out into his words, nerves thicker in his voice than he'd wanted. He keeps pushing through anyway. Finish what he was saying. "Cause it kind of looks the same, uh, then there might be a dead end up ahead. If the layout's the same. Couldn't tell if there was a door in all that rubble though, but. You know. Probably."
It's not like a door just isn't going to be there. That would be a dumb way to design a building, and dwarven architecture is anything but dumb. Could be blocked, though. If there is one, and it's blocked-
They'll deal with it. If it is, they'll deal with it. The Inquisition's pretty good at that, dealing with things. Going to be fine.
The scrape of the tips of the Bull's horns is sharp, not unlike nails on a chalkboard, and even Dorian finds himself grimacing at it. It's only after the Bull starts speaking that he manages to notice the brief lapse, the hesitance and trepidation in the other man's voice.
Is it better to draw attention to it? Obviously not, Dorian decides. It would be rather like if the two of them were on a sinking boat, and Dorian said, "I notice you're quite uncomfortable with all this water. Do you want to discuss it?"
Ridiculous. Of course the Bull is uncomfortable here. Who wouldn't be?
Dorian keeps pushing forward, though, letting the Bull work his way through whatever it is he's trying to say. Dorian could helpfully point out that all crawlspaces look rather the same, really, and there's no way of knowing where this one may lead – but perhaps that's too blindly optimistic. Better to present something definite, a plan of action.
"If the way is obstructed, I'll move the stone," he says. In his time with the Inquisition, he's moved enough stone both magically and physically that he wonders if he might have been better suited to construction than politics. "If there's a dead end, I can try to blast us a suitable exit. Failing all else, we'll go back the way we came. I refuse to be thwarted by a dilapidated building."
"Right. It's, uh- it's not that long back to uh, the way that we came in. We can just- turn around." The Bull only just manages to stop himself from clearing his throat again. Feels like he needs to do something, at least, to clear all that badly-hidden dread out of his voice and even if that something is just a bunch of crap that his mind is making up to try and make him feel a little less shitty, it's not like feeling less shitty right now's really going to hurt. He swallows hard, trying to satisfy the urge in a way that's going to make at least a little bit less noise.
Ride this out. Either he gets eaten by darkspawn or they get back up to the surface to fight another day; no matter which future's in store for him, patience is going to carry him out of this. He only has to let it. Even if he has to go all the way back the way they came, in front this time, without even Dorian ahead of him to focus on-
"So," the Bull makes himself say, like he can't tell how fake his casual tone sounds right now, "that pile of crap up there's not about to thwart us, then? You've got two eyes, maybe you can tell me if that big shadow right next to it's a left turn or a dead end." And if it is, that's... fine. It's going to be fine. Right up until they have to start worrying about darkspawn again.
Not going to think too hard about the darkspawn yet. One pile of shit at a time.
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He's been trying to stop babying the thing. Needing to keep the thumping of the staff quiet is getting in his way a little, but he isn't as slow as he was. There's still nothing to funnel the pain into, though, nowhere to put it, so when he answers his his voice is as much a grunt as actual words. "I'm good to go. Need to find a way out of here. Not like there's anywhere safe enough to stop anyway."
Not that the Bull has wasted a lot of attention looking for one. Might help him out if there isn't one, though, if Dorian wants to fight him on this. The Bull wasted their time already, even though it had felt like an okay risk then, before he spent all this time forcing himself along inch by creeping little inch. It had felt like an acceptable risk while he'd been coming down from almost dying and thought maybe Dorian needed a mental reset about as much as he did.
Maybe that was the right call and maybe it wasn't, but if that was the one break he got to call then he's already called it. Easier to get through it if he keeps moving.
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The argument is on the tip of his tongue, but—
Practicality demands they keep going. Practicality demands that if they have a chance of surviving this, they need to find a means of escape as soon as possible – before the darkspawn find some alternate route, now that the beasts know they're here, before another quake collapses the ruins atop them.
Dorian has never been a particularly practical man, however, and while he knows the Bull is right, that doesn't meant that Dorian likes it.
He exhales sharply through his nose – a poor substitute for one of his more theatrical sighs – before he turns to continue on down the hallway. Still, he can't stop himself from demanding imperiously over his shoulder, "You will tell me when you need to stop."
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"You'll know," he says, because Dorian will. Either he'll need to stop because Darkspawn are on them, or because his leg gives out. Pretty obvious either way.
