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For pavus_redemit Kirkwall

The taste of ash lies thick in the air. For once something manages to overpower the foundry stench and blacken the perpetual orange of Kirkwall's night sky. Rubble lies massed in the streets, flung from the highest point to almost the lowest. Insanity and sudden chaos in the wink of an eye, a fateful explosion that has Cullen still blinking back blue lines, negative light impressions burned onto retinas.

Knight-Commander Meredith has left the Champion with an ultimatum that she not surprisingly doesn't take, murder her companion and choose their side, or the mages will all face the consequences. Hawke has vowed to fight to the bitter end to protect the mages of the Circle from the Right. Cullen privately hopes that she'll keep that word whether he agrees with her sparing of the abomination or not. This is all moving too fast with blame falling in the wrong quarter. The right answer isn't more blood. Meredith is implacable with all of them drawn along in her wake of righteous fury.

Cullen doesn't stay silent, arguing about the Champion. Surely arrest will be enough. Kirkwall's nobility won't stand for one of their grudging own being murdered by the arm of the Chantry. It isn't their place, Viscount or no Viscount in office. To his surprise, he earns concession on that front.

Then there is no more room for talking. They come upon their first wave of demons and abominations slaughtering unfortunates. The night turns red and black, a mist of blood and ichor. Cullen bashes his way through wave after wave of evil torn straight through the Veil, called by violence and horror. His sword arm burns. His shield feels as though it gains twenty pounds of its own volition, all of that before they reach the Docks District.

He hears a sound up toward the boarded up Qunari compound, more fighting. He peels away from the main force following Meredith, promising to catch up shortly, and runs up the steep steps. Breathless at the top, he sees flashes of fire past the barrier. He throws his weight behind his shield and bashes it in enough to gain entrance. A lone figure stands in the long abandoned plaza battling demons with magic and not an abomination himself. Without further thought, Cullen charges into the fray. "Aid behind you!" he shouts. He doesn't want to be mistaken for another enemy in the fight.

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Once they're back at camp, those who remained behind spring into action the moment they see them and realize something went wrong. They force the injured off their feet to tend them, low, murmured conversations about what happened, how no one saw it coming.

Cullen stays on his feet and remains a presence until everything that can be done while they wait for the other group has been. Only then does he go to sit off to the side and work on starting to clean himself up. The ichor from the spiders and the demon is more corrosive than blood. He removes his gauntlets and gets to work on the joints and rivets with oil and a polishing cloth. It takes his mind off the failure and gives him time to consider how they'll proceed the next day. The dead scout has already paid the ultimate price for carelessness. He was the one in charge of the main route tonight. Cullen considers the demon could have had something to do with it, confusing him, addling him, making him forget. He can't ask him now.

He sighs heavily and leans in closer to the fire the better to see. It has been a humbling reminder that the best laid plans don't always save lives and that outside the walls of Kirkwall are every bit as deadly as what remains within. He hates the Free Marches more by the day.

At the camp he watches the guards and the mages build pyres together. Normally, he would be proud to see that sort of cooperation but it feels hollow tonight. He watches them light the fire before he turns away.

He goes off by himself with his staff. The familiar steps of cleaning the blade, polishing out chips and cleaning the wood soothes some of his mind. He'll have to practice more when he returns to Kirkwall and somehow learn to accept that he failed. Dorian doesn't like to fail. He hates it. The memory of his father's voice is too fresh.

Muttering a Tevinter curse he sets his staff down and stares off in the distance, scowling deeply. His eyes land on Cullen who is tending to his armor. He doesn't look happy about this either. He is fond of the man, he really is, and he doesn't know what to do about that. He's fond of these people but not in the same way. His foolish heart once again trying to get him in trouble.

Cullen is at the cleaning for a long time, even after the other party returns. Aveline crosses to him. They exchange several low words. By the time she leaves his side, she looks grim but not particularly angry.

There comes a time his hands are too tired to hold the metal. He has stripped out of and cleaned much of it. He'll get to the rest after a break. Wringing and rubbing at them, he spots Dorian off away from the others. He rises to join him and sits down heavily, close but not touching.

