Chapter Text
He had awoken to a tomb of pulsing blue stone. All around was rock, and all was alive.
He had not made a sound— this was fitting. Silence was his call, emptiness his purpose.
He had felt nothing— no sound from his siblings, no gentle press against his mind. This was unsettling— this particular emptiness not to his liking. He searched— twisting in his living tomb, scales scraping against blue rock and making no sound, swallowed by his silence.
But they were gone. He reached farther, and felt a horrible, corrupting darkness— no quiet here, but the hiss of depravity, monstrous and dripping with the blood of the Golden City. Recoiling, he flicked open large eyes, settling his awareness back into his body.
What had happened during his slumber? What beast dared make such a repulsive noise?
Where were they?
He clawed his way to the surface, steady as a newborn lamb. The blue stone was protective and sapping— cocooned around him to keep him in slumber— humming with a Titan’s lullaby. Each press into the rock felt more exhausting than the last.
This was unacceptable. He was not weak, no matter the shaking of his body under the weight of so much sound. No stone god would stop him.
His limbs trembled as he hauled his body up, up, up and out of the embrace of the Stone. As sun hit his scales, he shifted. His Avatar was as it always was— a titanic facsimile of a mortal, with horns to mark him as the Dragon of Silence, skin as ashen as his scales. He was bare, but the ground was warm. He felt the press of mortal minds to the North, cacophonous and needy.
It was there he would head—clearly, they needed to learn the value of silence.
It was fitting— so very fitting, in the face of all that had gone wrong— that the first mortals he encountered tried to kill him. Mages with robes of the old priests, hurled curses and spells at him with equal finesse— that is to say, very little. He brushed both off, crushed their throats to ensure they stayed quiet, and left. He took no pleasure in their deaths, but there was little to be done, not when they had raised a voice against him.
The encounter was unsettling— they should have recognized this form, bowed before him, and given him their silence. They had not, instead calling him by an unfamiliar title. Something was very wrong. Too much time had passed since he was forced into sleep, and Thedas had changed. His siblings were gone, the world too loud.
Perhaps it was finally time to break his silence.
He did question though— what the blazes was a Qunari?
He appreciated the Ben-Hassrath for their knowledge of silence. No need for names, only titles. No need for conversation, only orders. No need for idle chatter, only carefully chosen words. Everyone had a place— everything, a reason. The Qun was a religion of efficiency, and efficiency was blessedly muted. Joining them was no hardship— especially with the pleasure the conditioning of a convert brought. The weakness haunting his steps lightened with each mind brought to calm— made quiet and purposeful.
His loyalty was not truly with the Qun, but it was not with anyone— he was chief among the gods. Any ties to the mortal world had disappeared with his last High Priest and the destruction of the Choir of Silence.
But the information— the knowledge the Ben-Hassrath gave him— was disquieting. His siblings, dead or in the use of this blight. His pantheon, sealed and corrupted and blamed for all of it. Only Razikale remained, and she was the Dragon of Mystery— he had no hope of finding her if she did not want to be found.
He was alone, and for once, his silence did not comfort him.
He did wonder at the appearance of the Qunari, though. They looked so like his Avatar— had a dalliance with a mortal resulted in offspring? He could not remember. He’d taken mortal partners— spent nights taking apart their composure, unfurling them gently and indomitably— but they had not mentioned such a thing to him. But why would they? It would just be swallowed in his silence.
He had not expected to gain a friend, of sorts, but he could not have accounted for Krem. The mortal stood tall and proud— mouth moving, but mind quiet and calm as ice.
It was this stillness that drove him forward, made him take the blow, spill a god’s blood across a tavern floor. An Avatar’s eye was a small price to pay to keep this silence alive. That he gained a follower from it— a devotee, for the first time in a thousand years— well, that was a happy coincidence. Krem spoke, yes, quick and clever, but it was manageable. Unproblematic, even— he had grown accustomed to the mortal world, with the constant clamor of speech. His silence had grown strong in the fortress of the Qun— it could once again bear the strain.
The rest of the Chargers were equally accidental, but no less welcome. Their teasing— insubordinate and yet so loyal— reminded him of his siblings. He laughed with them, drank with them, healed with them, broke his silence with them—
They were his to hoard. They helped shape his purpose, this new mortal persona, his escape from a lonely new existence. He still mourned— how could he not? — but he also lived.
Their presence had forced him to choose a name— those outside of the Qun needed one. The Iron Bull was not the most inconspicuous of titles for a spy, but well; it was better than Dumat.