Making his bearings in the sand, Samson lowered himself onto a blackened rock that didn't look like it would pierce him in two and placed his hands in front of the fire. A creature was spit roasted in the middle, one he couldn't be sure of since its appearance was distorted by flames. This cavern on the Wounded Coast was cold, chilly and stunk of grime of the ocean, and other things that he simply did not want to know the full details of. Half a dozen other figures were huddled around the fire, men and women with careworn, jaundiced features, kept warm in layers of cloaks and sheets. It was difficult to believe they were mages. Here, without robes and staffs, they were indistinguishable from any old sod off the street. He could have been one of them, really. From the looks on their faces, it seemed they found him equally bewildering.

"We hope you're not a fussy eater," a female mage with purple markings on both cheeks said.

Samson hadn't thought of much of it, staring at something with far too many legs. "Is that a spider?"

It certainly looked like one.

"It is the largest of its kind, a Queen," Decimus replied with a grin.

"By all means, please feel no pressure about eating it," a tanned young lad answered, "I have to eat them with my eyes closed. I'm incredibly phobic of them. I know it's dead but it makes me want to leave the cave."

"Run home and die then," another man answered.

"Do you have tits or balls, Alain?" inquired a brunette sitting on Decimus's lap.

"You are so cruel to me!" Alain replied indignantly.

"Grace's elegance is only shown when it is needed," Decimus explained, wrapping an arm around her belly.

Grace appeared contemptuous. "Your mother and father should have named you Aileen."

"Can the two of you stop it?" the one with the markings on her face said, exasperated, "I have a headache from the fumes and I'd rather we chatted normally."

She turned the spit that the spider was cooking on.

Someone far away from Samson feigned a cough. "Normal!"

"Normal people!" snickered another.

"Let's all revel in our normalcy, everybody!"

This lot climbed up the wrong tree, Samson thought absently. Yet he understood the horrors of a headache. In the letter explaining he was allowed to meet the group, Decimus wrote that they'd escaped the Starkhaven Circle, but given something awful happened there, it was a topic to be avoided. He also recommended that since most of these mages lived inside the cave, it was best not to mention his previous work as a Templar until they trusted him more. As wary as Decimus may be, the rest of the mages were apparently more vigilant and cautious when it came to outsiders.

So the ex-Templar spoke of the only other thing he could think of. "Is spider a gift to the tastebuds or what?"

A variety of reactions echoed around the cavern, like gasps, 'Yes', 'Never' and 'Eh.'. The mages at the other end had begun philosophising about what it meant to be sane. Given how little he cared about that, Samson thought he'd picked a good place to sit. He watched the spider sizzle and smoke under the licks of flame, cringing slightly as it would randomly twitch as an illusion of the smoke.

"I close my eyes and pretend I'm eating… uhhh… burned rabbit," Alain said tentatively, with a quiver.

"Your ideas are not in the slightest correct," Grace disagreed, "the legs are like rat tails."

"You're the only one who likes the tails!"

"Someone has to eat them, Alain."

The soft spoken one of the group inhaled sharply, like a mother might when debating when to scold her children. "Your name is Samson?"

"It is," Samson replied, admiring the lady's ability to stay calm.

"My dear, you are the bravest to eat those parts." Decimus apprized Grace.

Quick to adapt to the diverging conversations, Samson continued his with the one cooking, "How long have you been here?"

"A month or so," the woman said slowly, "We're not doing well. The boys have the appetites of Rams and the squawkiness of irate birds day in and out."

Taking a liking to her already, he inquired, "Can I have your name, madam?"

"Terrie." The mage's purple painted lips curled into a small smile. "I'm disappointed my cooking knowledge from the Circle is wasted on frying these horrible things."

Samson peered over the fire so he wouldn't have to look at the giant spider, "Did you learn cooking from a senior mage at your Circle?"

"Maker no. I befriended one of the apprentice chefs. It wasn't satisfying to simply read about scrumptious meals out of a book," she said.

"Does spider taste that bad?"

"I no longer mind what anything tastes like," Terrie said, with a voice reminiscent of a Tranquil, "I see food. I eat it. It's not like we can wander far from here." She turned over the spider slightly with help of her magic.

"Sounds wretched."

"It is fine once you get used to it, but I hate getting the frizzly bits at the back of my throat. Sometimes you miss some cutting it off, see." Abruptly, the mage wiped her eyes as tears fell from them. "It's just the fumes, I promise on the Circle's ashes."

Alain moved closer to where Terrie was seated and placed a timid finger on her arm. "Don't think about it, Terrie."

"I know," she said sadly, "I'm fine."

Samson peered at Grace, who was drawing patterns in the back of Decimus's hand. Eating spider wasn't something you did every day – then again, right now anything would be better than fish.

"If you have any left over, I'll try a bit."

"I pray you can stomach it," Alain said, "I dearly hope I don't have to do cleaning vomit duty in here again."

The ex-Templar didn't speak much until they served food, and would have helped but they all pounced at it like the very creature they were about to eat.

"Samson." Alain nudged him tentatively, holding out a half a mouthful worth of spider leg.

Taking it with a thankful nod, the man picked off the stray bits of spider fuzz still clinging to it, trying to scrape it off with his nails. Terrie probably had the right idea about that.

I can't believe I'm doing this, he thought, taking Alain's advice and shutting his eyes as he chewed into it. He'd never had anything quite like it. Crunchy outside, chewy inside… it wasn't even terrible, although it did remind him of fish, which was disappointing. Samson had to admit he felt less ludicrous knowing the others had been eating spider regularly.

