unmaker plot [october]

[shok_ebasit_hissra]

Bad dreams weren't new to the Iron Bull. He'd been having them since... he was a child, really. Anxious nightmares about being possessed by demons and the nameless fears of a child. During and after Seheron, those fears had gained names, had gained memories: fog warriors, Tal Vasoth, madness. Even after reeducation those memories haunted him, and more than once during his ten years in the south he'd woken up in a cold sweat, or worse. His room in Skyhold looked like a wreck for a reason, especially after he'd lost the Chargers.

Most people assumed it was because he was a barbarian Qunari, and that suited him fine. No one needed to know that the Iron Bull fought demons in his sleep when the memories were bad enough.

Usually a warm body next to him helped to keep the dreams at bay. He slept well with Dorian nestled against him, and despite the upset of arriving in Darrow and the occasional troubling thought, Bull had enjoyed relatively restful nights for the past year.

But the past month was like being in the middle of Seheron all over again. As soon as he drifted off, nightmares plagued him. For the most part he was quiet through them, or he woke and simply didn't go back to sleep. He was tired, but he could still do his job and he tried to wave off Dorian's growing concern. Just a rough patch. Maybe it was the time of year, maybe it was-- he didn't know. Some thoughts weren't worth humoring.

That night, though, they were bad. He could see the bodies of the children, ravaged by poison. He could see what remained of the Tal Vashoth, ravaged by him. The smell of the blood heavy in the too hot, too humid air of the island. And somewhere in the back of his mind he heard Corypheus laughing, promising him madness.

Something woke him. Bull moved without thinking, rolling sharply until his full weight bore down on the body that had touched him, hand around a delicate throat and squeezing.

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[propertool]

Bull had nightmares. That was a fact of life. Dorian had them too, of course, but a nightmare for a mage was nothing at all like the nightmares of a mundane man or woman. When Dorian dreamed, he knew it was a dream. When he fought his demons, they were not metaphorical.

And that, somehow he knew, made things better rather than worse. In that respect.

Bull's nightmares had been getting worse over the past few weeks. He'd wake up in a sweat, confused, and refuse Dorian's comfort. He'd get out of bed and stand by the window in the kitchen with a drink of water and simply not come back. Dorian would wake, and Bull would be about his business, or still there, by the window.

Tonight, it reached a crescendo. Dorian woke to the sound of Bull panting, growling, whimpering wildly in sleep. Which he didn't do. He thrashed, and Dorian avoided a long horn before reaching over Bull and giving his shoulder a shake.

"Amatus," he managed. And then Bull was on top of him, face furious and cold. One hand forced Dorian painfully to the bed, the other wrapped huge fingers around his throat and began to squeeze.

Dorian hiccoughed. He felt a blood vessel burst in his eye as he coughed, clouding the corner of his vision with deep pink. He couldn't speak. He clawed at the broad chest above him, blocking out the pre-dawn light through the open curtains.

"B-Bull--"

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For several long, terrifying moments, Bull didn't see Dorian. Gods only knew what he was seeing, but it was not the mage that had shared his bed for so long.

But somehow Dorian's choking voice broke through and Bull immediately released him and pushed himself back, releasing Dorian from the heavy pin.

Bull look terrified.

"Dorian?"

His voice came out as a small whisper.

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When Bull's hand released, Dorian shrunk away. The brown skin of his neck had turned pale and ashy, the squeeze had pressed him bloodless. His face looked ill from lack of breath.

He didn't answer Bull, not because he didn't want to. His neck was still spasming from the pain, and the damage to his windpipe.

Dorian stared at Bull, uncertain, with a question in his grey eyes.

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He could have killed him. He'd been intent on killing Dorian. His Dorian. His kadan.

Horror at the reality of what had just happened numbed him out to his fingertips. Bull's breath still came in short, uneven fits and he was straining to hear Dorian's breath.

The question in Dorian's eyes cut deep, and Bull deserved it.

