Samson stared at his plate unwaveringly, tensing from anxiety. He had roasted vegetables and fish, although he hadn't put enough lard in, or cooked it for too long, because when he'd scooped it out of the baking dish chunks had been glued to the bottom and it broke apart. Still, he kept the broken bits for himself and gave Faith the decently cooked pieces, even if some of the edges remained burnt. She'd ate it slowly and carefully, as if judging every single aspect.

When he'd retrieved the salt for her and she'd sprinkled it on, he couldn't take the tension anymore. "What do you think?"

"It has exceeded my expectations," Faith decided, "Thank you for cooking."

Samson grinned. "Thank you."

"I was expected something inedible," Faith explained, "instead you have created an average meal."

"YES!"

The Broken Spine incident had marked when his real adventure began, a life that had no resemblance whatsoever to anything he had done before. Samson's afternoon hours were spent helping to cook and run errands for Faith, for she slept much of the time, too weary to raise her head. He politely asked the public for coin in the evenings, having decided to approach Meeran in a few weeks. It was not fun. Their financial situation, as temporary as he assured himself it would be, was disastrous. However, there was one mean it could be slightly improved.

Or so he told himself, as they sat on the floor with cards in hand one afternoon. Escoba was an Antivan card game, which Samson found he enjoyed more than chess.

"We have a predicament," he said, putting down a 12 and positioning a 3 face down in front of him.

Faith made a sound to indicate she was listening and lowered a 7.

"We're out of food," he said.

"Yes," she acknowledged.

"So I won't be able to put aside any I scrap tonight for lyrium." Samson rid his hand of a 2.

"We won't eat then," Faith said. After hesitating, she lowered a 5 and gathered all the cards on the floor in her palms. The recalcitrant expression resembled a snake, as if she was going to throw the cards at him.

"Actually, I like eating," he retorted, "That's a stupid idea."

"A human can survive for around two weeks without food," Faith explained, dealing three cards to herself, "and three days without water. Lyrium has some water in it."

"Not eating will only slow down killing me if I'm lounging in a gutter."

"Then curl up in a ball outside and pout."

No, I'm not going to lie there like a dead thing, was going to be his answer. Though it wasn't clear when Faith was going to be able to work again, hopefully soon – maybe this was going to be the temporary plan.

"I'll try, but it's going to be a pretty lonesome night," he admitted, "It'll be a bleeding miracle if anyone sees me in the dark. I'll make sure to beg for food while I'm at it."

"People are usually more content to give up food." She dealt three cards toward him, and looked at hers, contritely. "I'm sorry. I guess I've trained myself not to give into hunger from the times when I've slipped and drunk more than I'm supposed to. Not eating is also how I hurt myself sometimes."

Samson hesitated, cards all but forgotten. "Guess I've got training to do."

Suddenly realizing he wanted to do more with his hands than play cards today, he pushed them aside and lay down on the ground. "How's this?"

Even on this angle he enjoyed Faith's little smile.

It was so cold that it was ridiculous, but Samson kept to Faith's instruction to look as useless as possible. He'd chosen to stay against a wall of Lowtown that blocked most of the gusty air. Truth be told, he didn't feel like talking to anyone tonight. Unless passers-by had done something nice, he rarely remembered their faces. At least these hours meant he wouldn't come across Cullen or any of his fellow Templars, he kept telling himself.

When his fingers became so numb with frost he couldn't bend them, a man close to Meeran's age with grey hair sat down beside him, a bottle of alcohol in his hand. In the dark Samson barely saw his face.

"Chilly night, isn't it?" the stranger grumbled, sniffing loudly. "Bleeding terrible shit."

Samson tried to move his hand, but couldn't. "Yeah."

Don't think this lad is dangerous, he assessed the situation as quickly as he could, just bored.

"What are you trying to fork out of people lying there?"

"Coin or food," Samson replied, "but if you can spare neither remember to take your pity with you when you leave."

The man chuckled. "I don't pity… okay, maybe I do –a bit, I won't fib, but not for the reasons you think."

Samson highly doubted this. "Meaning what?"

The stranger swore as he spilt some of his drink. "I had my turn scavenging. It wasn't my most shameful moments, and that makes it all sound bloody worse. But whenever I promenade around this city and see all the charming people like you I think… that could be me. That used to be me. I hope it won't happen again."

The former Templar wasn't entirely sure what to think. "What were you begging for?"

"That's none of your business," the man snapped, but he chuckled, "but I'll give the benefit of the doubt for once. I was chasing my losses."

"Gambling?"