No need to be irritated at Dorian, the Bull reminds himself. This is what he likes about the guy - the concern for the people around him, how deep it goes. It's the pain he's irritated with, after falling into the rhythm of stepping with the one foot, setting the staff carefully on the ground, put as much of his weight as he can on that side, breathe, do it all again. And then do it again. Keep on doing it. Fall into the mindset of it. Enough time doing that and it's starting to get to him.
With no talking to focus on, he falls into the mindset of it again. Until the smell of darkspawn starts getting stronger in his nose, strong enough to break the rhythm when he stops, torn for a second between shoving the staff back into Dorian's hands where it belongs or heading double time toward the nearest break in the wall which, if they get lucky, might just lead them somewhere safer.
He puts a hand on Dorian's shoulder, jerks his chin toward the path in front of them, and shakes his head. Then he tilts a horn toward that spot in the wall where some of it is cracked, leaning against the rubble of something fallen behind it at an angle that might just give the Bull enough room to crawl in.
He moves himself to the spot, leans against the wall so he can hold Dorian's staff out to him, and nods toward the little space. The Bull made the mistake of letting darkspawn get too close once, and doesn't know how recovered Dorian is yet from pulling him out of that. Better to be cautious now. If he's lucky whatever's on the other side won't be as shitty as it looks.
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Close, then, Dorian assumes. Uncomfortably so, if the change of route is any indication.
On instinct, he presses his lips tightly together, nodding at the Bull's direction and waving for the other man to proceed. He follows close behind, and when the Bull indicates the small space, Dorian frowns with uncertainty. The crevice seems snug, even to Dorian, and he looks a little pointedly at the Bull as he takes back his staff.
It is, admittedly, better than facing whatever darkspawn horde might be lingering around a corner; Dorian could manage some of his earlier spells, true, but he had been lucky to have those corpses to work with early in the battle. There was no guarantee he would be so fortunate again. Reluctantly, Dorian flicks his fingers, sending his wisp ahead of him to light the way, before slinging his staff into its holster at his back.
He offers the Bull one more heavy look – something that says stay close – before easing his way into the small space.
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It's alright. He'll keep it together a little better this time. There's someone in front of him to focus on as he lowers himself carefully to the ground, as he twists to fit his way through the gap and inside. Rubble and stone sitting crookedly against one another make the ceiling low for as far as Dorian's creepy spirit thing illuminates. Which isn't really that far, so hey, maybe they won't have to go too far before the space starts to open up. You never know.
Dorian being in front of him helps. He wishes he could say, even to himself, that it's just because being behind Dorian is such a nice view, but it just does him good. Reminds him he's not still stuck in the same place he fell off that cliff into, in that weird, indefinite stretch of time after Dorian left, dragging himself along in a space a lot like this and feeling his focus, his reality, starting to go a little loose.
There's someone else in here, and that helps him keep his sense of direction, his sense of time. That's one thing he learned in that weird, in-between period after Seheron: once those things start to come loose in your head, that's when you've really lost it.
It isn't that bad. There's some good reasons it isn't that bad and, after the worst of that smell has passed - the heavy footsteps getting closer and then right outside, the growls and grumbles and whatever passes for darkspawn talking to each other, the sound of heavy armour, one smacking something hard against the wall right next to their heads and the Bull's too deep, too regular breathing sounding louder in his ears than it might actually be, the pain a hot, welcome thing inside him, a distraction - after the worst of that has passed, after the smell has started to fade, then the Bull can share with Dorian what exactly isn't that bad about it, about being crowded inside here.
"Might be better staying in here 'till we hit a dead end," he mutters once it's safe to, in a voice that would have sounded normal back before anybody called him the Iron Bull. His voice could weigh heavy more often back then, come out curt and to the point. At least, when he was talking to the ones who called him Hissrad. The others needed someone friendlier.
His voice is some kind of normal, anyway. So that's fine.
"If we can pass that hallway out there and find some of the bigger rooms again we'll be better off. Fight out there would have been more close-quarters than your last one. Too close. Even if I could still fight between you and them."
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The impulse is interruped by the sound of footsteps, by the distant snarling, hissing, growling of darkspawn, made alien and indistinct by the small, enclosed space. Dorian freezes, tossing up a hand and flexing his fingers, bringing the wisps in close to dampen the light. He doubts the cracks in the wall are large enough for the wisps' glow to seep through, but Dorian would rather be cautious than risk the darkspawn figuring out where they are and smashing down the wall to get to them.
