Burn (a Dragon Age fanfiction)

Dangerous

It was a raucous camp here on the edge of Ferelden—the Chargers knew how to have a good time. The Iron Bull had seen to that. His people worked hard, played hard, fought hard, and stuck together through thick or thin. Anyone who couldn't manage that sooner or later drifted away.

He was glad to see the Herald of Andraste knew how to have a good time as well. She was matching Krem drink for drink. Her Seeker companion was quieter and measured her intake, but she seemed to be enjoying herself. And the dwarf nursed a single mug of ale and told story after story. As an accomplished liar himself, the Iron Bull could tell when he was being snowed, and he amused himself privately by trying to find the truth hidden in the dwarf's tall tales.

"Ser Tethras," Krem said in the over-precise way he had when he was deep in his cups, "didn't you write something about your time in Kirkwall?"

The Iron Bull's watching eye didn't miss the way the dwarf flinched, although he was pretty sure no one else had noticed. "Please," the dwarf said, "just Varric. Ser Tethras makes me wonder if the Merchants' Guild has you on their payroll. My crime serial is my most popular—Hard in Hightown, guards breaking the rules to get things done. But yes, the most famous, or possibly infamous, thing I've written is The Tale of the Champion." For a moment, he looked into the fire, as if seeing something he wanted very badly in the flames. The Iron Bull wondered what it was. Varric shook himself and went on, "I started a romance serial once, Swords & Shields. But to be honest, I don't really have the knack for romances. Most of my stories end in tragedy. Probably that says something about me personally."

"Not many people have a real knack for romance," the Seeker said with unexpected wistfulness.

"Maybe because it doesn't exist." The Herald knocked back another drink and held her cup out to be refilled.

The Iron Bull filed that remark away for future reference. She was hard to read, this red-headed mage. Inexperienced in combat, that much was clear, but she threw herself into it with gusto. He had enjoyed how neatly she'd managed the Blades of Hessarian—instead of fighting the whole group, she had boldly walked into their camp and challenged their leader, avenging the Inquisition soldiers who had been killed on his orders. And in the process, had gained the loyalty of the rest of the group. Since the Blades had a firm hold on the Storm Coast, they were a valuable acquisition, and one that would have been lost by a more traditional approach.

Yes, he would enjoy getting to know her better, learning the things that made her tick and how to use them to his own purposes, the Iron Bull thought, refilling his mug. He'd always liked a challenge.

*****

Rosalind stood on the edge of camp, letting the cool wind clear her head. It had been a mistake to drink so much, fun as it might have been. The last thing she could afford was to have her judgement impaired, even in camp. She flexed her fingers, looking down at her hand. Mages were supposed to be kept away from alcohol ... officially. Unofficially, they brewed stuff that was stronger than most people could imagine. The Tranquil had been particularly good at it. So she had a strong head for drink—but she also had a dreadful tendency to set things on fire when she got too carried away. The Inquisition couldn't afford for that to happen. The people had to trust her, mage or not, and burning down a camp, and a forest with it, didn't seem like the right way to go.

"Not going to puke, are you?"

The deep voice startled her, and a spark appeared at her fingertips before she could prevent it. She squashed it quickly and turned to the Iron Bull, trying to hide the way her breath came short at the sight of him looming over him, his narrow face and muscular chest and the faint scent of something spicy and exotic that came from him swirling in her head the way the alcohol had done. Rosalind fought the simultaneous impulse to step back and away from temptation, or to step forward and give in.

The Iron Bull was having the same fight with himself. He needed to play this slow, he told himself, to really tie her to him. He hadn't missed the sparking of her magic. He knew mages, he had learned to be comfortable with them, but magic still frightened him deep down—and he was perversely excited by the fear.

"No," she said, her voice sharp. "I can hold my liquor."

She said it defensively, and the Iron Bull wondered if there was a story there. "Good for you. Maybe you can teach Krem a thing or two."

This time the Herald smiled. "I doubt that." She looked up at him, her eyes on his, and the Iron Bull fought a surprisingly strong need to look away before he did something he'd regret. "I should get back."

"You do that."

He watched her go, briefly considering reaching for her and deciding against it, and observed her careful placement of her footfalls. She was very concerned with seeming to have herself under control, he thought. Maybe there was something in that.

*****

Varric saw the two of them, the Qunari and the mage, withdraw from the fire, and considered going after her, to make sure Phoenix wasn't getting in over her head. Despite the friendliness of the Chargers, Varric couldn't quite shake his innate distrust of all Qunari. This one reminded him of the Arishok—less anger, but the same intelligence. Dangerous.

He was relieved to see Phoenix come back alone. She sank down next to him, staring into the flames. They seemed to leap slightly higher now that she was there. "I think I'm going to give up drinking, Varric," she said abruptly.

"Not a bad idea. Any particular reason?"

Phoenix looked up past the fire to the horned figure visible in the shadows of the trees. "You never know when you might have to fight something."

"Demons, you mean," Varric said, although he could see she meant more than that.

"Exactly."

"Well, we all have those, don't we?" he muttered, thinking of Hawke. He wondered where she was tonight. If he looked long enough into the flames, maybe he could see her green eyes, and remember the fire of her touch— He caught himself before that line of thought could go any further. "Maybe I'll give it up with you."

She looked up at him, curious, but didn't ask. And neither did he. They sat there together, letting the Chargers' party go on around them.