"Mara – she left me - told me I had lost my mind to the habit, though I told her 'How do you think it feels to try stop?' I still think she had it the wrong way around."

Who's Mara? Samson thought, but the man was going on a ramble and no amount of interjections was going to stop the diatribe or change the direction. Though he thought he understood part of what this stranger was talking about with trying to break an addiction.

"My family line has a lot of riches behind it. I assure you that's the cold truth of it, but don't look at me for proof. I can't live up to the name. No one sees me like those well-off, cultured types."

"It's too dark to see you anyway," Samson said, and he hoped the comment was interpreted as empathetic rather than a means to confirm this strangers frustrations.

"Do you know the Amells?"

"I've lived most of my life in the Circle." Samson said, "Before that, Lowtown, so… I don't know anything."

"You Circle lot have access to plenty of books." The man didn't sound like he believed Samson's claim. "You must be well-read, even if you don't know anything else."

"Yeah, rubbish from hundreds of years ago," Samson said.

"Templars, hmm…" the man hummed, "Do you have somewhere to live?"

"Kind of," Samson replied, "The lady I'm living with is even more hooked on the blue than I am."

He passed the point of caring what he said. This bloke was drunk and probably wouldn't remember the conversation.

"Sometimes I ponder on whether Mara would have left me if she understood my problems better," the stranger mumbled, "Does it make it easier or worse? What do you think?"

"I don't know," Samson admitted. It was pleasant to have someone who understood, though on the other hand it meant that there were two sets of addictions to manage and not one.

"How does she earn her money?"

"Whoring."

"The Rose?"

"Yeah."

"That should earn a reasonable wage. Which one of the girls is she?"

Firstly, she's more mature than a 'girl'. Samson wasn't sure whether he should answer, though he had nothing better to do and didn't want the stranger to leave. "The one who's off sick right now."

"I don't go there often enough to know," the man confessed, "Does she treat you much differently to her customers?"

"Dunno."

"How can you not know?"

The stranger sounded frustrated.

"It's a long story."

"Luckily I have the time for a lengthy story," the man said, "You want some of your lyrium, I guess? I know a merchant who might sell me a flask at a slightly cheaper price."

"Cheap lyrium is still expensive," Samson said, "Maybe when you're not on the piss. For now, if you want to help, I'd appreciate some food, or maybe a blanket, and while you're at it, fetch yourself some water to sober up. I'll be round here most nights."

"Right." The stranger finished the last of his drink. "Your name in case I need to go looking for you?"

"Samson."

"Gamlen." He moved slightly closer to where Samson was and patted his head, though his hands were wet from the ice. "Hope you get some more coin to bring back to your lady friend. Maker knows they can be impossible to please."

Samson didn't realize it until Gamlen was out of sight that he actually wouldn't have minded if the drunk had stayed to talk to him for a few more hours.

This debt-stricken Amell was Samson's first, very loyal coin giver. The next time he saw Samson he gave him an old blanket and what looked like a table cloth with alcohol stains on it, and despite it being grotty and louche Samson grew acquainted to the smell. Far more than the financial gain, he liked that Gamlen sometimes came to complain when he was having trouble with his gambling problem. And as time went on Samson learned to appreciate the opportunity to whine about his lack of lyrium too. Then they'd complain about the day's troubles, pondered on ideals that felt so out of reach, like daydreaming on what it was like to have a rich life, and shared personal anecdotes.

One of those stories had involved Zoe and what happened when she came to visit.

He waited at a table in the less rowdy side of the Hanged Man, feeling his heart tremble to the flurry of activity around him, like the ocean throwing itself against a single stone marker. Wherever he looked, he noticed details to frame demure sense of romanticism, like candles, which he'd moved from his table to another one near the fire, and red leaves that had been kicked around from the entrance, which he kicked further away from where he was seated, the wide lanterns hanging from the ceiling that produced a warm ambience, and finally, the music. It was soon enough in the evening that no debauch fools had spilled drinks on the wooden floorboards yet.

It was the thought of Zoe crying that upset him, the chance he might make her cry again. Samson swore he'd do everything he could to avoid it. Had Jed mentioned the events of The Broken Spine to his sister? The water he sipped held its familiar 'Hanged Man' quality, bringing back memories of being drunk with Bailey and his friends. Yet he was alone and Bailey was too, he presumed. He wasn't sure. The past was just that, too distant from the present, no longer important, he reminded himself. Seeing Zoe would not inspire a whisper of warmth or sadness. He told himself he wouldn't feel anything for her.

What by the Maker are you wearing, he thought to himself, disdainful, were you trying to be pretty, you son of a bitch?