He freezes as the noises come closer. He lifts up his free hand to clamp his palm over his nose and mouth – both to block out the stench and to trap in any sounds that might escape him – but he quickly remembers himself, remembers the Bull's earlier warning, and bites down on his lips instead. When the darkspawn finally wander off, Dorian lets out a near silent breath through his lips.
He glances back at the Bull, brow creasing at the heaviness in the other man's voice. There's logic in the plan, of course – the Bull has been nothing but infuriatingly reasonable during this entire predicament – but Dorian doesn't hasten to agree just yet.
Instead, he whispers, "Are you all right? This can hardly be comfortable for you."
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"Plenty of uncomfortable crap waiting for us out there too, so." The Iron Bull's usual ease is more slippery than it should be, his voice hitting it in a glancing blow and then ricocheting off somewhere a little too tense, trying a little too hard. He lets out a quiet, frustrated little huff. He can do better than that. "If you want to go out there and take it all on with no real backup, you let me know and I can get out of your way."
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Dorian trails off, uncertain. They either suffer through the discomfort in here, or they suffer through the exposure out there, and neither option is what Dorian might consider palatable.
Especially not when the darkspawn are disconcertingly close, judging by the sounds from only moments ago. Stepping out of the relative safety of this crawlspace would in all likelihood lead them into a confrontation neither of them is ready for, and they'd either be torn apart of left sickened by the taint – all because Dorian was concerned about comfort.
(It makes him think of Alexius, pacing in their laboratory as they waited for some potion to brew. I left ahead of them to attend to business in Minrathous. If I hadn't been so selfish, if I hadn't been so single-minded, if I had only just been there—)
He shudders at the thought, and he lets out a slow breath of his own.
"You're right." Continuing today's trend, of course. His voice is quiet, a little shaky. "I don't like our chances out there."
He lifts his gloved hand, splaying his fingers and letting the wisps drift again – as much as they can and for as much as it helps within this confined space.
"You'll tell me if you need a break?" A question, this time, because Dorian's judgment thus far hasn't been quite on target.
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Because if it really comes to that, Dorian will be the first to find out, one way or the other. If it was a little easier to do, the Bull would be laughing right now. As if he hasn't needed a break since this whole thing started - wanted one, anyway. But if it makes Dorian feel that little bit better to think the Bull might put them both back into danger just for his own peace of mind, the Bull can let him pretend.
Because he isn't the only one shaken up here, is he? The Bull would have to be a lot more out of it than he is not to notice Dorian's shudder, the unsteady undertone that crept into Dorian's voice for a moment. Only happened once the Bull brought up the idea of Dorian fighting darkspawn though, the way that would inevitably end right now, with Dorian's only backup mostly just a dead weight carrying an axe. What the Bull needs to do, what Dorian probably needs him to do, is find Dorian some kind of distraction. But his mind isn't really his own right now; like it or not, it's only going to obey him so far.
"If we do go back out there keep me in front," is what his mind comes up with for him. "We'll stick close to walls, find a corner, try to let you keep your distance." If he can make that work. If he can stay upright long enough to be any kind of barrier between the darkspawn and Dorian at all.
He can, if it comes to that. He's going to make it work. It's the closest thing to comfort that he has, even if it isn't quite enough. "I would just give you this stupid mask," he mutters, frustrated, "if I knew it was clean."
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"That's hardly a plan," he says, though a small part of him admits that's it's suitably dramatic. The Bull, standing with only the assistance of some sturdy dwarven wall, acting as a barrier between the darkspawn and Dorian. Under normal circumstances, that would be their exact arrangement. In their current predicament, it would practically be a death sentence for the Bull.
Still, it's nice to know that even the Bull is inclined to a few poor ideas, and it helps Dorian to focus.
The offer gives him pause, however, and his expression softens.
"Even if it were clean, I wouldn't take it. I've seen what Blight-sickness does." He presses his lips together, thinks briefly of Felix, pale and weak in bed before Dorian and Alexius made their first breakthrough. "I wouldn't wish it on anyone."
He steels himself and forces himself to continue through the narrow space – and if it gives him an excuse to look forward, to keep himself turned away to hide the unease on his face, more's the better.
