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It’s dick-waving, basically.
Ser Francis from the noble Antivan House of Delgard has come to Skyhold, seen Bull, felt – quite understandably – a little intimidated, and is now trying to assert his fighting prowess by talking Bull down any chance he gets. It’s happened before, it’ll happen again. It doesn’t offend Bull. In all honesty, when it’s come from other folks, people with more to brag about than sheer size, Bull’s very happily taken it as a compliment.
Ser Francis refers to Bull as an ox-man, says he’s all brute force and no finesse, insists it’s an outrage that the Inquisitor’s bodyguard is little more than a dumb beast. All of this is said out of earshot of Bull, of course; Ser Francis is insecure after all, not a fucking idiot. It reaches Bull anyway.
Bull quite honestly couldn’t care less. Guys who’ve genuinely got the goods don’t have to shout about it. Anyone who matters knows what Ser Francis is saying is pure, unadulterated horseshit, and the rest can go to the Fade.
If Bull thought Ser Francis would do a better job of protecting Lavellan, he’d willingly stand aside. But he couldn't. The way Bull loves Lavellan makes his devotion to the Qun look like a one-night stand, and he knows there is literally nothing he wouldn’t do to keep him safe.
Krem and the Chargers pick holes in Ser Francis’s fighting technique and make jokes about his stupidly well-polished white armour, and get plenty wound up enough about it on Bull’s behalf. Dorian and Vivienne both give Ser Francis elegant verbal maulings whenever the opportunity arises. Cullen can’t go a whole conversation with Ser Francis without finding something to praise Bull about. And Sera, she regularly fills his boots with rotting vegetables.
Point is, Bull couldn’t give a flying fuck. Lavellan, though, apparently takes it pretty badly.
“He said we should forgo taking mules to the mines, and just use you as our packhorse instead,” says Lavellan. His expression is stormy.
Bull kisses the patch of skin just below his ear, hoping to distract him - because talking about Ser Francis seems like a fucking waste of time when he’s got Lavellan, a bed, and a little privacy all at once – and resumes unbuttoning the front of Lavellan’s jacket.
“He’s used to being the biggest guy in the room, that’s all,” Bull tells him mildly. “He doesn’t know how to handle all this Tal-Vashoth goodness in front of him. And-“ He leans in, voice dropping to a heated whisper, and says, “nobody knows better than you, kadan, there’s a hell of a lot of me, right? Little scary, you gotta admit. Some people might lose their head at the size of me.”
He manages to provoke a grin from Lavellan, although it doesn’t last long. Lavellan cooperates in getting naked for Bull, but he’s clearly still thinking about Ser Francis and that’s the first time Bull gets irritated with the guy.
“Let the little scumbag mouth off if it makes him feel tough,” Bull says. “What’s it matter?”
“It matters a lot,” Lavellan insists.
Bull lays Lavellan out on the bed and runs his fingers through the spill of his long black hair, fanning it out against the white pillows. He tries to decide what to do to him first.
He’s spoiled for choice, but Lavellan is the sweetest thing for being kissed. Bull likes to kiss him, nice and soft and tender, ‘til he’s got Lavellan all boneless and beautiful in his hands, and then Bull likes to press him down under him and give him the kind of working-over that’ll have Lavellan sleeping soundly for hours after.
Lavellan, though, is not getting with the plan.
“The things he’s been saying about you are unacceptable, and I'm not going to allow it to continue. I tried having Josephine tell him to stop because I didn’t like it,” Lavellan says. “But he’s still doing it!”
Bull stops and frowns. “Why’d you do that?”
Lavellan seems equally confused.
Instead of lying back in anticipation of being fucked to within an inch of his life, he props himself up on his elbows to look Bull in the face. “Do what? Try to make him stop? Because I don’t like people talking about you that way, that’s why.” The look on his face is both fond and frustrated. “Bull, you do remember you threw that merchant out of the window last week because he called me a knife-ear, don’t you?”
“That’s different,” Bull say, unruffled. “You’re the Inquisitor.”
“It’s not different at all,” Lavellan protests. “Even if you weren’t…” He cuts off, clears his throat. He ignores the delicate flush of heat in his cheeks, even as Bull devours the sight of it.
