It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man or woman exposed to public scrutiny is more likely to come across stupid than clever. Samson knew this already. Mages and Templars in the Circle were often thoughtless, but it was sometimes funny. He learned another fact quickly. That people, if he dare call them human, were downright cruel…and more moronic than he could have imagined.
He had laughed about it at first, considering it ironic. They don't understand, he thought. Soon his pity turned to annoyance.
"What sort of potion will you spend my coin on then?" a woman shouted one day.
"You look like you've been tossed about. You want to get wasted, mate?" another bloke said.
These comments were rare when he asked the public for money. Far more common were fake sorry looks or being ignored. Samson could understand apathetic reactions, but not insults. He remembered those as much as the kindness. The former Templar wanted to tell them the Chantry was who had done this to him, the same place these very people walked to. He wasn't the one with the lyrium problem.
One evening when the ignorance became too much he told Faith about it while eating potato and leek soup.
"What I find so bloody irritating about it," Samson groused from a chair, "is that you're the real addict in this house, and yet those morons are pointing fingers at me. The only reason they can't tell is because you're at the Rose. I bet if you started crying from the song or something, they'd give you coin, regardless of what the reason was. It's because you're a pretty girl, and you dress nice, that's all it is."
Faith heard the song every day and spent so much coin on lyrium that they ate basically the same boring thing unless Samson went out of his way to get something else. So he did, even if it was one ingredient different, even if he added parsley or lemon or something, or missed breakfast to save up for something else.
"They don't know what they're missing," Faith said, with a knowing smile, "who you are doesn't mean anything to them. But if it gets to you so much, do more contract work."
Samson grumbled to himself, bitter about mercenary work. The contracts from Athenril were more suited to his interests, although he found it didn't pay as well as Meeran did. Athenril's contracts also had the problem of being infrequent. He didn't need to go asking for money so often these days, but twice to three times a week was still more than he cared for. "Terrie said she'd help me find some mages around the city later tonight," he said, "the magikers can sense each other, you know. They don't need phylacteries, so they'd be better at guessing than me. Chances are good if the parents are alright, they'll hand over some silver."
Forgetting a spoon entirely, Faith scooped up the last of the stew with her fingers. "They can't be apostates if they haven't been taken in the first place."
"Going on holiday," Samson joked, "and I've been helping Reiner out with his boat. I think he's warming up to me."
"You are appealing when you're not in a frenzy," the woman said, taking Samson's bowl and stacking it on top of hers.
"That's a shame," he remarked, "in rare instances I like it when you're mad."
Faith smirked. "You're the only one."
She awkwardly got to her feet and went to the kitchen. "Olina gave me your mail."
"That's funny; I don't think I directed them to her," Samson lied impulsively.
"She told me you were too nervous to direct them to my house, and wanted to help," she said, as the dishes were put in the sink, "For once; I thought she was smart. That's why I ripped it into tiny pieces."
"You what?" Samson gasped, getting out of his chair. Whoever it was who had written – Zoe or Phillipa – he needed the letters!
Faith peered back at him with a flash in her eyes. "Here's what's left of it."
That's when she reached down inside her satchel and pulled out an envelope. It was in one piece, although it looked like the paper had been dampened by sweat. That wasn't how shreds of paper were supposed to look. It was a trick.
"Why'd you lie?" Samson asked, reaching her and reaching forth to grab it, but Faith lifted it up high. Curse her heels.
"Why did you?"
"When I get nervy, it just happens," he stuttered out, "I don't want you to chuck me out if you turn into a jealous bitch."
He went on his toes to reach the paper, and Faith lowered it enough that Samson could grasp it, but she didn't let go. They were almost nose to nose.
"Lie to me again…" she began, face stern with conviction, "and I'll lock you in Lilley's house until you can't bear it anymore."
"I doubt it," Samson disapproved.
"You're going to underestimate me again?" Faith said. He pulled at the note and it tore slightly. Shit.
"Maybe," Samson confessed, pushing his face closer so his lips were almost on hers. She did not appear swayed by the minor display of affection.
"How can I make you less nervous?" Faith asked, "And I'm surprised you're not jealous every time I go to work."
