MALEDICTUS
12.Cullen had spoken truly: the men were hesitant to trust Samson.
The march from Skyhold had been mostly silent. He'd briefed the men on their assignment, and sent the scouts ahead of them to keep him abreast of anything they may have encountered en route to Ferelden. Once they cleared the Frostbacks, Samson turned them south toward the Hinterlands. He was distinctly aware that he was in command only of the Inquisition soldiers. The Inner Circle members who came with him were Blackwall and Cole, and while it was a relief to work alongside those who knew and had grown to trust him, it did nothing to alleviate the way the Commander had salted his 'gift' thusly.
The first night they made camp, Samson had to bark at them to tend to their duties. He was still a general at heart, and he would not stand to be insulted by soldiers trying deliberately to be insubordinate. Blackwall watched, thoughtful and somewhat amused, as he ate his salted beef stew by the cookfire. Samson sat beside him once the men got to tending to the night's duties and watches.
"Something funny, Warden?" Samson asked with a grunt, and Blackwall chuckled.
"Just never thought I'd see the day that Commander Cullen engaged in petty games such as these, is all," Blackwall commented with a smug smile, "still raw about the Inquisitor, eh?" Samson rolled his eyes and ate in silence. In truth, Samson wasn't sure if Cullen was angry with him or Hadiza. He wagered on the former, given their history. Heartache could be worn away to oily scar tissue with the balm of time's passing, but what Samson had done was shatter Cullen's vision of the Order. His ideals had been warped and corrupted by his actions and Samson understood that it would probably take more than a year or two for the Commander to come to terms with it. Forgiveness and mercy were two things Samson would never ask of anyone.
But part of him wished this path he'd chosen would be just a little easier some days.
That night, he lay in his bedroll, his joints aching, and the lyrium song dim in his blood, and cold. He recalled nights spent on the road with her, of laughter by the campfire, of trading jokes and stories, of music and song, of all the things his current company seemed to lack. He recalled Hadiza's warmth in their shared bedroll, of how she curved her body to fit his, of his hand and hers becoming a tangle of fingers, with their weapons within easy reach. He missed the smell of her, like warm vanilla and the subtle spice of something else he couldn't quite name. Samson found himself wishing he'd taken something of hers, just to trap the smell of her near him.
He fell asleep with that thought, and woke before dawn to rouse the men to break down the camp. The breakfast was lackluster, but hunger made for excellent seasoning and so he ate the tasteless and watery porridge with a prodigious appetite.
"Where's the spirit-boy?" Samson asked Blackwall during their trek that day. Blackwall shrugged.
"Probably sneaking about. He's not keen on being seen, you know." Blackwall adjusted in the saddle and Samson sucked his teeth, his tongue poking at the gap where Hadiza had knocked out one of his molars when they'd first crossed paths on the battlefield.
"Yeah, I know," he muttered, "would be nice if he'd stop faffing about and actually made himself useful."
The first three days of travel were uneventful, and Samson was beginning to question if the oncoming winter had somewhat to do with the slowed activity on the roads. Birds were flying north to the warmer climes for the oncoming winter, and even the bears that prowled the Hinterlands had retreated to hidden caves and shelters to prepare for the long months of hibernation.
The mornings began with frost, and the evenings were beginning to get cold enough to warrant a need for constant warmth. They came across mage caches and camps on their journey, and after the initial fear had passed (Cole at last made himself known), were able to point them in the direction of Skyhold where they could aid the Inquisition and find some recompense for the losses they suffered.
To Samson, Divine Victoria had erred in her disbanding of the Circles. She had the right of it, but had not planned for the hundreds of now-homeless mages, and even some templars, that would have nowhere else to go. To some, the Circle had been the alpha and omega of their lives. Samson knew too well the sting of the old wound when the Chantry had slammed their doors in his face and he had retreated to the depths of Lowtown, brought low and humble by circumstance.
He'd not see others suffer the same fate.
The first time they came upon rogue templars, Samson knew that there were raw recruits amidst the eight men Cullen had assigned to him. Samson had not yet learned their names, and they'd not deigned to introduce themselves, and so his commands were given in gestures and generalized yelling.
