Chapter Text
O Maker, hear my cry:
Guide me through the blackest nights
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked
Make me to rest in the warmest places.
— Canticle of Transfigurations 12:1
Could someone be “lurking” while standing still in broad daylight? The answer was clearly yes, Cullen decided, because the Iron Bull was clearly lurking. The Qunari and his mercenary band had only arrived at Haven a few days ago, and Cullen hadn’t had a chance to speak with him much, beyond the formal meet-and-greet. Given the rapidly diminishing free space at Haven, it had made sense for the Chargers to set up camp near the soldiers’ tents, and thus with a good view of Cullen’s training area.
But still. The Iron Bull lurked, and he always seemed to be watching Cullen. Every time that Cullen glanced in his direction, he had the feeling that Bull had only just turned away; every time that he paused his activities to peer suspiciously, Bull looked up and gave him a wink, as if Cullen had been the one staring. It was utterly aggravating.
Finally, after Cullen bruised his ribs because he was too distracted to avoid a new recruit’s sword swipe, he girded his loins to visit the Qunari. He’d waited for a quiet moment; Bull had returned from training his own men for the afternoon, and his young Tevinter lieutenant was off on some errand. So Cullen asked Cassandra to keep an eye on the soldiers’ training for a few minutes, and he marched over to Bull’s tent.
“Commander,” Bull greeted him in a perfectly respectful voice. “I was wondering when you’d stop by.”
Caught off guard by the politeness, Cullen stammered and suppressed his original frustration. “It’s been a bit hectic here lately, as you’ve probably noticed. But you’ll be fighting alongside my men, and I would like to be able to work well together.”
Bull nodded. “Easiest way to do that is to make sure we’re on the same page before each fight. My men aren’t really the type to march in straight lines, but if you tell me what you need them to do, they’ll get it done.”
“I can work with that,” Cullen mused aloud. Mercenaries were always a wild card, but Bull seemed confident that he could keep them under control. “I’d still prefer that we do some drills together, though.”
“Sure thing. Just let me know when, so I can stock some extra ale that night to reward my boys for the boring parts.” Bull flashed him a smile that softened his words but didn’t negate them, and Cullen felt the same irritation creeping back.
“There are actual demons out there, you know. It doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”
Bull voice stayed level. “We will be.” He paused. “By the way, you’re teaching your men a good defensive angle for their shields, straight from the Templar textbook. But some of them need reminding that shields can be an offensive weapon too, and that takes a different stance.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Cullen snapped, because he was, but there were too many men of too many skill levels for the kind of thorough training that he preferred. Then he closed his eyes, inhaled, and reminded himself that the comment had been intended as a contribution. Perhaps stopping the lyrium had affected his mood more than he’d realized. “I’ll be sure to train them in both techniques. If you’ve got the time, having another experienced trainer on the field would help greatly.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Bull said; there was an ease to his acquiescence that made Cullen wonder whether that had been his goal all along. “Never gonna turn down a chance to bruise up pretty soldiers for a good cause.”
“Well … good.” Nothing about Bull’s comments was inappropriate, but Cullen still felt the same fluster that flirtatious barmaids brought out in him — like he should have been able to respond wittily, but hadn’t the slightest idea of where to begin. “We can start with tomorrow’s drills, right after the lunch hour.”
“Works for me,” Bull nodded. “Be seeing you.”
Cullen walked away, still feeling off kilter, and he was halfway back to his men before he realized that he’d never actually asked Bull about his habit of watching him.
…
One of Cullen’s countless reminders that Leliana knew her business was the fact that her top priority for Haven — second only to necessities like food and blankets — was the establishment of a tavern. With a convenient spot to acquire ale at cheap prices, soldiers were less likely to terrorize nearby farmsteads, and the morale improvements were undeniable. Rare was the evening when drinking songs didn’t echo out of the tavern’s thin wooden walls, buoyed by cheers and the occasional high giggles.
Cullen preferred to drink alone. Intoxication turned his mind melancholy and lowered his resistance to the icy song of lyrium, and his drunken dreams tended to roam farther and darker than he liked. But tonight, the whole settlement was celebrating the return to order in the Hinterlands, and Cassandra had shoved a mug of ale into his hand. “You need to relax. Finish this,” she said, “or I’ll get the Herald to challenge you to a drinking contest.” Trevelyan had both an indomitable will and a disturbingly high alcohol tolerance; the threat was not an idle one.
Well, if he was to drink, at least he would not burden others with his dour mood. Cullen wandered the edge of Haven, staying within visual range in case of an emergency, but avoiding the occasional groups of loud laughter and louder boasting. He passed a few couples who’d sought solitude for a different kind of pleasure, and he could hardly blame them; with the end of the world painted across the sky, who could fault someone for finding solace in a willing partner? Still, the sight hardly quieted his brooding mind as he nursed his drink.
At last Cullen settled into a dark spot with his back to a mossy boulder. The ale in his mug was a familiar brew — liberated from a camp of recalcitrant Templars, no doubt — and it warmed his throat and flushed his cheeks with each bitter sip.