It was only a dark button up shirt, yet he had spent too long trying to determine if it was better to look nice or not, scanning at the bar, the other tables and the entrance. A woman in an olive dress with long sleeves and a leather belt entered the sea of thickening customers, looking slightly lost. He took a double take. That wasn't a Zoe in her Templar armor, but plain garb. Part of her hair was in a braid, how she sometimes used to wear it. He didn't wave, but enjoyed watching her until she spotted him, those eyes radiating with more than he remembered. Maker, she was still beautiful, yet very much the same, a precious diadem frozen in time, something he could look at but not touch.

Zoe waved and didn't reach the table until she'd purchased two drinks. He admired her then too, didn't know how to stop, and hummed to the music as though serenading her. In those moments, he forgot he was worried or what he was worried about, treasuring an once-in-a-lifetime moment.

"You like mead, right?" she cautioned, sitting opposite and pushing one glass toward him.

"Good evening, sister," Samson said, doing his best imitation of what he hoped was a charming grin. It was an unneeded generosity that she purchased a drink, and his words expressed his thanks.

It was a blessing to see her up close, her smile not skewed by the Gallows cruelty, his sickness and the night sky. The detail was astonishing. He could see every crinkle in her clothes and near her eyes when she grinned, like the night he held her against him, except this time her beauty didn't overtake him. There was only Zoe, a young lady with a winning smile. The bard was rumbling a song about traveling through the Frostback Mountains, although it had a faster tempo than the lyrics denoted it should.

Zoe chuckled. "Thanks for meeting me. This is a fitting place to get sappy, isn't it?"

"Only in right company," he agreed, feeling a hint of pride. He'd succeeded in talking to her again. It was getting easier, despite knowing how her breasts and hips looked like under the fabric. This was how he'd always wanted to converse -calm and collected.

Samson considered mentioning the dress, but Chandler's words entered his head, that maybe Zoe was suppressing a desire to keep him close. He wondered if it had all been some joke or exaggeration like the Templar had suggested. It was impossible to think about Zoe these days without this crossing his mind.

"I'm sitting at the wrong table then?" Zoe toyed, to which Samson laughed.

She took a large gulp at her glass, drinking like a bloke would, something that made his heart jump. "Where… are the candles?"

"Er, dunno. They ran out of 'em?"

"That's out of order."

"Yeah. The staff are idiots." Samson smiled despite himself. He didn't want the silence to prolong enough for his brain to disappear. "You wanted to reply to my letter?"

Zoe laughed and slammed her hand on the table. It wasn't obvious why. It reminded Samson of departing the Gallows. That's right; she'd said she got overly nervous once she'd slept with somebody.

It was the very opposite for Samson, it seemed.

"Do I still make you nervous, sweetie?" he asked. It came naturally, with no need to fight it.

"S-sorry!" Zoe said with a laugh too attractive for a tavern like this, taking another gulp of mead. "Y-Yes, you do. Andraste's fingernails, I meant no. Iwant to reply to the letter."

How long did her post-shagging nerves last? She hadn't been this way when the last time they had spoken outside the Gallows. The memories of his withdrawal were foggy, though not that one. His eyes dropped to the glass in front of him, full to the brim with honey coloured syrup, glittering with condensation, while Zoe's was almost empty. Maybe there was some way he could help her. Samson took Zoe's glass and exchanged it with his own, leaving her with more. "That's better."

The butterfly seemed to ignore this. Her eyes watching his finger marks that had broken the veil of fog on the glass; she cleared her throat and raised her hand. "Present for you, brother."

She held out an envelope, which Samson took and opened. Tilting his head confused, he looked at the page. It wasn't a new letter, not even Zoe's letter, but his response to Phillipa's, his hand writing.

"Phillipa thought it was better you get this in person."

Knowing how Samson often used the other sides of paper to respond, he flipped it over. He read only two words: Thank you.

"I was expecting something… longer," Samson said blankly, remembering how in response to his first letter Philipa had penned down a novel.

"Expectations…" Zoe repeated, blankly, drinking more alcohol. She picked out another letter from her pocket, unfolded it and glanced at it before peering at Samson's jaw. "The mercenary work," she continued, and Samson didn't have the heart to add that his employment had changed somewhat, again. "I don't care, not that much. I guess I hope you are… are the jobs okay?" She turned her head away to the side. "…without going into details. Like you said, I don't think giving too much away is a good idea."

"It's okay. I only do the jobs I want," Samson said shortly, "What should I tell you then? For you, sister, you could ask for detail and I would give it."