The templars were suffering from lyrium withdrawal. With no mages to guard, the Chantry had no true use for them, whose sole purpose was to keep magic in check. Beyond that, they were merely highly trained warriors. But with no Circles, the lyrium supply was hard to come by, and Samson knew from experience that even if they could find mercenary work, eventually the thirst would interfere with their efficiency. Samson halted their company when he heard them, dismounting and approaching alongside Blackwall.
"Cole, keep the reading to a minimu—"
"There's so much pain, here…" Cole said slowly, "…they are not going to die, but their suffering is heavy, like a great stone on the chest."
Samson knew the pain Cole spoke of; he was intimately familiar with its weight coupled with the sharp, jagged edges of hunger in his belly. He knew it so well that he didn't have to ask the boy to elaborate.
"You…" One of them, a young templar with barely any fuzz on his chin, said in a breathless pant, "…I know you. You're the one who fouled the Order. The one who poisoned it with the red lyrium." Samson came up short, his expression hard. The templar was seated on a rotting log, elbows on his knees, his head and shoulders bowed as he attempted to steady his breathing against the searing pain in his gut. Samson pitied him in that moment, remembering his lyrium supply in his saddlebags not far behind him. He was not sure if he should have been thankful for it or ashamed that he was still chained to it. But he knew right now these templars needed his help.
"Aye, that was me," Samson agreed slowly, "and now I'm here for the Inquisition. What's your name, knight?" The knight was younger than him, perhaps a little younger than Cullen, and he glared sullenly before wincing at the sharp pain in his belly. Samson waited, knowing the only difference between himself and this young knight was the supply of glowing blue vials the Inquisition gave him. His clarity and focus were a startling contrast to the knight attempting to ignore his question, but there was no time. Cole said they weren't going to die, but he'd not let them suffer withdrawal in the wilderness alone.
He'd not let them suffer the same fate the Chantry had condemned him to.
"Look, lad," Samson said, impatient burgeoning in his voice like blood welling from a wound, "you can settle your score with me some other time, but right now, you need lyrium…or a healer. I can help you get to either or both."
"Lyrium…" The boy said with a guttural sound as he leaned over, "…please." Samson considered a moment, then turned and strode towards his horse. He reached into one of the secured saddlebags and withdrew two vials before returning to the two knights.
"I thought…" The other knight said with a breathless pant, "…thought you were the Knight in Red…the songs say…"
"I know damn well what the songs say," Samson snapped, "and bards got a way of laying it on a little thick. What are you all doing all the way out here?" He waited for an answer, already running through the possibilities in his head.
"Chasing a maleficar," the young boy said quickly, "she…she managed to outpace us. At this rate we'll lose her."
Blackwall snorted. "Does it matter? No Circles means you aren't obligated to hunt down mages, maleficarum or no." He and Samson exchanged a look and the ex-templar made a noise that could have been a growl of annoyance.
The boy was lying.
"And where was she headed last?" Samson asked as he shifted his weight with imperceptible grace. The boy blinked, exchanging a glance with his companion, and then eyeing the lyrium Samson still held, licking his lips. Blackwall said nothing, waiting for an answer.
"Not far, likely to Denerim. Probably knows she'll find protection there." He answered bitterly. Samson said nothing and for a moment it seemed as if he were considering their words and the most plausible course of action. Then he sucked his teeth.
"Well, we can help you find them. I'll have my men take a look around, see if they can pick up her trail." Samson suggested. The older templar looked angry.
"What makes you think we'd accept help from the one who fouled the Order's name?" He growled, making to rise to his feet. Samson shifted his weight slightly, saw Blackwall do the same. There was a stillness that came into the air, replaced only by a warbling tension as both the Inquisition soldiers and the templars waited to see if Samson would deign to answer.
Samson knew from the first that once he set foot outside of Skyhold, once he walked bareheaded beneath the Thedosian skies that he would have to answer for his crimes. When he'd broken his back laboring to rebuild ruined homes, walls, and lives, he could hide beneath the dirt and grime of his work, could turn his face away and make himself scarce when the talk started up.
When he'd traveled with Hadiza into the field, aiding her in demon slaying, he could hide behind the emblem of the Inquisition. Her circle knew him by now as one on the path to redemption. But here, in the places where the Inquisition's influence was ephemeral at best, and nonexistent at worst, he knew he'd have no such luck on his side.
It is no different than anything else your life has amounted to, he thought with a bittersweet humor, might as well bite down and bear it. You had it coming.