"Dorian, I--"

There was nothing he could say. He'd had his hand around Dorian's throat and he hadn't hesitated. He wanted to say something like, You can't surprise me like that, but it wasn't Dorian's fault. It was him.

He wanted to reach for the mage but he didn't want to see him flinch back.

Did I hurt you was pointless: of course he had. He was a seven and a half foot Qunari. Hurting people, especially humans, was easy.

"Are you alright?"

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Dorian held a hand up briefly to shush Bull, before spreading his fingers gently over his own neck. They glowed a faint, kind green as Dorian worked a healing spell on himself slowly, until, eventually, he could manage an answer.

"I will be." His voice was croaking.

He tilted his head slightly. A part of him wanted an apology, but that was nonsense. Bull had been hurt as much as he had, that much was obvious. Not physically, but did it matter?

"This has to stop, Bull. I've got to do something for you. No buts."

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He'd hurt Dorian badly enough that Dorian needed to heal himself before he could talk. How far had he been from completely crushing his windpipe?

Bull stayed silent, watching and worried until Dorian's voice croaked out. It didn't bring any relief but at least he knew the mage would recover. Physically. He ached to touch him, to crush Dorian close.

How often had he taken damage just to protect him?

He looked down, trying to muster some kind of argument. But all he could say was, "What are you going to do, Dorian? I could tell you how the Ben-Hassrath takes away memory... but I don't think that's what you're offering."

Even if it was what he wanted. He was broken. Someone needed to fix him, or kill him. The Qun demands it.

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"Some kind of potion. I'm not an expert, but there's got to be some sort of dreamless sleep concoction I can come up with under short notice. Just for a little while, Bull? Just until this is ... whatever this is, has calmed down."

He stared at Bull, begging, hurting for him. Whatever was going on, Bull was already troubled, and it wasn't doing him any favors. Dorian was afraid. Deeply afraid for Bull, not just because of the dreams, but because what they might lead him to think, and feel.

"What else is there? I can't let you strangle me to death in my sleep. You're already never going to forgive yourself for this."

He trailed off at the end, when talking had taken too much energy. The spell kept working, kept glowing dim and green.

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Bull slid his hand across the bed, reaching for Dorian but not actually touching him.

"Alright," he said quietly. He couldn't fight this, he couldn't battle whatever was happening in his head. Maybe he did need a mage to step in, or-- or something. Letting Dorian make something to help him sleep was no different from letting Stitches do it, he told himself.

His heavy shoulders sank slowly, and the Iron Bull looked utterly defeated by the whatever demons that lived in his memory.

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Dorian moved his thigh, just enough to touch Bull's knuckles. It was bare beneath his robe, warm from hours beneath the blankets.

"It's going to take me hours," he said, apologetically. "Even if I start now. It won't be cured until tomorrow night, but you'll have it then? Let me get out of bed."

Though he'd said it, he didn't move yet to crawl out of bed. There was urgency there, but he was still hurting, still baffled. Bull's dream had only just woken him.

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"Take a minute," he said quietly. He gently touched Dorian's knee. He had always been gentle with Dorian, he had always been careful, even when he was being rough. He'd never, ever hurt Dorian in a way that he didn't want.

Shame roiled through him. He knew better. He was better than that, had learned it over years away from other Qunari.

Perhaps you're going mad.

He shuddered.

"Can I get you anything?"

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"If you need the breather," Dorian said, "Some tea, with lots of honey. More than is a reasonable amount of honey. Lukewarm."

He placed a hand over Bull's on his knee and gave it a squeeze in reassurance. Bull had never hurt him, would never, not seriously, not when he was in control of himself.

"Amatus."

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"I'm sorry," he whispered. He curled his fingers beneath Dorian's and lifted his hand slowly. Bull kissed the mage's knuckles before he eased off the bed, stuff from the tension.

"Should I bring it back up or just wait in the kitchen?" he asked. Since he'd come back to himself, he'd kept his voice quiet and low, as if raising it at all might count as some kind of violence.

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"I accept your apology."

