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Katrina doesn't ask what the word means for a long time.
Once she masters katoh, she tries asaaranda out instead. She practices, trying to say it like Bull does. (She still remembers the way he said ataashi, drawing out the vowels in the middle, after they killed that first dragon.) She's afraid to wonder what it means, but she does wonder; she can't help it. He hasn't offered to tell her, and she isn't sure she wants to know. It sounds delicious—dangerous—when he murmurs it into her skin, but what if it isn't anything good?
Skyhold's library doesn't offer anything on deciphering Qunlat. Frustrated, she returns to the books Dorian lent her on necromancy instead. Her stomach crawls reading them, but she can't make an informed decision about where her magic takes her next without studying all avenues.
"Something the matter?" he asks her.
She turns the page—a little harder than necessary—and sinks deeper into her chair, feet kicked up on the arm of Dorian's. "Nothing."
He reaches over to pull the book down, eyebrows raised at her. "You're a terrible liar. You keep sighing. Not the nice sigh, either, like you're comfortable or enjoying this book I graciously lent you out of the kindness of my heart—"
She kicks him in the ribs for that—lightly, of course, but he gives her a theatrical wince for her trouble.
"More like you're angry," he continues, rubbing the spot, "or frustrated. Something is definitely the matter."
Considering, she shoots a glance across the library. If she keeps her voice low enough, no one will overhear her; the researchers are busy with their findings, paying her and Dorian no mind.
"Do you know any Qunlat?" she asks, snapping her book shut.
"Only a little," he replies, clearly bemused. "Mostly the bits about bodies becoming dust."
"Do you know what asaaranda means?"
"Asaaranda." He frowns, eyes narrowing. "Yes, that's a—wait. Why do you need to know?"
He scrutinizes her while her face slowly heats, but she doesn't back down; stubborn, she glares back at him.
"Oh, sweet Maker, don't tell me," he says, starting to grin. "Bull said this to you. Oh, that's too good."
"Just tell me what it means," she hisses.
"Oh, no." Chuckling, he leans back in his chair, returning to his book. "No, no, no. If you want to know what it means, ask him."
"I can't." She slumps, picking at the peeling cover of her book.
"Slayer of dragons, defender of the innocent, can't ask her paramour what a word in his native tongue means. That's peculiar, even for you."
"He isn't my paramour." She flips the book open again. "We're just...blowing off steam."
"He's not blowing off steam with anyone else, though, is he."
"How is it you know so much about my sex life when I haven't told you a single blighted thing?"
He rolls his eyes. "Half of Skyhold knows. You two are not exactly subtle."
"Hard to be subtle when you're seven bloody feet tall with horns," she mutters.
She goes to as many of her friends as she dares with the question.
"Qunlat? No," Varric says, scribbling away. Distracted by bills, he's hardly registered who's asking. "Got a friend who knows quite a bit of it, though. I could write him for you—but why don't you just ask Tiny?"
"Thanks anyway, Varric," she mutters, retreating before his attention to detail wakes up.
"A few words, mostly curses," Leliana offers. She, of course, knows why Kat is asking. She knows everything, so thankfully, she doesn't ask. "Sten was never particularly forthcoming about what his phrases meant. I think he thought us unworthy—and later, did not want to burden us."
She gets a few stories about the Fifth Blight—and a plan to ply Bull with cookies at some point, if her research doesn't work out—but nothing on how to make sense of the word.
She thinks Cole might be a good bet—at risk of him blabbing about it later—but he has nothing to offer her. "It doesn't hurt him," he tells her, shifting his weight carefully from one foot to the other. "It hurts you, though. Worrying, wondering, wishing—is it good or bad? A punishment or a reward?"
"Very succinct," she agrees, casting a nervous look toward the lower levels of the tavern, and departs before he can make any further observations.
"I'm afraid not," Josephine tells her. "They're not a particularly sharing people." She writes another line, then frowns, looking up. "What's this about?"
Defeated, Kat drops into the chair across from her. "It's something Bull says to me," she confesses, rubbing her temples. "It's driving me mad. I can't tell if it's a curse or a prayer or a nickname or something else."
"I'm sure you have already been told this, but—you could simply—"
"Ask him," Kat finishes. "I know."
Josephine puts down her pen. "He's quite open. I'm sure he would tell you, if he knew it was bothering you."
"I'm sure he would," Kat agrees. "I'm just not sure I want him to."
Josephine offers a sympathetic smile. "If it's any consolation, I doubt it's anything that speaks poorly of you. He seems quite...enthusiastic...about you."
She buries her face in her hands, cheeks red again. "Josephine!"
The other woman laughs. "Your quarters are above my office! I can't help what I overhear!"
She doesn't get an answer, but trading secrets and giggles with her friend does do something to put her at ease.
The instant she appears at Bull's elbow in the tavern, his eye glances up to meet hers. For a breath, he merely observes her—and then, as though reaching the end of his assessment, he abandons his drink. "Let's go upstairs," he offers, hand on the small of her back.
He's picked up on her anxiety. Of course he has. She keeps herself from fidgeting during their ascent, but once she's in his room and he's lighting the lamps, her hands twist together of their own accord.
"What's eating you, boss?" he asks, turning to face her.
She steels herself. "I, um...I was wondering."
"Yes," he agrees—faint smile curving his mouth. "And worrying."
She exhales, crossing her arms over her chest. "What does asaaranda mean?"
He lets her see his surprise. "A word is eating you."
"Yes?"
"Thunderstorm," he says.
"I'm sorry?"
"It means thunderstorm."
She considers this, her heartbeat gradually slowing; until this moment, she hadn't realized how loud it was, rushing frantically in her ears.
"Oh," she says at last. The syllable is boneless with relief.
He chuckles, crossing the room to her. "When we met, you fried the shit out of a guy right in front of me. He was close enough to touch, but you hit him and only him—not me—from thirty paces away. Precise as hell. It was raining—"
"It's always raining on the Storm Coast," she interrupts.
He gives her an exasperated look and continues. "And I thought I'd just gotten lucky, missed a real lightning bolt, but then you hit a guy on my flank—and I turned and saw you. All that electricity on your hands, on your staff. Asaaranda."
"So this is one of those nicknaming things that you do." She feels a little giddy, actually. "Couldn’t just call me Kat, or Rina, like everyone else?"
"Hey, it's a pretty good one. How many people can you really call a thunderstorm? It fits you." One finger beneath her chin, he tips her face up. "Feel better?"
She sighs. "Feel stupid, honestly."
"Still better than afraid." His voice gentles; his hand moves to cup the back of her neck. "You can always ask. It will never be something cruel." You will always be safe.
"I know," she says—and the nice thing is, she believes it.