The words 'I don't think giving too much away is a good idea' echoed in his head, to one of those tunnels under Darktown, lost forever in a labyrinth.

Zoe met his gaze, a lot calmer now. "If I ask how you are, tell me everything. As for the rest, maybe when I'm a bit older." She chuckled, perhaps mocking herself, and Samson felt distanced. The comment didn't make sense. How much older beyond 25 did one have to be to reach maturity? Positivity rang in her voice, strength. He found himself enamoured with it, the same as he always had.

Limp with mead, Zoe rested her jaw against her palm, her teeth sparkling at him. "So… how are you?"

"Content to see you," Samson replied immediately, "Good," he added, trying to live up to what Zoe asked of him, "Thriving enough for you not to worry."

It was one of his more pathetic lies. He was in a rough patch right now, but he hadn't dropped dead yet. That counted for something.

Maybe he couldn't do as she wanted. If she was ever going to cry again at his expense, he didn't think he could comfort her. There was a need to keep her happy, a desperation to keep seeing her as she was right now.

Zoe grinned wider in impeccable detail even though the smoke from the faraway fire obscured her features. "Even withdrawal?"

"Cravings," Samson said solemn.

"Oh?" Zoe divulged interest. "Is it like wanting custard tarts?"

"Far worse." He snickered at the absurdity of the comparison. "It is like bees lured to pollen...or… if refusal of a custard tart threatened your very existence."

"I quite like eating custard without thinking I'm going to die," Zoe said, lightly, "You're a busy bee, then? Those feisty things are hard workers."

"Annoying, too," Samson said with a smirk, and he waved his finger around, "bzzz, bzzzz, bzzzzzz…."

Either completely captivated or somewhat repulsed, Zoe chuckled and shielded her face. "Don't get me! I'm allergic."

Samson lowered his hand and sipped his drink until the girl let her arms fall.

"That's going to cause problems, isn't it?" he said calmly, but he could sense Zoe was subtly refusing his advances, despite her air of innocence.

"You're not the only one who has changed," she said slowly, bringing her attention back to the letter, "Your leaving made me start questioning everything a lot more. Philipa and Maddox made me doubt. I need to re-evaluate who I am and what I stand for."

Zoe was enduring the same battle as him, Philipa and Chandler. It seemed Cullen was the only one left who hadn't changed… at least, not in a good way. Samson wanted to thread his fingers with hers, but he also knew he couldn't. Maybe if he looked forlorn enough Zoe could understand. "You're not any closer to finding the answers?"

There was a longing in her eyes, as though she was pondering her entire life in seconds. "Chandler has been trying to comfort Phillipa – can you believe it?"

"Really?" Samson tried to feign disbelief, not expecting Zoe raise the topic.

"Yeah. It's… very weird. We have been speaking a lot. I bet you can't imagine that either."

He could, but he didn't want to admit that it bothered him. For one, Zoe might have told Chandler about how Zoe and Samson had slept together. That was unnerving.

"I don't know what to think of him." She rotated her glass in a circle in its place. "Sometimes, he reminds me of you, but he doesn't make me laugh in the same way."

Samson was stumped. He made her laugh, but not for good reasons. "Probably because Chandler doesn't blunder with speaking."

Zoe laughed, and she surveyed him calmer, with more intensity. "You're nicer, though."

The merry atmosphere of the Hanged Man had never seemed colder within the midst of a compliment. A frisson quickly embittered into hopelessness, like the ember of fire turning to black in the air, his soul darkening with it. He partially sought to ask if Zoe was allured to Chandler, but that would throw them into a river of feelings littered with many jagged stones. The potential that Zoe was in denial was a sharp edge that would draw blood. Whether or not such a stone lived there was irrelevant. Searching the waters was a poor choice. He had to protect… his silly friend.

"I presumed you needed to talk to me urgently," Samson said carefully.

"Yes, that's true." Zoe seemed to regain composure. She sat straighter in her chair and tried to smooth out her dress. "You know about how Phillipa might be transferred, don't you?"

Samson's heart jumped. Had Chandler mentioned their entire conversation? Suddenly sweat gathered in his palms, clammy like their abandoned glasses. This couldn't be happening.

"I do."

"Phillipa decided she wants to leave," Zoe explained, "She's filled out the paperwork and all that. Meredith and Orsino had written letters of recommendation. We sent them yesterday. Orsino reckons her chances are very good. Even if her record is no longer perfect, she's too much a high achiever to be dismissed outright."

"Which Circle is Phillipa applying to?" Samson asked.

"The White Spire," Zoe responded.

"Which one's that?"

"Orlais."

"Oh yeah, right."

