Bull races to the Forbidden Oasis camp, but will he reach it in time?

I don't often do this, but two songs really helped me write this chapter so if you like that kind of thing you may like to listen to them while reading.

The first is a song that goes with Bull's POV when he finds Mahanon (it has lyrics) watch?v=tcS6Dm8zXNw

The second is a song that goes wtih Dorian's POV and what happens in the tent (no lyrics) watch?v=3pl4Lab2f3I

Please also note that the super quick posts have come because I was cross-posting from AO3. The updates will slow down now as it is up to date. I try to get 1 chapter a month (slow, I know, but between work and family I don't have a lot of writing energy anymore).

Harding looked out over the campsite with a bittersweet feeling. Her people had done well, there was a large tent set up for the Inquisitor and other tents surrounding it. They were close enough to the oasis to benefit from the cooling effect it had on the breeze but not so close that they tracked water and mud all through the camp. And there was always a perimeter of scouts on guard, some seen and some not.

Lavellan would appreciate their efficiency, she knew, if he saw it. He hadn't though, and likely wouldn't. He hadn't left the carriage after closing the rift, hadn't even complained about being stuck in there as he had previously. He had managed to walk from the carriage to the tent on his own, but that was it. Already she was questioning her decision to allow him to close the rift even if she knew both that she would never have been able to stop him after he set his mind to it, and also because he was right, they couldn't allow anyone else to be harmed by it when they had the opportunity to fix it.

Nonetheless, after Riccard had left with the letter for Clan Lavellan she had made sure to visit him several times every day, to chat and lift his spirits, or even just for company, so he knew he wasn't alone. He asked about Riccard once and Harding said only that he was acting as a messenger and would likely be gone for a while. She regretted that when she saw how it seemed to deflate Mahanon, but she would not lie, not about that. Bad enough that he felt as though The Iron Bull had abandoned him, she would not allow him to believe that Riccard had chosen to leave. She could see how fast he was failing now. He slept most of the day and she had to ensure he was always laying on his side; on his stomach he couldn't get enough air in to cough and clear his lungs, but on his back he ran the risk of choking and suffocating. He wasn't eating any more and would only drink when they practically tipped it down his throat. Harding had managed to get him to swallow some watery broth yesterday but that was about it and she wondered if she were really helping him or if she should just leave him. Or maybe even take a knife to an artery. She had no doubt that The Iron Bull would arrive with his cure, but arriving in time? That was looking less and less likely.

The horse beneath him was foaming at the mouth such that Bull could almost hear the scolding that Mahanon would give him for treating his mount so roughly, especially considering the courtesy the animal was doing for him by lugging his bulk around as the elf liked to say. But instead of causing him to slow down, such a thought only made him nudge the horse again to go even faster. If they didn't get there soon it would be too late, he could feel it. And, for once, Dorian wasn't complaining about the pace as he galloped along just behind him. Bull glanced back to see the man's face set in a determined scowl, his normally perfectly groomed hair and moustache ruffled and wind blown.

Cassandra and Varric were following as well, but not at the break neck pace Bull was keeping, both because they wanted to give Bull some privacy for whatever was to come and because Varric wasn't as comfortable atop a horse as the rest of them were.

There was a weariness in Bull's muscles, but it barely even registered alongside the driving need to get to the Forbidden Oasis. He had barely been able to sleep these past few days, unable to put the thought that Mahanon might be out there, suffering and dying on his own. Of course, he knew he wasn't really alone, Harding would never allow that, but it wasn't the same because hewasn't there with him. It had most definitely given a drive to his fighting, however; that last dragon, tough though it was, never even stood a chance and before its body had even cooled he was up in the saddle, vials of dragon blood safely packed in saddle bags and off. No word was spoken and none was needed. It took Dorian a full day to catch up but when the Vint explained that his magic was needed to change the dragon blood into a cure Bull was forced to accept his company.

And now, cresting the rise that then led down to the Oasis itself and the tents below, he had to hope that they weren't too late. Hope. The Inquisition was founded on hope, hope for peace, hope for an end to their troubles, hope for a better world. And now they had the better world the hope was that the Inquisitor who had made it happen would live to enjoy it.

