'Everything I ever cared about is destroyed'
'Coward! You pretend you had no choice, but you could've fought.'
'I fought and lost long before Corypheus! Your Commander thinks he knows what that feels like? Well, he's wrong! I know what I did. I know none of you can understand why.'
'You were always weak and your leadership proves it.'
'Every one of those templars would've suffered until nothing was left. And then, be forced to kill and die. I gave them hope just like the Chantry. Just like you. But I'm weak... and you're a savior.'
'...Do what you want, Inquisitor. I'm done talking.'
...
Seven hours had passed since his trial. Samson looked at the distance watching the final hours of day. The sky was already shifting from the intense blue to the familiar orange of sunset.
He was in a foul mood. Truth be told, he wasn't certain of what he was feeling at the moment. Anger mixed with sadness and an overwhelming feeling of helplessness. Anger for all the injustice suffered at the hands of bad authority, a theme that seemed to permeate his entire life, as he grimly concluded. Sadness for letting himself down and the people he tried to protect in such a way.
And helplessness for him reaching a point in his life where there was virtually no escape from his predicament. Whatever hope Samson had that chance would once again extend its hand to him was gone.
First, he was rescued from hell by Hawke. Earning his shield back didn't last much long, though. The confrontation between Meredith and Orsino made sure of that. The civil war had reached its apex many months ago and Kirkwall burned, its streets filled with the corpses of countless victims.
Second, just a few months after the city barely had time to rebuild, the templars of Kirkwall were poisoned by that red powder and went on a murdering rampage. The last of his troops were cut down just moments ago by a group of those monsters. There was nothing that could stop the devastation they brought in their wake.
He had to find reinforcements and get help from the city guard to evacuate the remaining civilians. A harsh realisation struck him as he dragged painfully away from the fight. Just when he had fought so hard to earn his prestige again, everything spiralled out of control.
...
After the staged coup of those monsters, there was nothing left of the Order now. The few good templars left were all but abandoned by the Divine. Kirkwall was doomed to succumb. And its people would drown in its own ashes.
'Not me, though. I'm a survivor.' He kept repeating to himself as he ran away from the turmoil. He had reached Lowtown before nightfall. Samson already knew all the hidden spots in the slums and how to avoid the city guards as they patrolled the streets after rogue mages and...and those monsters, those things clad in red and rage who, all of a sudden, invaded the Order from within and ripped his templar fellows to shreds with claws of raw lyrium...
Speaking of lyrium...
'Ugh' he moaned in the darkness, feeling the first pangs of withdrawal. It had been six days ever since he'd had his last dosage. During the assault in the Gallows, Samson and the remaining templars had virtually no means to replenish their lyrium supply. They had to do battle while struggling with the after effects of their addiction.
'Curse it! If only Cullen was still here...I wonder if he knew this was about to happen. Could he? Could he have left us to die like this?'
No, the thought was too grim. He knew Cullen. He was a young, good lad. He'd never leave his brothers and sisters behind if he knew what they were going through. Besides, it had already been weeks since he departed from Kirkwall.
Samson dragged his way toward his old, hiding spot. If he was lucky, that's where he'd find an extra cache of lyrium, one he kept safe for emergencies. He was panting and sweating as he walked, suffering both from the withdrawal as well as from a bleeding injury in his flank.
He removed a heavy lid from a hole in the ground and found the familiar little box. It was with relief he saw no one had perused the contents. The lock was still in place. With a hungry grin, he stared at the blue powder, pouring some of it on his shaky palm and prepared to ingest its content with delight...
A fireball exploded near his location and Samson was thrown in the air along with everything that was around him. His body descended into the nearby lake, the blue powder all but lost in the blue infinity. He shielded his head as best he could from the falling debris and struggled against his armor. The heavy metal suit threatened to drag him to the bottom.
Once rid of it, he swam as fast as he could back to the margin. The cold water and the night air made him shiver violently. At least the thermal shock had shrugged off some of the withdrawal pain he had been feeling.
His eyes gazed at his sinking shield, swallowed by the lake and the powder that was all but ruined now...
'Curse it. Curse it! What is this, why am I so hated? Huh What did I do?' he yelled at no one in particular, no longer bothering to hold back hot, angry tears. There was no one around to chastise a grown man for crying. Everyone was dead or running away.
