IV
Samson speaks to the woman who saved his life.
His guests remain silent for a longer while, their piercing eyes watching him intensely. The silence makes Samson uncomfortable, but it's nothing compared to the feeling of spikes piercing through his skull. And the thirst coiling in his gut, a craving getting stronger with every breath he takes.
Are we going to just stare at each other all day? He frowns, feeling more uneasy with every passing second. What if they don't speak common? He never bothered to learn another language.
The woman sits with her back perfectly straight. If she wasn't breathing she'd look more like a statue than a living person. Just when he wonders what's the best way of telling her to leave him alone to die, she finally speaks.
"Templar, beggar. General. So many titles just for one man. How shall I address you now?"
There's a trace of accent in her voice; he heard it before. All Vints sound the same, bossy and demanding
"I don't care."
Speaking makes his throat hurt, and Samson coughs. He can barely recognise his own voice.
"And you are?"
There's something familiar in her. Looking at this woman makes him nervous for reasons he can't explain, as if he knew her but couldn't remember ever meeting her.
How he got here is a mystery. The place doesn't look like a dungeon but like a regular house. Something tells him they're not in Ferelden anymore. Just wondering how much time is lost to him makes his headache worse. He was exiled by the Inquisitor, everything that happened after is a blur in his head.
"My name is Calpernia," she says, holding her chin up. "I represent the Venatori."
"Whatever's left of the Venatori, you mean," he quips.
The Red Templars weren't the only ones serving Corypheus. From what Samson knows, the Venatori had ambitious albeit borderline insane plans. Summoning a demon army? Time travel magic? It was hard to believe half the stuff he heard. Only Tevinter mages could think something like that would work.
Perhaps the Venatori are still fighting. It doesn't matter much now. The Elder One is dead, and Samson should be dead too. Yet this woman won't let him die, failing to understand he's a lost cause.
Calpernia keeps her face a mask. "There's still enough of us left. Too bad the Inquisition obliterated your Red Templars."
Samson snorts. Well, at least his captor knows how to hold an interesting conversation.
What he sees in her are flaws; too many freckles on her square face, big ears, a gap between her front teeth. Not exactly the image of the Venatori leader.
There's a red gem in a brooch pinned on front of her robe. Red, very red, and for a second he thinks it's pulsing, mimicking his heartbeat. Feeling his arms trembling, Samson balls his hands into fists. His sickly pale skin is covered with sweat. In her eyes he must be monstrous.
"I've prepared a potion for you," Calpernia points at the bedside table. "Drink it, you'll feel better."
Samson glances at the small bottle. No label, it could be anything. Part of him wishes it was poison.
"You prepared it? Or did you order your minions to do it for you?" He barks. It doesn't matter he sounds like an angry fool. Anger feels good. It gives him something else to focus on.
"Drink," Calpernia repeats with vague irritation. Perhaps she's not used to others stubbornly questioning her orders. "Drink or I'll force it down your throat."
Anger coils inside him. He's too weak to react so he merely glares at her.
There's always someone trying to pull him back on his feet. He can't do anything himself. His life is someone else's idea. People have plans for him. Too bad they don't know he's doomed to fail no matter what.
First the Champion made it possible that he could be a templar again. That didn't last long but Samson could at least belong somewhere again. Then the Elder One offered him red lyrium, and Samson said yes. He said yes to everything, no matter how painful and degrading, because the red was sweet and tempting. For a moment he believed he could fight and win.
And now Calpernia.
There's not much of his templar skills left, but he knows magic when he feels it. This time it smells like ashes and smoke. Realising Calpernia is a mage, a Tevinter mage, Samson nearly bursts out laughing. He's come this far to find himself at the mercy of a mage.
Silently he reaches for the small bottle, opens it and drinks, feeling Calpernia's eyes watching his every move. The potion has a bitter taste but he can barely notice. After drinking red lyrium for so long it's difficult to feel the taste of other things. Nothing can compare to the red.
"Good," Calpernia says as he puts the empty bottle on the floor. She seems quite pleased. It's rather surprising she can look at him without being completely disgusted.
"You will drink this potion twice a day from now on. You'll also get food and water, and you will eat everything my people bring you."
He nods, not in a mood to argue. All his anger is gone, replaced by the overwhelming feeling of exhaustion. Sooner or later she will realise it's all futile.
"Now, you have to look... presentable." She studies him with a frown. "I need you to meet someone. I brought you fresh clothes. Nothing I'd call elegant but they are clean, and you're in no position to complain."
Bossy. Vint. Witch. I have you all figured out.
For a moment he considers asking her what she knows about templars and southern mages. What a foolish thought.
Samson nods again. The pounding in his head gets stronger.