"Where do you live anyhow?" Grace said through a mouthful, staring at Samson. The group silenced and all of a sudden every pair of eyes were on him.

He kept the answer as vague as possible. "Kirkwall."

"He works for the Red Iron, Grace," Decimus said calmly.

"I know that." Grace seemed unconvinced. "But I doubt there are many people whose lifelong dream is to be a mercenary."

"Shush lady, I like it!" said another mage too far out of earshot.

"I like it too!"

"So rude, Grace."

"Women!"

The other mages started debating the utility of mercenaries in society in heated voices.

Again, Samson was glad he hadn't sat between them.

"You… wanted to meet us?" Alain continued the conversation, licking fat off his fingers, "but why?"

"Decimus helped me," Samson said slowly, "so I want to return the favour."

"But… why?" the young lad asked again, as if the idea of returning favours was foreign.

Surrounded by so many prying eyes, the crackling fire was the only part of the cave that was comforting. He met eyes with Decimus, who looked stern, but patiently so, then turned his gaze to Terrie, who was blowing on the fire to rise it.

"You won't go nattering if I say?" he tested.

A number of heads shook around the circle, and Decimus smirked, "No one to tell."

"Hmm…"

As he pondered on the best means to phrase the answer, the fire stopped hissing. Terrie was no longer kindling it. She abandoned her task to watch him with the same awkward indecisiveness that Alain did.

"One of my good friends was a mage," he began carefully, "Though I'm not supposed to admit it, I tried to help him and it turned to rubbish. I didn't mean for it to turn out that way. It was hardly my fault, but I have a duty to make it up to him… make it up to all of you."

Still feeling guarded himself, Samson didn't mention his role in the Circle. The former Templar surprised himself that this explanation made more sense than a lot of the garbage floating in his brain these days. In fact, it made him feel lighter to confess this truth. Helping this group of mages was a duty he could perform with little consequence outside the Circle if it was done right.

The mages eyed each other, like speaking with thoughts alone.

"What role did you have in making it turn to rubbish?" Grace asked.

"Grace!" Alain gasped.

"Samson," Decimus spoke over his lady, "Whatever mistake you made, that strikes me as an honest answer. It is much appreciated. I personally am impressed."

"I hope so," Samson admitted, sheepishly.

"I am curious…" Terrie began, and her expression struck him as kind, "How do you plan to make up for your guilt?"

"It's not guilt-" Samson began.

"-Yes it is." Decimus interrupted, as though that finished the discussion. Samson wanted to argue, but he realized he wasn't certain on how to describe the feeling any better.

Terrie continued to look into Samson's eyes, and he answered to her and not the others.

"I was hoping you could tell me that," he said, "You know better."

The mages to his right suggested answers.

"Freedom of course!"

"Justice!"
"There's no righteousness without mercy."

"FREEDOM!"

"I'd like to not be immediately accused of wickedness without causing any trouble," Alain said softly, avoiding Samson's eye.

"You'd be mad to think you can change Thedas's cruel approaches like this," Grace mumbled, stroking Decimus's beard, "It's so ingrained in this stinking world."

"I'll do what I can," Samson said, remembering the mage girl he had helped escape. He peered at Terrie, who was brushing soot from her dress. Her demeanour held an earnestness and innocence that reminded him of that young elf. As simply as that, he remembered how cold and muddled he had felt on that night – figuring out what happened to that girl it would give him peace of mind too.

"Psst!" Alain poked Terrie's boot, whispering under his breath like playing a game, "I think he wants to know your opinion."

That kid is perceptive, Samson remarked.

Terrie rose to her feet. "I don't have an opinion," she said with that same flatness, "Excuse me, I need to search for more food."

Before he could stop himself, Samson got to his feet too. "That's something I can assist you with."

Terrie peered back at him and gave another rueful smile. "Come on, then."

Whistles burst from a corner of the group. "Don't be gone too long."

Samson smiled as he stepped around the other rocks and other mages. That suggestive joking reminded him of Maddox, of Bailey, or simply the Gallows in general. The memories felt joyful, yet sorely distant and phantasmagorical, like perhaps they had only existed inside his head. As strange as this feature made him feel, he knew those memories were real. He only led a very different life now.

"Good luck Samson!" Alain called.

The young woman lit a lantern with the fire and walked further down a stone staircase. Her dress, with mauve and greying harlequin checkers and frills around the shoulders, looked like it used to belong to a Hightown teenager. They didn't talk until all the voices were gone.

"I didn't think you hunted," Terrie said bewildered, "Do you have a weapon?"

"I used to," Samson said, thinking he might sound less stupid if he added, "Work's been slow lately."

"That can be fixed," she said. They walked down the stairs in silence, to a patch of sand further away. With a whip of her hand a very large chest was pulled out from under the ground.

"That's convenient," he said, wishing it was that easy to get riches.

"We made it that way," Terrie said, and she bent down on her knees to open the chest manually, "Our staffs are in another one, but this is where we keep the weapons we don't want to sell."

In other words, it didn't contain gold. Samson couldn't help but feel disappointed, though he didn't know why he was expecting anything more than weapons. It flung open and he was hit with dust.

"What's your preference?"

The man stepped closer to look inside. "Any swords?"

"We won't miss this one," Terrie said, picking out a slightly rusted silver sword. It wasn't any design Samson was familiar with, but he took it from her hands. It was surprisingly light, suitable for a one-handed weapon -perhaps too light. It did not matter. He could adapt.