"I studied the taint for a while." He works to keep his voice casual, level. He's discussed this with the Inquisitor before, of course, but they had been at Skyhold – quite far away from the threat of sickness. "The effects of it on the living – on humans, at least. My mentor and I were searching for a means to cure it, though as you can likely tell, we weren't successful."
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It isn't as hard as it could be. Dorian's got a nice voice, even manages to make that my-shit-doesn't-stink accent sound good, and it's always easier to pay attention to people when what they're saying is important. Easier when it gives him something to think about, gives him some pieces to put together with other fragments of what Dorian's told him.
"That what the two of you fell out over?" he asks, instead of thinking about twisting to squeeze through a bend in the path, about the way doing it scrapes hard enough at the scabs over his shoulders to get a couple of them bleeding again. It's big enough for him. It's big enough, and that's fine. What needs paying attention to is Dorian, and fitting together a picture of his past. "Your research hit one too many walls? Or-" and there's an indirect, almost delicate way to ask this, even if he can't get that tight-wound thread out of his voice for long enough to get his tone to match. "-Were you working on a time limit? Stopped looking for that cure once it hit?"
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"We hit a wall," Dorian says slowly. He presses his lips together, remembering how ragged they had both felt in those last few days, how thin their tempers had become. "Alexius and his family had been abroad, but Alexius returned home earlier to attend to business. His wife, son, and their retainer were attacked by darkspawn. His wife was killed, and Felix was sickened with the Blight.
"We were making remarkable progress until it we couldn't. We had bought Felix weeks, then months, maybe a year or two, but nothing more. Alexius and I had been working nonstop, and we were both exhausted. Our failures weighed heavy upon us, and even when it became clear that an outright cure for the Blight was beyond us, Alexius insisted we continue.
"In return, I was... unkind." An understatement, admittedly, but the heaviness in his voice will surely give him away, regardless. "We argued, and in the heat of the moment, I ultimately told Alexius that we needed to give up this fool's errand, that he needed to accept that Felix was going to die."
Dorian pauses when the light of the wisp illuminates the edge of a crack in the wall. He listens intently for any signs of movement, but when he hears nothing, he continues.
"Needless to say, Alexius did not take that well. We yelled a bit more, and I flounced away."
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Maybe this is the only way Dorian could tell him this though, here and now, when they're here in the dark together with darkspawn somewhere on the other side of one of those walls. The Bull's seen that before. People will tell you all sorts of intimate, sensitive, or just plain terrible info when they're hip deep in shit, in the dark, part of them thinking this is it, they're really going to die here. Something about that tends to make the guy standing shoulder to shoulder with you feel a lot more trustworthy than he did when things were calm and quiet, back when the two of you felt safe.
But then again, Dorian's already shown the Bull some trust, hasn't he? A little. By Dorian's standards. Maybe this isn't something Dorian's going to feel weird about having told the Bull, later. The Bull's going to have to think over that when thinking starts coming easier again.
"You said Alexius wouldn't have liked finding out his son was serving you breakfast," the Bull murmurs, because thinking out loud is going to help his thoughts flow a little easier. "I thought that was just because he was... I don't know, a high-class 'vint, had ideas about servants or something. Assumed that was what you meant."
Which isn't to say there wasn't a little bit of that going on. But if Dorian's friend was that sick that puts a different spin onto it. Easy to assume when you don't know, not see some hint of truth that's there.
The Bull's quiet again, for a much shorter moment. "You flounced out, though. 'Flounce' really the right word?"
Maybe that tension that won't leave the Bull's voice is a good thing. He might as well make it work for him, anyway. In this case it might help make it harder to read any hint of gentleness or judgement into the question, make it sound less like he's pushing Dorian to reframe his part in what went down and more like he's just asking for clarification. This is how he'd normally handle it, he thinks. Just asking questions.
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"Felix's sickness put a stop to those late night kitchen raids, for good or for ill."
He pauses, testing slab of stone that slants overhead. It seems stable enough, unlikely to fall on them as they pass underneath, but Dorian still gestures to it on the off-chance the Bull hadn't already noticed it – which he almost certainly already has. The Bull is frighteningly observant, even at the worst of times. Still, it helps Dorian to feel a little useful.