“You’d better hurry up, or it’ll freeze before you finish drinking it,” a deep voice rumbled from behind him. Cullen started enough that he nearly smacked his head on the boulder. He’d half unsheathed his sword before he turned and saw the Iron Bull watching him with amusement.
“Maker’s breath, how did someone like you sneak up on me?” The words were out of his mouth before he realized how offensive they must sound.
“Someone like me, eh?” Thankfully, the question was followed with a bark of laughter and not a glare. “Which part made you expect me to be noisy — the training as a spy, the years of creeping up on enemies outdoors, or the layers of noisy armor that I wear around?” Bull looked pointedly down at his canvas breeches and bare chest.
“I — that is,” Cullen stumbled, still staring at Bull’s chest, which was indeed very bare and very broad. He jerked his gaze away, cursing the tipsy weakness of his willpower. “Do you delight in discomfiting me? Because you’re very good at it.”
“Please,” Bull laughed, seating himself beside Cullen. “Half the lasses and lads in Haven have spent weeks trying to figure out how to make you blush. I just happen to be better than them at finding and exploiting the cracks in people’s armor.”
“That’s rather ironic, given how little of it you actually wear.” Cullen gestured again to his chest, this time trying not to let his eyes linger.
“Are you kidding? That’s one of my best strategies. When people think that they can see everything about you already, they don’t worry so much about protecting their own weak spots.”
“By that logic, you’d have even more success if you fought stark naked.”
Bull grinned approvingly. “Yeah, but then I’d just be too distracting to the rest of my team. Wouldn’t be fair to them.”
Cullen sighed, amused despite himself. “You’re impossible.” Impossible to deal with, but also — if he was being honest with himself — impossible to dislike.
“And you’re smiling, which is a definite improvement on brooding.” Bull raised his mug to clink cheerfully against Cullen’s. “Look, Commander, the Inquisition’s made some great steps in these past weeks, and you don’t seem like the kind of man who objects to a well-earned celebration. Something’s weighing on you, and I’d rather work it out now than have it hit me when we’re watching each other’s backs against ghouls.”
For a brief moment, Cullen almost yielded. Only Cassandra knew of his cravings for lyrium, and the memory-dreams that plagued him were his burden alone to bear. But Bull’s casual acceptance felt as safe as a Chantry confessional, and perhaps a trouble shared would be a trouble lessened.
Ben-Hassrath, Cullen told himself forcefully. Of course the Iron Bull had a way of putting people at ease for interrogation: it was literally his job. Leliana had vouched for the Chargers’ reputation, true; they had never turned against an employer. That didn’t mean that any secrets Cullen told him would be kept remotely private.
“I have it under control,” he said instead. “Your concern is appreciated, but unnecessary.”
“Riiight,” Bull drawled, but didn’t push further. “Well, let me know if you ever want a listening ear. Or just if you want some … distraction. Sometimes the fastest way to quiet the mind is to tire the body; it’s harder to worry when you’re breathless and exhausted.”
Cullen flushed; no wonder the Iron Bull had garnered his reputation. “I manage just fine, thank you.”
Bull’s laughter was loud and hearty. “Settle down, Commander; I meant a practice fight. Good for letting off steam and teaching the recruits. Though if you are interested in other forms of swordplay, you know where to find me.” He winked and rose up again, stretching his legs with a couple of audible pops. “Stay warm up here.”
“You too.” Cullen raised his mug in farewell, then watched the Qunari climb deftly back down to the main camp. His cheeks still burned with embarrassment at his assumption, but he felt undeniably less lonely than before.
…
As circumstances had it, Bull and his Chargers were called away the next morning to do clean-up in the Hinterlands, and the promised “distraction” had to be put on hold for a couple of weeks. With Trevelyan traveling along to meet a Grand Enchanter at Redcliffe, Haven felt almost dormant, and Cullen tried to balance training the troops with giving them the opportunity to rest and heal.
The delay proved to be a mixed blessing. On the one hand, Cullen was grateful for the chance to put his thoughts in order. He’d made assumptions about the Iron Bull, unfair ones; the Qunari was neither a lumbering druffalo nor an inveterate rake. Nor was he one of the terrifyingly stoic horned drones that Cullen had encountered in Kirkwall. He resolved to take Bull more at his word; he seemed genuinely interested in improving the Inquisition’s forces, and Maker knew that they needed any help they could get.
On the other hand, whether or not Bull had intended to flirt with him (of which Cullen was still unsure), the possibility had been firmly planted in Cullen’s head. Two weeks with little to distract him gave that seed ample opportunity to flourish and grow.
In the past, when he thought of it — which was as infrequently as possible — Cullen had always thought that his tastes were a simple result of his upbringing. Growing up among the Templars, idolizing older men with firm biceps and firmer wills, the occasional fantasy of subjecting himself to that strength was natural. It didn’t have to interfere with the plan to court a maiden someday.
And the nights Cullen spent bringing himself off with his hand, imagining a broad grey chest pressing him down into his bedroll and a gravelly voice whispering Not yet in implacable command — they didn’t have to interfere with his plans to do his duty as the Inquisition’s Commander to train the best troops he could manage.