A scout must have spotted them and sent word ahead - not that they were trying to hide their approach - as there were already a small group of people waiting to take their horses as Bull flung himself from the saddle handing the reigns to an elven man who was already making soothing cooing noises to the exhausted beast.

"The Inquisitor, where is he?" Bull demanded as he dug through his saddlebags for the vials.

"Central tent, that way," the elf said, the sharp words and downturn of his mouth making it clear that he was unhappy with the condition the horse was in. Right then though, Bull didn't care; he would ride a dozen horses into the ground if it meant he could save Mahanon.

He wove his way through the tents at a jog, silently cursing the way they all looked the same. How was he supposed to tell the 'central' tent from all the others in the roughly central area? But the hunched figure there, she looked familiar. Yes, there was harding sitting on a wooden stool looking out over the waters of the Oasis.

"Harding!" Bull called out as he approached.

Harding swiped a sleeve over her face and looked up at his approach and her eyes and the tip of her nose were both pink. She had been crying, and recently. Bull felt his stomach drop seeing that, knowing what it must mean but unwilling to accept it.

"Where is he?" he growled. There was no sound of coughing. Why was there no sound of coughing?

"In there," she said, pointing to the tent at her back. He immediately turned towards it and Harding flew to her feet. "Bull, wait!" But he didn't wait, flinging the tent flap open and ducking his horns down to fit through the entrance. "There's something you need… to… know…" Harding was still talking but her voice trailed off when she saw that Bull had frozen in the entrance and was simply staring.

Mahanon was pale. Deathly pale. And he wasn't breathing. An almost guttural cry escaped Bull's lips and he took two steps towards the body on the bed before his knees gave out and he sat there, staring. He had seen hundreds, probably thousands of dead bodies in his lifetime, he knew what death looked like, what it felt like to feel that absenceof life. And he felt that absence now, looking upon Mahanon's still form. Too late. They were too late. He had pushed and pushed, even sent him here hoping that it would give them more time but it was not enough, was never going to be enough.

Images flashed through his mind. Mahanon racing through the keep mud splattered and laughing with a trailing Josephine behind him. Mahanon well into his cups in the tavern babbling on how Bull must get scared of heights for being so tall. Mahanon standing before the crowd at a newly claimed Skyhold, raising a sword that was nearly as big as he was above his head. Mahanon tenderly caring for wounds on Cassandra's chest, both pink with embarrassment. Mahanon's lips and they way the centre of them parted just so when he was aroused. Mahanon screaming in pain as an enemy's sword sliced into his hip. Mahanon walking among the training soldiers, talking to them, laughing with them. Mahanon standing in the midst of a battle, his hand glowing green, linked with a rift, his face in a set mask of determination.

And now he would never see such sights again. Never hear his laughter or listen to his voice.

The tent flashed blue. Frowning, Bull wiped a hand over his eye to rid it of the tears, thinking it was just some illusion. But no the light was still there, and it was coming from Mahanon's body. Or, more specifically, from markings all over his body. Bull had seen the markings before but only on Mahanon's face and no where near this bright. These were all over his body if the light seeping through the thin blanket was any indication. And then he heard it, a straining, rattling inhale that whistled as it went past his lips and then an exhale and the light dimmed once more, leaving Mahanon's body lifeless again. Now that Bull was looking for it he could see the dull marks, still lit but so dimly as to be nearly imperceptible.

"Well. Shit," Dorian's voice came from where he stood just behind Bull, extra vials of blood held loosely in his hands. "Do… do you think these can still help?"

Bull shook his head slowly but it wasn't in the negative, he just didn't know. His body was lifeless again. His Mahanon's body. His Kadan. Who he had sent away to die out here without him. Tears flowed afresh and unabated from his one good eye and, as he stared, the light flared and once more a strained breath was taken then released. It gave the semblance of life, but he wasn't alive. Not really. They were too late and now, it was only Mythal's spirits that was keeping him breathing for whatever cruel intentions they had. And this false life was somehow so much more cruel than even death would be.

