Chapter Text
The Storm Coast
She appears like a sudden change in the weather. One minute it's raining but calm, unless you count the battle cries and the clash of steel. Then he smells ozone and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. And there she is, feet planted wide in the sand, silver-tipped horns and cloud-grey skin with lightning dancing all around her.
Saarebas.
So-called Herald is rumoured Vashoth mage, the Ben-Hassrath missive had read. Investigate and report as to veracity.
It's years since he left Seheron. And he's seen his share of mages since: shit, he even works with one. But Dalish’s magic, though earthy and primal, isn't the same as what he sees here. It's feral, unbridled power, a storm made flesh, and he itches to bring it under control.
Sanaz Adaar is not much less intimidating after the battle, if he's honest with himself. The way those silver eyes flash when he tells her he's Ben-Hassrath, Bull's half afraid he'll be struck with lightning then and there.
“Why the fuck would you tell me that?” she snaps, in her incongruous Marcher accent, and his eyes are drawn to the light scars that cover her face. There's one that runs the length of her jaw, from her chin up to the lobe of her pointed ear, and he's so distracted by the thought of how it might feel under his tongue that he's taken by surprise when she grudgingly welcomes him into the Inquisition.
Herald is generally suspicious of the Qun, but shows interest in Qunari life and culture.
When he tells her she's Tal-Vashoth, not Qunari, she laughs aloud. “You think the people around here care about the difference? All they see is a pair of horns. My parents raised me to be free; I don't care if that fits into your idea of what a Qunari is, I'm proud of it.”
Perhaps it ought to piss him off. But the proud toss of her head, the twist of her sulky lips, has his mind going in another direction entirely.
The Hinterlands
They're making their way toward Dennet’s farm when they come upon the templars, and that's when he notices it. At the sound of shouting her magic flares, tendrils of purplish light streaking up her arms, and she flinches. But it's not the attack that startles her…no, she could take these idiots blindfolded. What's got her spooked, Bull thinks, is her own power, and he realises with a chill that that first crackle of electricity wasn't under her control.
Herald appears to have strong magical ability despite lacking any training, formal or otherwise.
He swallows down the pang of disloyalty as he leaves out the rest. No need to tell the Ben-Hassrath yet that she's a weapon with a faulty trigger: he doesn't want to be responsible for those ships launching from Par Vollen. No, there's time to work something out. Time to come up with a plan.
Meanwhile she's asking him about marriage, of all things, which leads into questions about sex because of course it does, that sultry, mocking twist to her mouth when she asks him if he's ever made love.
He's not sure if he's trying to shock her when he tells her about the saartoh nehrappen but it only half works - there's a hint of surprise in her silver eyes and a flash of something that might be interest, before she quickly changes the subject. It's enough to keep him awake long into the night.
The Fallow Mire
Sanaz is in a foul temper by the time they reach the Avaar leader, and the rest of the party aren't far behind. It's partly the fact that they've been trudging in the rain through stinking swamp water for days and every misstep not only gets their boots wet but lands them ass-deep in plague-ridden corpses.
But for her it's more than that. This piss-ant who calls himself the Hand of Korth has taken people, her people, and she's angry like a mother bear with a dozen arrows in her side.
There's little warning before she snaps. To Bull's embarrassment and relief, Solas sees it first and puts up a hasty barrier before they're all fried by the lightning that erupts from her hands, skittering across the surface of the shallow water they're standing in and bathing the courtyard in violent white and blue.
The Hand of Korth screams, but not for long - he dances like a puppet in the hands of a maniac before his charred body falls in the water, still twitching and sparking.
“Well, shit,” says Varric. “That what you meant to do, Silver?”
“Sure.” Sanaz shrugs, poking the roasted corpse with the end of her staff. “He asked for it.”
“Damn near fried the rest of us, too,” Bull growls. “Was that part of your plan?”
“Are you hurt?” she asks coldly.
“No, but -”
“If magic scares you, there's no need to stick around,” she snaps. “Now let's find our people.”
It's not until the Inquisition’s soldiers are found safe that the rage leaves her eyes, but he can still see the tension she carries in her posture, the white-knuckled grip on her staff, the compression of her full, dark lips. She looks down at her hands with a frown, and when she catches him looking her glare could freeze the blood of a lesser man.
“You go on ahead,” he tells Solas and Varric as they trudge back towards camp. “I need a word with the boss.”
