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.
The unease in the Bull's voice is disconcerting, to say the least.
Silly, how Dorian's become so satisfied in letting the Bull be the unshakeable one. That cold sense of worry continues to twist in his chest, and he wonders if he should bring this up later, if he should try and talk to the Bull about this, should mention it in the safety of camp or some tavern.
He supposes that's rather contingent upon their ability to survive this – something that Dorian prefers to take as fact, rather than chance.
He continues forging a path – he has little choice in the matter, admittedly – and he reaches the big shadow the Bull has helpfully indicated.
It is, in fact, a left turn, but Dorian has no time to feel relieved.
That path continues on for a foot or more before it terminates at rather sizable blockage of fallen masonry.
Dorian lets out a breath between his lips, that cold feeling turning weighty and sinking into his gut.
"Well," he says, and while his tone is as bright as ever, there's a bitter undercurrent there, too. Above him, the wisp casts the slabs of stone in green light. "I suppose now is the time to offer you a choice of good news and bad news."
Dorian needs the Bull to acknowledge he understands that so he does, grunts. Lets his eye move over and away from what's ahead. From what isn't ahead. Doesn't think too much about anything. He holds himself quiet, holds himself inside a moment that feels like it stretches. He keeps himself still. He needs his thoughts pressed flat and formless inside his mind, keep them like that long enough to shut them away. For a while - as long as he needs to - he can pretend he doesn't hear all those things shut up all silent in his head hurling themselves against the doors.
Hold himself still. Everything inside him now needs to be flat and still, pressed far enough away to make it easier to manage.
Yeah. Like that.
He knew this was a possibility. The feelings, the thoughts he'd been having about that possibility just a few seconds ago don't matter; he knows what he needs to do. Dorian's offer to make them a way out was just meant to make him feel better. Too big, too loud to follow through on. The Bull couldn't afford to pay much attention to the offer then, and he can't now. There's only one way out. Getting there is simple.
"Give me a minute. Not a lot of room for-" Making his head go quiet, or quiet enough, helped his voice out too, until he was stupid enough to say the problem out loud. He picks his voice back up where it dropped out from under him, makes sure the second half of the sentence comes out as flat as the first half did. 'Flat' isn't really ideal. Takes him, if anything, further away from sounding any kind of casual. It's what he can do. "-moving around that quickly. Gonna take a minute."
The walls scrape at his shoulders. To turn around, he's going to have to sit up. He finds himself doing it in inches, then pausing, expecting to meet the ceiling too early, taking in a sharp breath to brace himself, letting it out slow while he does the whole thing again. And again. One more time. Don't keep track. Don't count anything. Keep going.
When he does meet the ceiling his horns make that scraping sound again, the one he can feel inside his bones. Stupid that that stops him. They're going to do the same thing again when he turns. After one second, or maybe the second after that, he makes his breaths harder and sharper to stop them from shaking.
It's not that much of a production. It doesn't have to be. He's just turning around. The walls pressing against all of him are stable. The rest of it doesn't matter. What happens afterward, still pressed inside here in the dark, that doesn't matter right now either. Turn around.
(ooc: if Bull needs to do/say something else before Dorian would say something or react, let me know and I can edit)
Dorian grits his teeth as the Bull struggles to turn. In such a small space, even something as simple as reorienting seems an impossibly large task. Dorian could manage it with some mild discomfort, he thinks, but the Bull is considerably wider and, more to the point, injured.
But is it the best option, going back the way they came? They know there were darkspawn wandering about, and even if those beasts have wandered off from where the Bull and Dorian had been, there's no guarantee they wandered far. And there's no telling how many of the things might be there.
From the blockage, Dorian feels the slightest breeze slipping through the gaps in the masonry. The Deep Roads have been unnaturally still, in all fairness, but the wide, open spaces and the fissures in the earth above have admitted something akin to wind. There's space on the other side, then.
So – they could return to a location where they know darkspawn will be.
Or—
The Bull's horns scrape against the ceiling again, and Dorian grimaces – both from the sharpness of the noise and in sympathy. When the Bull stops, when his breaths deepen and roughen, Dorian makes his decision. Perhaps it will prove to be a poor one. Or maybe it won't.
He reaches out, placing a hand on the Bull's shoulder to stop his progress. Dorian shuffles further into what space is left before the blockage, just to give himself room to move. He pushes himself up to kneel, one knee lifted to lend more stability to his stance. Taking a deep breath, he moves his arms, folding the Veil. The energy he draws from the Fade wreathes around him, winding around his arms, before flowing out to the slabs of stone blocking their way. Dorian raises both arms with effort, gritting his teeth, and the masonry shifts. A cloud of dust puffs out as the slabs grate against one another, and Dorian flattens both palms, pushing against an invisible wall. Slowly (and more loudly than Dorian cares to admit), the slabs slide outward, falling into the empty space beyond the blockage.
