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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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"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.

"Are you implying I have something to be ashamed of when naked?" Dorian puffs up indignantly. "I look incredibly clothed or naked, thank you very much. You would be jealous."

Well, this turned serious rather quickly. Dorian feels incredibly awkward for a moment before he huffs out a breath, gets up and sits closer to Cullen. He's quiet for a long moment then licks his lips.

"I have learned in my time," he says, his voice soft and vulnerable. He's really not exposing much of his past or himself here but it feels like he is. "That it is better to... to be yourself than be what you aren't. It poisons you. Slowly. Insidious. If you want out, well, best do it sooner than later before you lose your soul."

"If I only had myself to think of." He shakes his head, his expression shifting wry. "You're not that old, I don't think. It's a heavy thing to learn in a short time."

He appreciates the effort. He feels awkward, too, that he blurted something like that. It has been a difficult night. The whales... He can't explain it. They opened him up a little, reminded him of a person he has long believed no longer exists. What if he does and has only been waiting for a chance to come back? How very confusing.

"For what it's worth, I like who you are. I wasn't expecting to make a friend in this mess. I feel like I have."

"Tevinter nobility teaches heavy lessons. Maker, being a mage teaches heavy lessons. I've had to resist demons my whole life." He waves a hand to dismiss Cullen's words though his answer is truthful. Dorian's vain and spoiled but he is not weak.

He nods jerkily, feeling awkward from all this emotion. He's terrible with emotion, honestly. "You have and you're not the only one who can get this town back in order. There are other Templars in the world. Just so you're aware."

He briefly wonders if his father has picked a new heir. He ignores that thought very quickly.

"You always do that. Maybe one day I'll learn why." His deflection of praise or anything resembling admiration when it's sincere is curious to say the least.

"Not the only one, no. Some of the reports coming across my desk make me wonder if there's anyone else left to trust. The Order is angry, restive. Voices of reason are in short supply." He doesn't like to be that person, the one who decides he's indispensable or the only one who truly understands a problem. In this case, he feels genuine worry about what would become of the mages of Kirkwall, the rest of the city, if he did lay down his sword and walk away.

"I'll still have to live with myself no matter where I go. I can't leave yet." He wonders how long he'll tell himself that or if there will come a day he stops listening and walks. It seems more possible now than ever before. To say he's disillusioned is an understatement.

Dorian ignores that first statement. He's not going to touch on the reasons why genuine praise brings out his sarcastic side.

"Of course, the balance of power is shifting and change is rather scary isn't it?" Dorian can see it coming. The South cannot keep going with its Circles. The Templars and the Chantry cannot keep a hold of them. It's a scary thing.

He knocks his shoulder gently against Cullen's. "Well, as long as you recognize you can leave when the time comes you'll be fine." He bites his lip against offering him the chance to come with when he leaves. Dorian hasn't decided when he's leaving in the first place. He can't offer that just yet. Maybe he will when the time comes.

"They're angry. They feel the Chantry is turning their backs on them. They want revenge for the losses here." He snorts a disgruntled sound. "As though they have any idea what we've lost or what we face. Nothing worse than having your struggles become some distant ass' cause." He digs a hand into the sand in front of him and sifts it through his fingers.

He smiles faintly at the shoulder bump and returns it, a companionable gesture. "I hope that's the case. Leaving could just as easily entail execution, you know. I know I've mentioned it before. It's a real possibility, and while I'm not eager to die, if it meant saving my soldiers, I will. I don't want anyone fighting or putting up a fuss if that's what the Seekers decide, not on my behalf."

He's not sure he needs to tell Dorian this. He feels as though he should. The thought of him crossing the Seekers on his behalf in any way leaves him cold. He'd much rather he just leave if it comes to that. No sense in a good man going down for a cause that never should have involved him at all.

"Kirkwall will become a rally cry for both sides," he muses, his voice more subdued. "No one is right here. It shouldn't fall on you for the failure of your superior to stop this."

Cullen might not want it but Dorian will defend him if it comes to it. The man has done an admirable job as a leader and kept everyone together when it was more likely everyone would fall apart.

"You've held this city together and don't doubt that the people have noticed," he says, hoping to encourage him. "You're doing a damn fine job and though tonight was not spectacular that doesn't mean you've failed anyone."

"I'm not sure they'll be all that interested in what should happen. We'll see what kind of mood they're in if they ever make it to us." If they ride in armed and dragging trebuchets, well, that will be telling enough.

They're still sitting close enough that he can feel faint warmth against his side. He's surprised at how glad he is of it given the turn in the conversation. Sometimes he thinks his equanimity at the idea of being hauled before the Seekers is just exhaustion and a hefty cloak of denial to allow himself to continue to function. At other times, he wonders if it's a sign of some deeper malaise of spirit, or guilt whispering to him that if it happens, he'd deserve it.

"You're good for me." One corner of his mouth draws back, too faint to qualify as a smile. "Strange world we've come to when a mage will tell a templar he's doing a good job. Thank you for that."

"With the Chantry as shaky as it is I doubt anyone wants to alienate the people any more than they have." Dorian huffs out a breath. "Southern politics are a mystery."

He ignores the way his heart leaps in his chest. No one has ever said that without it meaning something else, that they would get personal gain from his friendship. For his lovers it was about the thrill of being with him and they never said it was good for them.

"Don't worry, I'll tell you when you fuck up as well," he says primly. He ends up smiling at him in return, though. Oh, he could almost kiss him right now. "It will be my great pleasure."

For pavus_redemit Kirkwall

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