"I've heard stories of spiders that big." He begins without preamble. "It's my first time seeing one. It's rare for them ever to leave the caves that spawn them. That demon must have drawn it out."

"Demons don't draw out, they take over," he corrects, his tone like a lectures. "The demon used them like tools. Most animals will run from demons. They seem to sense how... corrupt they are."

He sighs heavily and shakes his head. No need to dwell on that or giant spiders. He knows it's going to be a rough night for the mages with the Veil corrupted like it is.

"What did the Guard Captain want?" he asks, hoping to change the subject. He's had enough of spiders and demons.

He grunts softly. He has very little interest in how demons do what they do. He knows what the results were. It's not something that will leave his mind easily any time soon. Deaths on his watch never do.

"She wanted to know how her men died." It had been an entirely fair question. He lifts a hand to rub at the side of his temple. He has been fighting a headache for a couple of hours now.

"We're going to comb that area tomorrow and find out where it was holed up. There could be more of them, either abominations or spiders. If we leave them here to work their evil or breed, this will just happen again, if not to one of our patrols possibly to other innocents." Or it would happen to raiders. That's not a good enough excuse to leave it alone.

"Were you injured?" He seems to really look at him for the first time since coming over. He feels oddly responsible for him, no matter how much he rebuffs it or gets prickly whenever he suggests it. He can't help it.

The academic knowledge helps settle Dorian's mind. If he can understand something intellectually he can work out how to fix it or fight it.

"I'll see which mages are willing to come with," he says with a sigh. "Some of them are quite shaken. The abominations from the night we met are still fresh in their minds." He would come, of course, and help destroy any traces of blood magic.

He shakes his head. "Merely tired from expending so much mana. A lyrium potion and a good night's rest I will be fine."

"If the Veil was as thin there as you say, we shouldn't bring many of them. Any more magic will only weaken it further." He scrubs a hand through his hair. It feels gritty and there are parts where it's plastered down that he knows have to be either blood or ichor. "Ugh." He pulls his hand away.

"You go ahead and get some rest then. I think... I think I'm going to trek down to the shore and wash." It won't be completely satisfying, he knows, no soap, just sea water, but it will clean him of the worst of the mess and refresh aching muscles.

"I'll see you in the morning." He presses a hand to his shoulder as he stands, not really intending to use him as support, except there's more weight in the push than would usually be. He's that exhausted.

"It might be safer to have mages breaking whatever magic is left behind," he says gently. He doesn't want to fight with him about this. "We are somewhat experts in it."

Dorian is ready to wish him a good night but the weight Cullen puts on him makes him think again. "If you go down to the shore I'm certain you'll drown from exhaustion."

He wraps a hand around his wrist and tugs. "Don't. Rest. I have an oil with me that will loosen whatever is in your hair. Skin will have to wait but it's better than nothing."

"We'll be able to assess it better tomorrow and decide from there the best course of action. Templars can also stabilize weak Veil points if enough of us focus on it. We'd need you reading it, though." He doesn't seem put out by the suggestion, no more interested in arguing than Dorian.

He smiles faintly. It's on the tip of his tongue to rib him for being concerned given how prickly Dorian can be when it's directed at him. He opts not to. They're both too tired for it. "My hair is, ah... I'm a little afraid to think of what it would do with oil."

He pauses and tips his head. "If you're that worried, come. Salt water is good for fatigue. Trust me when I say I don't plan to get anywhere deep enough to be dragged out by the current."

"Do you know how bad salt water is for your hair?" he says, resigned to this. He can't let Cullen drown and honestly he's too tired to argue. "The oil would be fine. Your hair might not curl so violently with it."

He grabs his staff and gets up. "Now I can fish you out if you drown."

He is not going to allow his mind to think about Cullen bathing in front of him. It's only going to lead to trouble and Dorian is tired enough to do something about his emotions.

