What he saw made his stomach plummet somewhere unobtainable. Positioned on her side on the floorboards, Faith was clutching her stomach, slowly writhing, with her torso jolting unpredictably, appearing incredibly weak by how indolent her movements were. It was hard to tell if she was dry retching or groaning. The sound was similar. That only caught Samson's attention for an instant though. A worse crime was afoot. There were five empty vials on the ground. Powder had been spilled onto the floor, stretching in multiple directions like the points of a star.
"Hey!" Samson hurried towards her and gently tugged the jar of dust from near her head. "That's mine!"
Faith reached out her hands, as if she wanted to touch it again, but she was far too slow. The simplicity of the movement reminded Samson of a drowsy child wordlessly asking to be held, though it was a misleading image. Was she breathing? It didn't sound like it, as if she'd turned into a corpse. Her irises had disappeared, leaving only blackness. Samson quickly sidestepped and placed the jar of dust on the kitchen bench. He didn't know how to feel. It was like time refused to let him feel terror. And yet why did it feel like terror's ghost was following him, all the same?
"Faith!" he shouted, gripping her arm, "Can you hear me?"
She curled up further and didn't answer. Samson hunched over to look at her eyes, but she had closed them. He moved onto his knees and grabbed her shoulder.
"Keep your eyes open!" he said, shaking her, "Talk to me! Umm… Blight take it!"
Samson grabbed one of Faith's wrists and tried to find a pulse. There was one, barely. If only he'd been here instead of playing cards in a pub. What caused it? The voices of the lyrium?
This was horrible timing. Granted, there wasn't ever good timing for something like this.
"I don't know what to do." Samson's heart sank. "Faith… the city is burning. I can't go anywhere! Where in Darktown is that healer?"
There was nowhere else he knew of. Even if he went to Elegant's house, Lowtown had been in worse chaos than Darktown. It wasn't safe, and he couldn't leave Faith here by herself. He had never felt more helpless, not even when he'd just been fired from the Guard. Rushing over to the kitchen drawers, he rummaged through them, trying to find where she had potions. This one? No, that was ink. Parchment. Quills. That one. He found them, more vials, but of different colours. There were no labels, except for a piece of paper.
EMERGENCY ONLY:
Green– skin anti-inflammatory. Use x1 day. Apply with a spoon, no more than x2 day.
Reddish pink – severe pain killer. Use up to 2x day. Two table spoons.
Violet – numbing agent. Use x1 day. Up to a shot glass.
There was one more line written on a slant compared to the rest. This ink was a different colour, and it wasn't in Faith's handwriting.
Black – In case of overdose. 1 shot glass (ALWAYS have some in storage, you clod.)
For a moment, Samson agreed with whoever decided to stock this particular potion, but he didn't realize until after that it was the mage. He found the vial with black liquid, like charcoal, and there definitely wasn't enough for a shot glass. Still, it was all Samson had. He placed it in his pocket.
"STAY AWAKE, FAITH!" he said loudly, returning to the woman, who could have been mistaken for somebody sleeping. He put the vial to her face, and her eyelids fluttered open, her gaze strangely innocent and mysterious.
"I need you to do something for me, princess," Samson moved behind her and placed his hands on her hips, "Sit up against me. I got something to make it better."
Faith didn't move. She probably couldn't hear him. Exhausted from the night's events, Samson used all his remaining strength to pull her to a seated position.
"You still breathing, Faith?" he muttered. Even though she couldn't hear him, he felt slightly calmer talking to himself. He put a hand in front of her nose and felt air press onto it. This was an odd relief. Opening the vial, he brought it to her lips, hurting his neck to try look at her.
"Drink this."
Faith's mouth limply touched the vial but she didn't do anything else.
Samson groaned. Desperate times for desperate measures. He dipped one of his fingers in the vial, covered it with liquid and pressed that into her mouth instead. Passively, she didn't react, but Samson removed his finger clean. She didn't have to swallow it. This was as good as it was going to get. He repeated, each time trying to sneak in more of the potion, by tipping some into the palm of his hand and dripping it in, but it took a minute until the vial was empty.