"How about stop threatening me? You just did it. I get that I'm a bit of a whinger, but you're scarier. Just tell me to stop whinging, don't bloody threaten to lock me in a room in case it's for fun. Besides," he changed the subject before she could interrupt, "I know you don't really like your work clients. It's just to stop the singing."
"What makes you think you're any different?" Faith questioned, pulling the letter closer, a tug of war.
Samson pondered on it with a hum. He trusted her more these days. She was only a little unhinged and had a short fuse. The times they had been free of their clothes and interlocked it may have been as a distraction, though it was a lot of fun. That out of the way, Samson found it more fulfilling than the times he'd visited the Rose in his Templar days. Accomplice she may be, although a close accomplice. The memory of her sobbing in the bath tub after their first time was luminescent in his mind, despite the faint glow of the lantern they had at the time. He had held her so long that his legs had started to go numb from being in an awkward position, though it was worth it because she eventually tired herself out from sadness and silence lulled them. Crying wasn't what he had expected would happen, though it wasn't a shadow in their history either. It reminded him of another time in the dark, when he had practically crushed Zoe's ribs from holding her so close when they had been unclothed.
Before she could retreat, Samson kissed Faith. "Because I made you cry once. That first time we made cake. I doubt you turn that wrecked at work."
Anger was the suspected response, although the woman's eyebrows raised ever so slightly. Surprise wouldn't completely encompass the expression. There was also a gentle inquisitiveness in her face, not harsh or cruel- a rare sight.
She let her grip loosen, allowed Samson to take the letter, and in true Faith style, changed the subject.
"Who is that from?" she muttered, tentatively.
He inspected the script and knew immediately. It was from his butterfly.
"Phillipa," he invented, "I mean. No. I lie. Zoe."
He peered at the ground feeling shameful and embarrassed, only glancing at the woman in increments.
"I am a little jealous," Faith admitted, looking just as flushed as he was, like she'd just admitted to a lie too, "but so long as you tell me the truth, I will manage whatever it is you write to each other about. And I'm sorry. Threatening people is a bad habit of mine. I'll try to eradicate it. How about you attempt to stop lying and I'll do the same with my threats?"
"Alright, thanks." Samson opened the envelope and pulled out the letter. He wouldn't believe her apology until he saw some improvement, but the same could also be said for himself. He had a chance to remedy the situation. "I'll hold you to that right now. What do you want to know?"
He scanned the page. It was a long letter. Faith stepped past him to return to the bed.
"Do you still think about pounding her?"
Samson almost sneezed from the oddness of the question. It seemed strange she would ask whether Zoe would still make him desire her. Didn't women care more about feelings, love and mushy things?
"Ehm…" he began, feeling awkward. He was about to say 'yes' when he realized he hadn't actually thought about Zoe like that for a while. The last time he had was when she'd cried over him, and Samson had wanted to comfort her rather than pleasure her for the sake of it. They were now too out of reach, so he pushed it away, like how he'd let her leave without a goodbye. His feelings were closer to sadness, forlorn regrets that couldn't be translated into the sex he was accustomed to having. "She's a sweet, kind girl, but… no."
There were no tempting whispers of her beauty and figure, but the spirit that resided inside. It surprised even him that his feelings for her had not faded, but thrown into a whirlpool, leaving it unrecognizable when it was pulled from the seabed, too beaten and battered by the storm.
Faith didn't react. "I need to wash up. Write back to Zoe… if you're not too frightened."
"Don't get jealous," Samson warned her, but she'd gone into the other room. As he heard the tiny tub fill with water, she returned to wash the dishes in the sink.
Dear Samson,
It's my two month anniversary of being in Orlais! I felt like I might explode at first but now that I'm settling in it is becoming easier. How are you? Are the cravings making you mental?
I don't know what to mention first. Val Royeaux gets such a bad reputation in Kirkwall. It's out of this world. I haven't met a nasty person yet.
The White Spire makes the Gallows look pathetic – the building is so much bigger! Imagine the height of the golden statues and times that by five. YES, five. Twice as tall as the Chantry, maybe three times. It's lit by magic so it's stunning at night. The Templars all stay on the top floor (weird, yeah, I know) – I don't like heights so I stay away from the windows, but Phillipa loves it. She talks about how it reminds her of snow back in Fereldan. I told her, 'I didn't know snow glowed' and she said 'it glitters, it's the same'. I want to prove her wrong. Thank the Maker we have a room to ourselves – at least that's like home.