"There's nothing...there's nothing violent about my hair." It's hard to tell if he's putting it on or if the reaction is genuine. Either way, he's letting it go since he agreed to come with him. "Just tell them I fought valiantly if worse comes to worst."

He walks quietly through the camp. Many are already asleep. Some are still working on their armor the way he had been, others in very quiet conversations near the fires. The mood is very different from earlier in the day. Cullen is just as glad to get away from it for a little while as he is with the prospect of being cleaner.

The steep path down the cliff is easily seen in the bright moonlight. He feels in no danger of a slip or fall. He wends down to the rocky strand of beach and immediately strips out of the rest of his clothing. The air is cool without being cold. It's the water that's colder. "As long as we stay where it's shallow, there shouldn't be an issue. You sure you don't want to wash?" He gingerly wades out into the waves, the tide in ebb fortunately and therefore not as violent as it can be. Squatting down, he bends forward to begin splashing his hair, face, and chest. It's bracing and has him puffing and blowing water from his lips as it runs down. He keeps his eyes shut against the sting.

Once they are a distance away from the sleeping camp Dorian summons a wisp to give a little light. The little balls of light and spirit were his first foray in to summonings. He quite likes the reassuring bob and flicker.

"I told you salt water is horrid for your hair," he says as he finds a relatively flat rock to sit on. "Besides, southern waters are freezing in comparison to Tevinter ones."

He looks away from his bared flesh, out over the waves which make his stomach roll a little. Better than the temptation of naked, glistening warrior. "There are black sand beaches in Tevinter. The grains are so fine and warmed by the sun it's almost too hot to walk on them during the day."

Cullen goes down on his knees to bend forward and get a better chance to scrub. He submerges his head, blowing air from his nose to keep the water out, and works his fingers through thick curls until he feels all of the slime releasing and washing away. He comes up gasping and squeezing excess water from his hair.

He already feels about twice as awake as he was before. This was a good idea no matter what Dorian says about salt water. "That sounds glorious. I'd love to stretch out on something like that and never think about moving again." It's not true. The inactivity would drive him mad within an hour. It's just the thought of having somewhere hot to lie while drying that has appeal.

He sits directly in the surf to let the waves clean the rest of him without much effort. The foam curls around his neck and chin, hissing on each retreat. If it weren't for the fact that he knows night predators hug the shore, he'd be tempted for a small swim. Instead he gets in a little more scrubbing, using a handful of sand to get any stubborn spots of ichor, and rinses that away, too.

He stands and retreats back to the shore, using the blades of his hands to sluice himself. He's too Fereldan to find this cold. He finds a flat rock of his own not too far from Dorian's to let himself dry. "I feel like a new man." It's amazing what a quick dunk in salt water can do. Out here away from the foundries, the air just smells salty and faintly fishy, no pollution, no sewage, nothing rotting. He draws in a deep inhale and relaxes back on a hand. He hasn't forgotten their losses or defeats. Like most soldiers, he has developed skills of compartmentalization. He can tuck that away for a time in favor of a quiet moment.

It's disgusting how beautiful Cullen looks when he walks out of the water. He's shameless about it as well. He seems not to care that he is bare and glistening and Dorian's gut clenches with want.

"You would burn," he says after swallowing the lump of desire in his throat. "Your pale skin would never survive the intensity of the sun. Why do you think everyone in the north is so dark?"

Still, thinking of Cullen as a bronzed Tevinter solider worms its way in to his mind. It's a real shame the Knight-Commander isn't trying to seduce him. He's honestly just talking with Dorian as a friend. Oh, what a familiar feeling that is.

"You smell like salt and dead fish," he drawls.

"I burn down here in the summer." His face and neck are permanently redder than the rest of him, all of that covered with armor when he's out and about. He never truly tans, just reaches some odd compromise of red that doesn't seem to get worse after the first couple of weeks of hot weather. "I think it would be worth it just to have the experience once. All that hot sand." He sounds wistful.

The truth is anywhere sounds better than Kirkwall, and isn't that a depressingly familiar place to be mentally? He felt that way about Ferelden for years. At this rate, he may run out of places to go and learn to hate.