"It was almost certainly a flouncing," Dorian replies, and while he still keeps his voice low, he manages to imbue it with false brightness. "I stomped off in a huff before Alexius could have the satisfaction of throwing me out of his estate, and we drifted apart. I was tired of chasing after this impossible goal and wanted to turn our attentions to something more attainable. In that moment, I was so certain that I could snap him out of his delusions – instead, I only drove him further into them."
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Dorian. What- right. Dorian's old mentor, the only person from Dorian's past who actually sounds like a friend sick with the Blight, the falling out that left Dorian spiralling without anyone safe to go to. Yeah. That's still right there in the Bull's head, even if the crap crowding inside his mind dragged him away from it for a second.
Yeah. Okay. Dorian. Think over it.
The Bull's first instinct here isn't the right one; he's too old, he reminds himself, to go explaining to people how they feel, to tell Dorian what to think about the whole thing, to tell him exhaustion and stress and grief can make all sorts of things start looking like good ideas, like Dorian doesn't already know. Maybe he doesn't. The Bull will have to figure it out; he doesn't want to misstep here. "What did he do?" the Bull finally asks, voice heavy. "Keep working on it on his own?"
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Thankfully, good sense – or, perhaps, a bit of ego-preserving denial – reminds him that it's more likely that the Bull is focused on his own pain, on his own discomfort, on their frankly shitty circumstances. The world does not actually revolve around Dorian and his poor life choices, as much as it probably should.
"He all but abandoned his responsibilities in the Magisterium, dedicated all of his time, effort, and resources to curing Felix of the Blight. I suspect that's what drove him to ally with the Venatori – the vain hope that the ancient magic they were studying might unlock some secret to Felix's sickness."
Dorian pauses for breath, lets that familiar, ugly wash of guilt flow through him. If Dorian had swallowed his pride earlier, if he had only returned to Alexius the moment he had realized how ridiculous he had been and begged forgiveness, maybe Alexius wouldn't have abandoned all of his ideals to serve Corypheus. Maybe he and Felix would still be alive right now.
"I'll never know for sure. In the end, the Venatori killed them both – Alexius for failing them, and Felix for helping me."
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"This back when you came and warned us at Haven?" There's some stuff, still, that the Bull doesn't know about that time, some of the little details. He put enough together afterward to make a good report, but it's always good to put all the other pieces together when you can get them confirmed. Always, but especially now, when the Bull needs anywhere that isn't here to send his mind to while his body keeps on crawling though the dark.
"He must have been able to keep Felix going for a while, if it was Felix who was in contact with you then. So, you and Alexius argued, you had other shit to deal with for a while, then Felix was still able to get in touch with you in Redcliffe?"
Other shit to deal with. The Bull's control over his tone might not always be as tight as he wants it to be right now, but he says that part without a hesitation or a hitch. He remembers too well what Dorian looked like then, when they were in it together, when Dorian still thought it was real. He remembers Dorian standing guard in front of a body, remembers the magebane and the expression on Dorian's face.
Better gloss over that part of Dorian's history unless Dorian wants to bring it up. It isn't something that the Bull's going to bring up himself, not when the topic's already pretty sensitive as it is.
Might not be a lot about the last year or two of Dorian's life that isn't. Guy's had a hard time of it. That's not something the Bull's going to say either, that Dorian's had it pretty rough, but he wonders what Dorian would say to him if he did.
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"That's one way of describing it."
The Bull doesn't know all of it, of course, because Dorian didn't see fit to elaborate, but he knows far more about that part of Dorian's life than anyone else, save Dorian's parents. It's still strange, and it's still awkward, and Dorian still feels the cold clench of shame when he thinks too long on it – but to the Bull's credit, he hasn't brought it up again, hasn't spread around rumors to embarrass Dorian.
"After my argument with Alexius, we fell out of contact for a while – until Alexius tracked me down to recruit me for the Venatori. He needed my assistance to refine our research. I, on the other hand politely declined, only to be contacted by Felix, who had concerns about his father's newest acquaintances. Fell in with the wrong crowd, you see. His friends were becoming poor influences on him, were dragging them out to the ass-end of Ferelden.
"I went to Redcliffe, and Felix fed me information. We tried to piece together the Venatori's plans, tried to discern to whom they reported and what it was Alexius sought to gain by allying with them. It was only after Alexius was killed that we realized things were moving far more quickly than either of us had imagined. Felix stayed behind, determined to buy me some time while I ran to warn the Inquisition."