He helped her curl up onto her side because Faith seemed keep trying to move into this position. He lay on his side too in front of her, peering into her lifeless expression, holding onto one of her hands to feel her pulse. It would go weak, then stronger, then skip a beat, then go weaker again… he didn't know how long it had been when the pulse became more consistent, and then amazingly, Faith squeezed his hand.
"Can you hear me?" Samson asked for what he felt was the hundredth time.
Faith nodded, but she also was looking around the room, worried. Samson noticed that sometime between when he'd gotten home and now that the woman had wet herself.
"Where am I?"
"This is your house, Faith."
"But why am I here? How did I get here? By Guylain's corpse, I don't remember how I arrived."
"What are you talking about?" Samson demanded, "What's the last thing you remember?"
"I don't know," Faith muttered, increasingly sounding terrified, "Work, but I don't remember leaving. I don't know when that was. When did I get here?"
"I have no idea," Samson admitted, "The lyrium mighta made your memory funny. It doesn't matter. You're alright now."
"Why does it smell of smoke?"
"There are fires outside," Samson said, "Don't tell me you don't remember that either?"
"They got me," she said, "I'm dead and they got me." Her lip trembled. "I'm dead and you're dead and the Maker is dead too!"
Was she delusional because of her memory lapse, or had this brought on her binge like last time?
"Faith," Samson said firmly, squeezing her wrist. "You've got a pulse."
The woman felt her own pulse and started to shake.
"It's not true! It's a lie to trick me that I'm alive. They're watching, always watching. They got me."
Samson groaned and let go of her wrists. There was nothing he could do anymore. He was helpless. He'd done all he could and her mind had abandoned her. Except… he remembered what Faith had told him last time. She'd suggested he could – what? Get close to her?
I can't do that, he thought angrily. If that plan went sideways, it would be his fault. But he was drained and he didn't want it to get worse. Maybe… he could try something.
"Sweetheart," Samson began, moving closer to her, "Stay still for a moment, please."
Before the guilt came, he stopped it. He used the mantra he devised with Meeran long ago, one he didn't like using, but it got the job done.
This woman is my mistress. I'm here to do what she says. I am her puppet. I follow orders. She makes the orders, and I follow them.
Gently, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her neck. He tried to be soft, so it wouldn't scare her. He felt every crevice between each rib as his fingers rested upon her back and took a deep breath in. If he was calm, maybe she would be too. No matter what, he maintained that Faith's reasoning was terrible. Forcing open a flower that wasn't ready to bloom would tear each of its petals and destroy it, even if the saner version of that flower had encouraged it.
Faith couldn't have had the insight. The woman was not only sick from a delusion, but deeply sad and vulnerable. He doubted Faith had that in mind when she told him to comfort her. The monsters under her bed were reaching for her, the shadows were making her think she would be swallowed by them, consumed and destroyed.
"I'm dead," she muttered, "I'm in hell. This is the netherworld, the agony, the purgatory."
Maybe if he went along with what she was saying she'd calm down. There might be a way to twist the story to make her snap out of it.
"That's right," Samson said, starting to feel disconnected, "You're in hell. This is the netherworld, the agony, the purgatory."
"You're the Angel of Death," Faith mumbled.
"I'm the Angel of Death," Samson said. He stopped himself from holding her too tight. She seemed slightly calmer now. He abandoned her ribs and traced her cheekbones down to her lips, "and the Angel of Death adores you. He's here to take you back to the land of the living."
"Please, Maker!" Faith shouted, though the words hurt his ears, "I'm sorry for my mistakes. I'm sorry for my pathetic life. Let me be with you, Maker. I don't want to go to the world of the living! I want to continue being dead!"
Her tears and thoughts hurt his head a lot more than the sheer volume. The message was familiar, though he was at a loss as to where he'd heard it before.
Of all the stupid people he thought of in that second, it was Knight Captain Cullen.
You must stop blaming everybody and everything for your current situation. It is simply impossible that you played no part in this.
Impossible…
Samson wanted to believe it now. He'd absorb any lie. Even if he was being as careful as he could, there was not going to be a reward at the end if he pushed her with his mind game, only a constant reminder that he'd broken her. She sometimes made dumb decisions, and Samson had to be the lesser idiot in this situation.
It was just a delusion. It had gone on for a long time, but he just had to wait, without adding to it. He moved slightly away from her and brought a hand to her face.
