"Corwin told me about what happened to you the other night," Ewald said slowly. He crossed his legs and rested his elbows on his knees, looking pensive. "I would have thought you'd have recovered by now so I am left to assume your withdrawals have something to do with this."

Samson sat in the chair opposite the desk, feeling apprehensive. He wanted to say that withdrawal had nothing to do with it, but couldn't. The memories of the Blooming Rose were both foggy and painful, and being here in the Captain's office was even more so. His superior's face didn't look right, nothing did. The ex-Templar's eyes felt heavy and his thoughts were like sludge. "Am I right to assume as much?"

Samson had been certain sleeping through a shift was bound to happen at some point, so he had done everything in his power to prevent it - resting whenever he could, trying, rather pathetically, to barely function. His body quivered and he crossed his arms to stop it, though it didn't help. The feverish-like trembling almost weren't worth trying to hide anymore, but he would keep trying, even if it meant he couldn't respond.

"Samson," Ewald said sternly, "I can't send you on duty like this. Tell me the truth, please. I have a lot to do and I don't have the patience for any avoidance tactics."

Just talk you idiot, was all Samson could tell himself, yet he didn't have the heart to own up for his disability. He didn't want it to be held against him, but there seemed to be no way to avoid admitting the truth.

"What would you like me to do, Guardsman?" Ewald asked, quickly losing patience. "Unless you can tell me with absolute certainty that your withdrawals will be over in the next few weeks I can't have you freeloading in the barracks. You will have to find somewhere to stay until it is over."

"I don't know how long it will take," Samson uttered. His voice didn't sound like his own, a husky imitation of another guard. Panic began to enter his voice, an anxiety he had managed to suppress up until now. "I don't have anywhere else to go. Please! Let me stay."

There was no way in hell he was going to knock on his parents' door, and the Gallows wasn't an option either. He had never sounded so desperate. Samson wasn't one for begging, but the situation called for it.

The Guard Captain appeared taken aback. "Look, I… I understand this is a troubling situation. I'm not in the best position right now to keep you on good will alone. Let yourself catch up on sleep today so you can go on patrol tomorrow. With all the refugees I have a lot more applicants and it wouldn't be efficient to let you lounge around. If this happens again, I'll have to ask you to leave, so if this position means that much, lyrium might be your only option."

"But I don't want to take it," Samson murmured. "It would make what I'm going through now worthless."

It would turn him into Faith, a useless nothing forever dependant on a substance he didn't need. He wasn't weak like her! He had far more endurance than any of the Guards in this Barracks. They didn't have to go through this shit.

Some of Samson's thoughts must have shown on his face because Ewald sighed. "I see you're not thinking straight, Samson." He rummaged some papers on the desk, as though watching Samson was painful. "I don't have a lot of experience with lyrium withdrawal but your case seems to be particularly nasty. I apologize, but as determined as you are, I can't let you use the Barracks as a place to rest your head. If this happens again you will face the consequences. Do you understand?"

"Not happily," Samson heaved, "but yes. I'll try to reach a conclusion for you, Captain."

The last of the conversation was a blur as the ex-Templar's mind raged with angry insults and fantasies of all he wished could occur: like burning down the building, for example. A mere ghost of himself, he hardly felt his feet against the floor as he left the room.


Now in his room, Samson picked up the letter again, desperately wishing to escape his confusion. Cullen's words did not turn out to be a comfort.

Samson,

I can tell from your handwriting you are not handling your withdrawals well. Maker's breath, I can't imagine what it must be like. It is a difficult situation to be in. I can't tell you the best course of action. There are many influences at work here. If I was in your position, I would try stop taking lyrium but I have family to confide in. I have places to stay and people to support me. Your family are not in the best position to support you, if they were ever.

I… I'm sorry, my friend. I wish I had more guidance to offer. I'd volunteer to meet you in person, but I am uncertain how we could organize it.