"I'm sorry, Lavellan," Dorian said softly as he stepped past Bull to put the vials of dragon blood they had collected on the bedside table, a kind of offering perhaps. He picked up the vials Bull hadn't even realised he had dropped and added them as well. His own eyes were hot with unshed tears. "We tried, truly. We-"

Dorian broke off suddenly when Mahanon's eyes flicked open and his head turned. There was no expression on his face, it was completely deadpan and the eyes did not blink. He heard Bull's sharply indrawn breath behind him when he noticed. The blank eyes were glowing with the same ferocity as the markings that had once more lit up and they locked unerringly on Dorian. "Lavellan?" Dorian asked, a tremble in his voice at the creepy way the Inquisitor was just staring at him.

Too fast to react to, Mahanon's arm shot out from under the covers, tossing them aside, and grabbed unerringly to Dorian's wrist. Dorian gave a wordless cry as, not only did the markings flash blindingly bright, but he felt that same intrinsic wrongnessas his magic was invaded and yanked beyond his control. He tried to allow it, tried to feed his magic into Mahanon as he had done when the elf had healed Bull, but he wasn't able to keep up. While last time Mahanon had only pulled mana from him when his offering dwindled, this time the pulling was constant and Dorian had to fight against every instinct that told him to pull away. This thing, whatever it was that allowed Mahanon to do this, had no concern or care for Dorian's safety, only for completing the task it started.

Mahanon's other hand rose and unerringly grasped one of the vials of dragon's blood, even though not once did he turn his face to it. His eyes were still open and still staring still the glowing neon blue, not having blinked once. The vial he held began to bubble and burn, heating up ridiculously fast, the smell of burnt flesh in the air as it burned Mahanon's hand, though he showed no sign of any pain. Laces of silver began to appear in the dragon blood, twisting and turning and seeming to dance with the movement of the hot liquid. Smoke was gathered as the liquid was evaporated and soon began to obscure what was inside the vial. Still Mahanon drew more and more magic, still grasping the vial tightly regardless of the burns it was causing and neither Dorian nor Bull were willing to pull it away.

Several more minutes passed, minutes that felt like hours to the quickly tiring Dorian, until, finally with an almost audible pop, the magical connection between the two of them was severed as Mahanon let go of Dorian's wrist. Dorian, for his part, gasped as though just getting fresh air after almost drowning, allowing himself to drop wearily to his knees.

He and Bull both watched transfixed as Mahanon brought the vial to his mouth, pulled the stopper off with his teeth and spat it to the side before bringing the vial to his lips. Dorian winced as the heat raised blisters on his lips but, as with his hand, Mahanon did not seem to notice as the markings on his body flared even brighter and a deep breath was taken, breathing in all the fumes in one large breath. Slowly, slowly, the air was breathed out his nose and very little of the smoke came out with it. Then, with an action that made Dorian flinch for a second time, the vial was raised again and the small amount of liquid tossed back, swallowing it.

The vial, now empty, was dropped, Mahanon's hand falling limp to his side.

"Kadan?" Bull's voice was rough, torn, wanting to but not daring to hope.

Mahanon made no response, simply staring straight ahead, still unblinking. But as they watched, the lit markings began to fade and Mahanon began to breathe more rapidly. The breaths were shallow, but regular as opposed to large gasp of air that was forced in and out of him only when absolutely needed previously. Then, without a word or gesture, Mahanon lay back on the bed and closed his eyes and the blue light faded from him.

Tears were streaming down Dorian's face as he watched. The Inquisitor was still deathly pale, but there were slight spots of pink high on his cheeks and, best of all, he was breathing of his own volition and the breath wasn't strained. "Andraste be praised," he murmured softly.

"Not Andraste, she has done nothing for him," Bull said from behind Dorian. He heard the qunari climb to his feet and take a few hesitant steps forward to sit at the stool that had been moved aside. Gently he picked up Mahanon's hand and turned it over, palm up to examine the burns there. "Mythal," he continued. "This is Mythal's doing. It is her we should be praising."

Dorian nodded, agreeing. He didn't know why she had intervened and he shuddered to think of the cost of her work would be, but that was something they could deal with at a later date. For now, he was just grateful that she had, that it had worked and they had arrived before she had given up on him.