We were introduced to some the newer Templars our first night, because then we can all navigate around the Spire together. Most had trouble understanding our accents. I don't understand some of theirs either. I've been trying to teach them slang and it's so funny… and the flirting, typical! I want to know if they'd still find us attractive if we put on their accents. I think I'll give it a try.
Knight Commander Eron directed us to Enchanter Noémi on our second day. She keeps the library spotless, but she also provides guidance and a listening ear to those who need it… which is perfect for Phillipa. Orsino filled that role by accident for Phillipa and I back in the Gallows, but Noémi has a lot more time on her hands, so Phillipa talks to her regularly. Noémi said Phillipa's trouble isn't unheard of. She had one of her own friends be made Tranquil a long time ago.
We were given charges after we became more familiar with the place. I have two, Phillipa has one until Noémi thinks she can manage more. I don't know why I was given the arrogant ones.
Phillipa wanted me to let you know that she is feeling "reassured" in the White Spire, and she thinks she might grow to like it here. I agree with her. The management is so much better – I wish you could see. Knight Commander Eron isn't as much of a talker as Orsino, but he's more flexible than Meredith- on par with Guylain. If only we had someone like Noémi back in the Gallows, maybe the Maddox ordeal wouldn't have happened. I wouldn't tell Cullen my secrets if I was paid extra for it! More because of Meredith though.
Your friend,
Zoe
PS: There's another Templar here called Zoë, but they pronounce it stupid... Zo-EH, not Zoey. I'm trying to teach them the Kirkwall pronunciation so people don't get confused. Andraste burn Orlesian words!
Samson grinned, happy that the two girls were enjoying themselves. He tried to imagine all she wrote about, the White Spire itself, the Orlesian Templars, but couldn't. Zoe was right. It was a whole other world. If the plan was going well, maybe she'd stay at the White Spire for the rest of her days. This brought back memories of her walking away in the Hanged Man, and again, Samson wished he had given her a hug or something.
Sighing, he drafted a response but hid it away in a draw. He didn't want to send it for a while so neither of them could get attached. Faith asked him why he had put it away, when he was going to send it, whether she could read it. He said that was fine. There was nothing jealousy-inducing on it anyway. If anything perhaps all the fun Zoe was having would be jealousy-decreasing. As Faith looked over it, she said if Samson hid letters away it would look very suspicious. "Yeah, suppose so," he agreed. Then attempting to be more honest, Samson found it irritating that Zoe was enjoying herself. She made Orlais sound like the Golden City.
A temptation for the blue interrupted his foggy images about glittery snow. The triggers were becoming increasingly apparent. There was something about feeling isolated that bothered him. The annoyance was strange. He was used to being alone and weird. Meeran might have been right about his weakness being abandonment. The thought of Meeran being right irritated him even more.
So he got changed into armour, slid the old sword Terrie let him keep to his side and left the house without saying good evening to Faith, too desperate to get away from his mind.
Samson did strength and fitness training along the Wounded Coast, which was a great excuse to visit the mages in the cave. As he entered, his palms were sweaty and shaking from anxiety. The cravings were like a bear trying to rip him apart. One could only fight a deadly animal for so long before kneeling over in defeat. Samson was so close to doing that. The other half of him was tempted to run home. He was internally kicking himself for not asking for lyrium before he left, even though he'd left in a rush to abandon that option.
A few minutes in Samson found Decimus dangling Grace upside down a number of meters in the air, deadpan and concentrating hard, as though this was a test. The bearded mage looked proud of himself.
"You kids having fun?" Samson probed, dragging his boots through the sand deliberately to distract himself.
Think about the sand, the boots, get out of the head, fuck off thinking about lyrium.
"Always," Grace said shortly, her brown ponytail shooting to the ground like a spear, peering over at Samson with a flushed face, "Why are you doing that with the sand?"
"Did you get hurt?" Decimus asked, concerned.
"Nah," Samson shrugged, but he didn't know how to explain his withdrawal to any of them, "Bored."