"Don't go to sleep, sweetie," he said, "it'll be better soon."
In a daze, Samson walked over to the bed and took off his clothes. They were sweaty, smelt of smoke and alcohol. From the sounds in the streets, Darktown didn't seem all that affected by the Qunari rampage, or whatever the hell it was. By the Blight, why the hell had he not talked to Faith earlier about a better plan for dealing with her problems with the lyrium choir? It just never seemed the right moment.
Faith wasn't crying anymore. She was trying to breathe.
"Angel of Death?"
The woman slowly got to her feet, stumbling.
"What is it, princess?" Samson said calmly. "Be careful with how you walk now."
He was done feeding the shadows more darkness.
Mildly interested to see if she could hold a normal conversation, occasionally glancing over, he went to her cabinet to find her some dry clothes. Maybe he could be an impartial observer.
Like Thrask said, Samson only needed to be a non-judgemental listening ear. He knew he could do that. It was just like when Gamlen came up to him drunk and ranted about his failed stream of relationships.
"Faith, sweetheart," Samson said, looking through her clothing cabinet, "you… you don't really want to be dead, do you?"
He wasn't expecting the dread in his voice. She wasn't really suicidal, she was just in an odd way.
"Death is better, because then I can protect people from the Maker's side, instead of someone else always protecting me."
"People can protect each other," Samson said. He offered her clean knickers, but Faith flinched. She didn't seem to understand why he was offering the clothing.
"I want life to be back the way it was when I was smaller!" she said, tears filing her eyes. "E-e-everything is t-t-terrifying… it never stops."
Faith took the underwear from him but then dropped it, like he'd requested she clean the floor with it rather than wear it.
"It is," Samson agreed, "I'm really scared right now too, but we are going to get through this Faith. I'm not going to leave you alone."
Faith had appeared to revert back into some childlike state. She stumbled to Samson and touched his arm. "You're really here with me?"
"I am."
Samson picked up the knickers she'd dropped on the ground and left them on the bedside table near the lantern. She could put them on later.
"I'm a stubborn person," Faith said, "My stubbornness hurts people. I despise it, Angel of Death."
Feeling awkward, Samson waited.
"After I'd broken his arm from cravings making me angry, even if he could fix it, Ewan pleaded me to stop hurting him, that he wanted to see me find some way to do better, because he loved me. I think he believed I could get over my stubbornness to tell him the same, but I never did. I didn't want him to go."
"That is very sad, Faith," Samson said.
"And Samson – you look just like him."
"Really?" he said, trying to look like he didn't care, but he most certainly did. He felt really guilty. Should he correct her or not?
The woman moved closer to the bed, examined Samson and lowered her hands onto the edge of the bed. "You're in my spot."
"Sorry," Samson said. Reluctantly, he moved out of the way so they were arranged as per normal.
Faith climbed timidly under the covers with Samson. "You sound like him too. It's incredibly off-putting."
"Off-putting?"
"What if he can hear me?" She mumbled, suddenly sounding excited, "Did he get put in a different Hell? What does his look like?"
"Even if Samson was here right now," he said, now terrified at how he'd accidentally fed into Faith's delusion. He had to try fix it, "well, how would that be different?"
Faith poked Samson's shoulder, and he crossed his arms.
"I think I got it wrong."
"What?"
"I care a lot about Samson," she said slowly.
Samson didn't say anything. He wasn't sure how to without insinuating he was actually there, or by lying and feeding into the delusion more. "Okay…"
"Maybe the fight would have been easier. Maybe I wouldn't have given up so many times…" Faith mumbled. "The lyrium I mean. If I…"
She went quiet.
"If…?" Samson tried to get her to keep talking.
"… but the choir stole him away," she finished.
"He's still there," Samson said, "Sometimes, less than sometimes. Maybe he's not the lad for merrymaking, but… even if everything about him was all fucked, I wouldn't dismiss him so readily."
He already knew that she cared about him, but no, she was acting weird. She'd mentioned the mage and how she'd been stubborn. What was she talking about?
He felt strange. This conversation made him feel really uncomfortable and he wanted Faith to go back to normal soon. All he knew was that he didn't want Faith to die, not like this. It was too violent, too harsh. There wasn't wretchedness in him then, but he didn't know where it was coming from. It wasn't from the lyrium this time.