“Even if you weren’t everything you are to me,” Lavellan continues, with a steady composure of the type that Bull’s not used to seeing from naked folks in his bed who’re about to get fucked like an animal, “you are owed respect. I wouldn’t stand for anyone in my Inquisition to be abused by a so-called ally, certainly not you. You understand that, don’t you?”
What Bull understands is that the extreme proximity of Maker-damned dragons has proved less of an obstacle to getting Lavellan on his dick than Ser-fucking-Francis and his bad attitude. He has had enough of Ser Francis cockblocking him.
He pins Lavellan’s shoulders flat to the bed, using just enough force to startle Lavellan into silence, fixes his good eye on Lavellan’s face and says, very slowly and very firmly, “Boss, believe me when I say you are in desperate need of a good solid fuck, and, believe me also when I say I really want to deliver. But I can’t, not if you’re going to keep chatting away about Ser Frank the Asshole. So, what’s it gonna be?”
Lavellan’s pretty eyes are big and wide and dark, and he’d probably look fairly terrified – in a disturbingly fuckable kind of way - about having a huge aroused Qunari on top of him, if his own dick weren’t very obviously hardening.
“No more talk about Ser Francis,” Lavellan says obligingly, and Bull is all too happy to get started on him.
:::
And that should be it. The issue of Ser Francis should fade to the non-issue it is, and Bull should only hear about the guy when his Chargers are mocking the silly yellow feather plume on his helmet or some other shit.
Instead, he’s ambushed in a corridor by Cassandra, who looks more pissed off than usual, and Josephine, who looks more stressed than usual, and has to talk about Ser Francis again.
“Did you know what Lavellan was planning regarding Ser Francis?” Cassandra demands. Bull’s pretty sure from the look in her eye that if he says yes, he’s going to have to go a few rounds with her.
Before Bull can answer though, Josephine says, “I take the blame entirely. I thought I had made Ser Francis understand the depth of Lavellan’s dislike for his comments about you.”
“Ser Francis is an insecure fool,” Cassandra says without preamble. “The blame lies solely with him. But that does not help us in the situation we are now in.”
Then they both look at Bull, who in turn waits patiently for them to explain what the hell this has to do with him.
“Did you know about this?” Cassandra asks again.
“That Ser Francis is an asshole?” says Bull. “It’s not exactly Skyhold’s greatest secret. Beyond that, I don’t have a clue what’s going on.”
“It seems Lavellan has challenged him to a duel, for your honour,” Josephine says. “And Ser Francis has accepted.”
Laughing probably isn’t the most helpful response but Bull’s never heard anything so fucking ridiculous in his life.
First off, a tiny little Dalish prettyboy has challenged a hulking great knight to a duel because said knight has been mean to his even more hulking Qunari boyfriend. Secondly, that Dalish prettyboy happens to one of the most dangerous people in all of Thedas, and Ser Francis is willing to engage him in a fight.
Bull laughs very loudly, and while he does so, Cassandra gets more pissed off and Josephine gets more stressed.
Eventually, out of respect for the two of them, Bull manages to get a grip on himself.
“Okay,” he says. “So? Has Ser Francis spelled out how exactly he wants to die? Freezing, roasting, poisoning, you know the boss does it all.”
“No magic,” Cassandra says grimly.
Bull stops like she’s just slapped him. “What do you mean, no magic?”
“Lavellan has challenged Ser Francis under the Antivan Duelling Tradition,” Josephine explains. “They must use the same weapon when they meet.”
“At least Ser Francis won’t be able to use his greatsword,” says Cassandra grimly. She glances at Bull as though, despite what she said, she very much considers this his fault, and adds, “So they are to engage in unarmed physical combat, if you can believe it.”
It’s much less funny.
“Has Lavellan lost his fucking mind?” Bull asks, in as reasonable a tone of voice as he can manage. “With his magic, he’s a damn nightmare, sure. But brawling? Ser Francis is a big guy, and he’s trained in close-combat fighting. The boss is… The boss could really easily lose this one.”
Cassandra makes a disgusted noise and rolls her eyes. “Yes. We are aware.”
Josephine fixes Bull with an earnest gaze and says, “Ser Francis has chosen to accept the challenge rather than apologise to you. I fear he does intend to defeat Lavellan, so that he may say that he defeated the Inquisitor.”