In truth, he had no opinion on the other Circles, so this information didn't startle or evoke him.

Zoe put on her best imitation of Orlesian, "Et avec moi aussi."

"What does that mean?" Samson asked.

"And with me as well." The beauty averted her gaze for a moment, her cheeks rosy, then they returned, looking apologetic, "I promised I would go with her."

Samson and Zoe reached out for their drinks at the same time, although Samson's only had a measly few drops, mostly because Zoe had already drunk it.

"You pulling my leg?" he said cautiously, "Is this some sort of joke?"

He searched her expression for a sign of trickery, though Zoe merely placed some hair behind her ears, like prepping to present herself to the Divine. "No, Samson. I wanted to tell you in person, so you don't misunderstand. I applied to transfer too, but on probation. Six months, if I get in. I want to support Phillipa, sister and sister. It all depends how she adjusts. Orsino thought it was a good idea. I might come back… but I might not."

It hadn't been confirmed yet, but they both knew transfers were not that difficult to get. Zoe and Phillipa had decent reputations. Even if Phillipa was now on Zoe's level because of the Maddox business, it was enough. Bailey, his roommate before Cullen, had messed up a number of times, and he still managed to transfer. There were ways of making it happen.

It was indisputable. The Templar he cherished most had met with him today to say her farewell.

"Zoe…" his voice was strained. Samson might have said he didn't want Zoe to care or worry for him, but leaving was an entirely different matter. It felt destructive and wrong. "You wouldn't fit in there! You're Kirkwall born and bred. What about your family?"

"My family loves me," Zoe said, no doubt in her voice, "They think it's great I can travel. I'm not rolling in money. I've never had this chance, especially with errs Darkspawn afoot. They're happy I'm looking out for Phillipa."

"W-What about Maddox?" Samson blurted out.

"He wouldn't bat an eyelid," Zoe replied, "Don't you get that's why we have to leave?"

"Yeah, Phillipa can leave," he said dismissively, "but the Gallows needs you! It needs to have some rational people in there."

Part of him wanted to ask, what about me? But he couldn't. He didn't dare.

"Maker's tits, Samson, it's not like I'm the bread and butter of the place." Zoe seemed partially amused. "It's hard for me to be there too." She hesitated, and maturity crossed her features. "I need to get away as well."

"What was keeping you there before?" he demanded, "You're not Phillipa."

"I'm running with Phillipa because the Gallows isn't the same anymore," Zoe said, "Not for me, not our friends." As her voice strained no tears betrayed her. "My dear sister has no light in her eyes. It was like Meredith made her tranquil too. You know what I'm talking about."

Samson didn't answer. The memory of Phillipa had reminded him of his sickened self, which he knew wasn't good. The content of Phillipa's mind and struggle mirrored his own. Perhaps Zoe understood it too. They were all scavenging for meaning in the aftermath of an explosion. Neither of them had uncovered it yet.

He didn't like all this change, not knowing where it was going. How many friends would be left once they'd rebuilt their lives? Somehow, he knew a Gallows without Phillipa and Zoe would be so much easier to despise. That was terrifying.

"Don't you miss Cullen?" Zoe said.

It was like she was reminding him there was still one person left. But that wasn't true. The Knight Captain wasn't there for him.

Samson crossed his arms. "That depends." He recalled what Chandler said. "Should I miss someone who doesn't respect me?"

"What are you talking about?" Zoe asked, "He respects you, the same as before. Cullen worries about you all the time."

"He's lying," Samson said, "You don't know him, Zoe."

The poor girl was ignorant to Cullen's rigid ways. She wasn't there when Cullen had expressed how unsound Samson's idea of passing letters was. She hadn't heard Cullen yell at Samson to hurry up and talk to Meredith, hadn't seen his many expressions of disapproval throughout the entire letter passing ordeal, or seen how Cullen interrogated him about his begging for money. Zoe only saw the well-mannered Cullen that everyone else in Kirkwall associated him with. But he knew. Cullen got that irritated look on his face that meant he was too polite to criticize, but inside he was as critical as it was possible to be. He knew the Knight Captain, and he had strict rules, like Meredith did. Like Knight Commander Bitchface, he kept it inside, and it made him cold.

Cullen had probably told Zoe about how Samson had been begging. The thought that his friends were all pretending to be nice and being like Cullen penetrated fear to the marrow of his bones. And within that marrow he couldn't answer one question: Why is she being nice to me?

"It's all an act."

"Where did you get that from?" Zoe countered.