Samson rolled over and kissed her as softly and gently as he could manage. He forgot that maybe this could pull her out of her delusion, or maybe this would break her entirely. He wanted to kiss her then and damn everything. He was exhausted and confused and plain sick of all this lyrium rubbish.
Faith made a startled noise and tensed, but he ran his hands over her arms, trying to tell her to be strong, fight her addiction, fight it with him. Stop just trying to get by until the next batch. Maybe they could go somewhere else, another Chantry, another country. Maybe Orlais? It was supposed to be better over there.
She had completely frozen. She wasn't in a good way. He had to be careful with her. To his dismay, she started to sob, but not like those other times she sobbed. This consumed her from head to toe and she shook, the tears not quite breaking the surface.
"I'm tired of being broken," Faith said, close to hysterics, "I wanted to be someone else."
"Hey, it's okay," Samson assured her, "You're here with me."
Then something changed in her he hoped he'd never have to see again, or just witness at all, period. Faith's voice became slurred, her body became limp on one side and even her shaking became uneven. As if not believing he leaned back to take it in. Nothing changed.
A stroke. Not another one.
Why now? Isn't she crying from catharsis?
"There is no Maker," Samson muttered, staring.
For one awful moment, all the pain he had felt in the first month of living with her returned to him. The withdrawal, the starvation, emotional and physical exhaustion, how much none of those things were her fault, and how much he didn't want to go through that again. It seemed inevitable now. They were destined for suffering, and she even more so.
His body became a mass of knots. Maybe this stroke was entirely his fault. Blighted hell, now he wanted to die.
He grabbed Faith's now limp hand. "Princess?"
Strangely, this seemed to knock her out of her delusion, because her eyes flashed and her pupils resumed to part of their normal size.
"Wah eh huck hid you do?" she garbled.
That was her angry voice. He did NOT want to deal with that right now.
How could she be so accusing when he'd just helped her… bitch! Perhaps her mind hadn't completely returned yet.
"I saved your life," Samson said, "and then I listened to you ramble a horde of cracked shit."
Faith took a number of deep breaths, trying to calm down. "It's a haze."
He tried not to be angry, tried to calm down, but this was one of the worst nights ever. No, maybe it was the worst in his life. The only night that could come close was when he'd gotten drunk after Cullen talked to him. Even then, no one had almost died.
"You downed too much of the blue, but your body didn't reject it back up," Samson said, "You're lucky I happened to come home before I lost you for good."
He had to fight to not scream that he told her this would happen, and she'd completely avoided dealing with it! It had been completely devastating and she was being so careless.
Maybe this was entirely her fault.
Faith's expression contorted to one of fear. "Shit."
Right, so now she grasps the gravity of the situation.
"Yeah."
"Shit!"
"Don't go mental on me again, Faith!"
It was hard to tell if what followed consisted of a fight or a consoling session. There was a lot of yelling, and more screaming, and neither of them tried to halt it. There was no excuse to get filthy and forget about it. They both knew Faith's side effects from lyrium were getting worse. They both knew they had to do something to stop it. This went on even as their voices got hoarse, a circle, then a loop that wasn't really a circle until it somehow went back to the beginning.
Samson got out of the bed and paced around in an angry circle. He could have probably stamped holes into the floor, while Faith stayed where she was on the bed.
'How can you DO THIS to yourself, Faith?" he didn't mean to yell, but it was coming out like that anyway, "Do you want to fucking die?! If I hadn't come back here at the exact time I did, you would be! I don't hear any thank you from your mouth!"
He neglected to think that she had said she wanted to die when having her delusion. There was no filter anymore. He'd tried being patient and it wasn't working. This needed to be dealt with. There couldn't be any more delaying.
"Fuck off," Faith snapped. Because of her slurring, it meant the back-and-forth was slowed. She only expressed herself with the smallest amount of words.
"Talk to me!" Samson thought it was begging, but it sounded like an order, it was condescension. "Come on. You're usually so good at talking!"
"Shudthup!" Faith shot back.
"No!" Samson retorted. He felt, that he might cry, "How can you do this to me? You're hurting me. You keep hurting EVERYBODY. What are you going to do about this? What are WE going to do?"