As he ponders on his misery, Calpernia gets up, ready to leave. They aren't going to have a heartfelt conversation today, it seems. But there's one thing he needs to know. It's trivial, yet important. He needs something to anchor him to reality.
"Where are we?"
Calpernia turns around to look at him. He doesn't like the way her eyes change as she studies him for a moment. Maybe she finally realised he's a wreck she doesn't really need.
"In Lydes, Orlais," she says. Her voice is soft, sounding so different than moments ago it makes Samson irrationally angry.
He can deal with disgust; seeing pity in her eyes drives him mad.
Her eyes linger on him for a moment too long. The she leaves along with her companion. Well, at least now he can be sure this isn't the afterlife.
He takes off his shirt and carelessly tosses it on the floor, barely registering the cold air hitting his skin. The clothes are slightly too big but they fit well enough. Maybe he got thinner. Thankfully there's no mirror around here. Samson scratches his skin; he should shave but it's doubtful the Vints will get him a razor.
After a moment of hesitation he grabs the small bird from the bedside table, and hangs it around his neck. The metal feels hot against his skin.
As the Vint takes him to another room, Samson glances around to discover they have to be inside a mansion. Or just a huge house of someone who is wealthy enough that they can afford having so many rooms. He's never been in a house so big; he usually stayed in the dirties part of Kirkwall, where whole families live in one tiny place.
He gets inside what looks like a dining room. The quiet Vint is gone, leaving Samson alone. Heavy curtains cover a window on the other side of the room. There's a long table in the middle, surrounded by chairs. Samson picks one of them and sits down. Other than that the room is oddly empty. He doesn't have much time to ponder on his surroundings because the door opens again.
It's Calpernia, this time accompanied by a different man. He speaks in Tevene, excitement clear in his voice. His shocked eyes look back and forth at Samson then again at Calpernia.
It's nearly disturbing, the way this Vint blatantly stares at him. Samson narrows his eyes, scanning the man's face, trying to determine what is the purpose of this meeting. The stranger seems even younger than Calpernia. His hair is short, while his clothes indicate he's been travelling.
Calpernia invites him inside. He sits down on the other side of the table, while she remains at the door.
"I can hardly believe..!" the Vint speaks in common, grinning. "You obviously don't know me, but I worked with your Red Templars. Perhaps you recall sending your men to the Western Approach? Blighted place, sand gets everywhere. Though I never heard them complain. Unfortunately there was an accident involving a high dragon – "
"Who's this clown?" Samson glances at Calpernia. His head is spinning, skin itching. He certainly doesn't need this kind of torture, talking to a crazy Vint.
She opens her lips but the man speaks first. "Crassius Servis of Vyrantium, at your service."
Samson snorts. "Servis at your service?"
The man nods. "Has a nice ring to it, don't you think, General?"
"He's a smuggler," Calpernia explains. "He worked for the Venatori before the Inquisition got him."
"If the Inquisitor let you go, it means you're their agent now. Your loyalty to them is rather questionable," Samson says, and Servis just shrugs.
"I'll start worrying when they find out I'm not exactly following the Inquisitor's orders. The less they know, the better. I'm quite fond of my head, you see. I like it attached to the rest of my body."
"We need to leave this town," Calpernia states. "Servis will get us across the sea."
Samson's gaze moves back to her. She never explained why he's here, why she bothered to save him. If they're going north, then they'll most likely travel to Tevinter. Or perhaps their initial goal is to get as far from the Inquisiton as possible. Though Samson suspects they doesn't care about him anymore. Why would they? The Elder One is dead, what's left of the Red Templars doesn't pose a threat to the almighty Inquisitor.
"May I ask you something?" Servis' voice breaks through his thoughts. When Samson glares at him, the smuggler moves his chair back a little, as if afraid the former templar could reach across the table and attack him. Perhaps he will, if the pounding in his head gets any louder.
"No," Samson barks. Servis audibly gasps in surprise. Samson doesn't fail to notice that Calpernia's lips twitch as she fights with a smile.
"But I must! You were the Elder One's General!"
"It doesn't mean anything now," Samson lets out a sigh. His tired eyes move back to Calpernia. "Are we done?"
"You will be escorted to your room." She points at the door. She turns to Servis. "Let's discuss the details."
"Lady Calpernia, there's something I need –"
"And I need you to listen to me now, Servis. Don't test my patience."
Servis looks like a sad puppy as he pleads in Tevene. Other than few simple phrases Samson doesn't know this language at all, so he stops listening and leaves.
A woman with a scar on her face guides him back to his room where he finds a tray with food and a jug of water. Someone has cleaned his dirty clothes and replaced the old sweat soaked blanket with a new one.
The window is open, he can hear birds singing outside. The setting sun paints everything in warm colours. The world just keeps going.
The world doesn't care about some old, useless templar. The problem is that Samson isn't sure if he finds it comforting or not.