"Can I keep it?"

"If it was up to me, I'd let you," she explained, "but I need to ask permission from the one who found it."

"Fair choice," Samson said, gripping the sword tighter with one hand, "There only spiders down here?"

"Bears, mabari, rats, strange reptiles…" Terrie listed. She was very short, at least by a head, but Samson felt protective of her in the same way he did about Phillipa – out of respect.

"Your headache much better?" he wondered, keeping an eye out in front.

"Never," Terrie said, "I don't eat close to the amount I'm supposed to. I haven't felt like myself for a while."

"I know the feeling."

"You don't get much food either?" Terrie sounded worried, "But you live in the city!"

"That doesn't mean much, girly," Samson pointed out.

"Terrie."

After a pause, the woman pointed up to the darkness. "See the webs?"

Samson looked to the ceiling and felt a chill go down his spine. He didn't know spiders were capable of making such big webs. They covered the entire surface, and many layers upon layers of it.

"There are fresh ones." Terrie's finger pointed to some to left. "You can tell because there are less dead insects and holes in it."

He tried to see the differences, but all the webs looked the bloody same. "How many of those things live in here?"

"I don't want to count, if that's what you're saying," Terrie said, placing the lantern on the ground and sweept her palm upwards. A lance of flame shot out and the streams of white caught alight, expanding until shower of ashes fell from the ceiling. Then a terrible screech echoed, so loud Samson swore, but even that was too quiet to drown it out.

"What's the plan?" he muttered to the mage, standing near her.

"Defend me," Terrie said, her eyes darting around for the spider.

"Yes, madam."

Samson still found he felt unbalanced without a shield, but he'd manage. He bit the inside of his mouth to stop himself swearing when a gigantic russet spider appeared from above them and sprayed an olive coloured acid over them. Terrie blocked it with an umbrella of silvery light around them. It splattered over the sand and sizzled, while her barrier flickered and vanished. Samson was impressed by her on-point reflexes.

"Aim for the eyes or fangs first," she said, "You can pick."

The spider screeched again and Samson took this moment to lunge forward and pierce out one of its many eyes. As one of its pincers lurched towards him and was poorly blocked, it lacerated part of his arm. Ignoring the shooting pain, he swung at the spider and left one of the pincers hanging. Sticky brown blood poured from it. Terrie assisted with more bursts of fire, taking care not to hit Samson. By the time it kneeled over, his muscles were aching. He felt more worn out than he had for a while. Samson volunteered to pull the spider from the scene, but quickly realized that it was impossible for one person to do. With difficulty and a grateful smile, Terrie dragged it across the sand with a spell and they retreated.

Mages were incredible. Even with such a simple spell, he'd never seen it used on a creature or enemy, only objects for practice. In awe, he admired how Terrie practically glowed with the precision, strength and control in the magic she was using. By how only a few muscles in her face were taut, she'd clearly done this many times before. If only he could do magic like that too…

"Alain was right," he said after a while, "I want to know what you'd like to see me do to help mages."

"Freedom isn't everything," Terrie said, "Living this way has taught me this much. It's important to have safety and a home, too. Even out the Circle, we still have the Templars looking out for us."

"You don't reckon you're truly free, then?" Samson asked.

"I don't know," Terrie said, in a tone that suggested she didn't have the capacity to think about it. "If the Templars really wanted to protect us, they'd do so outside the Circle too. They can still watch us. There is a purpose to being monitored, but more independence would do much good. It would be wonderful to get a nice walk, fresh air… Parents don't leave their children trapped indoors all the time, even if they are misbehaving monsters. That's seen as cruelty."

"You're clever," Samson remarked, baffled he couldn't think of this himself.

"I miss my personal Guard – that's what Templars are, aren't they?" Terrie reminisced, "I think life would be so much better right now if I just had one with me. He could say I was good. He'd tell his fellow Templars how lovely I am. I wouldn't have to feel like I didn't have choices. Good mages would be rewarded for their work."

He looked at the purple markings on Terrie's face as she spoke, wondering what they were supposed to be a pattern of. Again, he was reminded of the elf girl he let escape, and hoped she felt free, and didn't resent him for letting her go. The idea of mages simply being free was a more complicated idea than he could have realized from his perspective. Terrie observed him curiously, and from this close, he realized she looked like she didn't have eyebrows for how thin and light they were. Then, in some sick part of his head he wondered if the eyebrows were the same shade as…

Samson pulled himself from the intrusive thought, and was inclined to agree with her. A system where mages could be monitored outside sounded like the best of both worlds in theory. Perhaps he could be a Guard of Mages to praise her. It sounded like she would appreciate attention for her efforts… though it didn't seem like the revelation of his previous title would benefit him. A fierce desire to care for her rose within him, a rare tenderness he had only felt for the charges he enjoyed watching the most.

"Do you hate Templars?" he muttered, not sure why he was quiet when no one else could hear them. "Was leaving the Circle a bad idea?"

"I don't know," Terrie said blankly, looking at Samson with an undeniable purity.

"I'll protect your people," he said, "I'll be a personal Guard. Not just for you, for all of them."

"That's very nice of you," the mage said, sounding tired, "but it won't work in Kirkwall, or anywhere, how things are."

"There are other ways I can protect them." he pressed, "There are ways I can show them mercy and freedom, as all the lovely mages deserve."

"I'm not sure I deserve lovely," Terrie said slowly, "I can't do anything I could before. I feel so weak."