Dorian has already told this story to the Inquisitor, of course – it was difficult then, and for as much as he maintains an almost conversational tone, it's just as difficult now.
"Once we reached Skyhold, I tried to send word to him through a mutual contact in Redcliffe and was informed that he and our fellow countrymen had seemingly disappeared. I can't imagine he would have willingly left with the Venatori, nor can I imagine what use the Venatori might have had for a man already living on borrowed time, whose most influential connection was someone they had already murdered."
Dorian trails off, slowly exhaling through his lips to ease the ugly knot in his chest.
"I can only hope he had a quick death."
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He tucks Dorian's words away, just in case. If he says the wrong thing now it's not like he can take it back, but he can at least try to figure out the right thing, later.
If he can't figure out how much sensitivity or sympathy Dorian needs right now, he might as well just say what he's thinking. Not saying anything would probably be worse, after Dorian shared all that.
"It's harder to deal with when you're never really going to know," he says and, though it might be halfway hidden by all the tension in the Bull's voice already, the words have the weight of his own memories behind them. "Especially when it's someone who was good to you like that."
There's some things even the Ben-Hassrath aren't good enough to find out. That applies to this, too; their spies aren't exactly the kind of people who get welcomed in by the Venatori, so there's not a lot of sense in offering to have his people try to look into it. Or maybe there is. Maybe there's still something there to find, if Red's people haven't looked already. Another thing for the Bull to tuck away and think about once he can.
"Don't know if this helps or not," he says, still kind of flying by the seat of his pants on how to handle this, "but if it was me, that's how I'd want to go out. Going up against some evil assholes to save a good man's life, not getting sicker and sicker till I died in bed."
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Well. The Bull had to go and say that, didn't he? "Save a good man's life," when Dorian has been foolish, selfish, and churlish his entire life. Felix, on the other hand, had never been anything but a kind, generous man, who deserved far more than the universe saw fit to give him.
It should have been Dorian to make the choice to stand his ground and send Felix ahead. It should have been Felix who warned the Inquisitor of the impending assault.
It should be Felix here, trying to make light of this shitty situation. What's the worst that could happen? Felix would ask. I can't be more blighted.
Dorian carefully folds that thought away, pushes aside the guilt along with it.
Instead, he glances over his shoulder, sympathetic and a little curious. Gently, he asks, "Who was it you lost?"
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Is it shitty of him to be a little glad the honest answer is also the one that means he doesn't have to bring up any one specific memory? Maybe not. He can still drag it all up in one big ugly wad of crap and maybe Dorian will see the honesty in it all the same, won't think the Bull's trying to wiggle out of uncovering the same parts of himself that Dorian just did.
"You going to think less of me if I tell you I can't remember all their names? You kind of..." 'After year five it kind of starts to blend together' is the course his mouth's trying to run down, and his mind changes itself at the last minute. There's giving a genuine answer, and then there's going down a road that's going to end in a lot more detail than the answer really needs. Hopefully whatever it is he ends up saying instead will be enough.
"I don't know," is the 'whatever' that comes out. Maybe he's not dragging up the whole ugly wad of crap after all. At least, out loud. Who knows, maybe he did. Maybe implying it is enough. "I'm not saying having it happen in front of you is better, but it's... there's something there. You know for sure there's nothing else that you can do. They just don't come back one day, it slows that down. Gives some part of you something else to chew on."
He's quiet for a moment. Focuses on the pain that hasn't let up in his leg, the sound of the brace the Chargers gave him dragging across the stone, the bits of loose rock and dust under his hands. No sound of waves here, no smell of salt and old fish and that one particular kind of spice. Nothing but the dark and his mind still yelling at him about things that aren't worth yelling about, the musty, damp smell of a dark space gone too long without the open air and not being able to enjoy Dorian's ass just a couple feet in front of his face.
The Bull's not exactly safer here and now, but even with the darkspawn, he thinks maybe the company is better.
"You asked Red to look into it? She might be able to get something out of your contact that you can't." And then a little piece of his own crap, in case that makes this feel less like the Bull skipping out on an answer and more like the only answer he has to give: "Sometimes it... changes things a little, once you know for sure. Not every time, but sometimes."
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Now, however, isn't exactly the time to try and probe the Bull for more information. The name of the game, at the moment, is distraction. Filling in the terrible, yawning silence. Dorian files the information away, however.
