Looking back, Maddox had been uncharacteristically absent minded when he'd given Samson the last letter. Samson couldn't remember the exact date, but it was over a week or so before Cullen asked him to talk to Meredith.

Samson had retrieved the envelope one evening in a corridor near the library. As per usual when passing letters, it was dark, lit only by a small yellow light Maddox made dance around the ceiling like a firefly.

"Did I see Butterfly sighing in your direction with drool hanging off her chin earlier?" Maddox teased.

"You mean you didn't watch when I licked it off?" Samson jested, folding the paper and slipping it underneath his armour within the notch of his collarbone. "Or you were too busy hiding in your Swan's shadow?"

Maddox laughed. "I would have been impressed if I had seen that. You wouldn't dare."

Samson smiled. Maddox was right.

Maddox had been the one who thought of referring to their fancied girls anonymously. He was incredibly perceptive, perhaps too much so. After a couple of brief interactions, it seemed impossible for Samson not to tell him about Zoe.

That conversation was so easy to remember, even about a year ago. Maddox had said one afternoon in the Courtyard, "Before you go, I have a serious question for you."

"Yeah?" Samson said, wondering if Maddox could be serious about anything.

"Do you fancy Phillipa's roommate?" Maddox asked.

Samson felt his face grow hot, although tried to keep calm. "Zoe?"

"It's reassuring you know her name. Yes, that's who I mean."

Samson looked to see no one was there. Obviously, there wasn't. "You'll keep what I say a secret?"

"I wouldn't dream of telling," Maddox said, with a smile. "You keep my secret, so I will keep yours."

The most striking detail about Maddox was his engaging nature. He had an almost innate ability to make others trust him, by his sheer playfulness and sensitivity.

Samson said, nervously. "I would fancy her in my bed, if that's what you mean."

Maddox grinned. "I don't blame you."

"I reckon tons of mages would have her if they could," Samson remarked. "Having someone beautiful watch you all day…. it sounds like a dream. It would drive anyone mad."

Maddox laughed. "The Gallows would have sex happening all the time if the Knight-Commander wasn't so cruel."

"Too true," Samson cackled.

The mage lowered his voice. "We should be more discrete talking about the girls though. How's this? I'll call Zoe 'butterfly' from now on."

"Why a butterfly?"

"Whenever I see you around her, it's like you're chasing a butterfly around in the courtyard. It's hilarious."

"To the Maker with you," Samson chided. "If that's how you're gonna be, Phillipa can be a swan."

"What for?"

"She's polite, graceful," Samson said, "and whenever she tells Zoe off, it's like when swans go 'honk'. You go, 'Where by Andraste did that come from?'"

Maddox chortled. "I believe it."

Ever since, Samson and Maddox had made brief inappropriate jokes at the expense of others, but only at times when no letters were involved, like crossing each other in the courtyard or the library. Often, obscene gestures from a distance were enough.

He had been so vibrant then. That was not the case during the last letter they traded. When Samson met Maddox's eyes, they glittered under the light, and possibly with tears. Someone tormented was hiding under his smile. Maddox had been joking around at a time when they were usually silent.

He should have known something wasn't right then. At the time, he guessed Maddox had been bored.

"Shhh…" Samson put out the magical light with a snatch of his fist, as though grabbing an arrow that had been zooming through the air. The spell hissed like smoke and started to fade.

As the room darkened, he backed away and waved to his friend, not knowing that this would be the last conversation he'd have with Maddox having his full mind.

Before being dismissed from the Gallows, Samson had taken for granted the prize of a clear head. He had seen the destruction mental confusion had upon those who botched their Harrowing, knew exactly the warning signs of possession and even which mages who were susceptible to it. Despite offering gratitude to the Maker for avoiding such a fate, he had never truly understood how it felt to be without a mind. Now he did.

The cold confused him first, as a splash of salt water reached his eyes. The black waves were illuminated by a single lantern.

It was so terribly dim Samson believed he was in a Gallows cell for a moment. Panicked questions of 'Where is this?', 'Is someone taking me away somewhere?', and 'What time is it?' flashed past his brain, so quick they overlapped in a blur. He spotted the oars, lolling haphazardly within the crutches of the boat.

The Gallows. The water.