"I don't know!" Faith sounded like she might cry too. She curled up as much as she could with her disability. "I don't know what to do!"
"We are going to THINK on what to do!" He didn't know why he couldn't stop yelling. "And for that you're going to talk to me, and I don't blighting care if you can hardly talk right now. You are not avoiding this anymore!"
"Speak for yourself," Faith shouted, while pointing to herself and then to him, "hypocrite!"
Samson stopped storming around. He couldn't believe Faith dare use this argument right now. It was more avoidance. "Am I the one who almost died? No."
"Judgemental prick." Faith cried angry tears. "I'M TIRED!"
Samson sighed annoyed, and went to the cabinet where his dust was. He was allowed to have it. He didn't have as many issues as Faith did. It would help him think. He grabbed half a handful and inhaled.
"HYPROCRITE," Faith shouted.
When Samson returned and sat on the ground, he felt a surge of new rage. "You're worse than… the Templars that saw me… before I banned them all."
"SOrrryyyy…." Samson used heavy sarcasm, "I shouldn't have come here at all. So right now you'd be dead."
"S-Samson…" Faith managed weakly, her speech slurred and awful. "Don't want… fighting."
"Really? It's hard to tell sometimes!"
"I DON'T…WANT…TO….FIGHT."
"Stop yelling then."
Faith went quiet. Good. No more fighting.
"Let's think…" Samson said absently. He snorted some more dust, but he was too fired up. His head only buzzed.
Where were all these brilliant ideas and solutions hiding?
"Samson…." Faith said after a while, and she reached out her good arm, "Can… help me?"
Samson finished the rest of the dust he had in his hand, because he didn't want to waste it. Her walking stick was against one of the walls, but he'd help her balance. "Yeah."
He handed her the underwear he'd found her earlier. With some effort, Faith used Samson to help get to her feet and balanced against him to walk. Faith had tears still rolling down her face as they did. There were a few moments of silence.
"You know… better… than to yell…" she said.
"Yeah," he agreed, reluctantly. His mind wasn't on the yelling, but how this entire situation appeared in the first place. "I wished it hadn't happened. I want to stop it. We have to stop it from getting worse – think of something."
They'd entered the room with the tub in it.
"I'm fine now," Faith said. Her voice echoed.
Samson felt his blood boil. "You are NOT fine."
There was no response. No way. That wasn't fair. He'd tried to be nice and it wasn't working. Faith didn't seem to take this problem seriously. She had to, or she would die. She had to or he would be upset, and he didn't want to be upset. If politeness wasn't good enough, what was left?
Maybe if Samson got angry enough she'd realize how much hurt he was in and take him seriously. In a quick motion, Samson grabbed Faith's arm and tried to yank it off of him. He'd show her how good she was at being on her own. He'd show her she needed him. He'd prove how broken she was and then she'd have to do something about it. Faith was about to discover how very 'fine' she was.
The woman glared at him. She tried to steel herself, she attempted to try and push against him to keep balance. In the process of trying to kick him to get him to stop, she fell over anyway. The thud was rather atrocious.
After a pause, Faith curled up into a ball and sobbed again.
"Sorry," Samson said finally. Only a hint of remorse was there. "I get so pissed off when you try to brush it off like it's nothing."
Faith didn't answer for a while. It was like she was going to sleep on the floor. "I-I- I don't know w-what to do! I've already thought of e-e-everything. I thought you understood."
Samson repeated that he knew that and he was sorry…
The woman continued to sob. "I've heard of everything under the sun. There's no hope. There's nothing that can be done."
"I don't believe that," Samson said, and he corrected himself, "That can't be true, Faith. I won't let it be!"
"I never asked for others to be involved with my life!" Faith cried. Her imploring eyes were painful to watch, red and desperate as the sick in prayer. "I didn't tell you about… how sick I was… because I don't want you to leave me. And I didn't want to say I didn't know what to do because… don't leave me! Not now. Please!"
"I'm here and I'm not leaving," Samson reminded her, "but I don't want to keep letting life go on and then I have to watch you disappear."
Faith had stopped talking to him, so he went to run the bath for her. While he was there, he really wished the tub wasn't so small so he could join her and forget about everything. They could have some quiet. Silence was a very nice thing. He grabbed her walking stick from the other room and laid it against the tub.