"That's not what I saw just now."

Terrie shook her head, like Samson was mental. "I want a full stomach. I want to make sauce for meat, dressing for salad, and to brew tea – grind garlic, oil, herbs – something to make spider look appetizing!" Tears rolled down her face, and even if she wiped them away Samson didn't interrupt her. "I wanted to work in a kitchen!"

She was the most composed crier Samson had ever met.

"This is not who you are," he said, "and you know it. Empty stomachs make monsters out of the best of us. You are doing a great service to your brothers and sisters. The real you is lovely, madam."

"Madam," she repeated, disbelieving, "You keep saying that, while I don't think anyone has called me that in my life. And I don't think I've ever heard someone outside the Circle refer to us as 'brothers and sisters'."

She observed him sternly, looked down at his boots, to the bloody sword to the scars on his neck to his face.

"There's a lot I don't tell," Samson admitted, "but maybe one day I'll tell you, sister."

"This I can be content with." Terrie smiled demurely. "Could you please call me madam, instead?"

On Terrie's instruction, Samson assisted with finding various herbs and food them from the nearby Sundermount. This was the easiest job he'd ever had, and remarkably peaceful.


Returning to the tunnels under Darktown filled Samson with uneasiness. The sting at his throat where Faith had sliced him felt raw. When he ran a finger along the scar, he was bewildered to find it closed. Still, he found his way well enough and it was difficult to keep his vehemence in check when he looked down at the familiar Carta member with a glass eye. With a nod and terse greeting, Samson exchanged the empty set of vials for ones with luminous blue liquid, complete with a request for an increased amount of lyrium. Eindride glanced it briefly, one of his eyes glistening in the glow of the lantern.

"This is unexpected," the dwarf said, "The amount needed will take time to secure. By the following month, I doubt we would have found adequate clusters of raw lyrium."

Samson took a deep breath. "You're saying you can't fulfil the order?"

"We will try," Eindride said carefully, "though we have not had such a substantial increase in demand before. I expect this will take us six weeks to collect."

A modicum of panic at the thought of not more withdrawal made Samson nearly stop breathing.

"I don't think Mistress Adessi will be pleased," he said, trying to sound threatening.

"No, I don't think so," Eindride agreed, with a small grin, "though that's your burden to bear, captive."

Biting the inside of his mouth, Samson resisted lashing out at the stingy ratbag. "Will it be improved the following month?"

"I expect so," Eindride replied, "It only will take some re-organization and determining where our new raw lyrium collections will grow."

Once Samson returned with the crate, Faith spread the vials along the table in a line and stared intensely at it. They debated portions with care, and organized the glasses into different levels of the cabinet depending on when they could be consumed. Samson shared Faith's feeling of distaste and consternation. They already knew this month would be difficult.

As each day passed, he had a constant anxiety that more suffering would follow. No matter how unpleasant life became, there remained a chance it could get worse. Despite Faith sharing small portions of her usual doses, neither of them felt they had enough. He didn't need as much as she did, but it still wasn't enough. Samson wasn't sure if the small amounts he took were equal to what he drank in the Circle or not, but his mind and body didn't agree. A constant sense of fever followed him around, he had the shakes at odd times and his concentration was precarious. Sleep was sometimes disrupted. It wasn't as bad as before, though it was enough to affect his demeanour. Faith was grumpier than he was. She went back to work sooner than he'd anticipated, and Samson decided to only go fishing for coin at night. That way, when he was home, Faith was home, but mentally there wasn't always someone there.

Samson had to repeat what he was saying to her a few times, just because her eyes often glazed over and she appeared like she was in another universe, having lost concentration. Faith also sometimes talked to the lyrium song, which was incredibly bizarre to watch, as though she was talking to herself, but what she was saying didn't make sense. He would have been a lot more frustrated if he hadn't accidentally neglected to listen to her sometimes too.

But no matter how grumpy or distracted they were, there was the plan. It worked most of the time. If it didn't, they tried again. When Samson got sick of it -a miracle in of itself- he did strength training and swords drills until his body screamed in absolute agony. He asked Faith to join him, and she did only once, reluctantly, but it didn't work on her. It used to work in the past, but not anymore, she said. This led them to come up with some of, if not the, strangest compromises known to man. When Samson went for walks he took Faith for a piggyback ride at the same time, which made passers-by giggle and stare. He was more worried about her falling off or her becoming disgusted by the sweat build up from where her breasts, belly and hips pressed into his back. Thoughts of lyrium were pushed away from exertion, so all peculiarity aside it was an effective secondary plan to sex. It still made him think of sex, but that was beside the point.

"I have a game, Samson," Faith said.

"Yes, princess?"

"Tell me a line from the Chant, but replace all the names with something to do with the poison."

"You played this before?" Samson said, giving a nod of acknowledgement to an onlooker in an attempt to deter them. "You start."

Faith rested the side of her face on Samson's shoulder. "So the poison said to its followers: "You who stand before the gates. You who have followed me into the heart of evil…"

"That's not the original?" he laughed.

"The fear of death is in your eyes; its hand is upon your throat. Raise your voices to the heavens! Remember:"
Samson finished the line with her, "Not alone do we stand on the field of battle."

People kept staring. Fuck them.

"The poison is with us! Their Song shall be our banner," Faith continued. While Samson couldn't quite remember the lines exactly, he mumbled along to the parts that he did, uncertainly.

"And we shall bear it through the gates of that city and deliver it. To our brothers and sisters awaiting their freedom,"

"… Within those walls," Samson muttered.