Then he remembered where he was and why, but it meant his mind had, for an indefinite amount of time, ceased to exist. This was not what Samson wanted, no matter where he was. If it had lasted long enough, his safety or life could have been at stake.

Rubbing his forehead with grimy hands, Samson wondered the same as everybody else. What was he going to do?

Qui genus humanum cernens mersisse profundo, Ut hominem eriperes es quoque factus homo. (You Who, seeing mankind to have plunged to the deep, that you might save man, were also made man.)

Faith…. She had been a bitch, but she… she… what had she done again?

Nearly slipping over, the former Templar grasped one of the oars in front of him, breathing heavily. His head was either spinning or getting pounded with a hammer, he couldn't tell which. While it was nearly pitch black, it felt as though someone was blaring the sun in his eyes.

Barely aware of what he was doing, he leaned over where he thought the edge of the boat was and retched painfully. He had passed the point where rationality was in his grasp. Not even spit reached his lips.

He had told Zoe that the Faith might be able to help him. Had he been insane when he said that?

Darktown. Samson growled as he grasped the other oar. His forearms were wet with water that had sprayed from the boat. Sitting on an angle to see where he was, the approaching Kirkwall lights had the quality of an illusion. There wasn't much evidence he was in a body, especially by how the song whispered to his soul like a lullaby, wanting him to disappear.

Funeris exsequias pateris vitae auctor et orbis, Intras mortis iter dando salutis opem (That Thou, the author of life and the world, might open the way of death and the grave by giving hope of salvation.)

There was around ten minutes of rowing left, as the water had drifted the boat off course in his absence. He arduously rotated the boat and rowed. It felt like he wasn't moving. His stomach roared for food, and whether it was this, lyrium withdrawal or both that had made him lose consciousness, it didn't matter. It would be foolish to pretend he was fine when his mind had abandoned him.

You shouldn't be working when the withdrawal is this bad, you know,

Faith had almost died from withdrawal, and it had come without warning, just like this. Zoe was concerned for him as well, had even cried for him. He didn't want that beauty to be guilt stricken the same way Phillipa had for losing her lover.

Faith….to his unfortunate realization, had a point. Right now, he was at risk. He supposed he didn't know what it felt like to die. Faith did, even if she had narrowly evaded it. The Rose woman had an eye for danger in withdrawal, and she had seen it in him.

I am not leaving you. You already left yourself to perish.

That withdrawal experience had deeply frightened her. Now he felt just as shaken.

I have to take it, he thought, not wanting to name the liquid he carried. The blue poison had spiteful eyes. It was a superior who treated its lessers nicely when they behaved but gave a lashing if one didn't. He had been beaten, and time had come to reluctantly return home and submit to its commands. There was no safety in trying to escape, and no guarantee that Samson's life would be spared.

Slipping and fumbling awkwardly, he gripped the vial in his pocket and lifted it, bewildered when the marvellous blue twinkle brought an involuntary smile to his lips.

He wasn't doing this for Faith. True, he didn't want her to know she was right, but he didn't want to die. Making Zoe tear up would be in vein if he didn't pull through on his word, and he didn't want to die on a fucking boat leaving the Gallows. Meredith would find that amusing until the day a sword pierced her bleeding heart.

Mustering the last of his resolve, he opened the cork and felt some lyrium dribble over his fingers.

Shit!

Dignity aside, Samson caught the spill, sucked it off and gently sipped a small amount he didn't measure. He put the vial away like it was evidence of blood magic.

He was surprised that in the moments the liquid dripped down his tongue and into his throat, there was no resistance in his mind at all.

He was in too much pain to conceptualize what occurred. The warmth spread vaguely from his throat to his chest, like drinking the first gulp of a hot drink after bracing snow and faded fast.

For a moment, Samson wondered if his body was too broken for the lyrium to work. It took until the boat hit the Docks until his vision and headache readjusted.

A punch of guilt twisted his guts into a painful knot. He was annoyed he had given into what Faith had suggested, but it was only a little bit, barely a few drops. Losing his job couldn't…. hadn't been for nothing. Without it, he wouldn't have met that whore in the first place and gotten the lyrium.

The ache in his body also lessened, as though he had gone back to day two of withdrawal, although one sore remained. He needed blasted food.