"You're right," Samson said at last, "you shouldn't accept my help. Not mine, not the Inquisition's, which is the reason you're out in the wilderness in the first place." Blackwall's brows furrowed slightly at the remark but he said nothing to gainsay him.
"I'll tell you what you should do," Samson continued, "you should start telling me what you're actually doing out here." At that, the older templar stood up. He was Samson's height, but Samson had a bite in his presence the older templar lacked. It was clear this man had seen nothing outside of the Circle, where as Samson had seen everything.
"You have no authority here." The younger man said and Samson did not respond. The man wasn't wrong, but the Inquisition answered to no one, and by extension, he only answered to the Inquisitor. Maker, this was a mess. Samson sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"No, I don't," Samson said, "but the Inquisition does, and I'm one of them." That earned a scoff from the younger templar, and a dour look from the elder.
Blackwall sympathized in that moment. It seemed he alone understood Samson's rather precarious position in the eyes of the people. He at least had the benefit of his crimes being years behind him. The wounds Samson inflicted on the people of Thedas were still fresh, the hatred and clamoring for his head still raw and vocal. It would be a long time before this blew over and he was allowed to atone in peace.
The two templars exchanged a look, and the younger looked about ready to draw his sword and test his mettle against the former general. Samson was nigh ready to let him, if only to end the conversation and get to the root of the problem.
"If you're tracking a maleficar," Samson said, "then I'm going to assume she's either an apostate or her phylactery's broken. Has the Arl been alerted of the presence of maleficar in his lands?" Samson knew he tread a dangerous line, knew this to be a farce, but went through the motions anyway. Blackwall waited, wondering what he was getting at.
"Mages and their handling are not in the Arl's demesne," the older templar said coolly, "even you should remember that much."
"And if your maleficar has fled beyond your reach, then the Arl's in a better position than anyone to mount a search to get them back." Blackwall retorted, crossing his arms over his chest. Samson was inclined to agree. Better to alert the Arl then have the Inquisition and rogue templars running unchecked in his lands.
"If it's not too much trouble, then," Samson said, "we'll provide an escort for you to reach Redcliffe safely. You can give the Arl your story, widen your search." At the youngster's contemptuous glare, Samson wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose. He was playing nice for the sake of the Inquisition, and he felt the constriction of the proverbial collar she'd looped around his neck. For a brief instant, he resented her, but he knew without it he wouldn't last long in a world that would see him dead. Her push for him to heal had kept him from skirting the edge of madness, and his determination to live to spite his enemies had seen to the rest. He'd play nice, but he wouldn't roll over if forced to fight.
There was a tense moment, as the other templar considered the offer, and then nodded slowly, his mouth set in a grim line. Samson turned to look over his shoulder.
"Alright, we're taking on two more. Going to escort these men to Redcliffe, and help them search for this rogue mage they're hunting." Even as the words left his mouth Samson hated the taste of the lie. Blackwall shared a glance with him briefly but Samson said nothing.
Guilt wormed its way into his gut as he passed off two lyrium vials to the templars. He watched with a strange commingling of shame and anger as they greedily brought the vials to their lips, draining the glowing blue liquid to the last drop, licking their lips. Almost immediately, the younger templar's disposition seemed less recalcitrant and the older templar begrudgingly thanked Samson for his aid. Samson, for his part, knew too intimately the pains of withdrawal, but it was a choice these two men decided to continue making as they clutched their empty vials momentarily, reverent and relieved, before tossing them away.
He was down two vials, and Samson knew he should not have cared, knew he was doing the right thing by helping these men. He'd endured worse, but there was a subconscious needling in his mind, something ugly and sharp as he stole one last glance at the discarded empty vials they left behind. As he downed Dorian's special concoction, he forgot about it, pushed it further into the ether of his brain to focus on the mission at hand.
For the most part they traveled in silence, born of necessity and the fact that none of the men had much to say to one another. Samson kept to himself when they made camp, ensuring rations were doled out accordingly, and that watch rotation was adhered to. For their part, the Inquisition soldiers seemed more inclined to listen to him in the face of strangers, and Samson was relieved that they respected him enough to not undermine his authority.