"At last, the Song shall shine upon all of creation," Faith took over again.

"If we are only strong enough to carry it," they finished.

"What happens if The Maker and Andraste are mentioned in the same passage?" Samson heaved, sweating all over now.

"Make it up," Faith said.

Samson did make it up. He twisted it into something stupid, so much that it made them burst into the giggles of gossiping girls. Trying to distract themselves from lyrium, they spoke louder as if drunk.

"Pardon me," a passer-by said, so proper and clean, "I find that offensive. Do you mind?"

"I find you offensive!" Samson shot back, becoming light headed from all the exercise. The man looked affronted.

Faith buried her face in Samson's shoulder not to laugh, but Samson could feel her shaking. He grinned, feeling somewhat proud of himself.

"I'll let the Guard know about this!" the stranger threatened.

"Go right ahead," Samson said dismissively. Depending on who was spoken to, the Guard might find this equally funny.

As the Maker would have it, Nathara was summoned, someone who had a hit or miss chance of taking a joke.

"I wasn't suspecting this ludicrousness was a fault of yours, Guardsman," she said, abandoning her sword and crossing her arms. "Dare I ask why you are terrorizing the stupid?"

He stood in one spot to reply while Faith gripped him tighter as she was slipping. There was no debate about it – saying they were deliberately trying to distract themselves from cravings would not be taken well. So they'd be elusive.

"I'm making myself popular around here," Samson said with a grin.

The elf's line of vision rose to Faith, her pointed ears as sharp as her voice, "And you have a fetish for women climbing on top of you as well?"

Faith couldn't contain her laughter anymore. It burst out ringing, so close to his ears Samson flinched.

"I shall ask that you keep your voices down," Nathara said coolly, "but do it again and you know what I must do."

"I think having another woman terrorize him will work admirably," Faith said. Samson could almost hear her smile even if he couldn't see it. "I'll claim his legs, and you can have his arms."

The Guardswoman wasn't fooled. She put her hands on her hips and went along with the joke, "Yes, I did say I would pulverize him and eat him with my breakfast. Is that brutal enough, mistress?"

Samson didn't think he'd ever met someone who had perfected sarcasm to such an extent, not even him. "I won't go down without a fight," he reminded them.

"Indeed, for you are un espèce d'idiot," Nathara said bluntly. She was wrong. If the two ladies tried to corner him he'd corner them right back.

"My dear Samson." The man was surprised to feel Faith caress the back of his ears. "You should have introduced me to this splendid elf sooner."

That was frankly the worst idea in all of Thedas. "I don't think so."

"Then you know you cannot win," The Guardswoman said with a slimy condescension. By now, it was hard to tell if the elf was joking or not. "I will make sure your nickname stays a legend in The Guard, friend, and I will also tell everybody of how a woman has finally figured out how to control you. I will take creative liberty – she even chooses what you eat and what you can wear, like you are a solemn child."

It was irksome that the part she made up at the end wasn't even far from the truth.

"You wouldn't, Nath," Samson tried to step forward, but his legs were hurting, "For me. Please. Tell me you won't."

Nathara turned on her heel. "I most certainly will. If you are less of a – what do you call it – shithead – I shall apologize, but even then, the rumours will remain and become twisted for ages to come."

"Nath, no!"

"Samson," Faith muttered in his ear, as Samson readjusted how he was gripping onto her thighs, "apologizing is in your best interest."

"Oh, right." Samson was never good at these things. "Nath! Sorry!"

The elf looked over her shoulder. "Very well. I will be less harsh."

Samson dropped Faith and she caught herself on the ground, covered in sweat too, but still laughing. "Thank you, noble Guardswoman!"

Nathara gave a solemn smile. "I appreciate the entertainment today, dear lady. Farewell."

They walked back home then. It didn't stop Samson and Faith from going out on piggy back walks and playing the Chant of Poison game in the afternoons or evenings, but they were more careful. It was still fun. After these walks, Samson found he had an unwanted erection but was too exhausted to do anything about it. He never had enough strength to go jogging like before, because they didn't eat very much, and he felt like he'd faint out of sickness if he did.

The strangest of their distractions was a highly sexualized ritual. It wasn't good enough that Samson did his strength training, because then Faith would be left on her own at home and apparently missed him too much (he strongly doubted this was the reason). And so Faith's ubiquitous sex drive and the strength training were combined into a singular activity at home. One of the tamer ones of these involved Samson doing push ups without a shirt with Faith sitting on his back unclothed. She read cook books out to him, demanding he memorize them and hit him over his head with them when he made a mistake. Little did she know, it was nearly impossible to concentrate when his muscles were burning and he felt the curve of her ass, thighs and folds of her against him, how her bodily fluids were making his back sticky. The scent confused him. He couldn't decide if it made him feel alive or like he was about to die.

"How many cups of oats go in oatcakes?" she asked, with a threat in her voice.

"One?" Samson guessed, ensuring that his push up was in perfect form.

"Wrong."

"One and a half?"

"And you said you listened."

"Two?"

"Correct. How many push ups have you completed?"

"32," he replied, knowing he could have done double if she wasn't on top of him.

"Get up to 50."

"Self-righteous bitch!"

Samson got very strange associations with recipe books from then on. But all this physical exertion was killing him. His muscles ached for a few days after, and then he was compromised with work, so he usually sat against a wall and waited for passers-by to drop coin in. The exercise plan wasn't used very much because of this.