"Don't play stupid. You know how he looks when he's judging somebody. Cullen doesn't say if he doesn't like something, but he knows hate. He didn't like the letters, and he doesn't forgive." Samson felt himself getting worked up just by thinking about it. "You're ignorant if you can't see it. He hates me, just like he hates Phillipa!"

"Samson, you're so wrong about that."

They were all judging him, like Zoe was now calling him wrong. They were wrong. They knew nothing. Cullen deserved a punch in the face. That day Chandler told Samson about Cullen, he shouldn't have gone home and let Lilley steal his keys. Samson should have gone to the Gallows and broken the Knight Captain's too perfect a nose.

"He'll be happy when she's gone, just you wait, like he doesn't care I'm gone." Samson was shouting now. "I'll make him pay!"

A loud sound filled the air as pain collided with the side of his face. It stung as raw wounds did, piercing down to his veins and breaking them. With it, the tables closest to them went silent. His ears ceased to work and all he could do was stare into the smoky eyes of Zoe, silver light sizzling off of her clothes. She had used a Templar spell without meaning to, her hand outstretched. Samson's silly girl had slapped him, and the music from the bard sounded foreboding in his ears.

As quickly as it had happened the hostility vanished. Zoe's regret was immediate, the look that said, 'oh crap, did I just do that?' and she straightened out her dress, though Samson had already forgiven her - he couldn't not forgive his darling Zoe, not after she'd taken the time out of her day to be here.

"You're right about what you said last time we talked," Zoe said slowly, "The Samson I knew is not you now, but I still want to know about him, even if he's a mess."

Samson took a deep breath and touched the table, as though trying to remind himself he was still in a tavern. The rage had been very real, and it still pounded in his chest, but Zoe somehow managed to look brilliant even as she was striking him. He wasn't delusional. Zoe was wrong, but he didn't want to upset her.

"Could you do that for me?" she said with finality, "Will you still write? Phillipa will want to know how you're going too."

Samson brought his cold glass to his face, cooling it. "Are you sure that's a good idea - since I told you to keep your distance?"

"I'm sure," Zoe said, placing her hands to the table, like she was filing a report. They listened to the music for a while, tapping their boots to the music. "I keep forgetting to ask. Is Faith nice? When you wrote she worked at the Rose… let's say my mind went in a million directions like fireworks."

Samson considered how to answer. It was normal to be curious, but how concerned was Zoe? He'd fucked Faith in more ways than he had Zoe, and he had learned more, experienced a wider spectrum of emotion, for better or worse. He wasn't sure what kind of friend he'd tell this information to, so Samson settled on the basics, keeping to the point of the question. "She can be very nice… and faultlessly horrid."

Zoe chuckled, "Of the dirty kind?"

"No," Samson lied impulsively, as easily as if he'd been honest, "just a ruthless nasty."

He couldn't hurt his friend.

"That's bizarre," Zoe admitted blankly. "She must not like you then. Or you're stupid."

He smiled, feeling somewhat peaceful that his roundabout explanation made some sense. "She both does and doesn't like me."

The beauty hummed to herself and rested her chin on interlaced fingers, examining him curiously, "Do you also… like and not like her then?"

"You're nicer," Samson said blankly, repeating her usage of the description from earlier.

Zoe seemed content with this answer. "My mind slipped the other day," she mumbled, as though the alcohol was talking. "I missed you a tiny bit. Nostalgic is more accurate."

"I hope you remember what I told you about that," Samson pointed out, testing her.

"You don't think I do?" Zoe sat back up straight, with an allure smile.

Samson cleared his throat and held out his hand. "Best of luck at Orlais' Circle, sister," he said formally. "They will be honoured to have you. I'll write for as long as you want me to. I'm sorry that all this had to happen, and I am such a pest of an insect."

Strangely, the beauty didn't look confused. She gladly shook his hand. "Much obliged, brother," she let go, quickly, "Just don't be so quick to jump to conclusions again about Cullen and I forgive you. Really, I can't wait to try the Orlesian wine."

"I bet you can't."

It seemed neither of them wanted to talk about how Zoe struck him. It was too sensitive a topic.

They stood from their seats. Samson felt slightly more confident that Chandler had been wrong. Zoe didn't have any affectionate feelings for him. She was just a silly girl with the jitters.

"You don't have the guts to hurt me?" she joked with a marvellous grin.

"I do," Samson said calmly. Raising one of his fingers, he traced patterns in the air, pretending it was a bee, "Bzzz, bzzzz, bzzzzzzzzz…." He tapped her on the nose and pulled his hand away. "That'll be agony enough."

Her eyes twinkled as though she wanted to joke, but instead she just surveyed his finger and touched her nose, as though suspecting it might actually break out in a rash or hives. She raised one of her arms.