Dorian continues crawling through the narrow space, chewing over the Bull's final question. He had not, in fact, considered it. For one, utilizing the Inquisition's resources, tying up someone else's time with answering his personal questions feels selfish. For another—
Well. If he's honest, as much as he knows the answer, he almost doesn't want the concrete confirmation. A small, whimsical part of him almost wants to leave open the possibility that Felix had survived; that he was in hiding somewhere, biding his time before making his triumphant return.
"I'll consider it," he says slowly. "Though I'm sure her time and efforts are better spent elsewhere."
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The Bull's gaze roams over what space there is in front of him, fruitlessly. His horns scrape against stone when he moves. The sound of it, the feeling, fills the little box in his mind where he's keeping all the useless crap contained, pushes its lid just far enough aside that a little shudder slips out.
He holds himself still, muscles tense. He keeps on crawling. Focuses. A few seconds later than he'd intended to, the Bull keeps talking, jaw as tense as the rest of him, eye fixed on the back of Dorian's head, on Dorian's shoulder washed in the spirit's bizarre, lame little light. "She wouldn't send anyone to check it out unless she could spare them."
The Bull takes a slow, very even breath. He tries to find whatever solid foundation just slipped out from under his voice so he can shove it back in and realises he's clearing his throat as he hears himself do it, a tell that was supposed to be trained out of him decades ago. He was fine a second before. Couldn't answer Dorian's question right.
He was managing before, anyway.
He's managing now. He's good. It is what it is. And that's fine. "If this is like the, uh-"
Like the other crawlspace Dorian left him in, or whatever the tiny little hallway was originally meant to be. Like the one it kind of feels, right now, like he never left. Shok ebasit hissra. The line's already pushing itself, urgent, inside his thoughts by the time he knows he's thinking it.
Kind of macabre, that a line from a death prayer's the first thing his mind latches onto right now - he's probably got their conversation about losing people to thank for that - but parts of it actually aren't far off here; in a pretty literal sense, there's nothing in here to struggle against at all. It's fine. He'll be fine. The only thing that set this off was the stray scrape of a horn against a wall where he'd thought he had open space, and it's going to pass just as easy into something he can manage again.
"-that other place I was in," he finishes, again a couple seconds after he meant to. Some detritus of what's happening in his head makes it out into his words, nerves thicker in his voice than he'd wanted. He keeps pushing through anyway. Finish what he was saying. "Cause it kind of looks the same, uh, then there might be a dead end up ahead. If the layout's the same. Couldn't tell if there was a door in all that rubble though, but. You know. Probably."
It's not like a door just isn't going to be there. That would be a dumb way to design a building, and dwarven architecture is anything but dumb. Could be blocked, though. If there is one, and it's blocked-
They'll deal with it. If it is, they'll deal with it. The Inquisition's pretty good at that, dealing with things. Going to be fine.
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Is it better to draw attention to it? Obviously not, Dorian decides. It would be rather like if the two of them were on a sinking boat, and Dorian said, "I notice you're quite uncomfortable with all this water. Do you want to discuss it?"
Ridiculous. Of course the Bull is uncomfortable here. Who wouldn't be?
Dorian keeps pushing forward, though, letting the Bull work his way through whatever it is he's trying to say. Dorian could helpfully point out that all crawlspaces look rather the same, really, and there's no way of knowing where this one may lead – but perhaps that's too blindly optimistic. Better to present something definite, a plan of action.
"If the way is obstructed, I'll move the stone," he says. In his time with the Inquisition, he's moved enough stone both magically and physically that he wonders if he might have been better suited to construction than politics. "If there's a dead end, I can try to blast us a suitable exit. Failing all else, we'll go back the way we came. I refuse to be thwarted by a dilapidated building."
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Ride this out. Either he gets eaten by darkspawn or they get back up to the surface to fight another day; no matter which future's in store for him, patience is going to carry him out of this. He only has to let it. Even if he has to go all the way back the way they came, in front this time, without even Dorian ahead of him to focus on-
"So," the Bull makes himself say, like he can't tell how fake his casual tone sounds right now, "that pile of crap up there's not about to thwart us, then? You've got two eyes, maybe you can tell me if that big shadow right next to it's a left turn or a dead end." And if it is, that's... fine. It's going to be fine. Right up until they have to start worrying about darkspawn again.
Not going to think too hard about the darkspawn yet. One pile of shit at a time.
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