He wrote, of course, as he promised he would. Most of their time was spent marching and tracking, and the weeks slid by quickly, as the cold grew bitterer by the day. While shivering in his tent, Samson stared at the sheaf of paper, wondering what he could possibly say to her that he could not say when he saw her again. He had always been tactile, and in the long year spent by her side, he'd grown accustomed to being able to see, feel, and hear her responses. He had taken that for granted, he knew.
Hadiza...Inquisitor. I don't know what to call you.
This isn't an official report or anything, but I know your damned spies love to sift through your mail, so I won't waste time telling you all the things I want to tell you.
We've been on the road for a few weeks, now, and picked up some stray mages along the way. I've sent them along to Skyhold using the route Ghost gave me. They should be near to you by the time you get this letter. No Tranquil spotted yet, but I'm sure they're about. Hopefully they've the good sense enough to head for the nearest village or town where someone can put them up for the winter and give them work to do.
Samson stared at his words, felt his heart swell with what he wanted to put on the page. I miss you. He struck the line out.
I love you. He inked that out as well.
Maker I wish you were here. That, he didn't write, but kept the words etched on his mind, deeply private. He did wish she was here. Right about now she'd be shuffling about, preparing to bed down for the night, looking over field reports from her network in the area, or taking the first watch as she was wont to do. He'd smell her musky perfume all over the tent, would let the comfort of another soul near him settle on his shoulders like a fur mantle. He missed her terribly and it angered him. It had been a long time since he'd missed someone.
We picked up a few stray templars along the way. They were suffering lyrium withdrawal. I gave them some of my supply to ease the pain. We're escorting them to Redcliffe. The Arl might be able to help them find the maleficar they're tracking, and he may be able to find work for them. Not much more to tell than that. We should be in Redcliffe in another day or so. You'd better be on the mend by the time spring rolls around. Would be nice to head back to the Marches. Too damned cold in the south for my liking.
-R. Samson
He briefly waited as the ink dried, and set aside his quill. His handwriting was sharp and aggressive, and he mostly blamed the cold for making him feel rushed. He wondered what else he'd write about. It was the first letter he'd written to her in a long while. For a long time, they were inseparable.
When he rolled up the letter and sealed it with the Inquisition's insignia in wax, he sighed, blowing out the lamp to conserve oil, and then bundling up in his bedroll. His feet were cold, even with the extra pair of socks, and he shivered despite himself. Sleep eluded him for a long time, and so he turned his thoughts once more to the memories he'd forged in the past year.
She'd slide into the bedroll with him, fitting in his arms like a dream, the svelte curves of her body molding to the hard, chiseled lines of his own. His hands would go up her back, longing to feel her satin skin beneath his rough palms. He shut his eyes and inhaled, hoping to conjure her up with a thought. Her mouth was warm and soft, always so soft, and she smelled of dew-drenched violets. He wanted to kiss the skin.
He could hear her pleased sigh stirring his hair, even as he traced the familiar path of her throat to settle his lips, dry and harsh as they were, on her pulse. It hammered gently beneath his smiling mouth like a trapped thing, and as always, his tongue traced it, marking a point on a map only he was familiar with.
Unable to stymie his desire any longer, Samson unlaced his breeches and freed himself. He was as hard as granite in his own hand, and he squeezed his cock, imagining her hand instead of his, hearing her amused laughter. He couldn't decide which part of her he wanted, and so he stroked himself, letting his imagination write the story for a while.
Hadiza always liked to tease, and the vision he conjured in his mind was no different. She slid against him, skin to skin, feeling the way silk would if silk was given life. Her hand cupped the heavy sac beneath his cock, rolling it in her palm with a gentle pressure that made Samson grit his teeth. He knew it was his own hand, but keeping his eyes closed helped.
She whispered in his ear, and were he not in camp Samson might have answered her filthy obscenities with some of his own. He stroked himself a little faster, his hand in time with her own. Hadiza's lips stayed as his ear, whispering, encouraging, her wicked smile bleeding into her sultry voice. Samson's body tensed, one hand on his cock, the other gently kneading his balls in time with the vision of her. Her thumb circled the tip of his cock, and he wanted so badly to feel her mouth on him, to feel himself within that wet heat. The thought of her lips split around his cock was enough to hasten his climax. With a grunt and a low groan, Samson spilled his seed onto his hand and belly, his cock twitching in his hand.
