Title: Tugging at the darkness word upon word
Fandom: Dragon Age
Characters/Pairings: Calpernia, Samson; Sampernia
Rating: T (?)
Warnings: references to past abuse; mild spoilers for DA Inquisition
Summary: In the early morning sun, the enclosed space of her chamber seems timeless, separated from the entire universe. For a moment, Calpernia is too afraid to move, knowing once she reacts, she will set everything in motion again, breaking the spell of peace and quiet she secretly longs for.
Disclaimer: Dragon Age is not mine, although the writing certainly is.
A/N: title from Mercy Street by Peter Gabriel. I also recommend Fever Ray's version of this song.
The moment Calpernia opens her eyes, she knows is too early. After only few hours of sleep her body feels heavy, longing for more rest. In the early morning sun, the enclosed space of her chamber seems timeless, separated from the entire universe. For a moment, Calpernia is too afraid to move, knowing once she reacts, she will set everything in motion again, breaking the spell of peace and quiet she secretly longs for.
She's used to waking up in the dull hours just before sunrise. A slave girl doesn't have the comfort of sleeping as long as she wants; she has to get up before her master while the rest of the world is sound asleep.
What she is not used to, however, is waking up in a bed with a soft, clean mattress, rather than a stack of hay that left her whole body smell faintly of horses. Or having the privilege of deciding if she wants to sleep a bit longer or not. Or seeing someone else in her own bed.
And yet it's not strange to see Samson by her side; it's difficult to admit but she would be more surprised if he wasn't here. Her eyes trace the contours of his face; he looks quite peaceful, unburned by his past or present.
You should shave, she idly muses. Chewing on her bottom lip, she reaches out, to touch his jaw.
Once again she thinks it would be so easy to erase him from this world, use her magic to destroy, watch as he disappears till there's nothing left of him. It would make her life easier. After all this time Calpernia is still naive enough to believe all lies she's telling herself are true.
Then Samson wakes up and breaks the illusion of stillness, inhales sharply like a man afraid of falling into a bottomless pit. His eyes flutter open, hands gripping the bedsheets. Samson blinks and when he exhales he knows where he is, his whole body relaxes again. When his eyes move to her, Calpernia can feel a warm flush prickling her skin. As she desperately filters through all possible things to say, he pushes himself up on his elbows.
"Sorry, I'll get going," there's a hint of apology in Samson's voice, and he has the look of a beaten dog on his face again.
Her brows knit tight. This is not what she wanted to hear.
She sits up, turning her back to him, to this foolish man who doesn't understand anything, and she's ready to get up and order him to, Leave, now!, but then his hand touches her bare shoulder and the touch is so familiar she doesn't even flinch, not anymore.
His fingertips trace one long scar, a particularly nasty reminder of her past life. It feels almost like a caress, and she didn't allow him to be so… intimate. She stands up, irritated by him (and her own reactions), sensing what question Samson wants to ask. What is in the past should stay in the past – or else it could swallow her whole, and Calpernia will not allow her former life burden her present. He doesn't know about the weight she's carrying. Of course he doesn't, she never told him what she used to be, not a person but an object. Why would she? They aren't here to share stories but to fight and win.
She's ready to snap at him, this is not the right time to have this kind of conversation, it never is and it never will be, yet Samson says something completely different, catching her by surprise.
"This is how Tevinters treat their mages? Lashing them, leaving scars?"
She swallows a quick gust of anger and willies wills herself to be calm. She's so fed up with the way people here treat the Imperium and all that comes from her country. They always pretend to know everything, ignorant fools.
"Do wish to say how your culture treats mages? You surely know a lot about punishing insubordinate mages, don't you, templar?"
She can (almost) hate the words coming from her mouth, though she won't stop. It's not fair, being so cruel, wanting to punish him for merely saying what everyone else says, empty words heard from someone or read from an old dusty book. But Samson should know better than to say such things about her homeland.
She turns her head to him just in time to see his eyes go dark, canine, lips twitch, curling in disgust, anger, and something else she can't quite define, but she knows it comes from all that red flowing in his veins. For a second she considers it's the right moment to check how much she can push before he snaps. It's a dangerous thought; she could see what he could do if pressed, what he could do to her. She decides not to, instead, her bitter cruelty replaced by something very close to guilt.