A few minutes later, feeling calmer now, he saw in his mind's eye many flashes of what had happened in the Gallows in the past few days.
The sight of that dead woman crying in despair with glowing red eyes was too much for the population to bear. The red lyrium statue that Meredith had become had since then been removed from the courtyard to a cellar. The templars were still frightened of it, as though it would spring to life at any moment. No wonder a few days before his departure, Knight-Commander Cullen had requested a ship to take it to Orlais, to the White Spire, where it would be studied by the best enchanters of the empire, preferably as far away from Kirkwall as possible.
But what no one had predicted was that the statue had remained long enough to contaminate part of the lyrium supply...just a few milligrams, but enough to work its magic in a few templars and turn them into those horrible monsters.
At first, no one knew what the sudden madness that they contracted was. Later on, they claimed to hear voices on their heads as their eyes turned a strange bloodshot red. But it wasn't until red shards began to erupt from their bodies that they realized the killings had started.
And even though they managed to execute them all before they made more victims, others were already infected. It seemed anyone who had come even remotely in contact with their colleagues was now doomed to the same fate.
It was only a matter of days until the Order was torn apart and brother turned on brother, not knowing whether the sword was drawn on him out of genuine concern he was infected or if the infected ones obeyed the voices in their heads, telling them to murder the innocent.
Samson rocked his body back and forth, trying to console himself amongst the shattering reality. The screams of the civilians being chased down the streets were muffled by his shirt, which he had wrapped around his head to shun the world outside. He needed to think. The night air made him sneeze a few times. At least the unwilling cold bath served to keep him lucid enough not to get lost in the madness induced by the withdrawal.
He was still a knight-templar with some authority. If he acted quickly, perhaps he could rally the remaining survivors and flee to...where? What city was near enough? Starkhaven wasn't so far, but they wouldn't arrive there in less than two weeks. And would they survive the trip without any lyrium at all? If they didn't have another dosage in ten days, they'd die from the pain, for sure. And before that, the withdrawal would give them hallucinations, strong enough so that they would go mad and start attacking each other. That's what the Chantry always repeated.
Willing or not, they were leashed. He was leashed. There was nothing he could do. Unless go back into that burning hell that was the Gallows now with the city guard and try to restore order somehow...
'No doubt that redhead friend of Hawke has already marched there, sword and shield in hand and all.' he mused, thinking of the Guard-Captain.
The second pain made his intestines hurt and he let out an agonising yell, crouching on the hard stone ground. He could feel his insides turning into a mushy substance.
'Oh, please Maker, not this. Not now.'
He struggled as hard as he could, scratching his nails on the ground and feeling the cold sweat drench his body. His forehead touched the ground now and his hand was curled into a fist. The other was over his abdomen, and he breathed long, deep breaths, trying not to give in to despair as wave after wave of pain swept through him...
'I can't...I won't end like this. You...' in his final hour, he directed all his thoughts to the one entity that Samson believed would be listening.
'You made me suffer all this and for what? What was the great lesson you wanted to teach me? That I was never meant to be a good man, a defender of justice? Huh? You've mocked me ever since I joined the Templar Order. Throwing obstacle after obstacle in my path. Challenging me to give up all that I ever dreamed of becoming.'
'First, it was that inspection officer, telling me my health was too debilitated to serve, claiming that I would not stand the intense physical training. Huh. What did he know? I ended first in the annual marathon and was granted my shield from the Knight-Commander himself. Then, not long after, it was Meredith and her notice of expulsion from the Order. The withdrawal I had to endure for days, for weeks before finding some way to buy the dust was torture. It nearly killed me and left me an empty husk for almost ten years. Ten long years without a home, a family and a wife. Incapable of thinking clearly, of getting my wits together so as to give some sort of direction for my life. But I survived, didn't I? I survived your sordid test. And now, you kill me with this...this civil war, this mutiny that destroyed all I ever cared about.'
And as he fell his life slowly leave his body, his last thoughts were:
'You miserable bastard! You're no Maker, no God worthy of praise. Just like everything the Chantry created, you only exist to corrupt the souls of men. To bend them to the will of others. You...take your accursed lyrium with you, and my life as well, since that's the only thing that will satisfy you. But at least leave my soul to me. That's...the only thing...I...won't ...let you...strip...away...from...'