For a while, he lay there, panting, the bedroll suddenly too hot. When his body knit itself together anew, trapping his soul within its borders once more, he finally decided to get up and clean himself. After, sleep came as easy as a breath, so easy that he did not even remember closing his eyes until there was a scratch at his tent flap alerting him that it was his turn to take the watch.
For a moment, Samson forgot her, settling comfortably into his position without her bright shadow to protect him. And as he stood his watch, he saw dawn cresting on the horizon, limning the mountains and trees in fiery gold, he felt content. He felt as if things were finally going in a direction he was pleased with.
Redcliffe was a day's ride away when they were beset by the Arl's own men.
In truth, he should have expected it. There had to have been spies about, and word of his commuted sentencing had to have burned the ears of many outside of the Inquisition's stronghold. He felt it first as an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. At first, he attributed it to nerves, but as the days wore on and they wound their way through the hills toward Redcliffe, he knew something was wrong.
There was an unnatural sense of quietude that settled over the land, like the winds in sails suddenly dying, and Samson became hyperaware that they were being watched, and even more so, that they were being followed. It itched at the base of his skull, an instinct honed over the course of two decades, one he knew was folly to ignore. Yet, Redcliffe was close, and soon they would be within the safety of its walls. The aegis of the Inquisition was upon him, and so he ignored the itch, perished the thought, and marched on.
Thus, when the mounted blockade came upon them, Samson was well and truly surprised, but deep down, a voice told him he was a fool to become complacent.
"The Inquisition isn't needed here." The leader spoke in a sneer from beneath his helmet, mounted on a charger that looked as mean as he did. Samson pursed his lips, frowning. At first, he half-expected to hear Hadiza's imperious voice, telling the men to stand aside, and that the Inquisition answered to no one. Had she been there, she might have done that.
But no, he was in charge of this expedition, and his men, scarcely more than boys, truly, looked to him for a solution. Even Blackwall seemed grim and silent, waiting to see what Samson would do. Left with no choice, Samson stepped forward with a confidence he no longer felt.
"Be that as it may," he answered, "the Inquisition doesn't answer to you. We're escorting these two templars to Redcliffe to seek the Arl's aid in a delicate matter. If you'll let us through, we'll be in and out in no time." He wanted to add something snarky to his words, wanted to needle at the man's pride, and drive home that he was untouchable, but he kept it civil. Hadiza would have been proud, he was sure.
"Doesn't concern us," the captain retorted, "and I'm sure the Arl will be thrilled to hear about the Red General himself coming to pay us a visit." He lifted one gauntleted hand, motioning to his men. They came forward, on foot, hands on their sword hilts, and Samson felt the itch at the base of his skull become a tingle that threaded through his body down to the marrow of his bones. He waited a beat before speaking.
"You really going to do this here, ser?" Samson asked, "When all we're doing is helping folk in need of it?"
The captain said nothing, merely watched with cold indifference from atop his horse.
It happened quickly, almost too quickly. The guards, ten of them, came forward, and there were several hisses of steel as sword derailed from their sheaths, singing heavenward. Blackwell and Samson barked orders to their men, and the two templars bolted. Samson could have spit he was so disgusted. When had a templar ever been so cowardly? His sword gleamed in the dying sunlight, and when it was over, sheer numbers overwhelmed. The captain looked grimly satisfied, though he'd lost two of his men to severed limbs and a cut throat. They forced Samson, Blackwall, and the tiny handful of Inquisition soldiers to their knees. Samson grunted, glancing around. Where in the Void was that spirit boy? Why hadn't he helped them make quick work of these men? He didn't receive an answer, and as the captain came to sand before him, having dismounted, he knew that it did not matter where Cole was anymore.
"Thank you, Ser Samson," the captain sneered, "for making this easy for all of us." His gaze settled on one of his men, likely his lieutenant. "Have them put in irons. We'll take them to the Arl at once. I'm sure he's eager to see justice done."
Samson watched the sun sink behind the trees as he heard the jangle of chains, and felt the heavy weight of iron manacles on his wrists. It was not so long ago that he'd been in this self-same position, only it was a woman who stood before him as he was clapped in chains. The most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, in truth. And now, as they hauled him, Blackwall, and their men toward Redcliffe, with the templars nowhere in sight, Samson wondered if he'd ever see her again.