Any mention of lyrium would give his Templar status away, so he didn't talk about that, not until Decimus informed him the timing was right. Still disconnected from himself, Samson dragged his boots some more, his ankles aching.
Next he found the others he didn't remember the names of, but they were talking about whether Andraste was a real person or not.
Samson took some deep breaths, as he tried to imagine the warmth that he'd feel if he drank some lyrium. Alain was reading a book against a wall in the next section and Terrie was organizing herbs into piles.
"Samson, good evening," the young lad said.
"What you forcing into your brain?" Samson wondered, tilting his head.
Alain closed it. "It was discovered the other day in one of the tunnels," he said, "It is about sailing and navigating oceans."
"Useful," Samson pointed out.
"Yes, if you would like to explain it that way." Alain sounded like he found the book more a liability. "Terrie, you told me to remind you."
The mage gave a brief smile out of politeness. "Hello, Samson." She turned to Alain, "Can you put these in my spot?"
She gathered the herbs in her hands and passed to her friend, who left shortly after. Meanwhile, Samson needed to fidget. He took the sword out of the sheath and practiced simple blocks and strikes.
"Let's go," Terrie said, stepping over rocks to get to the main path, covered in a jacket which looked like something Lilley might wear. Like with all the mages in this cave, without their staffs and robes they were indistinguishable to other people… which was how it should be.
Terrie had to step faster to keep up with Samson because she was shorter. She appeared a little unnerved to be out of the cave, her cat-like eyes bright and cautious.
"Are you nervous?" he wondered.
Terrie nodded. "I haven't even seen Kirkwall yet."
"None of it?" Samson replied, but the surprise he had didn't reach his voice.
"I didn't feel safe going on my own, or with the others," Terrie pointed out, "When we arrived we went around the city to avoid people."
They didn't speak, but observed their surroundings, until a Guard came around – someone Samson recognized.
"Corwin?" he clarified, surprised it had taken this long to run into his old friend. The Guard looked the same, stern faced and in need of a haircut, accompanied by Brennan, but with the lack of light they were only visible when they got closer.
"Samson!" Brennan said happily, "The Maker is good. You're alive!"
"Why does everyone think I'm dead?" Samson blurted out, feeling slightly offended.
"The other Guards are… negative," Corwin chimed in. "Nabil swore some lady was going to murder you for losing house keys?"
"Err, no," Samson said blankly, though he wouldn't put that past Faith if it had been entirely his fault.
"Is this a friend of yours?" Brennan asked, giving a wide smile to Terrie, placing her hands on her hips. Terrie's purple tinged lips made them look black in the moonlight.
"Naomi," he answered for her, using the very first name he could think of. "She's from Solle, visiting for a few months."
"How fascinating. Antiva, is that right? It's supposed to be so extravagant there," Brennan said, "How do you know each other?"
"I got lost trying to find the market place," Terrie said, "and he just happened to be around. I have a bad memory so Samson walked me there."
"That's one change. Samson can walk now," Brennan said, "You should have seen him before. It was like he was possessed at different times." The Guard imitated the shaking and jerking but it was a horrible impression. Looking back at Samson playful, she added, "Remember you almost tripped me over on this patrol?"
"No," he replied honestly. "How's work anyway?"
"Guard Captain Ewald stepped down a week ago," Corwin finally answered before Brennan did .
"Yeah, too many disagreements with Seneschal Bran apparently," Brennan dismissed the thought, before Samson could react.
"Who's the new Guard Captain?" Terrie tried to join in on the conversation.
"Jeven," the two Guards answered with tiredness.
"That's not a good sound," Samson said.
The two Guards looked at each other and shrugged.
"He's weird," Brennan said, "I can't put my finger on it, all stoic and serious."
"Efficient, though," Corwin countered.
Efficient yet stoic… it sounded an awful lot like MEREDITH.
If there was any chance he could return to the Guard, it had immediately lost its appeal. With that, the Guards pulled themselves away and Samson felt reassured. It didn't seem anybody knew he had joined the Red Iron, and therefore they couldn't suspect him of anything. The man walked a number of steps away until he realized Terrie was no longer with him.
"Madam?" he asked, looking behind him.