He rolled on the ground and his eyes now could see nothing but a great fog cover the city above him. His vision was blurred, but he could still distinguish a human-like shadow that towered over him, as though measuring the dying man.
'Knight-Captain Samson. So I finally found you.' said the deep, masculine voice before the templar's hearing had all but failed.
His consciousness slipped for only a moment before his body was jerked back to reality and his sight began to clear as life was poured back to him. The withdrawal gave way to a pleasurable sensation that soon turned to a slowly rising heat wave.
It was lyrium, but not as he knew it. This lyrium was aggressive and all-consuming, while the other one was subtle and gentle, like the caress of a woman.
'Your leaders have failed you. Look how they left an outstanding member of the Templar Order. Thrown in the gutter, left and forgotten, to rot until he dies. '
Samson struggled to move, but his limbs were still numb. The man seemed to be able to read his thoughts. Was this man real and not hallucination provoked by the withdrawal?
'Your travesty of a Chantry is now trying to quench the inevitable flames of war that has already consumed your mages and templars. For years, decades, it stood and did nothing to repair the injustices perpetrated right under their watchful gaze. Mages were caged like animals, their raw potential stifled, their true power denied. And to guard them, trained dogs leashed by addiction. But no longer. Their lazy contemplation will cost them dearly. The world has been denied true magic for too long. Deep in a slumber, it only awaits to be awakened once more by those who possess the knowledge. These priests and travesty of leaders have no idea what is coming to them.'
Samson tried to move his lips, barely able to formulate the question: 'Wh-who are you?'
The man lowered his head and what Samson saw was enough to scare him to his wit's end. Maker, was this a man at all? With all the strange things growing all over him, he thought he was one of the monsters that assaulted the Gallows. The strong smell of rust, though, told him they were only bits and pieces of retorted metal.
With a sarcastic thought, Samson considered that, if he had ever been into the Deep Roads when he had the chance, he would've recognised what that creature was right away.
Many years ago, he had thought of going after his sister, who had decided to join the Wardens shortly after their family had been killed by a darkspawn horde. The Wardens, led by a young rivain named Duncan, managed to save the children. Unfortunately, nothing could be done for the parents.
Samson and Delilah were escorted to Kirkwall, where they were to live in a shelter for orphaned children. After seeing the place was so dismal, with the constant beatings and starvation, the young pair swiftly made their decision. One sibling joined the Wardens, while the other joined the Templars.
Five years would pass before Delilah contacted Samson through a letter, asking him to go to a nearby village, where Stroud and the other Wardens would visit on their way to Kirkwall. It was the same period when the Qunari invasion happened and Samson had gone into hiding to avoid the first civil war that swept the city. By the time everything went back to normal, he discovered to his chagrin that Delilah was long gone.
'I know you can hear me.' The creature's voice echoed and vibrated inside Samson's head, racking his skull, so strong it was.
What are you? came the frightened thought.
'I am the one who will bring the dawn of a new age. I am the one who will deliver your world from its hubris. I will open the Heavens and prove to the peoples of Thedas that you have been deceived for centuries. Your Maker is nothing more than a fairy tale made to blind you to the mysteries of life and the absolute truth of the world. A cruel joke forged by your leaders to force you into ignorant submission.'
The way the creature spoke, he seemed to give voice to all the anger and hatred bottled up inside Samson. Hatred toward the Chantry, the Maker, toward the way things were in general.
'But first...I need an army. And loyal officers by my side.'
Now having a bit more control over his senses, Samson licked his lips and said:
'Well, if you're recruiting, I'm up for it. I'm tired of the Chantry. Tired of the casual levity with which they've always treated the templars' addiction. Of how you're left to rot in a madhouse after they've burned away your mind. Of having to hunt down innocent mages when they're still clinging to their mothers' skirt. Tired of it all.'
'That's what I hoped to hear.' said the creature, and he could tell it was smiling.
...
The Inquisitor had locked him up without even coming to talk to him once. Not that Samson had anything more to say.
But if anything, he hoped at least one institution in Thedas would change the status quo. That templars would no longer be wasted away and mages didn't have to waste their lives caged like animals. Didn't anyone see this was the problem? As long as they weren't free to be useful to society in some way, they would always rebel. And their jailors would always be tempted to perpetuate abuses against them, being restricted themselves to an imprisoned life in a tower, remaining forever leashed by that blue-powdered drug...