Cullen

Samson scrunched the letter into a ball. Rage filled him. A spontaneous burst of anger had crossed him many times in the past week, but every time, it got him one step closer to breaking point. Thankfully, he wasn't about to crumble into a heap just yet.

He wanted to talk to Cullen, Zoe, even Phillipa, offer to go out for drinks at the Hanged Man, but what more advice could they offer him? Next to nothing.

Samson headed for the showers. The hot water masked the symptoms for a time, until he tried to fall back asleep again.


"Dinner time's over, but I saved you some," a rumbling voice said.

There were only the flickers of candle light behind his closed eyelids.

"Corwin?" Samson groaned. He opened his eyes. The one who had told Ewald the story was in front of him, a blurry mess, sitting on that chair in the middle of the room. A plate was balanced on his knees. "Can I throw up on the rug too? I've had enough of this place."

His personal purgatory made every single location a living nightmare. It was sickening to admit this to himself.

With a scraping of a chair, Corwin's voice grew nearer. "You didn't want to talk about your withdrawal last time I asked. Do you trust me now?"

Trust or not, Samson had to do something.

"Ewald's gonna chuck me if I don't take the poison," he groaned. His throat burned as he spoke. "I don't want to leave. I just want this to be over."

Corwin didn't answer. He was probably thinking about it.

"Help me," Samson choked out. "Please. You're one of the only blokes here I don't want to kick in the balls."

"Nath told me of your dilemma," he admitted.

Typical. That elf probably told everybody.

"Do you really think lyrium withdrawal is worth it?" Corwin continued. "You might spend the rest of your life not being normal. Who knows what decades of usage have done to your body."

"I should take it, then?" Samson wondered, his speech disjointed from fatigue. "You wouldn't think I was weak."

"I've never been on lyrium. I can't know what it's like. Who am I to judge?" Corwin said. An inkling of anger rose in his voice. "You won't have to suffer like this if you do."

For a moment, Samson considered it, but then he remembered Meredith. She would want him to give up. There was no way he was going to give her the satisfaction.

Cullen was right. He needed support.

"I wish my parents pretended they cared, just for one second," Samson mumbled, "then I could stay at their sorry excuse of a house, but no." He heaved a shuddering breath. Samson had not spoken to anyone about this for a long while. It seemed odd to tell the story again. "I don't know why I wanted to be a Templar in the first place. I have no clue what I was thinking at the time, and I can't figure it out looking back on it either."

"I came here to get away from my father," Corwin said with a shrug. "I understand how for some of us it's impossible to associate with family."

"They don't care," Samson grumbled. "They say it was because I reminded them of a child they lost, but I wonder if they made the whole thing up. Pathetic excuses. I've seen them on occasion in Kirkwall over the years, but they don't make the slightest effort. Maybe they're just broken. Either way, I don't need them."

It was one of the most logical thoughts he'd have over the past few days, and as much as he didn't need them, he needed somebody.

"Did you like being a Templar?" Corwin inquired tentatively. Somehow, it was nice to talk about something emotionally charged, to make him forget the physical discomfort he was in. His headache was returning with a vengeance.

"It was great. Of course I liked it," Samson said firmly. Maybe it sounded like a lie with his tone, but he had never doubted this, even when guarding a door tested his patience. "I loved feeling like I was contributing to the greater good of Thedas, doing something useful. People knew who I was; I was respected and cared for."

His thoughts halted for a moment and Samson decided he wanted food. Corwin seemed to understand and passed him the plate. Balancing it on the bed covers the ex-Templar made sure the scent wouldn't make him nauseous before picking up the fork.

"I was recruited when I was six or seven. My mother was at the Chantry so often, it seemed like a position she thought was honourable." Samson rambled, "Maybe I wanted to impress her. She was very eager. Some of the other boys I met there were going to join too. I could have wanted to be with them to get away from my life, see what else was out there. Either way, I don't regret my choice."

Samson pierced an uncut slab of roast pork with his fork and chewed on a corner.