The ex-Templar sat down on some steps off the main walkway of Lowtown and fiddled with his bag. Here, he could think steadily. None who strolled past bothered him. They might have assumed he was a homeless mutt. That wouldn't be far from the truth now.

Where could he go? The Chantry was overrun with refugees and even if it wasn't, Samson didn't want the slightest chance he would run into his mother. His father, knowing him, wouldn't say a word, if he was even living in the same house. If it had been ten years prior, Samson would have clung to them, but time had toughened his heart. His friends were his real family and letting them know what had become of him was bad enough.

Yesterday, Samson had felt close to figuring out what his solution would be. Faith had something to do with it, but Darktown was as hard to navigate at night as his memories. She remained an enigma through blurred pictures, like watching from a distance. There were Faith's breasts as he unlaced her corset, the faded stretch marks around her hips as though she'd once lost and gained weight within a short space of time, her bronzed skin and his fingers that stopped feeling like fingers the longer he pressed into her.

There had been lyrium on her breath. Blight take it, sweat had mingled with it, but the poison was overcoming. The aroma was damnable, but so gratifying. Through the blizzard of her orders, pleads and outrage, she had said his name many times, enough to cover every tone imaginable. A shiver shot under his skin.

The fact he could feel something, even if it was very little, was calming.

It was Faith's goodbye, when Samson was drained of his will, where she had smiled.

You can come over whenever you like… so you better not decay into a mangled corpse while you're away.

Did that whore want him to visit her after she'd been so angry?

Samson peered at the dull houses in the distance, perhaps hoping the answer was carved on one of the walls. The least he could do was investigate.

If she's in a foul state, I'll leave, he decided.

The former Templar slowly got to his feet and forgot about them as he wandered toward Hightown's Red Lantern District.

Where did all the other homeless sods sleep?

Wherever they were, they picked places not visible on the main walkways.

Reluctantly, he pushed on over the cream-colored stone to the door of Kirkwall's most popular brothel for the third night in a moon cycle, wondering if he'd broken some sort of record for a customer in the Free Marches.

The detail Samson noticed first was not the regular customers, but his apprehension. He didn't have to drag his feet as he approached the manager.

Madame Lusine wasn't happy to see him. As Samson weaved past tables and chairs, her hawk-like eyes kept darting to the floor, like afraid she would have to rush for a mop. Maybe she was even considering handing him one.

The faint guitar played by a bard in the corner scrambled the lyrics in his head and sounded horrendous.

"You're finding this dwelling convenient by now, I presume?" Lusine theorized. "What will it be?"

Samson had to concentrate to take in what was said.

"When does Faith leave?" he asked.

"I supposed you were after the mistress. She went home four hours ago," Lusine said briskly, with a look that told him to rattle off.

Samson didn't know how to respond. This carved a hole in his plan. "Did she run out of customers for the night?"

"No," Madame Lusine said, pursing her lips disapprovingly. "She was sent home. The pretty was feeling off color."

The ex-Templar's initial thought was, Maybe that's her fault, but he had to remind himself that she was a slave to lyrium. Perhaps her original withdrawal symptoms had taken a toll.

Madame Lusine seemed to read his face. "No need to look so pitiless." She brushed something off her blouse. "Faith had a stroke. It is not unusual for her, nothing that ought to demoralize you."

On the contrary, Samson thought this was worth worrying about. His backup plan was to fall asleep on the ground in the streets with others who were homeless. Now the time came to consider doing this, it was not something he was going to do without a fight. Faith's house was The Golden City compared to sleeping in dirt.

"Did she go anywhere else?" Samson pressed.

"I'm sorry, ser," the manager said stiffly. "I am unaware of where else she could go in her condition. But while you're here, the other girls are willing to receive some silver."

Samson gathered his thoughts as Madame Lusine pocketed coins from others who were waiting, who were told, "In the lounge as usual, ser," and pushed past him.

"I don't want them," he forced out. "I need to speak to her."

"If you won't stop pestering," Madame Lusine threatened, "please leave."

"Fine." Samson stepped away from the busty woman. "I'll buy a drink instead."

Before anything worse could happen, the former Templar head toward the one of the tables and sat down.

Shit. Faith was gone and he had no memory of how to get to her house. This plan had already failed.