It's not exactly fresh air that flows into the crawlspace – it's a bit saltier, a bit colder than Dorian likes – but it's far better than the stale stuff lingering within the ruins.
(ooc: hope this is cool! lmk if you need more to work with.)
When Dorian touches his shoulder the Bull's body flinches. Strung too tight, too in his head, not aware enough of his surroundings- forget it. It doesn't matter. He focuses on what's actually happening around him right now, what Dorian's trying to tell him, what Dorian's trying to do.
He moves back, slowly, as he watches. Hadn't let himself consider that Dorian would do this, use that freaky, glorious magic of his to get them the fuck out of here. Cause if he considered it he'd start thinking he needed Dorian to do it, maybe needed it more than they both needed to decide whether it's safe. Maybe needed it enough to push Dorian to do it, whether it was actually a good idea or not. But Dorian's wrapped his arms in magic now all on his own and wrapped all that loose stone up in it too and the Bull watches it, tries to point his mind toward that while his body does the slow, too-careful work of turning himself the other way again.
That magic is the best thing happening in this damn tunnel and isn't that messed up, that that's what he has to hold on to but it's here, and then there's airflow, what passes for an actual breeze and he holds himself still, doesn't charge on past Dorian out into the open but waits for Dorian to go, to make room, and then stops once he's out there, trying to make his breathing slow down again as he leans against the wall.
Weight on the palms, swing the right knee up quick so the left doesn't have to hold him up for too long, and now upright. Upright, don't let the part of him that expects to hit a wall, a ceiling, make him hesitate, doesn't matter how tensed up he is as long as he gets it done, balance with the wall, hop up. Stand up, or get closer to it. No extra weight on the leg, but keep trying to use the pain. And if his body's still a little worked up, thinks there's something it needs to come down from - well, his body's a little stupid sometimes. Doesn't know what it needs. He knows what it needs. What they both need right now, for the Bull to be as close to reliable as this leg's going to let him get.
His breathing pulls in and out unsteady for a couple seconds more, and then doesn't shake at all. He lets himself swallow exactly once. And then the Bull looks around. Focuses. He can focus a little better now, feels it coming easier. It isn't taking as much work.
Things smell just a little worse out in the sort-of open air, but he's learned that he can't trust his nose down here as much as he thinks. What else can he figure out? They're not in the middle of these ruins any more, it looks like. Closer to the edge, nearer to that cliff wall. Not necessarily good news, but it could be.
"Your little... light thing," he says as he glances back at Dorian, voice steady and sure, mostly. "How far can it go? The quicker we see everything we're working with, the quicker we get out."
(ooc: That works! Bull's state of mind gave me plenty to say, and as soon as they start moving we can have the darkspawn come too so that should give us plenty)
Dorian is quick to exit the small space once there's room enough. He thinks he probably managed to tolerate it better than the Bull had – and little wonder why, considering the difference in their statures – but that hardly means he appreciated it.
He's a little shaky once they've escaped the little tunnel – the same, strung-out feeling as before. A spell like that would normally require only a quick moment to catch his breath, but now, having expended so much of his mana on spell after spell, Dorian knows he's in dire need of rest – a few days' worth, at least.
That doesn't stop him from turning back to the Bull, once the other man has pulled himself out, once he attempts to maneuver himself onto his feet. Dorian hovers uncertainly, hands out as if he means to catch the Bull if he stumbles; the Bull seems to manage it, but Dorian is still worried.
He masks it well enough when the Bull turns to look at him, hands dropping to rest on his waist in a close approximation to his usual stance. He glances at the wisps in question – the two that he dared to allow to remain, at least.
"Not too far, unfortunately. And they cast only a modest amount of light, at best."
Still, he frowns in thought for only a breath before he whispers a few words, lifting a hand to pull a few more wisps across the Veil – a half dozen in total. With a slow, deliberate gesture, he sends all of the wisps away from them, illuminating their surroundings in flickering, green light. The cliff's edge to one side, the ruins to another – but in one direction, there seems to be the remains of what might have once been some sort of path or road, leading up and away from the ruins.
A small, relieved laugh escapes him, tired around the edges though Dorian would refuse to admit as much. "That seems promising."
"Shit yeah it does." The Bull digs up a smile - easier to do with Dorian sounding tired like that, like he needs something worth smiling about - and then his eye darts over the path, all the open space between him and it. He shifts his weight carefully, testing, holds his breath for a couple seconds to make sure he keeps quiet, then shifts his weight back.