Stifling a yawn, feeling the leaden weight in his limbs, Dorian climbed to his feet. He took a step forward and rested a hand on Bull's broad shoulder for a moment before speaking. "I'm going to go find somewhere to sleep, and to let Harding know that the cure seems to have worked. I want to check him with my magic, to see what it's healed and what it hasn't, to make sure it's fully gone but I need to rest first. Send word if he starts glowing again or something, I'll come and he can pull my magic again," he said. Giving Bull's shoulder a squeeze he turned to leave.

"Dorian."

Dorian paused at the entrance to the tent and turned back to see Bull had twisted to see him with his good eye, an eye that was red and tear stained but creased with a small smile.

"Thank you. For everything," Bull said sincerely.

Dorian smiled past his own tears and swept his best courtly bow, before leaving the two to their privacy.

Bull was left alone with his Kadan for perhaps fifteen minutes before Harding hesitantly came inside the tent. He hadn't been doing much, just staring, absorbing the sight of his Kadan before him, and lightly rubbing the undamaged skin on his arm, reassuring himself that he was real, that he was alive. And listened to him breathing. It was still rapid and shallow but it no longer had the wet rattling it had previously that was constantly causing the elf to cough.

"It's true," Harding said quietly, wonder in her voice. "When Dorian told me, I didn't want to believe it, didn't want to hope. But he's alive, and breathing on his own."

Bull nodded, a small smile pulling on his lips as he watched Mahanon's chest rise and fall on its own. "He's a fighter," he said proudly and he reached out to affectionately brush a lock of hair from Mahaon's face.

"When I first saw him like that, like… dead, no more than two hours ago I just… well. It doesn't matter now. Dorian said the… process burned him?" Harding said. "I bought some healing supplies for burns."

"Thanks," Bull said. "I'll take care of it."

Harding nodded and handed him the bag she had used to carry them in. She rested a hand on Mahanon's shoulder and gave it a squeeze, her eyes sparkling with tears despite the smile she wore on her face. "Welcome back, Inquisitor," she said quietly before taking her leave.

Digging through the bag, Bull pulled a healing potion out first and figured that would be best to start with. It would numb the pain and may even help with the burns on his lips and, doubtless down his throat. Slipping a hand under Mahanon's head, Bull lifted it slightly and tipped the potion into his mouth, allowing it to spill a little onto his blistered lips. Bull smiled slightly as the elf instinctively swallowed; that was a good sign, meant that the scolding hadn't done any serious damage. His hand however…

Putting the empty potion aside, Bull turned Mahanon's hand so it was palm up and grimaced at what he saw. He had seen plenty of horrific burn injuries when he was in Saheron - fire was a popular tactic to spread terror - and while Mahanon's burns weren't as bad as some of those it was bad enough. The whole palm was bright red and had started to blister. One of the things Harding had provided was a gel like substance specifically for burns. It was good stuff, and Bull set to applying it immediately, though he would still have to ensure that infection didn't set in; the elf had wasted away to near nothing with his illness, it wouldn't take much to cause a lot of issues. Lightly wrapping the hand in bandages and placing it back on the mattress palm up, Bull settled in for a long night, to keep vigil; after pushing Mahanon away, he wasn't about to let him out of his sight again.

It was the pain that Mahanon became aware of first. Pain everywhere. The pain in his chest and stomach, a constant for months now, was still there, as was his throat - probably from coughing so much. More unusual though was the pain in his mouth and lips and, even more intensely on his hand. His right hand, not his left so it wasn't the mark. It hurt to breathe and he found he couldn't get a lot of air in, but, strangely, it wasn't a struggle to get what air he could in, he wasn't fighting off the urge to cough.

Slowly, he opened his eyes and blinked a few times to try to clear them. Fabric was above him, lit by a flickering light, a lamp probably. The dull paint of the Inquisition eye on the fabric was just visible in the low light. He was in a tent, the same tent that Harding had put up for him.

"Hey, Kadan."

"Bull!" Mahanon exclaimed as his head flicked to the side towards the voice. Or tried to exclaim anyway, his voice coming out more as a croak and a painful one a that.

"Easy now," Bull said, his voice soothing. "The cure seems to have worked, but it burned you in the process."