Once Faith climbed in and cried, the haunting memory of their first time together returned. He didn't say much for a while, unable to decide if he wanted to hold her hand or not.
"How did this happen?" Samson asked, "Did the army frighten you, like that time over a year ago?"
Faith flushed darker. "Why?"
"Because I…" he had to stop himself, as Dead Maker forbid, he had almost blurted out I love you. "I want to know if there's anything I could have done."
Faith shrugged. "I…"
"Sorry."
"I slipped."
"You mean a craving, right?"
Faith nodded.
"I thought you said you didn't get that way anymore."
"I haven't slipped for a long time, yes," Faith repeated. "It doesn't mean I am infallible."
"What was different?"
"I was stressed by the commotion outside," Faith said. "I didn't know how to find you, and I didn't feel safe enough to go outside, so…"
Lyrium seemed like the only option, Samson could fill in the rest of the story. "Are you trying to say you missed me?"
"Only you would skew it like that," Faith muttered.
"What would you call it then?"
Faith examined him carefully. "What did you think happened with me?"
"I don't know," Samson admitted, "I thought the lyrium told you to take it."
"No," Faith said, "I took it on impulse, even though I didn't want to."
Silence. Samson noticed the side of her hair was matted, and that was because her head was bleeding. Had he caused that, or had it been injured once she overdosed and he didn't realize?
"I have an idea. I could ask Zoe about Orlais. She wrote to me that the Chantry is better there," Samson said.
"We'd need a new lyrium supplier, housing, coin to travel," Faith said, "and now… work…"
She sobbed. Samson understood. It might be impossible to achieve all those things in another country, let alone find work with Faith injured again.
"Yeah, but I can't just do nothing," Samson repeated. "Did you notice you were bleeding?"
For some reason he wasn't sure he would ever understand, Faith immediately looked down between her thighs, and prodded down lower, as if to check if she was having her monthly cycles. Maybe she was still confused.
"No, not there," he said, and he picked up the washcloth draped over the side of the bathtub, wet it and dabbed her head.
His lover didn't say anything about how her head had been hit. He continued to clean it anyway. The woman appeared fascinated by the patterns the blood made in the water. He emptied part of the bath water and refilled it.
As Faith cleaned herself up and Samson helped her not injure herself further, he started saying the Maker was against them. The world wanted to get rid of them. Maybe they should both die.
That they agreed, but then they started begging each other not to die. Let the lyrium take them, but if they did it, they were letting the lyrium have an easy victory.
They might have left this plan to go to another Chantry too late.
Their argument died down when they returned to go to sleep. He helped Faith get out of the tub, get dressed, make sure she didn't slip while using her walking stick, found some bandages, and sat down on the edge of the bed while he helped to cover the wound on her head.
"I'll tell Lusine you're taking time off," Samson said, in a far more calmer tone from before, "I will tie you to the bed post if you try to walk out that door tomorrow. Don't argue with me anymore, princess. I'll get as much work as I can."
Faith, even though she'd stopped being upset for a little while, burst into tears again. She cursed that he was a hypocrite and a bunch of other swearwords or insults he didn't catch. Then she twitched the way Cullen sometimes did when he was having a nightmare, fighting something that couldn't be fought. He sat on the other side and rested his hand on her shoulder.
"When the lyrium stole you," he murmured, "you said something that caught my attention."
Faith mumbled something incomprehensible. Samson got into bed with her and waited for a while, to see if she would say or do anything to indicate she still wanted to fight. But she didn't.
If he was less exhausted and clearer thinking Samson would have realized this wasn't a good time to raise the subject. Though he was so desperate, so afraid that she was going to spontaneously drop dead he overlooked it. He muttered what he thought she had been trying to say earlier in her ear, and she tried to move, as though she wasn't comfortable with how she was laying.
"I was off my face, Samson," she said after a while. The words were not angry or defensive, though empty. For a moment, her eyes flickered to his. There was blue in them. That gorgeous blue, and there was the laxness on the side of her face. None of her injuries mattered.
"Yeah," he agreed, half-heartedly, "You'd have to be to love me."
He chuckled and wasn't sure why, he found the comment funny, uncomfortable and so very miserable. Samson now wasn't sure what to believe or not, couldn't decide if he wanted to believe her or not. The Lyrium Queen had made an increment of sense when she thought she had already died.