"Want to take your staff out again?" he asks like it's not a big deal, like his need isn't a risk that's going to slow them down. Or worse. The need is there whether or not he wants it to be so he might as well try to keep things light, might as well throw Dorian a wink when he says, "I might want to grab it a couple times. I'll let it go if you need to use it. "
If Dorian is surprised that the Bull manages to strike that all too familiar cadence, or that he manages to offer that ridiculous wink that Dorian refuses to find a little charming, he doesn't say so aloud.
"Really?" And Dorian's tone, this time, is tired in a completely different way – exasperated and impatient, though almost entirely for show. "You want to do this even now?"
But as he asks it, Dorian frees his staff from its place at his back, letting its base rest against the ground before he offers it to the Bull. He maintains his hold on the cool metal grip until the Bull takes it, until he's certain the Bull can maneuver himself to let the staff take his weight.
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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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Silly, how Dorian's become so satisfied in letting the Bull be the unshakeable one. That cold sense of worry continues to twist in his chest, and he wonders if he should bring this up later, if he should try and talk to the Bull about this, should mention it in the safety of camp or some tavern.
He supposes that's rather contingent upon their ability to survive this – something that Dorian prefers to take as fact, rather than chance.
He continues forging a path – he has little choice in the matter, admittedly – and he reaches the big shadow the Bull has helpfully indicated.
It is, in fact, a left turn, but Dorian has no time to feel relieved.
That path continues on for a foot or more before it terminates at rather sizable blockage of fallen masonry.
Dorian lets out a breath between his lips, that cold feeling turning weighty and sinking into his gut.
"Well," he says, and while his tone is as bright as ever, there's a bitter undercurrent there, too. Above him, the wisp casts the slabs of stone in green light. "I suppose now is the time to offer you a choice of good news and bad news."
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Hold himself still. Everything inside him now needs to be flat and still, pressed far enough away to make it easier to manage.
Yeah. Like that.
He knew this was a possibility. The feelings, the thoughts he'd been having about that possibility just a few seconds ago don't matter; he knows what he needs to do. Dorian's offer to make them a way out was just meant to make him feel better. Too big, too loud to follow through on. The Bull couldn't afford to pay much attention to the offer then, and he can't now. There's only one way out. Getting there is simple.
"Give me a minute. Not a lot of room for-" Making his head go quiet, or quiet enough, helped his voice out too, until he was stupid enough to say the problem out loud. He picks his voice back up where it dropped out from under him, makes sure the second half of the sentence comes out as flat as the first half did. 'Flat' isn't really ideal. Takes him, if anything, further away from sounding any kind of casual. It's what he can do. "-moving around that quickly. Gonna take a minute."
The walls scrape at his shoulders. To turn around, he's going to have to sit up. He finds himself doing it in inches, then pausing, expecting to meet the ceiling too early, taking in a sharp breath to brace himself, letting it out slow while he does the whole thing again. And again. One more time. Don't keep track. Don't count anything. Keep going.
When he does meet the ceiling his horns make that scraping sound again, the one he can feel inside his bones. Stupid that that stops him. They're going to do the same thing again when he turns. After one second, or maybe the second after that, he makes his breaths harder and sharper to stop them from shaking.
It's not that much of a production. It doesn't have to be. He's just turning around. The walls pressing against all of him are stable. The rest of it doesn't matter. What happens afterward, still pressed inside here in the dark, that doesn't matter right now either. Turn around.
(ooc: if Bull needs to do/say something else before Dorian would say something or react, let me know and I can edit)
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But is it the best option, going back the way they came? They know there were darkspawn wandering about, and even if those beasts have wandered off from where the Bull and Dorian had been, there's no guarantee they wandered far. And there's no telling how many of the things might be there.
From the blockage, Dorian feels the slightest breeze slipping through the gaps in the masonry. The Deep Roads have been unnaturally still, in all fairness, but the wide, open spaces and the fissures in the earth above have admitted something akin to wind. There's space on the other side, then.
So – they could return to a location where they know darkspawn will be.
Or—
The Bull's horns scrape against the ceiling again, and Dorian grimaces – both from the sharpness of the noise and in sympathy. When the Bull stops, when his breaths deepen and roughen, Dorian makes his decision. Perhaps it will prove to be a poor one. Or maybe it won't.
He reaches out, placing a hand on the Bull's shoulder to stop his progress. Dorian shuffles further into what space is left before the blockage, just to give himself room to move. He pushes himself up to kneel, one knee lifted to lend more stability to his stance. Taking a deep breath, he moves his arms, folding the Veil. The energy he draws from the Fade wreathes around him, winding around his arms, before flowing out to the slabs of stone blocking their way. Dorian raises both arms with effort, gritting his teeth, and the masonry shifts. A cloud of dust puffs out as the slabs grate against one another, and Dorian flattens both palms, pushing against an invisible wall. Slowly (and more loudly than Dorian cares to admit), the slabs slide outward, falling into the empty space beyond the blockage.