What was worse than all of this were some of the fools he met on the street at night.

"Hey street mongrel," a muscled man with a cigarette said, "You want coin?"

Samson raised an eyebrow from his place against the wall, feeling hard-edged by the form of address. "Only if you are willing to provide it, sir."

The stranger chuckled and looking bemused, peered over his shoulder at perhaps something in the distance. "A charming bloke like you can't charm someone into a job?"

Samson grinned, appreciatively. "Depends how ethical the method is."

Despite his slackened posture, he did not uncross his arms. The man leaned over and made an obscene gesture with his hands, one Samson recognized as code for sucking cock.

He filled with rage at being objectified by some nobody who had spoken two sentences to him. "That's outside my code of conduct, sir."

"Code of conduct. Good one." The stranger chuckled. "Guess you don't want coin desperately enough, eh?"

Samson felt his face go red as a number of potential answers went through his head. His emotions were so muddled up and numerous in that moment he couldn't describe them. Involuntarily, the muscles in his arm twitched.

Don't punch him, he thought, don't kick him. You have to look polite. "My code of conduct doesn't allow it. Sorry, gotta have a long chat to management."

The man peered down with a lecherous look on his face which made Samson want to vomit. "Shame considering how clever you are," he remarked, "Well if you're going to deny me, no dirt off my nose. Have a lovely night."

"You too, sir."

The following was one of his most hateful moments, which was in itself rather horrific in retrospect. Samson tried to calm his breathing for a half a minute or so after the man departed and realized with dread that this night was so quiet he may not have another one willing to donate him coin. With a lot of effort he called, "Oi. How much coin were you gonna toss up?"

The man said twenty silver, which was honestly an insultingly miniscule amount for the task offered. Yet, he did it anyway.


Faith was furious with him. Samson suspected she would never find out, but fate had other plans when he noticed a number of blister-like sores appear on his tongue and hands, rimmed with white. He wondered if he had become ill from being out in the cold. That was not the case.

"What are those?" she inquired, suspiciously.

Samson frowned. "I dunno. Guess I'm sick."

He felt so lousy from the decreased amount of food these days that sickness seemed like a kindness.

Appearing contemptuous, Faith placed the back of her hand on his forehead, then removed it. "Have you been making other women scream in joy with your mouth?"

Samson winced. "That's a precise question."

"Indeed. It requires a precise answer."

Which led Samson to avoid her eye and feel embarrassed, "Not women…"

"What?"

"It wasn't what you think. Some nutter on the street a week ago said he would pay me coin if I did it."

"You thought it was an intelligent idea?" she demanded.

"He looked clean. I thought it would be fine," Samson said.

Faith made a huffy sound.

"Shut you. I just did what you do for much less!" he retorted, "Forget about it! We bought food with that money!"

Faith made a whinging sound and crossed her arms. "Why do you think I work in the Rose, you fool?"

Annoyed, he answered, "Because you're a slag?"

"Because I've been sick before from strangers!" Faith shouted, "What do you think happened with those vile bastards I opened my legs for when I wasn't sleeping at my grandpop's house? The Rose keeps out most of the diseased garbage because we're trained to see it!"

Samson waited until her outburst was over and pondered before answering. "Sorry. I didn't know."

"I am very ashamed."

"That's why I didn't tell you either."

Faith hesitated. "If you want to use your body to get coin, do it correctly or not at all."

"I will work for Meeran again before I work for Lusine," Samson replied scathingly.

"You'd prefer to murder innocent people?"

"Maybe!" Samson shot back with an invidious raise of an eyebrow, "No. Bleeding hell." His earlier excuse of not having the patience probably didn't hold anymore. By some miracle, he had enough endurance to manage the riff raff who talked to him on the streets. "I want to stay relatively unnoticed. I don't want to manage having a reputation for being a whore."

Faith rolled her eyes. "Well done. You're now one to me."

"Hah!" He wasn't sure if he was feeling spiteful or properly amused, though all desire to fight had left him. "It would be strange working with you too."

Faith put their plates away, sluggishly, and called from the sink, "You can make whatever choice you like. I'd prefer you didn't put your health at risk."

Samson chuckled. The bitch cared, saying she didn't want him to be in trouble. "I apologize for my mistake. I won't do it again."

He got up to clean the dishes too and realized she was crying. "What now?"

"I probably have it too," she said, "Now I'm going to get in trouble at work. Thanks a lot, you sick bastard."

"There must be a way to fix it," Samson said.

Faith merely sighed and tried to calm down. "And I can't do anything with you either in the meanwhile."

This seemed to upset her the most, judging by the new wave of tears. Samson chuckled. "If we're already sick, how much worse can it get?"

He never said anything like it again, because Faith punched his shoulder and left the house for an hour or two. Since that incident Samson was careful to avoid that stranger, or any suspicious stranger at all. On occasion he found himself spotted or unable to get away and had to charm his way out of conversation or justify why he wouldn't do what he did before. The stranger claimed that he had never made anyone sick and Samson must have gotten it from someone else, and a bunch of other nonsense. Sometimes he seriously considered consulting Punchline to poison the bastard, as approaching the Guard and admitted to what he had done to accidentally spur the stranger on in the first place was too humiliating. In the end, it seemed someone else had removed the trouble for him, because after a few years the man stopped appearing around Kirkwall. At least, Samson preferred to think the slimy cock-loving git had been murdered rather than moving to a different city.