They look to her for confirmation, and after a second she nods. “We'll catch you up.”
Bull watches her grow twitchier as he waits for the others to disappear from view. Finally she turns to him with a scowl.
“If this is about -”
“I'm not afraid of your magic.” His voice is as low and menacing as he can make it as he advances on her, but the only concession she gives him is a small gulp. “You are.”
Sanaz backs up to the wall, even as her expression remains haughty. “I don't know what you mean.” A foot slips on the wet stone and he catches her waist before she can lose her balance. “Let me go.”
“No.” He's got her back against the wall now, trying unsuccessfully to mask her trepidation behind anger. “You're out of control. Somebody needs to reel you in.”
Those silver eyes all but spark with defiance. “Would you prefer me in chains? Would that better suit your delicate Ben Hassrath sensibilities?”
And now he can't get that picture out of his head. The Inquisitor bound on her knees before him and absolutely nothing about it is sensible.
A growl escapes him unbidden, deep and possessive, and he tightens his hold on her. He can't miss the irregularity of her breathing or the way her pink tongue darts between those full lips as she stares at him. Slowly, so as not to startle her, his hand goes up to cup her neck and his thumb runs the length of her jaw. A shiver erupts through her body, and his cock twitches in response.
“How'd you get those scars?”
There's a catch in her voice when she finally answers. “When I was a child…a jar exploded.”
“Just like that?”
“No.” Her eyes stay fixed on his, daring him to judge. “I was angry.”
Without realising, he's been stroking little circles at the top of her scar, tracing the pad of his thumb over the irregular skin near her earlobe. He keeps his voice soft to match when he asks, “That kind of thing happen a lot?”
“No.” She sighs, unconsciously leaning into his touch. “Not a lot.”
“But it's happened.”
“I'm not dangerous,” she insists, almost pleading - it's an argument she's probably had a million times with herself. “I don't need to be controlled.”
Bull shakes his head slowly. “Everything needs to be controlled. You, me, the world…we wouldn't be here otherwise.”
“So what?” Her temper flares again. “You want to drag me back to Par Vollen? Slap a collar on me and lead me around like a pet dog?”
If she knew the effect her words had on him…he takes a deep, calming breath, releasing it as a low chuckle. “Adaar…” It's a good name for her, weapon. “I'm not here to convert you, or take you captive. I'm just a spy, remember? But I know a little something about control.”
He's not imagining the hunger in her face, the way she trembles like a taut bowstring. “You're going to control me, then?”
“No, Saarebas. That shit’s for amateurs.” His hand falls to her chest, fingertips just brushing the damp skin above her sodden scarf. “Real control, the kind that lasts, comes from within. I'm going to help you control yourself.”
It's amusing that they should be talking about self-control, when it's taking every ounce of his not to fist his hands in her dark hair and plunder that sulky mouth with his tongue. He knows she can sense it, too. Knows that despite herself, she wants it.
But not yet.
There's a moment that goes on forever, where the only sound is the steady patter of rain and the trickle of water down old stone walls. She bites her lip before finally breaking the silence.
“You're still working for the Inquisition, then? This isn't some Ben-Hassrath scheme?”
It's one and the same, he thinks. The Ben-Hassrath would be happy to see her in chains: happier, perhaps, to see her dead, if she wasn't the only one capable of fixing this mess. But as long as order is maintained, they'll let him do things his way. “I'm your bodyguard,” he rumbles. “I have to protect all this.” He runs a slow hand down her side before finally releasing her. “And if that means keeping you safe from yourself, that's what I'll do.”
Sanaz is clinging to the wall like it's the only thing keeping her upright. Fuck, he's missed having a woman as tall as him; he could take a step towards her now, grab that fat braid in his hand and suck a mark into the silvery skin of her throat without even having to bend down. Instead, he satisfies himself with one parting shot. “Maybe one day I will put chains on you, Saarebas. But you'll have to beg me for it.”
Her jaw drops in what she'd probably like to think is outrage, but she swallows her words and settles for an icy glare. It doesn't have the effect on him she might hope. Rather, as he turns away he's imagining that glare as she's spreadeagled beneath him, lashed by wrists and ankles.
As he walks back to camp ahead of her he can feel her eyes still on him, and he resists the urge to adjust his pants. It's going to be a long night.