It's not exactly fresh air that flows into the crawlspace – it's a bit saltier, a bit colder than Dorian likes – but it's far better than the stale stuff lingering within the ruins.
(ooc: hope this is cool! lmk if you need more to work with.)
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He moves back, slowly, as he watches. Hadn't let himself consider that Dorian would do this, use that freaky, glorious magic of his to get them the fuck out of here. Cause if he considered it he'd start thinking he needed Dorian to do it, maybe needed it more than they both needed to decide whether it's safe. Maybe needed it enough to push Dorian to do it, whether it was actually a good idea or not. But Dorian's wrapped his arms in magic now all on his own and wrapped all that loose stone up in it too and the Bull watches it, tries to point his mind toward that while his body does the slow, too-careful work of turning himself the other way again.
That magic is the best thing happening in this damn tunnel and isn't that messed up, that that's what he has to hold on to but it's here, and then there's airflow, what passes for an actual breeze and he holds himself still, doesn't charge on past Dorian out into the open but waits for Dorian to go, to make room, and then stops once he's out there, trying to make his breathing slow down again as he leans against the wall.
Weight on the palms, swing the right knee up quick so the left doesn't have to hold him up for too long, and now upright. Upright, don't let the part of him that expects to hit a wall, a ceiling, make him hesitate, doesn't matter how tensed up he is as long as he gets it done, balance with the wall, hop up. Stand up, or get closer to it. No extra weight on the leg, but keep trying to use the pain. And if his body's still a little worked up, thinks there's something it needs to come down from - well, his body's a little stupid sometimes. Doesn't know what it needs. He knows what it needs. What they both need right now, for the Bull to be as close to reliable as this leg's going to let him get.
His breathing pulls in and out unsteady for a couple seconds more, and then doesn't shake at all. He lets himself swallow exactly once. And then the Bull looks around. Focuses. He can focus a little better now, feels it coming easier. It isn't taking as much work.
Things smell just a little worse out in the sort-of open air, but he's learned that he can't trust his nose down here as much as he thinks. What else can he figure out? They're not in the middle of these ruins any more, it looks like. Closer to the edge, nearer to that cliff wall. Not necessarily good news, but it could be.
"Your little... light thing," he says as he glances back at Dorian, voice steady and sure, mostly. "How far can it go? The quicker we see everything we're working with, the quicker we get out."
(ooc: That works! Bull's state of mind gave me plenty to say, and as soon as they start moving we can have the darkspawn come too so that should give us plenty)
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He's a little shaky once they've escaped the little tunnel – the same, strung-out feeling as before. A spell like that would normally require only a quick moment to catch his breath, but now, having expended so much of his mana on spell after spell, Dorian knows he's in dire need of rest – a few days' worth, at least.
That doesn't stop him from turning back to the Bull, once the other man has pulled himself out, once he attempts to maneuver himself onto his feet. Dorian hovers uncertainly, hands out as if he means to catch the Bull if he stumbles; the Bull seems to manage it, but Dorian is still worried.
He masks it well enough when the Bull turns to look at him, hands dropping to rest on his waist in a close approximation to his usual stance. He glances at the wisps in question – the two that he dared to allow to remain, at least.
"Not too far, unfortunately. And they cast only a modest amount of light, at best."
Still, he frowns in thought for only a breath before he whispers a few words, lifting a hand to pull a few more wisps across the Veil – a half dozen in total. With a slow, deliberate gesture, he sends all of the wisps away from them, illuminating their surroundings in flickering, green light. The cliff's edge to one side, the ruins to another – but in one direction, there seems to be the remains of what might have once been some sort of path or road, leading up and away from the ruins.
A small, relieved laugh escapes him, tired around the edges though Dorian would refuse to admit as much. "That seems promising."
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"Want to take your staff out again?" he asks like it's not a big deal, like his need isn't a risk that's going to slow them down. Or worse. The need is there whether or not he wants it to be so he might as well try to keep things light, might as well throw Dorian a wink when he says, "I might want to grab it a couple times. I'll let it go if you need to use it. "
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"Really?" And Dorian's tone, this time, is tired in a completely different way – exasperated and impatient, though almost entirely for show. "You want to do this even now?"
But as he asks it, Dorian frees his staff from its place at his back, letting its base rest against the ground before he offers it to the Bull. He maintains his hold on the cool metal grip until the Bull takes it, until he's certain the Bull can maneuver himself to let the staff take his weight.
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