"I'd say that's an improvement over blood and demon filth." He leans and makes a show of sniffing. Of course, he's nowhere near close enough to Dorian to smell him. If he were, the overall scent of the beach would probably still overpower it. "Can't smell you. After the night we had, that's probably a good thing."

He's enjoying this, the quiet time away from the camp, the chance to talk about normal things, which is practically anything that doesn't involve Kirkwall's troubles or politics. Dorian is good company. The better he gets to know him, the more he's convinced of that.

"There are lotions for that," he points out. "I have a friend who values her pale skin and she has hundreds of them. She's almost as pale as you."

Mae would laugh at him if she could see him like this, fawning over some Southern Templar. He does miss her terribly sometimes.

"It would keep you from turning red and blistering your skin. It's bad for your health, you know, and your skin in general." He sits up straighter on his rock and smooths his hand through his hair. He only got little bits of demon guts and spider ichor on him. The benefits of being back from the main battle. "The oil in my hair and fine craftsmanship of my robes keeps me from ending up looking like a barbarian like you."

"I don't think I'm much of a lotion sort. Anything on my face usually just winds up stinging my eyes as soon as I start to sweat." Sweating and plate mail go hand in hand.

He shifts his lean on his hand so he's propped more on his hip, the better to face him while they speak. It's hard not to notice the clothing, how much it differs from what he's used to, how detailed. It's even harder to imagine fiddling with all the clasps while dressing until he compares it to gearing up in plate. It doesn't get much more complicated than that.

His gaze drifts higher to the dark hair. Come to think of it, has he ever seen it mussed or out of place? There's a little truth in the barbarian remarks in that context. "You really oil it every day? Don't you get tired of that? There's something to be said for just letting yourself be, isn't there?" He likes nothing more than the rare few days when he doesn't have to uniform up and can do as he pleases. He's had none of them since the disaster.

"I really oil it every day. I wash it every day if I can as well," he says with a nod. "Who says this isn't being myself? I like looking good. I enjoy taking care of myself."

It was part vanity and part armor. Dorian let people see the surface and then they left his vulnerabilities alone. There weren't many but they were there.

"I don't get tired how I look. Who could get tired of looking this good?" He grins, preening like a peacock. "If you make some sort of comment about my looks I will zap your ass with lightning."

"Not worried about what I might say, are you?" He can't help but to grin at the threat and pretty much the overall timbre of the conversation. Yes, he can easily see that he enjoys taking care of himself and has no dearth of vanity. While it might be off-putting in some, it's not so much in Dorian. It's just...him.

Cullen looks back out over the water, the smile slow to fade. "It's not something I've ever given much thought, myself. I'm not there to be looked at. It's really better if people don't, or if all they see is the uniform and not who's wearing it." He serves a function, and it is the sole of how he has seen himself for a long time now.

An eerie sound drifts across the water, wavery and high pitched then slowly dipping down into a register that can't be heard but is felt in the chest and body, in the very rocks on which they sit. Cullen's entire aspect changes. He sits forward, scanning the moonlight shifting waves.

After several moments of breathless anticipation, he points at a spume of water jetting up nearly fifteen feet in a fine spray no more than twenty yards offshore. "Look! Look, look, look! You never...Maker's breath, you almost never see them in this close. I wonder if--" He cuts off as a large, dark shape breaks the surface. It seems to go on and on before eventually dipping back under again.

"Ridge whale." He cuts a quick glance sideways at Dorian. "They breed here this time of year. Sometimes you can see the pods way out in the harbor." More of the sounds fill the air. He has scrabbled around to climb to his feet and is standing, leaning forward, and staring hard at the waves. There's no sign of the tired Knight-Commander now. He seems younger, completely delighted. "Maybe we'll see a calf."

"You would give me shit and you know it," he says haughtily. Cullen would not go gentle on him but at least his teasing would be friendly about it, not a real asshole.