He was tired. He saw no hope for the future as it was. Damn it all! The Inquisitor was just like the rest of them. No one understood what the problem was, no one ever cared. Except maybe for Hawke, but he was now long gone...another casualty of life, of its inevitable circumstances, embraced by the arms of death before their time.
'It seems that is the only fate befitting the just.' He drew a small bottle from his pocket, staring hard at the red powder inside.
All his life, others dictated how Samson should lead it. Orphaned at a tender age, mocked by his colleagues for his pale skin, slim frame and soft heart, left to beg in the streets after his dishonorable disgrace...and now, condemned to rot in a cell after dooming the very people he was supposed to protect.
He had tried and failed. With everything he ever cared about destroyed, Samson would not allow others to dictate his final moments. If he was to have the last word, then he might as well do it now.
He removed the cork and swallowed the remaining red powder with a bit of water. The taste felt bitter, as always, and went down his throat like a liquefied scorching flame. It was done. He threw the bottle with all his might through the bars of his cell, hearing its distant shatter. In a few minutes, he'd forget who he was, what he'd done and be lullabied into blissful oblivion by the lyrium's sweet melody.
Ten minutes later...
'Open the door. I have permission from the Inquisitor to take the prisoner to the Undercroft.'
'What shall you be doing with'im, Miss Dagna?' asked the guard, obedient.
'Not with him, nor to him.' She corrected the woman 'It's the red lyrium. I think I'm close to something. I asked the mages to help me test on a nug the effects of contamination. They were infected with the corrupted lyrium and grew red shards all over their bodies, as predicted. But then-'
'You what, now?' exclaimed the guard, scandalised.
'Ugh, let me finish! As I was saying, but then I began purifying the blood with the help of magic – and a bit of equipment, of course – and the corruption just seemed to dilute instead, leaving the nug's body.'
'You used blood magic, then?'
'Ugh, no! Of course not. Well, sorta. Does manipulating blood count as blood magic?'
The guard threw her a look of sheer doubt.
'Well, if ya didn't summon any demons, then...no?'
The door was opened.
'What happened to the nug? Was it left like, a little monster, with bloodshot eyes and nasty pointy shards growing all over'im?'
'Thank the Paragons, no. The shards disappeared after a while and he could be restored to something close to his previous form. Of course, they didn't look like perfect little nugs anymore, but you could tell their bodies were back to normal.'
'Well, I'll be damned. That's some miracle you people made right there.'
'But that's still far from curing the taint. The nugs still carry it.' Dagna admitted.
'Sounds like a victory, anyway. It's already summin.' reassured the guard.
'If I can run a few tests in a human, I'm sure I can...'
The two women heard gulping and thrashing noises and rushed to the cell. The prisoner was fallen on the ground, completely white-faced and with wide-open eyes. His body was trembling uncontrollably, his breath was quick and shallow and copious amounts of foam left his mouth.
'By the Paragons, he's been poisoned. Call the Healers, quickly!'
The guard rushed back to the passage as Dagna got the water jug and prepared a quick concoction with the herbs and substances she usually carried with her. It wasn't enough to reverse the poison, but it would at least slow it down.
She forced the liquid down the prisoner's throat and grabbed a piece of leather, shoving it in his mouth to prevent him from biting his tongue. She then let his head rest on a pillow and scrutinized the cell.
There was a tiny cork in a corner, with a red substance in one of its ends.
'Red lyrium...but there is something more.'
Footsteps were heard coming from the stairs, but no Healer was seen coming. It was the elven apostate who rushed to the scene.
'What happened?' he demanded in a fierce, urgent voice.
'He swallowed a powdered mixture of red lyrium and deathroot.'
It was clear the man had attempted suicide.
'Damn it. How long has it been since he took it?' he kneeled near the prisoner.
'I don't know, I only just got here. But deathroot acts fast. It can't have been more than ten minutes.' She answered in an earnest voice.
Solas didn't waste any more minute and began to evoke healing spells.
'Do you have royal elfroot? It might reverse the poison more effectively. Also, bring those instruments you used in your experiment. We might be able to siphon the poison out of him.' he asked.
Without another word, Dagna hurried back to the Undercroft.