Dorian took his hand back so that he could wave Bull out of the bedroom. He gathered his silk robe around himself and dragged his body out of bed as well, standing by the bed, still looking vaguely like none of this was actually happening, lost.

"Bring it back up."

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Bull lingered in the kitchen while he made Dorian's tea. More than once he looked at the back door. He could leave. He should. Dorian said the concoction wouldn't even finsh brewing until tomorrow night, and even if the gray predawn was starting to get lighter, Bull was exhausted. He wanted to wrap around Dorian and go back to sleep.

But what if he did that and dreamed again? What if this time, he didn't stop?

He shook off the thought and prepared Dorian's tea, then brought the mug to the mage.

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Bull was only halfway up the stairs when Dorian gave a shout from the study across from the bedroom that he used for spellcrafting, enchanting and general magical studies.

He stood in front of a book-case. The books there were false, hollowed out, and carefully containing Dorian's rarer ingredients, more important bits and bobs.

He'd gone to find a book and some ingredients, to try to figure out a draught of dreamless sleep. What he'd discovered, instead, was a horrific and too-familiar sound in his head, a sick singing. The voice of red lyrium.

The book that had contained his stash of lyrium lay on the floor. The leather bag of it was open, large red crystals spilled out onto the area rug.

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Somehow Bull made it up the stairs in record time without spilling the mug. He even had the presence of mind to set it down as he stared at the sick red glow coming from the floor. Goosebumps rose over his skin and his jaw tensed.

On the tip of his tongue was an accusation, but that wasn't fair and he knew that. Dorian wouldn't keep red lyrium. Dorian knew better, knew as well as Bull did what the stuff was capable of. Still, the sight of it pulled at one of those deep-seeded fears. Corruption, madness.

He looked across the room at Dorian. "Are you alright?" he asked for the second time that night. At least this time it wasn't his fault.

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"Am I alright?" Dorian's voice, still rough from the violence, became shrill, as it often did when he was under a certain amount of stress.

"There is red lyrium on my study floor! Something's happened to my stash, it shouldn't be like this. It wasn't. It's gone corrupted."

Dorian swore a storm, hissing, creative curses in Tevene, strung after one another in regular patterns.

He looked around the room for, what? Some kind of impenetrable glove to pick it up and put the shit away. Where were his dragon skin gloves?

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Bull caught Dorian during one of his passes around the room. He held the mage, gentle but strong, and one hand tenderly cradled Dorian's head.

"Hey," he murmured. "There's red lyrium on the floor. And we're going to deal with it." He touched his brow to Dorian's, then let him go. He reached up to pull a box off one of Dorian's shelves. "Gloves are in here."

Of course he knew.

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As frightened as Dorian had been earlier, Bull's touch calmed him down. It was ridiculous, the way that Bull knew what to do to help, how he knew where Dorian squirreled away all of his important but rarely used things.

He took the box and pulled the gloves out, leaning into Bull. Dorian slipped the gloves on one hand at a time. They were gorgeous things, thin but impossibly strong, dark but glossy. They shimmered in a way simple leathers didn't, beautiful and rare.

Dorian could pick the mess up with them.

"I'll get them cleaned up, then start om your potion. I've got to get rid of this somehow after. Just burying it isn't good enough. Maker knows it will probably just grow straight out of the ground. Shit."

[shok_ebasit_hissra]

"Dorian, we can't let this stuff take root in Darrow. We've gotta find something - a box, I don't know - that's gonna keep it contained, that it can never graft onto and grow out of."

This was beyond Bull's expertise but he knew the sentiment was true. His stomach churned at the mere sight of the stuff, and he kept wondering if its proximity had been the reason his dreams had been so bad, or if this was just an indication of some other corruption happening.

"What has it been touching in here?"

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"Obviously, Bull," Dorian said, exasperated. But his annoyance wasn't with Bull, but the substance on the floor. Dorian, too, wondered if it had been partly the cause of Bull's nightmares. But he wondered more how in the Void it had gotten there.

Because, fuck.