That would definitely explain the pain, Mahanon thought. But the cure worked? Mahanon focussed on his breathing. Yes, there was still no urge to cough. Before he hadn't gone this long without coughing at least to clear his throat, though the last thing he remembered was not being able to stop the coughing until he had blacked out. He couldn't prevent the relieved smile that spread and his eyes closed as relief washed over him. It worked. He was cured. He was still weak and in a lot of pain from the process, and why his hand was burned he had no idea, but all of that could heal.

Then another thought came to him and his eyes flicked open. Forcing himself to speak through the pain, he said, "We have to go. Now."

He started to sit up but Bull easily held him down, saying, "Woah there. Go where?"

"North. Clan Lavellan," Mahanon said, trying to keep the painful talking to a minimum.

Bull just shook his head. "I don't want you travelling anywhere just yet. Come morning, Dorian should be rested again enough to help you make more of the cure and it can be sent with a rider."

Won't work. The magic will expire, no longer be viable. It must be you.

"It must be me," Mahanon said, involuntarily echoing the voices of Mythal. "The magic, or whatever, must be done right before swallowing the cure," he explained further.

Bull looked at Mahanon for a long time, long enough that Mahanon was afraid he would refuse, but the elf knew better than to speak up just now; the qunari was weighing up what options there were, to see if there were a way to get the best of both. There was not, Mahanon knew that with the same certainty that he knew he had to be the one to perform the cure. Bull eventually came to the same conclusion. He let out a half-growl, half-sigh and said, "Alright then. But it can wait until morning. For now, you can drink another potion and rest. I'll see about getting some horses for us and sending word to the Inquisition."

The delay grated - Mahanon wanted nothing more than to get up and leave right this minute - but he knew what Bull said was sound. They would need to organise supplies and he had said that Dorian was resting and Mahanon would need his magic to create the cures. It was for the best, even if he didn't like it. With a nod, he allowed Bull to help him drink the potion, then settle him back in bed once more and, despite his urgency, he was asleep again in moments.

Bull allowed himself a couple hours of shuteye before rousing himself, Dorian, Cassandra, Varric and Harding, telling them the Inquisitor's orders and keeping his own thoughts on the matter private. Not that it made any difference to Dorian after travelling with him for so long ("He's mad," were his words, though he immediately started moving around the tent packing the clothes he had discarded before falling into bed the night before). Neither Cassandra nor Varric thought that this was something they should be doing but neither of them could come up with another option, facing the same dilemma Bull had grappled with. Come dawn, orders to return to Skyhold were given to Varric, Cassandra, and all but two of Harding's scouts, ravens were sent ahead to Skyhold (the Inquisitor had been healed but was still weak and a request for the healer Elewyn to travel north to meet them at the Lavellan camp if they did not cross paths before then), the camp was packed and fresh horses procured for Harding, Dorian, Bull, two scouts, and Mahanon with promises not to abuse these ones.

The day, Bull thought, was quite pleasant for riding. Hot but the heat never bothered him. Neither did the cold, but at least he didn't burn like Harding did. The day was made all the better by the bundle sitting across his lap, asleep against his chest. Mahanon was wrapped in a sheet as much to make it easier for Bull to hold him as to protect him from the harsh sun himself. The elf had barely stirred when Bull had wrapped the sheet around him and carried him to the horse. He had opened his eyes once since then, looked around, gave a weary smile to Dorian, then turned his face into Bull's chest and fallen asleep again.

"How is he?" Harding asked as she rode up next to Bull.

"He's doing alright, I think," Bull replied, looking down fondly at the sleeping elf. "He coughs sometimes, and there's blood," how he had near panicked the first time that had happened, "but it's clotted and dark. There's no fresh stuff."

"That's good," Harding said with a genuine smile on her tired face. They were all tired, the strain of the last few days telling on them all, but even Mahanon, weakest of them all, pushed himself to keep going when he was awake enough to do so. That inspired them all to push on.

Bull looked down again at his Kadan and saw that he was awake once more, though the elf said nothing. His head was turned away from Bull, staring forward towards their destination, determination written all over his wasted face. With a small smile and a slight hugging squeeze, Bull looked forward as well, towards their destination.