"Not all mages are high born magisters," Calpernia adds quickly, before Samson can say a word. "Tevinter is a magocracy, yes, although assuming it's a land where all mages are treated equally is simply foolish. Things will change, once the Imperium regains its splendid form. As for the present day, however… This is how Tevinters treat some of their mages. When a mage learns their craft, if you are a magister, you are always rewarded. If you are… less fortunate, then you are punished for making the smallest mistake."
And just like that she can notice his anger disappear, because he knows she didn't mean to be unkind – it's something she does sometimes.
It used to be so easy, being cruel to him. Now her cruelty is full of remorse, turning into guilt so heavy it's suffocating. She can't even stand looking at the scratches she has left on his skin not so long ago. Calpernia cut her nails short, Samson pretends he didn't notice, and she is grateful for that.
He has become a constant in a sea of variables, and this quite new uneasy sensation she feels every time he is not around should easily shock her. She can't pinpoint the exact moment when she started treating Samson as someone she expects (wants?) to be close, so close that when her hand reaches out, he's there, he's always there, and when he's not something inside her curls deep in her very core, tearing her mind apart.
Previously, it was always brief and intense, but it was the kind of intensity that shattered, leaving behind a sensation of cold, void nothing. And it was almost anonymous, making it easy to create a new persona that existed only during their shared moments, so she could later analyse the other Calpernia, the woman who was her but also wasn't; who was real only if she allowed it. It was easy, playing the role.
And now there is something that made the other one dissolve completely. Perhaps she is not needed anymore, exposing her true self. It's not right but it's not wrong either, leaving Calpernia in a maddening state of confusion every time she dares to think about their situation. And the voice, the thing inside her, always waiting when she lets her guard down, so it can whisper in her ear.
They all leave, it says, sweetly, bringing back memories she buried long time ago.
They all leave without saying goodbye. She wants to crush it but she's too weak.
They all leave you, and he will leave, too, one day he will simply disappear from your life just like–
"They're singing songs about you," Calpernia says out loud. It's the first thing that comes to her mind, and she can feel blush colouring her cheeks once she realises what she has just said. Now she has to continue, or else Samson will think she has lost her mind once and for all. "Well, one song, but it means people of Thedas did notice you."
Of all possible things to say, she had to choose this silly detail mentioned in one of the recent letters from her agents. As if it matters what some minstrel sings in a shabby tavern! Apparently it does, if it seemed so important to include in the report.
Samson shakes his head in confusion. "What?"
"Oh, don't give me that look! I'm not going to sing it to you! Forget that I said anything," she waves her hand dismissively, feeling some sort of relief they can leave the previous topic behind.
"Do they... Do they sing about you as well?"
Calpernia purses her lips. "I'm a mage from Tevinter, a country that people here consider the source of all evil. You tell me if you think you will ever hear a song about me in a Fereldan tavern."
"Fair enough," he lets out a sigh. "Never thought people would find some templar that interesting. Or maybe they got so bored with their heroes, now they write songs cursing their enemies."
"They're not criticising you. The song is rather… sympathetic," she says, recalling the lyrics. She doesn't know the melody, but the words flow well. "And it's easy to remember because it rhymes. Knight in red, they call you."
"You must be joking," she can hear disbelief in his voice. "Someone wrote a song about me, and it rhymes?"
"Perhaps you are more inspiring than you think, Samson," she says, his name leaving a strange aftertaste on her tongue, as always.
Seeing the mess in her usually clean room, clothes hastily scattered on the floor, Calpernia lets out a sigh. Cleaning after Erasthenes had been as laborious as scrubbing floor, but at least when she scrubbed the floor she could see the result. The man had a brilliant mind but he always left his papers and books everywhere, transforming order into chaos only he could understand. If she didn't put everything back in place immediately after he was done, a stick or a whip painfully reminded her she's being lazy again. The only good thing about her situation was that her former master never noticed a book or two missing.
She pads across the room, picking up clothes to at least put them all in one place, and grabs a simple blue robe that hangs on the chair by her desk. With a wave of her hand, flames in the fireplace come to life.
Next time, I will– She cuts the thought just in time to realise she already expects there will be next time, and this preposterous idea that she considers him part of her everyday routine makes her blush even more.