He rattled some coins in his pocket and counted them. He didn't have much. What did he want more right now, sustenance or to figure out where Faith's house was? The only ones who would have information on Faith's whereabouts were the workers themselves. Somewhere safe to sleep was more important than food.

Sighing, Samson returned to his feet and retreated to the manager like the fool he was. He gave Madame Lusine the last coin he had, enough for the standard service. "Who's the most patient lady here?"

Lusine didn't even look over her shoulder, obviously sick of his shit. "Olina. She's the one with the ponytail, over there, messere."

Samson walked through to the lounge, somewhat able to appreciate the rouge curtains and rugs. With a twisted regret, Samson wished he could fuck Zoe to make her feel better, but no… the word was too vicious. Was making love a better term? He tried not to think about it.

Samson didn't wave as Olina caught his eye. Without a word, he was guided by a whore he had seen before but not ever been with. Her frame was minuscule, but the fullness of her hips said otherwise.

"You've been the topic of some chatter 'round here," she said, with a grittiness that further concealed her age. "I'll be careful."

Samson brushed off the insinuation he was nutters. "No need."

As they passed door to door, Samson considered the best way to get information. He needed to gain this woman's trust. The first step to gaining trust was honesty; at least he knew that better than some others.

He watched the girl's pony tail bounce as they found a room at the back.

Olina locked the door and turned to him, her white and gold gown twinkling at him pleasantly. "What can I do for you, troublemaker?"

Samson hesitated. "I wanted Faith instead."

"Faith?" Olina questioned. "I'm surprised Lusine didn't kick you out right then."

"What do you mean?"

"Lusine's suspicious of anyone too pushy for Faith. Faith's gotten the most clients on the banned list out of everyone. Mind you, she has worked here for longer," she said. "I think she mixes with the messy crowd, if you understand what I'm saying?"

"Maybe," Samson said slowly. It wasn't a big surprise there was a list of wrongdoers who were not allowed to enter, but these other ones... "Does she take any of them home with her?"

"Oh, no! Don't be silly!" Olina laughed. "I think she'd rather make an enemy than let anyone do that. You should have seen the face she gave me when I asked if she secretly fancied any of her clients."

"I wouldn't know."

Samson kept his answers short, thoughts still sluggish.

"I'm sorry. We're getting so carried away." Olina waved a hand. "What do you like about Faith's work? I could try whatever-it-is on you."

"Let's not," Samson said. He wouldn't be able to answer her question anyway. The goal was to win Olina over. "Is there anything you would like?"

Olina stared at him as though he'd suggested setting the Rose on fire. "What do you mean?"

"I'm feeling generous," Samson said.

"Our time together isn't meant to be about me. It is about what you want."

Samson sighed. "I want… to do something for you. That is what would please me, Olina."

Despite remaining confused, Olina curtsied. "Very well, Mister Samson. Please specify what you would like to do to me."

"I'm not sure." He concentrated as hard as he could to think of what he would want to do to Olina if he had come here as part of his free time. "Can I go down on you? And maybe… you can pick a role play."

Right now, pretending to be somebody else would help him forget how sick he felt.

Olina offered, "If that's the case, how about you pretend you are my husband?"

He wondered how husbands and wives treated each other in bed. "How do I do that?"

Olina smiled coyly and led him to the bed. "Just relax… and be nice."

Samson nodded and tried to smile. He sat on the bed, Olina climbed behind him and rubbed his shoulders.

"How was work, my joy?"

"Alright."

She kissed his neck and ran her fingers through his hair. It made him feel like going to sleep again. Even the lyrium's song began to sound like a lullaby. When Samson stopped answering Olina's small talk, she sat on his lap and touched his face gently.

"I'm so sorry I was out late again," she said earnestly. "It's not my fault. Madame Lusine is really pushy when in a bad mood, and she's like that most of the time."

"S'fine," Samson mumbled.

"Please try stay awake," Olina said, kissing him in a quite a desperate and longing manner, but he had given up speaking.

"You're not having a good day, Samson?" Olina said, her tone completely changing as she broke out of her fantasy.

All the former Templar could do was shake his head.

"Hmm…" Olina wriggled out of her white lingerie, as she briefly flashed what was under her dress. She giggled, perhaps a fake giggle, and readjusted her ponytail. "I won't say no if you want to spoil me, my love."