Faith didn't care about him at all.
If she smiled, it was probably lopsided, but responded so quiet it was almost inaudible. "Perhaps the Chantry did something useful when it made me sick."
Shortly after her ribs rose and fell. She was asleep, and Samson was left sitting there and wondering what in Thedas everything meant.
Fatigued from their spat, and too addle minded to grasp the full meaning of her words, he got out of bed.
Zoe…
He went to the drawer where all her letters were and read them over again.
Dear Samson,
Andraste's tits… Holy Maker.
That was my reaction for a few weeks after I read your letter. That wasn't just drunk talk, Samson, it's the fragments of your exploded brain splattered onto paper.
I purged myself of all emotion to figure out how to clean it up.
From what you wrote, this is the best idea I have. I know Meredith is a hag, but I think you should do what you can to try get reinstated to the Circle. If that's where you feel like life makes sense, don't keep running from it. I know it won't be the same with Phillipa and I gone, and with Cullen a Knight Captain, but you had other friends there. Plenty, even if we were your favourites. We came into the picture very late in the story. There will be new recruits there too, I'm sure you can make some friends. They'll be lyrium, so what have you got to lose, really?
With the lie I told Cullen… you said you wanted me to pass the message on about what you were up to and make a good impression. After thinking about it, I think I came to the same conclusion as you. I couldn't think of how to give Cullen a good impression about you, because he probably wouldn't approve of what you were doing. The fact he's Knight Captain puts you in a really awkward position as well. I figured if I could delay and give you some time to figure out what you really wanted to do, when Cullen got too suspicious you might be able to mention something you were proud of. I guess even mages can't be mentioned to him… sad, really. Yeah, you are not meant to tell me either but I can understand the sentiment. Phillipa does. Me saying that you hadn't been in contact with any of us seemed like the best way to do it? Sorry it all turned out terribly though.
I'm sorry it took me so long to answer, but your letter arrived at a bad time. Seeker work is much more meaningful than Templar work, at the cost of being highly dangerous more frequently and it takes an emotional toll. With this, my brain vanished on me, kind of like how you said I used to do that to you. I couldn't find the words. You did well finding yours. I didn't know you felt or thought all of these things, now you probably think I'm selfish for thinking you didn't care. I forgive you for not wanting to work in my tavern, but please don't give up trying to get better. My family will still help you if you want to. Maybe pick new work there, or somewhere, or rejoin the Circle. It's that simple.
I will keep news on my end short. Part of me was worried when training was over I wouldn't be able to smile. I can. I feel different, but I don't act different, like someone got inside my head and tampered with my brain.
My Seeker Powers aren't what I was thinking at all. It is like I can throw invisible acid on whatever I want. I can literally melt away a person's or creatures flesh in a matter of seconds… problem is, if I use it too much or incorrectly it makes me very sick. Not to mention the very idea of my power makes me feel sick, but I can use my Vigil training to calm down. It's hard without Phillipa, but at least I can write to her and visit occasionally, kind of like visiting you when you were outside the Circle.
You're not alone, Samson, not truly. What about Faith? Is she being nicer to you?
I'll dedicate the melted limbs of my next maleficar to you, but I will never on my life burn you to shreds.
I'll probably think of a lot more to write next time.
Your friend,
Zoe
He received it months ago, but Samson hadn't known how to answer. There had been confusion and disappointment that her letter was so short compared to the emotional storm that was his letter. Zoe hadn't addressed any of his sappy pining. She had barely mentioned herself. Hadn't mentioned how fucked up he was, none of it. It was to the point, and concise, clear. She'd ignored all his insults and rage… did she purge herself of emotion when she wrote the letter too?
Then there were other letters, shorter ones. Zoe asking Samson to reply, so she could know he wasn't in trouble. She's sent the same one twice in case he hadn't gotten the first. He'd replied to that one with, "I'm still thinking about it, but don't wait for me. Be free and have your fun, Zoe."
Now he knew how to reply. It wasn't a matter of wanting or debating, but necessity. He found a quill and a pot of ink and began to write, barely hesitating.