“So I’ll lean on him,” Bull offers at once. “Make him reconsider the wisdom of taking on the boss.” If Ser Francis is thinking of knocking Lavellan about, leaning on him sounds like a fucking fantastic idea to Bull’s mind.
But even before he’s finished speaking, Josephine is shaking her head helplessly. “That will only make it worse. If it comes out that you intervened to stop a duel between the him and Ser Francis, Lavellan’s position will be severely undermined.”
“Similarly if Lavellan revokes the challenge, he will appear weak,” says Cassandra. She sounds thoroughly fed-up. Bull can’t blame her.
Even without his magic, Lavellan is far from helpless. He’s tough and he’s smart and, more than that, he’s devious. But Ser Francis, for all his insecurities and showboating, is an experienced fighter who is definitely not without skill. He’s also nearly twice the size of Lavellan. Bull knows intimately how fragile Lavellan’s body is compared to his own, and Ser Francis isn’t that much smaller than himself.
Ser Francis could snap Lavellan’s spine with one hand - and Bull is getting angry just thinking about it.
“How long have we got to figure something out?” says Bull. “Maybe Sera or Cole can teach him some tricks-”
“Until dusk,” Cassandra cuts in, with a pointed look out of the window at the darkening autumn sky.
So, about an hour then.
Maybe Ser Francis isn’t going to get chance to hurt Lavellan, because Bull’s mad enough to kill Lavellan first.
:::
“Okay, kadan, I give up. What the hell are you playing at?”
Lavellan looks up from the small bubbling cauldron he’s working at, and he has the nerve to grin at Bull. Most people have the decency to cower a little bit when confronted by Bull when he’s pissed off.
“What do you mean?” Lavellan says.
“You know what I fucking mean,” Bull growls. “Challenging Ser Francis. Without your magic.”
Lavellan scrapes a bowlful of crushed embrium petals into the pot – a healing potion, Bull realises, he’s working on a Maker-damned healing potion – and begins stirring the brew serenely. The heat rising from the potion makes the air dance and Lavellan’s skin glisten.
“Ser Francis insulted you. Now I’m defending your honour,” says Lavellan simply.
Bull raises his eyebrow. “My honour? Really? That’s a joke. I’m a spy and a liar and a mercenary. I don’t have any honour.”
Lavellan casts him a sidelong look and only tsks in reproach before going back to his work.
“You’re a stubborn little bastard sometimes, you know that, Mahanon?” Bull forces his tone to stay level and sensible, but he can feel his frustration building.
“And you love me,” says Lavellan.
Bull grits his teeth, because he’s a fantastic liar but there’s no point even trying to deny that. Lavellan’s smile is undeniably a little smug.
“If I gave a damn about Ser Francis running his mouth off, I could shut him up myself,” Bull says finally. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes I do,” says Lavellan. “Because I give a damn about you.”
Bull’s met some real douchebags in his time; none of them were ever quite as infuriating as Lavellan. People think that just because Lavellan is beautiful and heroic and possibly chosen by some kind of divinity he’s not capable of being a real shit. When he gets it in his head to do something, or that something is the right thing to do, he’ll stare down the whole damn Qun trying to get it done.
Bull moves towards him. He takes Lavellan by the shoulders and firmly turns him to face him.
“You could get hurt.”
Lavellan shrugs. “Oh well, that’ll be a brand new experience for me.” He looks towards the window, notes the colour of the sky, then pours water from a can onto the flames beneath the cauldron. “It’s almost dusk,” he says. “I should prepare.”
:::
The duel is to take place in a grove of trees beyond the gates of Skyhold. It’s obviously happening somewhat clandestinely, because only about twenty or so people are present to watch, rather than the whole of the Inquisition with every visiting merchant, dignitary and noble turning out too. The atmosphere is tense, with few voices raised above a murmur. Evening shadows are closing in and the sky is dull pewter. A ring of burning torches demarcates an empty space in the centre.
Cullen spots Iron Bull and Krem’s arrival, and he hurries over to them.
“This is a thoroughly bad idea,” he says in an undertone.
“You’re preaching to the choir,” Bull tells him.
Scanning the crowd, he easily picks out Ser Francis, standing almost a full head taller than nearly everyone else. He’s wearing only his breeches, putting the thick muscles in his chest and arms on full display. There are plenty of scars visible too, evidence of Ser Francis’ long career as a knight.