Terrie was frozen, her ankles shaking, as if she'd been victim to an ice spell.
He approached her. "Something got your tongue?"
"You were with… those people?" she mouthed, looking horrified.
"For just over a week," Samson spat, feeling unhappy to be grouped into a box, "so what?"
"How can we trust you?" Terrie whispered, trying not to speak too loud, "Who are you, Samson? Are you going to turn on my family?"
"I just lied for you," Samson hissed, "If I was going to turn on you, I'd have done it already."
"Why haven't you then?" the mage asked.
The man paused. "Templars guard mages, Guards protect the citizens, but no one protects your people." He met her eyes, and realized he'd stopped fidgeting sometime recently, "no one gives them a voice, a chance at being a person, but someone should. So I will."
It was like Terrie and Samson had a staring contest then, trying to outdo the other. Then the woman gave up and continued walking to the city. Even if businesses were supposed to be shutting in an hour there were still plenty of people.
"Want to eat somewhere?" Samson said, peering up at Lowtown buildings. He didn't want to eat at the Hanged Man tonight, or any tavern. However, he needed her to trust him, and given Terrie was going to help him find mages, she needed to concentrate. She'd need food, and if someone wanted to get a good impression, a tourist was to utilize the upper class section.
Terrie looked like she almost had a heart attack, but he took her to a little place in Hightown – the cheapest joint there (but still bloody expensive), called Too Far East, although Samson was quite certain the door was pointed north east. He had walked past it many times when he'd been begging, too tempted by any thought of food. Samson reached in his pocket. He'd given Faith enough coin for lyrium. The rest was free reign, but Terrie stopped him with a harsh voice. "Can we go in there?"
She observed the brass letters, solicitous.
"Why wouldn't we?" Samson showed her the silver from his pocket. "I got enough coin."
"That's not what I mean." Terrie shook her head, "In Antiva…" she emphasized the word to indicate Starkhaven, "You have to dress nice to go in those places."
"I haven't had a problem before…" Samson was about to finish his sentence, but stopped, considering if Terrie had a point. He hadn't eaten here, but he'd never been refused entry in the past, "It's not like we're about to raid the place."
Even if Samson had, the rules shouldn't apply if he could behave like a human. He wasn't a criminal; he'd sometimes done criminal things… for good reason. Just like he wasn't a pathetic addict, he only pathetically used lyrium to survive. In the Guard and as a Templar he could go anywhere and be respected.
He was reminded of what some strangers had told him over the past few months about his drugged up appearance and felt annoyed.
"We don't look bad." Samson tried to assure himself more than her, feeling self-conscious.
"We don't radiate elegance, either," Terrie corrected. "I'm not fond of being sneered and spat on. Let's go somewhere else."
"I want to ask them," Samson said, heading for the entrance.
"No!" Terrie grabbed his arm and tugged, "You don't have to. Just look in the window."
"I go to a restaurant for food, not to gloat about clothes," Samson disagreed. Before Terrie could utter another word, a waiter reached the entrance, his clothes vibrant and opulent.
"Good evening," he said with what looked like a forced smile, "What can I do for you?"
Samson cleared his throat. "Does your restaurant have a dress code?"
"Yes," the waiter answered. He looked like a decent enough bloke, cleanly shaven and dapper.
Terrie tugged on his arm again.
"Can we get a table?" Samson asked, when no other dress code question sounded good enough in his head.
"I'm sorry to say, but no," the waiter said, "The dress code is very particular. The quality of the fabrics and how well maintained they are must reach a certain standard. They are not my rules. I apologize, but I can suggest bars or taverns."
"I have coin," Samson said, "There are free tables in there. You saying you'd rather be sent home early from there not bein' enough customers?"
"Samson…" Terrie groaned, pulling harder at his arm.
"I'm sorry, sir," The waiter repeated, "I can't do anything about it – would you like me to pass on any comments to the manager?"
"Yeah," Samson grumbled, "Tell your boss they've got their priorities wrong and are a prejudice-"
"Your restaurant looks lovely!" Terrie interrupted him, "Sorry to bother you. We'll be going now."
"Naomi!" Samson shot back, glaring at her.