"What doesn't it grow out of? The ground, flesh and blood, half the damn Emprise. Water. Maybe? Perhaps I could ... rig up something to keep it suspended, far out in the bay. At least then, if it did start to spread, it would be ages before it reached the shore."

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"Pretty sure that's how we get some fucked up sea monsters," he grumbled. He was still staring at the lyrium as Dorian cleaned it up. "You had normal lyrium. Did it-- is that it?"

The thought that Dorian's lyrium had, somehow, corrupted on its own was... disconcerting.

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"We're not going to get fucked up sea monsters," Dorian said, though he still had a little trill of hysteria in the back of his tenor voice.

He shook his head, and then bent to, very carefully, shuffle the pieces, glowing their dull red, back into the leather satchel he'd had them in. Then, for good measure, he put the satchel back in the fake book, and then put that into a little wooden curio sitting on the writing desk that he usually used to store crystals for enchanting.

"Well, it was -- will you promise me you're not going to yell at me if I tell you how I got it?"

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Bull gave Dorian a look. "When have I ever actually yelled at you?"

He might have raised his voice in Dorian's general vicinity, but it was usually on a battlefield or in a tavern. Bull wasn't in the habit of yelling; even when he disciplined the Chargers, he had usually stuck to a low and serious tone rather than something loud and explosive.

It was more effective.

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"That wasn't a promise, Bull," Dorian groused, but Bull had an excellent point. Still, he had been metaphorical about the yelling. Bull wasn't a voice-raiser.

He spread his arms helplessly, face knit.

"It wasn't normal lyrium. I got it from a boy who -- has the ability to pull things from his dreams. But it reacted the same way the genuine stuff did, and it worked for my purposes, so I ... spent a lot of money to buy more. It was a very lot of money."

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Bull stared at the box the lyrium was hiding in now, listening as Dorian explained where it had come from. Dreamed up by... who? Who in Darrow had that kind of power?

Who the hell would ever think it was a good idea to pull something out of the Fade?

Solas, probably. But Solas wasn't here. Bull would have known by now if that egg-headed elf was hiding somewhere. He took a deep breath and he let it go slowly. How could Dorian have known that something like this would be vulnerable to corruption? Still... The Ben-Hassrath in him whispered this is why they must be watched, this is why they cannot be trusted, but that wasn't fair. Dorian wasn't an idiot. Not in matters of magic. He wouldn't still be alive if he was.

"You should check on your source," he said quietly. "If this came from him, somehow, and he is the source of corruption..." He trailed off and turned his gaze back to Dorian.

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"Me?" Dorian gave Bull an alarmed look, which was also, very slightly, irritated. Dorian was not always hard to irritate.

"I have no intention on checking on that boy. He rubs me the wrong way. I had no intention of even thinking of him ever again. The red lyrium is one thing. It's got to go, and tonight. But the rest of this, it is not my fight, Bull."

Dorian was frightened. He was not very often frightened.

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"I almost killed you, Dorian." Bull's gaze lingered on Dorian and there was something immovable there. "And this stuff is just suddenly in our house?"

He didn't like that at all. He didn't know if the lyrium was connected to, or the cause of, his worsening nightmares, but he wasn't going to take any risks with Dorian's life.

"Corruption like this doesn't spring up out of nowhere, Dorian. Even if he's not the cause, he's a link. Tell me who it is."

If Dorian wasn't going to investigate then Bull would.

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"But you didn't," Dorian reminded, giving Bull a keen look. He knew that Bull was liable to spend the next few months worrying over what had happened, but Dorian was already over it. He didn't hold the Bull responsible in the slightest.

Bull's issues were his to forgive.

He gave a very long and very loud sigh. He knew that, by telling Bull who he'd gotten the stuff from, he was very probably breaking a bunch of unwritten rules about contraband and elicit substances (because it was far from Dorian's first experience with such.)

But Bull seemed not ready to take a refusal.

"A black-hired boy by the name of Kavinsky. I only met him a couple of times, because he had abilities similar to Ronan Lynch."