“Ser Francis is…ah... a very big man,” Cullen observes. “I heard some of the squires telling stories of how he bested three giants at once, unaided.” He’s trying to sound casual, but isn’t fooling anyone.
Blackwall is standing over the other side of the ring with Josephine and a deeply scowling Cassandra. Cole’s flitting about somewhere, and Sera is perched in one of the nearby treetops to get the best view. Vivienne has brought a chair from Skyhold – or, more likely, had someone fetch a chair for her – and is sedately sipping a glass of wine and surveying the crowd as if she were at one of Orlais’s finest theatres and is waiting for the play to begin.
Lavellan’s arrival is heralded by the sound of Dorian’s laughter. The two of them emerge into the grove, accompanied by Varric, who usually tries to talk Lavellan down from his crazier plans, but has probably been persuaded around by the thought of getting all the details for an interesting tale first-hand.
An uneasy hush falls over those present, though Lavellan seems unaffected by it. He removes his jacket and hands it to Dorian, who says something that makes him suppress a smile, then turns and enters the ring. Bull heaves a breath and shifts from one foot to the other.
This is a fucking terrible way to spend an evening: standing by, watching and waiting for Lavellan to get hurt. It goes against instinct. This isn’t what Bull does when Lavellan is putting himself in danger. Bull goes with him and introduces his axe to anyone who tries messing with him.
Reading the tension in Bull, Krem lightly bumps his shoulder against Bull’s side. “He’ll be fine,” he mutters, too quietly for anyone to overhear.
Lavellan moves to the centre of the ring, and everybody waits. His skin is smooth and silver in the moonlight, and his eyes are bright. Despite his willowy build and the delicacy of his features, he’s been Inquisitor long enough to have cultivated a definite air of authority.
“Ser Francis,” he says, his voice carrying easily through the grove, “will you apologise to the Iron Bull for the many untruths you have spoken about him?”
Ser Francis moves to face Lavellan in the ring. He’s enormous compared to Lavellan. If he sighed hard enough he could probably blow Lavellan off his feet.
“Lord Inquisitor, I have no wish to quarrel with you,” Ser Francis says, “but I have spoken no untruths.”
Lavellan nods, in recognition of his response rather than agreement, then he looks over to Ser Barris, apparently the designated arbiter for the duel, and nods again. However, before Ser Barris can step forward, Ser Francis addresses Lavellan, and the crowd, once more.
"Should I prove the truth of my words by winning this duel," Ser Francis says, "I demand to take the place of The Iron Bull at your side. I mean, ah, as your bodyguard, of course."
The clarification is unnecessary and awkward as fuck. Bull rolls his eye while Krem winces in second-hand embarrassment and Cullen gives a little cough to clear his throat.
Lavellan maintains his composure though Bull recognises that tiny tell of his, the slightest tightening of his jaw, which says he's displeased. "We'll see," is all he says.
Ser Barris hurriedly steps forward before Ser Francis can make shit any more cringeworthy. He runs through the rules of the duel – the usual stuff, non-lethal force only – but Bull is preoccupied with his rising aggravation at the situation. He flexes his fingers, forming fists and releasing them, over and over, and tries to keep his breathing level and steady.
“He’s killed dragons,” Krem points out quietly, while he pretends to be listening to Ser Barris. “He killed an ancient darkspawn magister.”
“With magic,” Bull returns in a low growl. “Without magic, any stablehand with enough muscle could take him on and win just by sitting on him”
“Ser Francis isn’t allowed to sit on him,” says Krem, the corner of his mouth lifted in a tiny grin.
Ser Barris finishes with the formalities and retreats from the circle once more, leaving Lavellan and Ser Francis to face one another. Ser Francis rolls his shoulders and stretches the muscles in his neck, while Lavellan stands and watches. Though Lavellan's stance remains casual, his eyes are narrowed in thought.
"He's quicker on his feet than Ser Francis," Cullen mutters, not taking his eyes off the two of them in the circle. "If he can keep out of reach, wear Ser Francis down enough, he might be able to pull off a victory that way."
Cullen doesn't sound sure, and Bull isn't convinced either, but it's Lavellan's best chance. Seems like Lavellan knows it too, because when Ser Francis lunges towards him, Lavellan darts away from him. Ser Francis swipes a meaty fist at him, and again, Lavellan nimbly ducks out of reach. Although Lavellan works most of his magic from a distance, he has enough battlefield experience of opponents who see him as an easy target to be very adept at getting the hell out of the way.