"I wouldn't say no to that either, my dear," Samson said.

Initially, it was silent as Olina spread her legs apart with the elegance of a dancer and motioned him to get closer to her. "I missed you, my love."

He smelled her wetness, but nothing drove his emotions. Nothing. He had taken lyrium! This shouldn't be happening!

It felt like the Fade as he climbed onto the bed with her, neither truly experiencing nor believing what was happening in front of him.

He caught her eye. "Please tell me how to make you feel the most pleasure tonight, my wife."

It wasn't clear if Olina was uncomfortable by the suggestion, though she said, "As always."

Trying to push away the pestering thought he didn't feel up to it, Samson grabbed hold of her thighs and was as silently compliant as he had been the night before. Either too deprived or desperate, petite Olina didn't direct him beyond simple 'yes' or 'no' in quick succession, like she was going through a list of decoration ideas under time pressure. Her moans pitched at the opposite moment to what he was used to, from a voice he didn't know. It rang unpleasantly to Samson's ears, an unfamiliar person giving him far more trust than he was ready for, but he continued anyway.

Olina clutched onto his hair as she gasped, gently tracing the contour of one of his ears affectionately with her other hand. He didn't know why he felt immoral when her wedding ring pressed into his skull. It made him feel like she was digging down into the deepest parts of his vulnerabilities, an invasive and unwelcome procedure. Marriage was an unacquainted vow which made him feel something between cold and intimidated.

Her voice was distractedly high pitched when brought to her climax. The petite woman held his head between her thighs and a splash of fluid was propelled onto his face.

"Andraste help me, I didn't mean to do that," Olina gasped, embarrassed. "I got carried away."

"It doesn't bother me," Samson said. "I did ask you to do that, and it woke me up."

He wiped it off. Although he did get aroused to a very small extent, it wasn't enough to last. Olina's eyes widened. She brought her legs together and snatched at his crotch, but the former Templar caught her wrist just in time.

"Don't touch me," he said firmly, not wanting the reminder his body was broken.

Olina appeared mortified, despite her body shuddering from the after effects of her orgasm. "Why not? Don't you feel like I've wasted your time?"

Samson felt sympathetic. "Not at all, but I do have a favor to ask."

"I'll do what I can," Olina said.

"Do you know where Faith lives?" he asked. "She said I could visit her outside of work, but I can't remember where it is, besides Darktown."

Olina raised her eyebrows in concern and surprise. "Faith isn't supposed to mingle with her clients."

"Maker's piss," Samson swore, not having thought of this.

"I won't tell," she interrupted. "I would have if you were more hateful. Look, I can check Madame Lusine's files and get Faith's address, but I'll only do it on one condition."

"What is that?" Samson questions.

"Don't see Faith at work anymore," she said harshly. "It's not allowed. Pick one or the other."

"Got it," Samson said with a shrewd smile. "Thank you, Olina."

"I will personally ensure you never get on Madame Lusine's list."

"I'd appreciate it."

It was surprisingly easy for Olina to get Faith's address from the employee files, by saying she wanted to change a detail on her own records. Madame Lusine eyed Samson curiously as he waited at the bar, feeling slightly more hopeful that he would have somewhere to sleep. He left for Darktown with Olina's instructions, more confident on how to navigate the streets.

He stayed near the buildings as to not fall over and felt hypervigilant knowing that if anybody tried to kill him, he wouldn't have the strength to defend himself. Perhaps it was because his unruly appearance blended in with refugees that no one seemed to bother him. He was so hungry he wouldn't be surprised if he blanked out again.

When Samson found the right address, he could have sworn it didn't look so broken the first time he'd arrived. Darktown wasn't known for having elegant houses, but the grey, dry wooden planks looked like they would catch fire in seconds and had been damaged but not repaired.

Double checking he was in the right place, Samson stepped to the door and firmly knocked.

Only silence answered him.

Maybe she was asleep.

Samson knocked again, harder.

"Faith…" he croaked, trying to speak louder. "It's Samson."

Again, nothing happened. There wasn't even a sound of footsteps. What were the chances she had gone out somewhere?

Samson sat down and rested his head against the door. It was cold and lonely outside, not to mention smoggy. He coughed and shut his eyes. At least the Blooming Rose gave the illusion of company. Now he had no coin, not even a bed to sleep in.