To distract herself from other ridiculous thoughts, Calpernia picks up the nearest letter from a pile of papers on the desk. It's a recipe – at first; then she blinks and her mind easily solves one of the codes her people use for communication.
From she whom you freed.
Rhiannon is one of her best agents, and she always begins her letters like this. When Calpernia saw this woman for the first time; her hair was so dirty and full of lice, she later had to cut it short. Her hair is growing back, just like Rhiannon is regaining her freedom. The woman is talented and smart, learning fast, always delivering the information Calpernia needs. Her latest note was about the Inquisitor; Calpernia wrote a reply with further instructions the same day. She considered adding, Stay safe, but she didn't. There's no need to be so sentimental.
She frees slaves because it's one of the things that needs to be done. When they look at her, their fear transforms into blissful adoration. This is how tyrants are made, Calpernia thinks sometimes, and turns her face away from their hopeful eyes.
The Inquisitor is heading to Orlais, accompanied by their faithful followers. New reports show the Inquisition is gaining more and more power. They managed to rebuild, find a new base of operation after Haven was destroyed. The Elder One still can't see the threat, claiming their enemy is nothing but a mistake, a nobody that will be crushed.
She was a nobody as well. She should have died but still lives, just like the Inquisitor; she finds the parallels between their fates rather ironic. Calpernia at times wonders if Corypheus simply refuses to acknowledge the Inquisition's power. Gods can be blind, too.
"Have you ever been to Orlais?" she asks, and what a silly question it is, since she knows Samson spent his life in the Free Marches before he met the Elder One. Not that he ever told her that, but she obviously has her own ways of obtaining all the information she needs.
He never told her – and she pretends she doesn't know, thinking (hoping) that maybe one day he will.
"Maker, no!" he looks almost offended. "There were quite a lot of Orlesians living in Kirkwall, though. I can tell you, they all are crazy."
"Worse than Tevinters?" her voice is innocent enough they can pretend it's not a challenge.
Samson laughs (for a moment Calpernia thinks it sounds like a dog barking), then gives her a crooked smile. "Worse than Tevinters."
Her mind travels back to the time when she went to Orlais and met Grand Duchess Florianne. The woman seemed offended by the very fact of Calpernia wearing pants instead of a puffy dress (a woman wearing leather pants? In Val Royeaux? Scandalous!). She saw her as a barbarian of sorts, and compared to Florianne, Calpernia truly seemed like a woman from a completely different world, dressed in leather instead of velvet, smelling like blood and death. Calpernia had to leave – thankfully, because Florianne's unhealthy fascination with her was getting uncomfortable.
She remembers Florianne purring, "You would look marvellous in purple!", her manicured hand reaching out to touch Calpernia's face, while hiding her own behind a highly ornamented fan. She also remembers her cheeks burning hot; what was this lady's bizarre fixation with touching her face? It took a lot not to slap this woman (Calpernia wanted to tell her what she once did to a man who touched her face without consent).
They should have sent Erimond. All that backstabbing, scandals and gossip – he would love that; after all, he belonged to the world of high born nobles. Calpernia, on the other hand, viewed her time in Orlais as some kind of punishment. At least she could persuade Florianne that she was not a dress wearing type.
Calpernia cared nothing about the costumes and balls. She had work to do (she can still hear how Vicinius screamed when she came for him; his blood splattered on the wall looked like a mosaic). Florianne wanted to dress her in pretty gowns, style her hair, and transform her into yet another illusion walking through the never ending corridors of the Winter Palace. Val Royeaux is nothing but an illusion, full of people pretending they truly believe masks can hide their rotten souls.
Perhaps the Inquisitor, seemingly so unstoppable, will shatter that false world.
She folds the letter, puts it back on the desk. Her eyes shift to Samson, who now stands by the door ready to leave before someone could notice he spent the night with a certain Venatori mage.
"Have a good day, Lady Calpernia," he says, and there's a hint of promise in his voice.
Her gaze flicks from her eyes to his mouth, and something in her mind stirs again, growing more impatient. Her lips open but she stops herself just in time.
There's no need to be so sentimental.
One day, if gods are kind, Calpernia will tell him everything she wants to say.