Corwin acted as though he hadn't heard. "Did your encounter with Faith…uh…?"

Did he want to know if Samson had given her a kiss goodnight?

The ex-Templar swallowed with difficulty. "She didn't exactly invite me to bunk at her house."

The food wasn't being instantly rejected, so Samson took another bite. Corwin was silent for so long that approaching footsteps could be clearly heard from outside the room. "If you want my help," he suggested slowly, "I will take you to speak to Faith again. She's the only one we know of who has any knowledge on withdrawals."

It was either brave the Blooming Rose or endure the loud questioning of the other Guardsmen.

Shit.

Never mind she was crazy, or their last conversation had gone horribly wrong, Corwin was convinced that the situation could be turned around, and wasn't about to let him break free. Not again. Bollocks. At least he wasn't wearing armor this time around, so the cold air was refreshing on his overworked system.

"If she'll even talk to me," Samson said wearily.

Corwin had a strong grip. "Madame Luisine is a very understanding woman," he said calmly, "I can talk her into it."

Samson wanted to ask how the hell anyone could convince that old hag anything, though was too exhausted. "Let's just get this over with."

"If you apologize…"

"We'll see."

Samson didn't remember much of what happened next. He felt drained, exhausted, and colours blotched the scenery but he didn't care. Right now he could sleep forever and be content with his existence.

He found himself on a chair at the bar of the Rose, resting his head on the ledge. The noise of people around him was more like buzzing insects. This wasn't even existing, but something worse.

"Samson," Corwin said quietly, his voice distant. "I managed to get you an audience."

The words struggled to register in his brain when someone hit him on the back of the head.

"Ow!"

A cynical laugh entered his ears. There was only one person with a laugh like that, and it wasn't Madame Lusine.

"Works like a charm," Faith sniggered from behind him.

Was a free hit over the head how she had been coerced into speaking to him? Samson groaned. If only Corwin could do all the talking.

"Could you give us a moment?" she asked Corwin.

The ex-Templar didn't see, though he assumed his friend must have nodded. It was too noisy to tell if he had walked away, but judging from Faith's voice, he had. For someone who had been shrieking in his ear a few days ago Faith was awfully calm now. It was almost unnatural.

"I've had a busy day," she said. Samson heard the seat next to him squeak. "So I hope you don't make me regret talking to you… again."

Swallowing all dignity, Samson raised his head. Faith's expression wasn't unfamiliar. He looked into her eyes and saw how exhausted she was, how much Faith must long for rest. The lines in her forehead were thinly concealed with make up. He tried to hide his air of nausea as he responded.

"You… I didn't mean to…" he wanted to say 'make you go crazy' but thought better of it, "I'm sorry."

They were forced words. Some part of him did mean them. He was more shocked she hadn't been more understanding, especially if his suffering was known to her. The insight wasn't helpful now, but at least his malady stopped him from blurting out garbage.

Faith crossed her arms, and the corner of her lips twitched. "Why did you hesitate?"

Samson gulped. "Nothing worth mentioning." He paused again. "I… I'm not in a great…situation."

It sounded so stupid and obvious! Faith seemed to agree, for she chuckled. For a split second he could see the Templar in her, and it was reassuring.

"I'm sorry too," she said finally.

Samson jolted upright. "You what?"

"I owe you an explanation -you more than any of your other Templar friends," Faith said smoothly.

Amazed, Samson felt her hand touch his back, quite awkwardly, as though she didn't know how to, which was ridiculous considering her job, nonetheless… he relaxed. Perhaps she was clearing away her façade.

"I haven't reacted like that in a long while," she explained, "the descent into insanity."

Well, someone had to say it, Samson thought, just pleased it wasn't him. "I suppose that's why you don't see the Templars?"

"My reactions are my responsibility. Placing limits are my responsibility," Faith said, her hand softening on his back. "It's... complicated."

"Really?"