He went to Meeran occasionally, but nothing more than that, accepting smuggling and courier jobs only. It was hard to keep from smirking sometimes. He felt a malicious pleasure at the thought that he, Samson, had Faith around, someone that his boss wanted and now had no contact with.

If the cravings were still there, by that point Faith and Samson were too tired to complain. They'd wash themselves up in the tiny tub and lie in the bed, doing nothing. Often times they couldn't be bothered cooking, or cleaning or even talking. When Samson was too tired to move Faith pleasured herself, but by that point Samson hardly cared anymore.

Samson liked sex better when it wasn't just a means of distraction. He almost wanted lyrium solely so he could have a break from it all. Faith understood this, and agreed, next month it would be better, next month they'd have more, they wouldn't have to do this so often, but she was also desperate, and he wanted to help her. After all, there was no reason Faith had to give him any lyrium, given she'd bought it with her own coin, but she did. If nothing else, they slept better because their bodies and brains were so dead that the withdrawal symptoms seemed confused as to what chaos to unleash.

He thought fondly on their first time, an experience driven by lust more than obligation, despite it not ending well. He also had nightmares of the woman whose face he'd bashed in, the young girl who was tied underneath a house, how he couldn't have freed her from that place himself.


Sometime in that month, Samson didn't know when, as the days were all a blur and blended in to each other, two interesting occurrences happened while he was fishing at night in the Docks. He did this when his body was too wrecked to do anything else.

After hours of peaceful water rippling and the swivel of the fishing line being retracted and swung, the solitude was broken by a burst of water. Startled and after much squinting, he spotted a woman with long dark hair, gasping, climbing out of the ocean onto the small ladders against the edge a couple of meters away. A satchel was pulled shortly after her, looking heavy from the water. Samson remembered it well because he thought he was hallucinating at the time, because it was so bleeding weird that a person would just come out of there. The Docks was notoriously foul to swim in so he didn't think anyone would use it for that purpose.

"Just a bit longer, Isabela, you won't be dying today! Rest… soon!"

She sounded young, maybe around his age.

Can hallucinations hallucinate? Samson wondered, confused. With a gush of water the woman dragged herself up the steps and onto the main stone like a slug, exhausted and all dignity gone.

She wore an expensive golden necklace that framed her whole neck and a white tunic that barely covered her ass. Those were the wrong clothes to go swimming in! They were completely see through, and her dark skin made the effect of the transparency worse. She moaned and lay on the Docks pavement for a few moments. Samson was the only other person there. He felt kind of filthy staring at her, so he tried not to and waited for the hallucination to go away. When it didn't, he retracted his fishing line, placed the rod in the bucket with his fish and approached her.

"Um…" he began, feeling apprehensive, "I never did think it was good to swim in there."

"Maker's bleeding balls- there's a darned person there, Isabela," she groaned, still talking to herself. She rolled her head lazily onto her other side to look at him, face soaked. "Oh great, and look, out of everyone to welcome you here it's a crazy person. I don't think the fish in that ocean are safe to eat. They kept biting at my toes."

"Haven't killed me yet," Samson said, though he was suddenly worried about the quality of Kirkwall's fish.

"Where in the n-n-name of the Maker a-am I?" the woman heaved, closing her eyes. She was shivering violently.

"Kirkwall," Samson said.

"Ohh, you've gotten yourself into trouble now, Isabela," she muttered.

"Yeah, it's not very exciting." Samson tried to humour her. "I'm Samson. Is Isabela your name?"

"Well done, Isabela." The woman kept talking to herself. "The crazy fishing rod lover now knows your name."

How screwed up was this woman?

"Hey," Samson interrupted, "I'm no crazier than you, Miss Mysteriously Appear out of the Ocean. That water's disgusting."

"Yeah, I guess I could do worse with the welcome," Isabela moaned, as though drunk. "I used to Captain a ship. Not anymore. I swam here in a storm… I'm lucky I actually found dry land. I was very prepared to die back there."

"It's probably better to be prepared to die than not," Samson admitted. He stepped closer. "Were you meeting someone here?"

Isabela chuckled, "I met you, didn't I?"

Samson shrugged, though he was amazed with how pretty she was up close. She could have been Faith's younger sister, almost.

"There are a few options on where you can go," he said, "There's the Chantry, the Guards might take care of you overnight, or I could take you back to my place."

The woman groaned. "I can gouge out your eyes if you try anything. Look, I know you can probably see everything right now, but if you can believe it, I'm not in the mood for attempts at flattery."

"I really don't believe that," Samson said, with heavy sarcasm.

Isabela laughed, "Really though – where would you recommend I go to dry off?"

"I guess it depends how moral you are," Samson said thoughtfully, realizing he'd listed the options from most 'moral' to least.

"I'm one of the most damnable, slimy ladies you'd ever meet," Isabela said, "And the Qunari hate me with a burning rage that could evaporate me -so nowhere near those."

You forgot wet. Samson thought. "I've got to say my place houses pretty slimy types. Just me and a woman…"

"What kind of evil will I be fending away?" Isabela asked. "I smuggle and lie. That's my type of immoral."

"I do the same." Samson said, "Though add begging onto the list."

"Begging?" Isabela asked, "Why beg when you can steal?"

"Why steal when you can beg?" Samson countered.

The woman grinned. "Not all types of begging are bad," she said suggestively, "What do Kirkwall nobodies do for fun around here?"

"Drink, visit brothels, be stupid," Samson said, "the usual."

"That sounds wonderful, I like that. How's the brothel?"

"Good, though I don't know any others," Samson said, "Maybe it's shit."