"Can you twirl me?" she asked, "I've always wanted to do that in a tavern, but I've never had much reason to before now."

Samson hesitated. The bard was playing a jolly tune indeed, and there were few who were dancing. He tensed his jaw. Zoe couldn't get too friendly. It was dangerous. He couldn't be with her, but she was also leaving. It would also be foolish to refuse outright.

"How do you ask?" Samson said with a grumble.

"Sorry for slapping you?" she suggested.

"That'll do."

In truth, he didn't know what the magic words were, Samson didn't want to give away his affection for nothing, didn't want to feed into her childish thoughts. He held out his hand and let Zoe twirl underneath him. Once… and a half… and let go. For those few seconds he almost felt like any other Kirkwall bloke in a tavern, living a normal life, a simple life… something he would never have. Not like this. The sunlight rarely reached his spirit, stopping before it hit his skin.

Zoe had a stupid grin on her face - suitable for such a pretty, childish girl. "Worth it."

He started heading toward the exit, while she trailed behind. Samson felt too sick to his stomach to answer for a couple of steps. "You're not coming back, then?"

He looked back as she reached him.

"I will for occasional family reunions and the like," she reiterated, "As for Orlais, I can't decide if it's for the better… but if it isn't, I'll come back."

Neither said goodbye. Perhaps they didn't want it to be goodbye, just a 'I'll be back, stupid.', but he couldn't read her face.

All speech failed him like it did those days in the Gallows. However, it wasn't precisely like usual. The feeling was softer, not wanting her body or kisses, but the brightness and sturdiness of her spirit.

To couples in the tavern it was the perfect moment for mournful embraces, but they were not lovers. He watched her leave with an undeniable melancholy.

They were not friends. Brother and sister was stretching it too. They were not really anything. Zoe was a ghost, a harbourer of good memories. She kept them all tightly hidden behind her smile, and kept them in a locked attic, never to be touched.

Samson still wanted to be her friend, but he wasn't sure he could. He'd try. He'd try forever, and she'd be out of reach for longer than that, a gorgeous butterfly that knew exactly the right moment to present her wings and disappear. Although each time she fluttered away the distance was further. At first, across rooms, then across corridors, separated by the harbour and now she'd be out of the city entirely, in another region. Not a Marcher, but mingling with Orlesian types.

Zoe haunted him, if not in person, then in his thoughts. Whenever she appeared, the ocean tossed him underwater and stung his eyes, and Samson knew how to float but not swim. It wasn't enough to survive.

Words should have been said. Samson could have mentioned how he admired Zoe's ability to smile despite everything, complimented her on the dress, offered to walk her back to the Docks, that he didn't want to ever say goodbye, that Kirkwall was a duller place without her, and the man wished Meredith had let him stay so he had an idea of what would have become of them.

When he'd made her cry, he wanted to hold her until every last tear disappeared. How he would have kissed her if they were still in the Circle, fellow Templars… if she wanted that sort of thing. He had no idea. The boundaries were being recklessly danced over. The thought was familiar though he couldn't place it.

Samson should have said something. He could have said anything at all with a hint at his tenderness for her. Anything.

But the former Templar said nothing. He forbid himself to, even as his heart imploded under the weight of all those feelings he hardly knew he had. She walked out of The Hanged Man entrance, fixated on her destination. Zoe would always go forward and pay no mind to the past.

She was gone.

Under the heaviness something cracked. Something broke. And with it came a scream. Not an audible cry, but one he knew well, more tormented than ever before.

Within his mind the demon's name never formed, although it heaved at his gut and his eyes and his throat and his heart. It twisted his body as if it changing him into every remaining patron in the tavern, one after the other. The monster tried to shove him into a small space, while simultaneously spreading him over the floor boards, shredding him like those tatters of the dead leaves on the floor. Time and space distorted, dripping on him like the wax from the candles, burning his skin. Gravity and the very essence of the world pulled him underground, where the crystals stirred. He didn't know what awoke the beast, too enraptured by the claws of possession.

Samson went home immediately. Faith was there. He could ask for help. She'd help him.

He used those keys she gave him, stepped into the provenance that she offered, and found Faith laying on the bed. She gave a small wave with a tired hand, still recovering from the blood magic hex. "How did it go?"

"You have no reason to be jealous, princess," Samson said slowly, "Zoe and Phillipa are going to The White Spire."

Faith looked absent though bewildered. "Orlais?"

"Orlais," Samson affirmed.

"That's a distance," she said.