She scowled at him. "If you're mocking me, I'll throw you out of here."

"I'm not," Samson insisted, taken aback by her change in mood.

Faith appeared unconvinced. She crossed one leg over the other, perhaps thinking. In a slow, nervous manner, she managed, "When I started working here, a number of the Templars I used to call brothers thought it was hilarious to tease me and say how low I had sunken."

Samson would have chuckled out of discomfort if he was in higher spirits. Instead, it probably looked like he grimaced. "I don't know what they're on about. I greatly respect those who work here. Always have. Must be a tricky job. I mean, you must get blokes who don't know what they're doing all the time."

The Rose worker gave a shrewd smile. "It is far more irksome to have a customer who boasts about their ability. Most of the time, they have no greater prowess than any other person. Sometimes it makes them inflexible with their technique."

"That wouldn't be me," Samson said, with a grin. "I know I'm hopeless."

"I've heard that before too," Faith said, with a numinous expression. "However, unless they have paid me to do so, it is not my job to provide them with feedback."

"The Templars are mostly blockheads, then?"

"Mostly," she said. "I am unable to remain professional when they harrass me. And even if I make an exception..." She paused.

"Hm?"

"Nothing," Faith said. "Madam Lusine and I decided long ago, for several reasons, it was best I do not have Templars as customers."

Samson was still lost as to why she had responded so negatively to him. "The night I saw you..."

"Yes?"

"I... don't get what..."

He fell silent.

Then, her gaze evaded his. "You won't laugh if I tell you about my withdrawal?"

"No."

If anything, perhaps her story could provide him with insight about how he could manage his withdrawal.

She took a deep breath. "I don't know if this is difficult to believe, but lyrium withdrawal almost killed me."

Samson couldn't think of an intelligent reply. "Shit."

At that moment a waitress offered him some water and he tentatively took it. With a distasteful expression, Faith seemed to imply that she had no interest in a drink, so the waitress departed.

"You are still interested?" Faith asked.

"Yeah."

"I will try explain. I have never told anyone this, but… my time attempting to withdraw from lyrium was a traumatizing experience." Faith waited, and examined his expression carefully. "I don't like to remember, but there are some moments that force such memories upon me – almost like blood magic. I still have nightmares about it sometimes, and seeing you unwell was like reliving that nightmare."

Looking slightly sick, Faith rubbed Samson's back. He was slow putting the information together. "Then… it wasn't something I said?"

"No." Faith recoiled slightly. "I experience a lot of hardship when I see, hear, or smell vomit, whether my own or others'. Anything that induces nausea deeply distresses me."

Samson was starting to understand. "I get it a little. My old roommate at the Gallows used to be jumpy like that, though it was about something else." He examined her expression. She looked downtrodden.

"I don't know what was different about that night but the beast dug its claws into me. I felt simultaneously everything and nothing at the same time – pure, intense agony."

Samson was saddened that he could relate to that feeling. Finding his voice, he enquired, "There was no warning at all?"

"No," Faith replied, confirming Samson's fear. "I suppose after being so ill for so long, feeling like you're dying is normal. Anything out of the ordinary for a healthy person is just another day for someone in lyrium withdrawal."

"How long was it until… it got that rubbish?"

"I think I was two months off the poison." It was clear from her strained expression that her memory of those times was foggy. "I don't remember hitting the ground, but I felt pain. Hot. I could hardly breathe. I feel my throat burn. Next thing I know, I'm spewing non-stop. There was a man asking me if I'm alright." More than Faith's voice started to shake. "Sorry. Give me a moment."

Samson did. It wasn't hard to stay quiet these days.

Faith took a few deep breaths, and then kept going. "I wake up in a house. His house. He was an apostate. He tells me I was on the verge of death." She sounded guileless, how he imagined her ten years younger self would. "He ran home with me in his arms. I guess it was lucky I was roaming the streets at the time. Apparently at some time in my delirium I said I was withdrawing from lyrium. He took some from his personal stores and forced it down my throat. Without my knowing, he saved my life."