…
Then the Chargers returned, wagons of battle spoils trailing in their wake. (Food, blankets, and weaponry tended to be shared generously with the Inquisition; barrels of ale, on the other hand, showed a remarkable tendency to vanish before reaching the quartermaster.) The next morning, Bull and his lieutenant once again watched the troops from their tents; every so often, Bull would lean over to make a comment, and the younger man would laugh.
During the soldiers’ lunch break, Cullen made his way over to the pair. “I hear you had a successful trip.”
“You can thank your boss for that,” Bull said. “With all the rifts cleared up and the Inquisition troops stationed everywhere, hunting down a few bandits was a piece of cake. Almost felt more like a vacation than an assignment.”
His lieutenant nodded. “At least it’s a bit warmer there. How you Southerners can call this climate habitable is beyond me.”
Bull grinned and clapped him on the back. “Krem’s a tropical flower, but he fights even harder when he’s pissed off about the cold, so it works out all right.”
“Krem, is it? I don’t think we’ve officially met.” Cullen bowed his head politely in greeting. “Cullen Rutherford.”
“Oh, I know who you are,” the man said, a hidden amusement behind his words that Cullen didn’t try to understand. “Cremisius Aclassi. It’s a pleasure.”
“So, Commander,” Bull said, after the two had shaken hands. “You here to take me up on my offer?”
Cullen sent up a silent prayer to Andraste that the bright sunshine would conceal his blush. “At your convenience, yes. I think my men would appreciate the opportunity to watch two experienced combatants, each coming from distinct training.”
“Happy to help.” Bull rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and stepped forward. “We using play swords or the real deal?”
Cullen eyed his hefty two-handed ax with some trepidation. Practice bouts with sharp weapons always looked impressive, but between two combatants who’d never learned each other’s rhythms — “Let’s begin with the blunt blades. I’d rather keep all my appendages intact.”
“Don’t worry, Commander; I won’t do anything to any of your appendages that you don’t want me to do.” Cullen thought he saw Aclassi roll his eyes, but he was too busy fighting his own blush to be sure. “But toy swords it is. Lead the way.”
The two armed themselves and faced off in the center of the soldiers’ camp. Around them, the men formed a wide circle of an audience, still finishing up their hunks of bread and cheese. As Cullen assumed a battle stance and watched Bull do the same, the Qunari towering over him, he felt a sudden thrill of doubt. He’d been trained by the best and battle-hardened, but he hadn’t had his skills honed by years of daily fighting for his life. Well, too late to worry about that.
Their rhythm took a few moments to settle in. The two circled each other, and Cullen made a couple of quick swings at Bull, less out of the expectation to hit him than a desire to learn his responses. Then he met Bull’s gaze, and Bull gave him the slightest nod, and the fight was on.
Now, Cullen had always been an awful dancer. He’d never had much experience to begin with, and when he tried, he felt like he either ended up yanking around his partner or losing synch with her altogether. But if dancing had ever felt like this, he was certain he would have loved it.
At first, Cullen focused on success: dodge one stroke, riposte to an unguarded side, swing up to meet the countering blow. After a few exchanges, though, he realized that he had vastly less control than he’d thought. Bull was choreographing both their moves: giving Cullen just enough cues to predict his strikes, then revealing apparent weaknesses to invite a counterattack. He’s toying with me, he thought, and swung back all the more fiercely at the humiliation of it.
Feinting right, he dug his toe into the dry ground before slashing low from the left, using the billowing cloud of dust to hide his footwork in a move he’d learned on the streets of Kirkwall. The satisfying whoosh as his sword passed a hairsbreadth from Bull’s arm was almost enough reward, but then Bull laughed appreciatively, as if he’d ordered Cullen to perform the feat.
It felt like fighting a training dummy made of granite. No matter how much Cullen honed his senses, how hard he swung, or how many tricks he dredged from his arsenal, Bull would always evade, absorb, or counter the move. Slowly, as they continued to circle each other and Cullen began to hear himself panting with exhaustion, his anger faded into a fierce focus, and abruptly he found himself laughing too. Bull demanded every inch of his abilities for their dance, but Cullen felt a strange freedom in being able to fight as hard as he pleased and yet know that he would neither achieve victory nor receive injury.
At last, when his muscles shook with the effort to maintain their stance, Cullen struck home, landing directly on the broad belt that protected Bull’s stomach. He had an uncomfortable feeling that Bull had allowed the victory, but it would look real enough to the onlookers. When they broke apart and lowered their swords, the entire audience burst into loud applause.
“Well fought, Commander,” Bull said. Cullen could hear his breath heaving too; that was a small comfort, at least, that at least Cullen presented some sort of challenge. “I’ll have to ask you for a rematch sometime.”
Adrenaline and delight buzzed through Cullen’s exhausted limbs. “You will,” he agreed. Then he turned to the soldiers who were whispering among themselves. “So. Who can tell me the name of that last move, and give an example of when it’s an appropriate action?”
As he returned to the tasks at hand, he tried to focus on the untrained soldiers around him. Otherwise, he’d just keep revisiting how blighted good it had felt to give every inch of himself to an opponent as unyielding as onyx and as gentle as a kiss.