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But I could have, his mind whispered. Bull had not been in control of himself and that was dangerous. He couldn't see it any other way.

His eye focused sharply at the name.

"I know Kavinsky," he said, though he hadn't been aware of his ability to pull things out of dreams. He'd met Ronan, too.

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"And I implore you not to do anything too hasty to him," Dorian said. He hated it, but he felt great sympathy for the boy. As Dorian would most any mage, gifted with extraordinary abilities. For Dorian still believed, firmly, as he'd been raised to -- that such gifts were tools, meant for open use.

What had happened was not even guaranteed to be Kavinsky's fault.

"Bull. I've got to call Krem. I have to take care of this. But I'll be back. And I love you, dearly."

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"Be safe. Please."

It was all he could thing to say that wasn't a list of reasons why he thought this was a terrible idea. Bull moved closer and lightly touched the still-angry bruising around Dorian's neck. He leaned close and kissed the mage's hair.

"Please," he said again, pain in the back of his voice. Bull knew Dorian knew what he was doing, or had a solid idea of it, but that still did nothing to ease the visceral fear inside him.

"I love you."

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Dorian was not content with just a kiss on the head, not after the morning they were having.

He pressed himself against Bull, leaning as far as he could to capture the man's mouth in a kiss, deep and desperate, filled with all of the passion that his words didn't carry. He felt it for Bull, even if he was unprepared and fearful to speak it aloud.

"I always am."

He kissed Bull again.

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Bull wrapped his arms around Dorian, as tight as he dared, when Dorian kissed him like that. He held the mage close, protective and desperate, and he didn't want to let him go. He didn't want Dorian to be around something as dangerous as red lyrium a moment longer.

But it had to be dealt with. Dorian would deal with it.

His eye stung and even after the kiss broke, he held Dorian against him. Bull's heart beat fast again. What if he let Dorian go and never saw him again?

The next kiss drew him out of his thoughts and he returned it, soft and gentle.

"Go on," he murmured. He couldn't go, maybe shouldn't. He didn't trust himself to be entirely rational. Or helpful.

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"It's not so serious," Dorian promised him, with a very gentle smile. It was very much serious, but it was a lovely fiction and Dorian delighted in lovely fictions, especially if they kept Iron Bull from breaking down.

He scrubbed at Bull's face with his thumbs, right below his ears, before pulling away and gathering up the other things he would need. Bags, chains, a jacket.

"Cremisius will be with me. He'll do what he can to help my stupid arse, you know he can't help it."

Dorian moved toward the study door, paused in it.

"I've got to get dressed."

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Bull knew how serious it was, he knew, and no matter what Dorian said, he could not forget. The Qun did not really allow for pleasant fictions. Not in moments like this.

He let his forehead rest against Dorian's for a moment, eye closed while the mage rubbed beneath his ears.

Reluctantly, he let Dorian go. He noted that he talked about getting Krem, about taking the lieutenant along but not Bull himself. Maybe it was for the best that he have no part in this. Maybe it was for the best that he not be near the lyrium more than necessary. But he didn't like the idea of the Vints handling it, either.

What other choice did they have?

He sighed, let go of a heavy breath. "Yeah, you do. Be careful, Dorian... Please."

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"I'm always careful," Drian promised, sounding a little too bright again.

He offered Bull a soft wink as he left the room, trying not to touch the bruise on his throat. It felt very warm in the cool air of the room, and he imagined it would be moreso after he left to headto the coast.

"I'll see you ... "

When, exactly?

"I'll see you soon, Bull. Please take care of yourself."

He couldn't be in two places at once, more was the pity.

[shok_ebasit_hissra]

"Aren't you just," he huffed, but he couldn't quite make himself laugh. He followed after Dorian, feeling-- feeling lost.

He lingered like a shadow, too big and too aware of himself as Dorian got dressed and ready to go.

"You too."

Bull hated being left behind, but he couldn't be close to that stuff right now. HE couldn't stand the sick singing of it in his head. How the hell had he survived the Emprise?