Terrie shook her head vigorously, mouthing 'No.', then she gave a false smile to the waiter and didn't talk again until they were way out of earshot. Terrie might have a point. Hightown was full of snobs, but didn't they want to become bigger snobs by taking everybody's money?
"They definitely won't let you in now, even if you were better dressed," the mage muttered to herself, "Let's go to a street vendor."
"We don't have those here," Samson explained, still fuming at the restaurant's stupid rules, "the closest to street vendors we have are at markets, and those are only open in certain places at particular times."
"MAKER!" Terrie swore. The outburst was surprising.
They went to the Hanged Man, the usual. Samson ordered a bowl of stew for the mage and a small baked custard pie for them to share, almost to expiate for the stress he'd caused her earlier. Food aside, the former Templar couldn't deny the two of them looked weather beaten and miserable. The mage ate a mouthful of stew and seemed stunned, like she'd forgotten how to eat.
Samson didn't feel like talking, so pushed a glass of water towards her.
Terrie nodded and swallowed. "Pardon me," she said, "I worry that I won't be able to stomach real food when I get it."
"Sorry about back there," he muttered, "People irritate me."
"I'm used to it," Terrie said, sipping her water, "but you're not. Want stew? I won't be able to eat it all. My stomach won't let me."
"Take it back home," Samson said. He picked up a spoon and scooped off some pie, but when he ate it he felt no pleasure. The flavour was muted, just like his withdrawal even when he had no physical symptoms. He remembered Zoe and what she had said about cravings being like wanting custard tarts. She was wrong. It wasn't the same at all.
Samson let his head fall onto the table and looked sideways to the other patrons.
"Are you not feeling well?" Terrie inquired.
"I can't taste anything," Samson said blankly, and the mage went silent for a few moments. It wasn't clear when she spoke if she understood.
"You…can't taste anything," she repeated, with a hollow look, swallowing some more stew, "is there something wrong with your stomach?"
The man sighed, feeling his ear rumble from the noise and boots of everybody passing him, "There's something wrong with my tongue," he said, "and my brain, but that isn't the real tragedy."
"I can't think of anything worse than not being able to taste such a scrumptious pie." Terrie almost sounded fearful.
"My heart is fraudulent," Samson said with a voice dead as a street corner at midnight, "It doesn't beat how it used to, pumps someone else's blood, but I don't know where it went."
He wondered if the voices stole it, if the sneaky bastards changed it, tampered with it, and put it back. Maybe the choir had done this to Faith too. Her feelings were no longer her own, she'd thrown them to flames when the lyrium army forged a crown. Ordering them was a tough job, one that required sacrifices. Samson didn't want to know if that idea was true, though couldn't explain it any other way. He heard slurping, and looked up to see Terrie taking time sipping the stew from her spoon.
In the distance he heard a rumbling, an incoming storm that was a craving, and no amount of bracing softened the blow. Samson wished he could curl up in a bed, sleep and forget about his profound emptiness in his heart. Annoyed at the feeling, he forced himself upright and ate more custard pie, but his taste buds wanted something else. The lyrium was the most magnificent liquid, and perhaps if he poured it on the pie he'd be able to taste the custard.
He chewed instead, hard, his teeth bashing against each other, his body tightening with unease. Chew, swallow, repeat, and no amount of pretending it was lyrium made any difference.
Terrie was looking at him with judgement, with distain. That look. He knew it like he'd memorized lyrium's scent. She knew he was not right, knew his heart was empty, and she would not care that he was suffering, just like those idiots who insulted him without taking any time to learn who he was.
"What's so funny?" Samson muttered, sipping at water, but it was a terrible substitute. He needed the lyrium. He needed the blue, wanted it right now. There was no distraction great enough to stop it, nothing that was here. Right now, if Faith was in this tavern, he'd think of lyrium as he took her in his grasp, like he did sometimes, unable to push it away. It was a crime that she ceased to exist when he wanted it, a tragedy that the physical world lost meaning, like the very mage sitting opposite him. Even knowing this, the feeling persisted.
"Nothing," Terrie said, pushing her bowl away, "I'm not able to finish this, sadly, but it was so lovely. Do you truly think they'll let me store it?"
Samson shrugged. "I don't know."