"Madness," Samson muttered.

"I can't describe it," Faith said blankly, as though reflecting on these moments for the first time. "I despised him for saving me, at the same time I wanted to spend the rest of my days making it up to him. I don't know what I think of life, even now. I feel like he stole the answers from me."

"Who was he?" Samson inquired, trying to push the immediate comparison of Maddox from his mind.

Faith shrugged. "He never told me his real name. I got the sense that he didn't know what to think of me either. He said when he figured out what I had been – his first thought was to kill me. But he said he had never seen such profound suffering before – not even in the Circle – so he helped me, whether I wanted it or not. When I awoke, once the apostate explained what had happened - I felt relieved of pain for the first time in so long. It was overwhelming. Happiness and sadness at once…. He told me I should never have to suffer like that again, that I was welcome to use his lyrium if I ever needed it, so long as I didn't report him. I broke down. Whenever I am reminded of those moments on the verge of losing consciousness… well… you saw what happened."

Pushing the glass to his lips, Samson swirled the water between his teeth and took a few moments to swallow.

"I didn't mean to react how I did," Faith said. "I hope you can understand."

"Do you still get your lyrium from him?" Samson asked.

"I stopped about five years ago when he disappeared," Faith said, "but he told me where to find some of my own. I can assist you if you need it." Seeming calmer, she gave Samson a hearty pat on the back. "So what I should have said before – how are you managing your withdrawal?"

So Samson explained, in far less words than he should, but Faith seemed to understand his broken language.

"The Dead Maker hates us," she said grimly. "You'll have to excuse me, but I can't help you, Samson, not unless you have some income."

"I didn't think you could," Samson said in a dry voice. "I don't know what to do. Do you know if recovery from lyrium withdrawal is even possible?"

"It differs from person to person," Faith rationalized, "I've met two others who have withdrawn. One was successful, the other I didn't hear back from."

The thought that withdrawal was fatal had barely crossed his mind previously, and it was an unwelcome fate. He didn't fancy dying without warning. Suddenly his hatred for the woman turned into an intrigue. He didn't admire her, no way, although there was information she could part to him here. Maybe Corwin hadn't been completely off his nutter.

"Do you think I have a chance?" Samson choked out, "or am I just being an idiot trying?"

"I wish I could say," Faith said sadly. "Guessing is like trying to read blindfolded."

"Great," Samson grumbled, and he asked what he desperately wanted to know. "If you could go back and change it, would you stop that apostate from saving your life?"

She said she wasn't sure how she perceived life – was life with lyrium terrible for her?

"Life is unpredictable for me," Faith replied. "It is easier, yes, but not easy. Working here helps me block out the singing and cravings. I try to keep to a schedule like in the Circle, but I think my body has broken itself. Sometimes I slip and I regret it. If I think on it too much I am outraged for how dangerous lyrium is. Particular events, like seeing you the other night, make me wish I had died. However, living has its merits if you can find meaning in it. "

Meaning was a horrible word, for Samson's current existence had little of it. He knew that if he didn't have to rely on lyrium his life would be better. Yet he recognized the singing Faith spoke of, for he'd heard it in his dreams. It was an unpleasant musical number to recall, a tune that brought out every crack and flaw in the universe and plastered it over each wall in one's head, something inescapable, desolate and derelict.

I don't know what I think of life, even now. I nearly feel like he stole the answers from me.

Samson didn't need to ask if Faith felt her life had meaning. The bloodshot look in her eyes said she craved for more than distractions from a song, but comfort for her saddened heart. The pain of losing all those who had supported her was as permanent an injury as the dark lines under her eyes, a dysfunction no layer of make-up could hide.

For his life to have meaning, Samson realized he needed to see his friends, right or wrong aside.

He prayed to what was left of the Maker that it wasn't too late.


A/n: Beta credit: SteveGarbage. Thank you :)