He had never slept without a bed in his life.

"HEY!" Samson nearly punched a hole in the door from the force he whacked it with, but again, nothing happened. Was Faith doing this on purpose? "Answer the Blighted door!"

Not caring if he disturbed others, he placed his head in his hands, too tired to struggle anymore.

After thirty seconds went by with no answer it was clear it wouldn't get better.

He can't remember if he groaned, but he jolted at the sound of voices and rolled the lyrium between his fingers in his pocket. He wasn't looking forward to anymore hallucinations in a part of town that wasn't safe. Not only that, if he fell asleep someone would steal the vial.

Struggling to move, he pulled the glass out of his pocket. He didn't stare at it, although this time its smell was stronger, tasteful, like a fine whiskey.

Without meaning to, he had basically turned into nothing. Maybe everyone felt pity. Nathara was right. He had no drive. In fact, he wasn't sure what was motivating him to do anything anymore. Nothing made him feel 'happy'. It was more accurate to ask what made the agony halt, like a wound clotting.

That was easy. The lyrium would make it less, but he had taken some.

There was something else. He needed her to pass the time. He needed both. Faith to distract him, lyrium to give an imitation of pleasure… the most rotten safe haven in existence. Faith was a muse, in a sense, a compass to direct him home. Maybe he had found what he needed. Under her roof he could put his life back together again, even if the order of putting the pieces back would be different to normal. It was something. Better than this.

Why did she believe in him? He was an idiot and had proved it multiple times tonight. Samson should have taken the lyrium earlier like Faith had suggested. Then he would still have a job and could visit her. He could have lived in his safe haven and be protected from the lyrium's spiteful gaze.

The Rose worker who had loved a mage in the Circle was a step ahead of him and she probably knew what he would do next.

The two hadn't even shared a full day together, but she had invited him into her life. That was a kindness. From what Olina suggested, perhaps it was the highest display of generosity. Faith wasn't only socially inhibited with him, but people she encountered every day.

If the withdrawal process turns me into a monster, I'd rather lose my mind so I can no longer be aware of my mistakes.

Had he lost his mind already?

Samson gulped. He wanted to feel normal again. Taking a deep breath, the formula came back. Lyrium and Faith was his shelter. He had the first part.

Wherever Faith was or whatever she was doing, Samson was not going to be sleeping under her roof tonight.

I have to finish the vial so some snitch doesn't pinch it, he thought.

What would Zoe say? She just wanted him to be safe… a plan.

She would think it was okay.

Cullen?

Phillipa?

Did it really matter what they thought anymore? They couldn't do anything more than what they had already expressed and felt.

It felt like he was hallucinating again when his fingers became wet with tears. This is where his indecision had left him, absolutely nowhere. He only wished he hadn't been kicked out of the Circle in the first place.

Samson sobbed for his old home and friends, tears that he felt had been bottled up since he had left but never expressed. Even now the emotion felt false and hollow, like someone was dribbling water over his face rather than it coming out of him.

There was no escaping it. Samson imagined he was in the Circle. He took the philtre equipment out of the draw, removed the cork and poured the contents of the flask down his throat. The dosage was more than what the Circle provided in the morning, but it didn't break his fantasy.

The sensation was like it had been in the Gallows; it came in a wave of warmth, although he realized he had forgotten what it had felt like. As such, it made him feel off balance and queasy.

The effects took a minute or so to spread around his system, but soon what remained of his symptoms disappeared, the song, the feverish feeling and the aches. He felt – he thought this was - normal, but it was very unusual. It almost made him panic. It was so good and yet he had suffered for absolutely nothing.

By the Blight, I wish I had taken this shit earlier.

Samson curled up on the front of the house and used his bag for a pillow. Even if it was cold and uncomfortable, he still fell asleep faster than he had since he left the Circle.

Authors notes: This chapter is crazy. It is just Samson mulling over everything. I can't believe how long it is considering how very little actually happens.

Steve, I shortened the Rose scene. I think it still keeps to the main point of what it was there for, and I fixed up the tenses.

The latin lyrics are from a Christian chant called, "Salve Festa Dies."

Hope you lovely readers enjoyed, in the sort of "this makes me feel emotional" sort of way.