"You just need to know the right people," Isabela advised.

"Good," Samson said, "The woman I live with works there."

"Oooh." This caught Isabela's interest. "How is she in the sack then? I imagine she must be… above average, dealing with you… her very out of the ordinary man?"

"She's well worth your gold," Samson said, to try not sound obsessed with Faith.

"Maybe I do have some energy left after all," Isabela said loudly. She tried to push herself up but she groaned with the effort. "Who cares about sanity, it is completely overrated, isn't it? I'll spend the night at an insane beggars place. Take a leap of faith and chew down my pride once more. Come on, Isabela, think of all the warmth and hugs. Maker this is tough."

To support her Samson held out his arms and very slowly, leaning against him, she got to her feet, water dripping over the pavement as she did, every inch of her blouse clinging to her. With the movement, her satchel flung water at him.

Oh Maker… so much see through…

He averted his eyes feeling stupid. "Why the fuck would you wear white out on a boat?"

"I don't mind if my crew peeks," Isabela said, "or people. I don't have a crew anymore. Sometimes I even like it. Oh no, my secret's out." She put on a mock act of misery, "Poor you. You know my secret. Poor me. Stupid Isabela. What ever will I do… my clothes are soaked through and it's so COLD. Oh Maker above, why is the world such a lonesome place? And the bastards make me want to strangle myself. The ocean makes me so desperate for attention and…oh Maker, WHY? Why am I at risk of hypothermia? Why?"

Samson cleared his throat. "I've seen whores less obvious than you."

Isabela grinned, still sopping wet and freezing. "Is that a dare?"

Samson smiled. "Wait until we get home. I'm sure Faith would love to meet you."

"With a name like that…" Isabela sounded enticed by it, "I think I want to meet her too."

"She's vicious sometimes," he said, "It might be a problem."

"Trust me," Isabela said energetically, "Vicious is what I live for."

He walked her home. He handed Isabela a towel to dry herself with and lent her some of Faith's dry clothes before waking her. They made tea, chatted, held each other close together under the covers to stay warm until Isabela and Faith found each other too interesting. It was too bad for Samson because he was left out of the ordeal, until he groaned and had his head under a pillow for long enough and Faith said he could join her side of the bed. The next morning once Isabela had departed, Samson asked if he'd imagined everything, and Faith assured him it was real.

The Pirate never stopped by their house again, but Faith met Isabela at work a number of times. Those Maker damned work boundaries!


The other time Samson was spotted fishing was no way near as interesting a story to tell.

One night, Warren found him. Maybe the refugee had been looking for him. Like the first time they'd met, he sat down by Samson's side.

"You've turned into a night owl?" Warren said. He had a new clothes on.

"Almost sounds like you miss me, Warren," Samson said with a shrewd grin.

"I did," the refugee said, "The kids liked you,"

"I'm not good with them," Samson said, even though those kids were technically teenagers. "'You been keeping busy?"

"I got work," he said happily.

"Paying work?"

"Helping out cleaning and odd jobs at an Estate,"

"Which one?" he asked, surprised.

"House Tethras," Warren elaborated, "A dwarf House, one has been piling on more work – plans to go away sometime next year. Knight Captain Cullen helped a great deal - gave me some suggestions and a recommendation."

"A recommendation?" Samson repeated, feeling offended. Cullen should have given him one without asking. That's what a brother would do, but Samson was reminded again that there was something holding Cullen back from helping him, a well hidden distrust. "That prick."

"That's a tad much."

"It's a charming turn of events for you, though," Samson grumbled, trying to be nice, "I don't need him."

"There's no shame in needing to rely on other people," Warren said in a fatherly tone, but the former Templar wasn't in the mood to listen.

The Fereldan seemed to know. "Good news. There's word that the Darkspawn are getting pushed back by the Wardens. My family might be able to head home soon… if there's anything left of it."

"Let's hope there is," Samson said, not knowing what he meant by the comment, but it signalled that the conversation was over.

The two didn't see each other much after that. He never did find out if Warren went back to Ferelden.


He was ready for the month to be over because it was that awful, but as it crossed into the next a woman found him one night against a wall. Since the incident with that creepy cock-loving bloke, Samson made a habit of changing his choice of wall multiple times in a night, especially if he spotted that shithead. So it was interesting a different stranger made a beeline for him.

An elf with cat-like eyes crouched down on his right. She was quite thin and despite being short, Samson suspected she was older than him. "Hello there. Are you the former Templar that disrupted one evening at The Broken Spine?" she asked.

"Didn't realize the story got around," Samson said, tired, "Yeah, it's me."

"I know many types of people," the woman said, "and I hear you're also not delighted by the methods of your employer."

This made Samson jolt awake. "You know my employer, do you?"

"Your employer and I are not friends," she said, "My name's Athenril. I work in deliveries. Are you interested in some work?"

"Yes, I am," Samson said, "I was wondering when you'd show up."

"You've made a name for yourself."

"Since when?" Samson wondered aloud, thinking he hadn't done anything useful.

"So long as a name is making the rounds, it will interest me," Athenril said with a smile.

Samson wiped one of his hands on his clothes, wet with dirt and snow from the ground, before reaching it out to her. Despite knowing he wouldn't be able to completely trust Athenril either, he couldn't help feeling overwhelmingly pleased when she shook his hand without a moment's hesitation.


Author's Notes: Sorry for the delay. My social life and study has been keeping me very busy. Thank you very much to Flaminea and Schattenriss for proof reading.