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There was a corner of the Iron Bull's room that the mercenary had actually cleaned, placed a comfortable chair in, and provided a rather wonderful little table and bookshelf, just for Dorian's use. He actually had a very decent collection of light reading in various languages. Actually, the amazing bit was that how intelligent the Bull was. Also how much time he spent hiding that intelligence behind a protective screen of bravado.
Dorian, for his part, was draped in a glorious silk robe his lover had gifted him. He had himself draped over the chair, reading. This one was a most surprising volume; a book of Qunari love poems, with their Tevene translations beside them. He couldn't remember seeing it before. Yet, somehow, the very night of the celebrations, the war finally won, Corypheus dead, this book was sitting on the chair as if waiting for him when they were finished their bathing.
The Iron Bull was standing at the opposite end of the room, looking out a window, wrapped in only a long swath of fine linen around his hips. He was rubbing his chin, looking contemplatively out at the stars and at the sky. The soft glow of lights that were the last scars of all that they had fought together to undo.
"You are being unbelievably civilized this evening,” Dorian murmured. “Dear Maker, you've been practically taciturn!" He said with a yawn covered behind the pages of the book. He could stand the silence no longer. "What did you drink to quench your boisterousness, oh great horned beastie?"
His lover only grunted a bit, and turned, his broad back against the stones. His whole hand brushed the stubs of the other one for a moment. His leg brace creaked in the silence that stretched between them as if in time with the crackling fire that warmed the room. The Iron Bull's eye seemed to linger over Dorian dark skin for a few long moments before he said in a voice that was nothing like his regular 'outdoor voice'. "A little bird told me you are going back to Tevinter."
Dorian's jaw clenched. His eyes rolled back. "A little red-haired bird, no doubt," he shifted uncomfortably.
Bull shook his head no. "You still haven't figured out how to spot an elf standing three paces away from you," he muttered and rubbed the back of his head.
Dorian was about to tell him that he'd already agreed to stay, but the remark made him peevish. Let the brute suffer a bit longer. "And if I am? My homeland is not going to change for the better unless those that are willing to make the change are there," he crinkled his nose distastefully.
The Iron Bull spread his hands. "I know. That's why I'm coming with you."
Dorian blinked twice. His head tilted and all expression fell from his face. "You're... what?"
"I'm coming with you," he repeated, moving over to sit at the foot of what Dorian had subconsciously started calling their bed some time ago.
The mage rubbed the back of his neck and felt his thoughts flow slowly back into his mind like a spring. "And how," he said after taking a moment to ensure his voice would have the perfect level of condemnation and irony. "Would that go, exactly? What, 'How do, mother dear. Your beloved son is home, and look, father! I know you wanted to blood magic my sexual preferences away, but here's my lover! Not only is he male, he's also a member of the species trying to kill us!' Yes. Son of the year that would get me."
The warrior was rubbing one of his horns like it itched. "Only if you're trying to stir shit," he grumbled.
"Oh? Grand. The barbarian is going to school me on strategy!" Dorian was up and walking around now, the silk falling off one shoulder. "Do tell me your brilliant plan, oh great horned one!" he sneered.
"I'd go back as your slave. A war trophy."
What was air? What was sound? Everything in the room got silent, even the flames on the hearth seemed to stop. Dorian found himself dead still, slowly turning to look with an incredulous amount of confusion, almost to the point of absolute terror on his face and in his eyes. The voice that fell from his lips, even though he was not cognizant of moving them, simply asked, "My what?"
Bull had his wrists resting on his knees. His winced as he flexed his bad leg a bit and took off his brace. "Got it all figured out. You're going back to Tevinter, the Inquisitor gave you, well, me as payment for all your services," Dorian tilted his head and blinked again, finding himself unable of saying anything. "Look, I've thought about this. It's the best way," he reached into his bedside table for a jar of the ointment he used on his bad leg. He said something quietly that sounded a lot like, 'the only way', but Dorian was half convinced already he had fallen into complete madness by this point.
The mage practically fell back into his chair and looked over at the large man who was rubbing the minty concoction over his ankle, grumbling about the coming storm, as if this were any other night. It took the younger of the two men a long time to find his voice again. The ointment was put away and the Bull looking at him out of the corner of his eye as he used strips of thick cotton to wrap around his leg for the support in the night.
"And how, exactly, would that even work?" he asked again, his voice low, to keep out the squeaky panic threatening to chase away his senses again.
The Bull almost nonchalantly picked up a bag from under the bed at what seemed like random, and threw it over to Dorian. He picked it up and opened it slowly. What he was looking at as something he hadn't thought he'd ever see again. Horn stub caps, collar, wrist cuffs. Spiralling with runes of ownership with Dorian's own seal. "Horn caps... those are for stubs," he didn't look up.
The Bull didn't look up at him, either. He rolled his shoulders. "Figure, already Tal-Vashoth. The rack isn't doing me much good anymore anyway."
"You'd... break off your horns?" Dorian asked slowly. "Just to go to Minrathous with me, to be convincing as my slave?" A grunt of ascent. Dorian flung the bag away, growling out "Vishante kaffas!" He buried his head in his hands, gripping his hair tightly and pulling. He shook like a new colt. What the hell was the brute thinking? "No one is worth losing your freedom you bloody oaf!" His voice trembled far more than he would have liked.
Although he didn't hear him move--and that was still bloody terrifying even after all they'd been through together, how quietly someone as big as the Bull could be when he wanted to--Dorian's lover knelt before him and took his hands within his good hand. "Perhaps not," he said quietly. Calloused stubs tilted Dorian's chin up to face him. "But you are worth far more than the simple illusion of freedom, Kadan."
Kadan.
He'd been called that before. Over and over again some nights.
Just a little more, Kadan.
I know you can hold on, Kadan.
My beautiful Kadan.
Dorian always assumed it was a simple pet name. Something like 'Kitten', or 'Bunny', or whatever one would say to a favourite lover. Until tonight. Until that bloody book of poetry spoiled his illusions. "Kadan" was translated as "Amatus". But the closer translation was, of course, 'my heart'.
Dorian shook his hands free of the Bull's grasp and began hitting at his chest, pushing him over. Smacking him as he fell on the floor with a soft 'oof!' Then Dorian was on top of him, robe afrenzy, kissing all over that frustrating, unfathomable face. "Oh you bloody big druffalo!" he growled between kisses.
The mercenary’s calloused hands were on his lover’s hips. "Help me out here.... I mean, I'm usually good at figuring out what I've fucked up, but I'm having a hard time reading this one," The Bull muttered.
Dorian looked up and cupped his face and kissed his lips deeply. After, he pressed his forehead against the other man's. "I'd already decided to stay here with you," he murmured quietly.
"Really?" Bull grunted.
"Ask the Inquisitor. I told her this evening while you were helping Krem drink from that keg upside down," he chuckled weakly and nuzzled his nose against the Bull's. What a bloody pair they made.
There was silence but for the fire crackling and the Bull's loud breathing. "Well, shit!" he growled. "Do you have any idea how much all that slave shit cost?" He stood up, throwing a squeaking Dorian face first on the bed in one motion, his silky robe sailing over his head. "I'm going to take the cost of it out on your hide, 'Vint!"
The only reply that came to mind other than the laugh he knew would get him into far more trouble was a very muffled "Festis bei umo canavarum, Amatus."