Bull's just settling in for what could be a very long and boring fight, when, abruptly, Lavellan loses his fucking mind and charges directly at Ser Francis.
It's a sight worse than demons.
Cullen whispers Maker under his breath, perhaps the start of a prayer, and Krem curses in Tevinter. Other the other side of the ring, Josephine flings one hand over her eyes and clings to Cassandra with the other.
Bull stares on in stunned horror as Ser Francis punches Lavellan square in the face. Even as Lavellan's reeling, his mouth wet with blood, Ser Francis catches him before he can fall, lifts him clear off his feet, and flings him to the ground. Bull's sure he hears the crack of bones as Lavellan goes down, and he doesn't care, Inquisitor's reputation or what-the-fuck-ever, he's going to murder Ser Francis into little pieces.
He's about to surge into the ring and put his fist down Ser Francis's throat when Dorian's hand clasps his upper arm, fingers digging into his flesh, and Bull is going to shake him off and keep going, but Dorian says, "Give our friend a chance," and something in his voice stops him.
"Have a little faith," Dorian whispers to him, and Bull forces his hand away from his axe.
In the ring, Lavellan has flipped over onto his belly and is trying to crawl away, but he's not quick enough and Ser Francis crashes down onto him, flattening him under his bulk. There's a furious tussle as Ser Francis rolls Lavellan back over beneath him and Lavellan fights him like a bad tempered wolf taking on a full-sized, fire-breathing dragon. Ser Francis tries to pin Lavellan's wrists to the ground while keeping Lavellan's hips trapped under his - and Bull's really not loving any of this.
Lavellan manages to smack his hand into Ser Francis' face, either trying to put pressure on Ser Francis' neck by forcing his head back, or instinctively reaching for magic. Whatever it is, it doesn't work.
Ser Francis draws his fist back to punch him again, but Lavellan's quicker: he rears up and slams his head into Ser Francis' chin.
It's a good solid headbutt, which Lavellan follows up with jabbing his knee to Ser Francis' groin before Ser Francis can throw him off. Maybe some would consider it dirty fighting but Bull sees Ser Francis' eyes watering as he gets to his feet, sees him shaking his head as if to clear it, and damn if it doesn't make him grin.
Ser Francis makes a clumsy lunge at Lavellan, who easily dances away out of reach. His gaze fixed on Ser Francis and he seems unaware of his own mouth still bleeding freely. With a choked bellow of rage, Ser Francis swipes out blindly. Lavellan flings himself at Ser Francis from behind and hooks one arm around his neck. His weight isn't even enough to make Ser Francis stumble but he hangs on tight. Ser Francis staggers about the ring, alternately pawing the spot on his face where Lavellan's headbutt landed and reaching back to grab at Lavellan, but he can't seem to shake him off and he's growing steadily redder.
Krem chuckles at the sight then quickly tries to stifle the sound in a cough. Dorian is beaming unashamedly. Even Cullen's eyes are bright with amusement.
At last, Ser Francis drops to his knees, and Lavellan takes his chance to tighten his grip on his neck and bear him down facedown on the ground. One knee in the small of Ser Francis' back to keep him down, Lavellan says, "Yield."
Ser Francis yells and bucks as hard as he can, and he very nearly dislodges Lavellan but Lavellan hangs on until Ser Francis collapses into weak, choked roaring.
"Yield!" Lavellan says again.
For a moment, it looks like Ser Francis is going to let Lavellan strangle him to death rather than submit. Then, he flings his hand out, lets it waver in the air a heartbeat, before he slaps the ground twice.
"I'll be damned," Cullen says.
From her treetop, Sera cheers loudly, and obscenely, enough to be heard of the excited buzz of the gathered crowd. The only sign that Vivienne's pleased by the result is in the way she raises her chin, smiling in cold triumph.
Lavellan releases his hold and moves away. He crosses to the other side of the ring, and presses his forearm to his mouth to stem the flow of blood. He smoothes back the tendrils of his black hair that have come loose from his bun and braids in the struggle. A healer comes to attend to him and while she works Dorian slaps Lavellan on the back, laughing.