Samson leaned forward and held onto Faith's hand to stop his arm shaking.

"Samson?" she said abruptly, placing her full attention on him.

"Faith…" Samson mockingly replied.

Slowly, she caressed his arm. "You look like you want something."

"I do." Samson's grin was animalistic and raw. "You have it in your cabinet."

"Hmm…" Faith appeared to be thinking about it, quite seriously, for a few moments. A small smile formed on her lips, a kind and lascivious one. Then she moved Samson's hand up the inside of her thigh. "And how desperately do you want it?"

"More than ever," Samson said, his mind still racing with lyrium, lyrium, lyrium.

"I respect your choice to limit your intake," Faith said slowly, "so I have a challenge for you."

"You dare give me a riddle and I'll-"

"Give me yourself," she repeated the words she'd used while in the lyrium's song, although now they sounded flatter, "your seed, your everything. And if you still want the blue afterward, you will be justly rewarded."

Samson wanted to say no, tell her to piss off, that he'd take the lyrium anyway. He should just go over and drink it, just swallow all of it, but Faith knew the glare of an addict. She took his hand and shoved his fingers as far down her throat as she could manage… which was way too far down to be normal.

The man shuddered, but still resisted.

"Why don't you just let me have some?" Samson tested, "I paid for a portion of the next batch, you know!"

He had to wait until the woman removed his drenched fingers until she answered. "Yes, the next batch."

"You know what I'm feeling right now!" Samson yelled, wiping his hand on his shirt, "Yet you do this! Let me take it! Please!"

He was getting good at begging. It was a skill as much as anything else, but the woman did not yield. She ran her fingers down his face and shook her head.

"You wench!" he shouted, his speech accelerated, "and you dare do this when you're sick! You've got more than a few screws loose. Let me take it. It's just lyrium. It's just a drink. It's just medicine. I need it. You know I need it."

"Samson…" she said firmly, "Remember you agreed to this plan."

Fuck. He did. He had, but now he wanted to go back on the plan. When he'd made the plan, he hadn't had a clue what this felt like. It was all stupid! Samson groaned, and not only that, his throat burned with anguish. He took a deep breath and remembered the times he wanted to screw her. He needed something strong – had to disconnect from the first time they'd given their bodies completely to each other.

"You don't need to bribe me to make me take you," Samson said finally, "Besides; I don't want you passing out on me."

"I do," Faith said calmly, "That way your rage can be turned into more. There's a reason anger is easily mistaken for lust – because they thrive off each other. I will give you plenty of warning if I am about to collapse. Lyrium won't skew that like last time."

Samson took a number of deep breaths. His mind was still racing, his body was still malfunctioning. He brought his hand up her thigh again and pressed his fingers to her nub. "Will you be willing to wear a dress?"

Faith appeared to revert back to how she was on their first meeting – just a whore doing her job. "Which one?"

Samson touched her anywhere he could reach as Faith got to her feet like someone who had been awoken earlier than they wanted. "The most ordinary one you can find."

He had to move, distract himself, the drug was still calling him, viciously threatening him.

Faith followed his command without a single objection. Samson had trouble watching her take off her clothes. His eyes kept darting to the cabinet on the other side of the room, begging to be free, needing lyrium to save him. He didn't even look over at Faith until she climbed onto the bed with him and touched his face.

"Is this average enough?" she murmured, her words like embers spitting at him.

Samson felt his body burst with want as he looked upon her. She had picked out that one. The dress Lilley liked. The one Faith wore in the Chantry, the one with gold and white and green. The one he suspected they fucked in, the dress he would now fuck her in, but put Lilley's performance to shame. The fabric was layered and silky, clearly an Antivan influence. With age patches of it had turned translucent, like at her stomach across her shoulders. It was taught around the elbows and hips, but was otherwise quite loose. Strange. She wasn't that scrawny.

He didn't care about asking why she had chosen it.

"You almost look like a good person in it," he joked, "but I still want lyrium more."

"Prove it," she challenged, a spark of her dominance sparkling through like lightning, "Channel your anger into me. Turn it into power. I'll tell you if or when I've had enough."

"That's never, then."

He grasped her face in his hands and brought his lips to hers. He felt her grin as she kissed him back.

Still, as Samson let his passion for Faith become indistinguishable from rage, and as she enjoyed it far too much, the want for poison persisted.

Author's Notes: The title of this chapter was named after the song 'Those Were the Days' by Mary Hopkin. I am so pleased to have reached this part of the story. I hope you enjoyed reading it.

Next chapter will mark the end of Act 2 and is from Zoe's POV. :-D

Beta credit - Flaminea.