He wants to say something about how Cullen is more than his armor but then one of the strangest noises he has ever heard splits the air. Dorian stands, staff at the ready, expecting another attack.

It's not anything more than a whale, though. They're nothing like the sleek dolphins of Tevinter or the sharks. They seem massive. Dorian slowly lowers his staff to watch the dark shapes in the water.

"I don't think I'm ever getting in the water again," he says softly after a moment. "Those things would swallow you whole!"

He looks over at Cullen who is full of boyish wonder and beautiful for it. "Oh, stop, you are utterly impossible. I am not in my right mind to deal with this."

"No, they...they're not dangerous at all, not according to sailors. I mean, there are a few tales of overturned skiffs and the like. It's more a matter of them being so big they don't know where their tails are than malice. So they say." His voice has dropped to a hush, barely carrying over the surf.

"What?" he laughs low. "You have no idea how incredible this is, how rare to get such a view. I've been here a little over ten years, and this is my first time. Just...look."

There seem to be at least ten of them, although none of them are ever at the surface all at the same time, so it's hard to tell. A massive fluke rises spread wide and crashes down in a resounding slap and spray. Three much smaller shapes surface in the midst of the bigger ones and send up little versions of the adult's plume. "There! The babies! Can you believe anything so small can get so big?"

Of course the man has no idea what Dorian really means. Thank the Maker for that because this is not the time for him to explain his sexuality and how stupidly attractive Cullen is right now.

"You have seen what happens to draklings haven't you?" Dorian's never seen it personally but he's seen the drawings and read the stories. He knows how massive high dragons can get. Whales are the same except in water and they can't eat you.

"You're still ridiculous and I cannot believe you." He sits back down on the rock but his scowl is much more like a smile.

"Well, yes, but they're...they're hideous and they try to eat you. They're nothing like this." He continues watching, his breath catching every time one of them sprays or slaps the water.

He glances back over at him, grinning. "Don't even try to pretend like you're above it all. There are beautiful things in this world that aren't trying to kill us. Just listen to them. Doesn't it sound like they're speaking?"

Eventually, they pass out of sight. The sounds continue to carry for longer. Cullen can still feel the rock vibrating under his feet by the time he finally decides to sit down again, and then realizes he's still naked.

Chuckling to himself, he slides off his perch and walks over to pick up his clothes. It's never very nice dressing in dirty clothes with a relatively clean body. The only saving grace is that his armor took most of the blood and ichor. He sighs and glances back up toward the clifftop. "I suppose we ought to think about getting back."

"Pardon you, dragons are revered in Tevinter. You just insulted a great number of people." Dorian doesn't say anything more, though, and lets Cullen have his moment with the whales.

He really doesn't understand it. The whales sound like they're dying and they're still massive enough to kill without a second thought. In the end, to him, they're just whales but if Cullen is happy then he will let it pass without question.

"I'm glad you remembered your clothes before you thought of that," he says dryly. "I thought you were going to parade around naked all night."

It's a real shame to see all that beauty covered up but it does save some of Dorian's brain. He should be able to focus on other things again.

"Parade around, says the man who not ten minutes ago was boasting about his looks and grooming. I was letting myself dry off then got distracted. It's not as though I habitually strip down and leave myself swinging to the four winds." He sits down in the sand to brush hard at his feet before pulling on his socks and boots. He doesn't get all of the grit. He gets enough of it that the trek back up to the top won't be onerous.

He doesn't remember the last time he was naked outside. It was a long time ago, had to be on some long-term patrol either here on the Coast or up at Sundermount. Despite his talk of getting back, he stays seated. Down here he doesn't have to see the anxious faces of the people who rely on him so much, their sorrow, their disbelief that things turned so bloody and terrible on what should have been a fairly straightforward raid.

He rubs at the side of his face and sighs. "Sometimes I really want out." He almost can't believe he said it. The words were a weight in his chest, something he has been carrying ever since the courtyard. He feels both lighter in speaking them and guiltier. This isn't Dorian's burden to bear.

For pavus_redemit Kirkwall

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