"Can you ask them?" Terrie said, shying down, "I'm too scared I'll make a mistake."
All caring for her had disappeared. She didn't exist, the lyrium was more important. He was running on pure impulse now, and when irritated this was a disaster.
"No."
"What's with the attitude?" the mage asked.
"What attitude?" Samson asked, but he knew exactly what she was talking about.
"You're acting like my friends," Terrie said, defensive, "when their hunger turns them into different people." She paused. "Maybe you should finish my stew."
"Fuck stew!" he yelled, "Bleedin' food isn't the answer to everything! Is everyone in Starkhaven rich and fat then? Do they just stuff their selfish faces whenever life isn't smiling at them?"
Terrie looked terrified, perhaps of others listening, and she took some of the soup with her spoon. "I think you're getting Antiva mixed up with Starkhaven again, you're so forgetful sometimes. Blessed Maker, how many times do I have to remind you?"
The patrons in the Hanged Man continued to talk amongst each other.
Samson pushed the plate toward her. "I don't want to ask them either. I've dealt with enough rejection today. Put the pie in a cloth and let's get out of here."
That's when Terrie sculled the rest of the soup. She did it even knowing she'd vomit it up five minutes later, but fortunately the trees outside the tavern and not the pavement were defiled. Samson patted her back more forcefully than he meant to, and despite his irritation, not sitting in one spot helped. So long as he could move, it prevented him from going over the edge. Still, he wanted to give up. The lyrium was the easier option. When he got home, he would take some. He'd take it without asking. He'd fight Faith to get it. Maybe he'd pretend the withdrawal was about to kill him and scare Faith into giving it up. Threatening to beat her would probably do it, too… or insult her until she broke into smaller pieces.
Cursed Andraste… what is the matter with me?
Tears filled his eyes. He couldn't do such horrid things. That was the work of a true criminal, someone who deliberately hurt others, like Meeran or the Carta. This curse was not what he wanted, and yet….
I can't do this. Samson thought. He was getting so desperate he didn't want to go through all the effort of fucking her, even if the distraction had a fair chance of success. It was all so exhausting. He needed Faith's wisdom and advice, not her body.
"Thanks for… paying for it," Terrie said wearily, trying to stand up straight.
"I don't care," Samson dissented, "Where would you like to start walking?"
"Just along streets," Terrie said, "and I really hope you'll stop being so mean. We're meant to be working together and I am this close to crying."
She pinched her fingers together so close it was like there was no gap to represent a period of time.
Samson only grumbled in response. So what that she had vomited? It was her fault. The acidic smell made his stomach churn even more, but at least the mage had pie in her satchel now.
Whether it was because the two of them were too upset, or there simply wasn't any safe means to have a conversation about anything without giving their positions away, the two walked in silence until Terrie approached a door and knocked. Samson tried to squish his thoughts about lyrium as much as possible and remember what he'd planned to say.
"Who in the Maker's name is up at this hour?" said a loud voice, and the door opened. A young man of maybe 16 was standing in the doorway, "Who are you?"
"Sorry for uh, disrupting your night," Samson struggled to form a sentence, leaving unusually long gaps between words, "My name is Samson and this is my friend, Naomi. We are not connected to any authority and would like to talk to you about something. It won't take long. Are your parents around?"
"Sleeping," the boy mumbled, "Why?"
"Is there anybody in this house," Samson lowered his voice, leaning closer to the boy's ear, "who would appreciate departing this city silently, safely and secretly?"
The kid's eyes widened in either horror or intrigue, maybe both, and he stepped back to let them inside, making sure the door was bolted when it shut behind them.
"Wait there a moment," he said, stepping away quietly, "I'll see if I can wake them up."
Samson peered at Terrie, who didn't look as pale in this lighting. She was smiling.
Author's Notes: Sorry about the delay. I am hoping the next chapter won't take so long to upload. I hope you enjoyed it.
Special thanks to Flaminea for proof reading. She is going on a hiatus from fanfiction land so this is the last of my chapters she will be proof reading for a while. I am extremely grateful for her help in being a beta for this story throughout Part 2, and also assisting with my other story By the Blood of the Elder One.
Schattenriss has generously agreed to beta the next section, and try catch up on the story in the meanwhile.