Hello my sweetheart,
I didn't mean to vanish on you. I'm not dead or anything. I'm only cross at you for getting caught up in the Chantry's games, but you are better at handling that shit than me. And the fact you want me to start playing the Chantry's game again makes me sick.
But I think you're right, Zoe. I have to do it, even if just for coin… The dead Maker knows I need consistency.
I won't care much that you and Phillipa are gone if I get there. I don't need people. You are sorely misguided if you think I do. People can't help me. No one's going to be guarding those doors except me. No one's going to be there when I suck up to Meredith except me.
Well done on learning how to become emotionless. That's something humans avoid, not train themselves to do. What will you do with this power? Are you going to destroy yourself, Zoe? Why would you do something like that to yourself? What point is there to have power if you don't even know what you're going to do with it?
I don't need you. I've still got some muscle on me and I could pin you down in a fight any day. I'll grab you when you're not looking and surprise you – you better keep a close look over your shoulder.
Don't get upset, my dear, I understand that you have your own problems. It only makes me think there are too many problems in the world and not enough people to carry them. We've all become vessels for problems and we're all going to explode from them overflowing.
You can tell me about your problems too, Zoe. We're a team. I'll make it not hurt as much. I can shower you with lovely words and gifts, dreams and fantasies, until you no longer know what is real and what isn't. And then we can both forget that the world was ever really there and lose ourselves in what is left.
Faith is so good to me, Zoe. She likes to tell me how useless I am and then she'll smile like it's all a joke and then make sweet love to me on the dusty floor she never cleans. Oh, right. She's also really sick. I require your advice, Seeker Zoe. Do you know if the Chantry in Orlais will provide housing and constant supervision for a former Templar wanting to withdraw from lyrium? She went to the Chantry here back in the day, but at some point they told her to piss off. It got too much for them. And they preach taking responsibility! She's a severe case, and I fear she is at her last days. I'm sorry I didn't think of it before. I am not good at thinking! It's your entire fucking fault, you dirty Seeker.
It's nice to know you think about me, even if it's when you dedicate corpses to my name. I think about you too now and again. I'd love to see you, and tell you how I think you're full of rubbish lies of the Chantry. Then I'll smile like it's a joke and take you like how you so desperately need me to… you fucking Seeker and your stupid Chantry garbage. And how will you tell if I love you or I don't? You won't, because I am a vessel for the world's problems and I am exploding onto the page again.
I want to know what love is, Zoe, I want to feel it in my bones, but there's only this hollow. You seized my mind, lyrium stole my heart and now Faith has destroyed my soul.
The shittiest part of my life is the ones I help I never see again. Your laugh made me feel like I was doing something pleasant, because sometimes you'd smile at me after. Do you remember? I thought you had the nicest smile, even if you were faking it. There was this kindness in your eyes, somewhere. I wanted to feel it, this sweetness that you possess. I am so happy I got to, not even that time in your room necessarily, but just when you gave me a hug. You give very good hugs. Blighted shit, I need you to hold me.
Your Seeker granted "gift" does not surprise me. It has always been within you. You burn me, Zoe. You always did, and you always will. I was close with my guess.
None of this is me. Don't believe anything you read. I know I'm a big mess, Zoe. Don't leave me. I'll keep trying to get better for you, I just can't promise my efforts are going to lead to the Golden City.
Shine your gracious light on me in all its Holiness, but be soft, I'm afraid it'll burn. Then scoop up all the shards of me and let me know if they create a whole person.
Your broken friend,
Samson
Samson read it once, added a post script that said, "Thanks for trying to delay the inevitable with Cullen", and then read it again, and thought, Eh, tossing letter. This is fine.
Of course, it wasn't fine, but Samson knew Zoe would be able to make sense of it. She'd purge herself of all emotions like a good Chantry slave and tell him a bunch of stuff about her life that he was jealous of. And he was so sleep deprived and so jealous, and so desperately wanting to get away from the world. He placed the letter in its envelope, put it in his satchel, went over to his jar of dust and snorted some, and he attended to a deep burning desire himself because he still couldn't sleep, and then he felt sad. He was so sick of being sad his consciousness drifted.
Author's Notes: Thank you very much to Schattenriss for the beta. :D He took a while to get back to me because he was finishing his Dorian Male Inquisitor story "Hidden". His stories are fabulous so I recommend checking them out!