"Inquisitor Lavellan has won the duel," Ser Barris announces. He does a good job of sounding composed and impartial and not at all surprised. "Ser Francis," he says, turning to him, "by the terms of the challenge, you will deliver an apology to the Iron Bull before the week is out and you will no further-"
"Magic!" Ser Francis shouts. His face is ruddy, his eyes still swollen and wet. He wheels around to face Lavellan, who watches him expressionlessly. "You cheated. There is no way you- You used magic to beat me."
The crowd's cheering drops away into an uncomfortable silence.
Ser Barris darts a look at some of the other knights before he says, very carefully and diplomatically, "Ser Francis, there are several templars present, besides myself. One of us would have detected magic being used. No magic was worked."
Ser Francis stabs a finger in Dorian's direction. "You helped him then. You cast some kind of spell."
Cassandra moves to intervene but Cullen's already there - they both know that letting Dorian involve himself too heavily in the argument can too easily lead to a dramatic escalation.
"Magic worked by anyone, in or near this ring, would have been felt," Cullen says steadily. "There was none."
"Please, Ser Francis," Josephine tries. "The match was fairly fought-"
Ser Francis shakes his head obstinately. "No." He glares at Lavellan. "You cheated."
Lavellan draws himself up, once more in his grey Inquisitor's jacket, but Bull's had enough. He steps in and not so subtly positions himself between Lavellan and Ser Francis.
"Listen to me," Bull says - and everyone can hear him but he makes sure the bloody glint in his eye tells Ser Francis he's only talking to him. "If you accuse the Inquisitor of cheating, you're insulting his honour, which isn't okay by me. And so it would be my place to challenge you to a duel to defend his honour. Understand?"
He hefts his axe meaningfully and, just in case he hasn't been clear enough, says, "You'd be duelling me this time."
Bull lets that sink in, and he gives a satisfied nod when Ser Francis suddenly doesn't have anything more to say on the subject. Bull turns to Lavellan and offers him his arm. "We done here, boss?"
"Yes, Bull," says Lavellan, all dignified serenity. "We're done here."
:::
After, they spend an excessive amount of time in the bathtub together. Bull says the hot water is good for aching muscles and that Lavellan will be all cramped up tomorrow otherwise. When finally they emerge from the water, Bull stretches Lavellan out and massages him neck to toe. Bull is thorough, even though Lavellan seems determined to distract him from the task by making some really fucking filthy sounds of enjoyment. Nice as the sighs and whimpers are, Bull's got something else on his mind.
He waits until Lavellan is soft-eyed and wonderfully pliant, in such a state that he wouldn't even pretend to be scandalised about whatever Bull wanted to do with him, and then he says, "So, did you cheat?"
"What do you think?" Lavellan says, sounding drowsy and amused. "Of course I did."
"How'd you get your magic past the templars then?"
Lavellan doesn't answer, so Bull bends down over him and lick the back of his neck. "Kadan?" he prompts.
Lavellan gives a long, languorous sigh and rolls over onto his back so he can look up at Bull. He gazes at Bull with heavy-lidded eyes as he run his fingertips along Bull's cheeks, and his touch holds a tenderness that makes Bull's chest go tight.
"No magic," Lavellan says at last. His lips quirk into a smile. "Embrium."
"Embrium?" Bull echoes.
"Dorian, you see," says Lavellan, "happens to be on close terms with Ser Gregorio, who's known Ser Francis for years. And he happened to mention to Dorian, who happened to mention to me, that-" He pauses, savouring a smile, "-that Ser Francis is allergic to embrium. Nothing serious, but it blocks up his sinuses, makes his eyes water, makes him pretty uncomfortable."
Bull bellows with laughter. "And by some coincidence, you just so happened to choose the evening of the duel to distil some embrium essence and, what, paint your skin with it?"
"I bathed in it! Washed my hair in it. Soaked my shirt in it and let it dry," Lavellan says. "Only problem was I had to get up close to him for it to have any effect. I thought he was going to put a right angle in my spine!"
Lavellan falls into helpless laughing then, the kind of laughter that Orlesian nobles and high-ranking chantry sisters never hear from him, and Bull scoops him up to sit in his lap. Very gently, so as not to hurt his split lip, Bull leans in and kisses his mouth.
"That's sneaky, kadan," he tells him.
"Mmm," says Lavellan. "But you love me," and Bull can't argue with that.
~end