9:40 Dragon
"General."
Samson felt restless. Disgruntled, he opened his eyes. One of his recruits, Ser Elmar, was kneeled near his bed roll. He had a number of red spikes down his arms like a dragonling. The recruit's head touched the top of the tent, it was that low.
"Didn't mean to interrupt," Ser Elmar said. "A camp has been set up near us. I don't know if they intend to pay a visit, but I thought you may want to take a look."
"Thank you, brother."
"Pleasure, General," Ser Elmar responded dutifully.
Samson heaved himself from his bed roll. "I will let you know what I find. Stay 'round camp. No use in fighting unnecessarily at this hour."
"Yes, General."
He had a cramp in his leg that he needed to stretch out. Haphazardly he grasped a cloak, a lantern, his shield just in case, and climbed slowly from the tent. If someone picked a fight, he had lyrium. The camp had been steadily growing over the years. Corypheus said the goal was eventually to combine forces with some Red Templars in Therinfall Redoubt. That was the base, the outpost. Given the secluded peace of the Phanasene Forest, his men could easily intercept rogue Templars, men or women on a battered path half a mile away. The question was always the same after small talk: "Any opinions on the Chantry blowing up?"
The usual answers: "I don't know but..."
Regardless of the tone or answer, Samson became accustomed to pretending to look innocent. "I am grieving Kirkwall's loss." Or "I've some lyrium if the journey's been beating you down. You been battling much?"
Find out if they have weapons. Find out if they're willing to use them.
The Chantry skeptics or haters would receive his red lyrium spiel, though nowadays he'd taught a handful of his Red Templars to scout for members. Results were mixed with recruiting. That was just the way. He discovered most had values that aligned with Corypheus if he got them talking about what they thought led to the Chantry explosion.
Samson understood his place: to train his Red Templars. They were perfect to him, because he was the one who trained them. No talk of the Chant occupied them. The Chant of the Poison did. They laughed about it over a campfire.
Soon, he thought, they would travel further.
Creeping past the many tents, he walked with the aim to reach the shoreline. This reminded him that nowhere in Thedas was ever too far away or foreign. It was all connected by the ocean, a vast beauty. As he placed one leg in front of the other and bent to stretch it out, balancing against a tree, he took a number of deep breaths. The calm was pleasant.
He brushed his fingers through his hair and sighed as some strands of hair came with it. Piss, how much hair had he lost now? It was nice that the camp didn't have mirrors and his body wasn't growing crystals over it like some of his brothers and sisters. It looked as emotionally painful as physically. He shook out his wrist and let the clumps of dark hair fall to the ground. Repulsive.
He followed the shoreline and saw a figure stepping across the sand in the distance, footprints coming from trees on the opposite side of the pond. It was difficult to tell if it was a rogue citizen or a soldier. Could the person be persuaded to take the red? Mages attacked on instinct. Samson didn't blame them.
The Red Templar stepped onto the grass as it met the sand, careful that he didn't make any sound, concealing the light by his cloak.
He used his cloak to conceal the light of his lantern, dimming it so it barely illuminated the stranger.
Her hair was twisted into elegant plaits, a circlet at the back of her head, something exotic and out of place in this muddy area. She sat on the sand and unwrapped a bandage on her right shin.
"Infection," she muttered, "please get clean and go away, you hurt a lot."
That voice. Marcher. From home.
Samson moved closer. As the woman splashed salt water on the wound she gritted her teeth, breathing slow and controlled to conceal the pain. She didn't notice him. But the Red Templar noticed a pattern on the back of her cloak, a sword with an eye eclipsing the sun.
This lady's a Seeker…
Samson hesitated. Corypheus had mentioned that the Order of Fiery Promise consisted of Seekers that were on their side, but if they were planning to come here he would have been warned.
What's an ordinary, good for nothing, Chantry abiding Seeker doing here?
Choosing to dress in a cloak was the right choice. He looked reasonably inconspicuous and nameless. If she could be put to good use and recruited, so be it. He'd bring this Seeker into his ranks.
He walked behind the trees until he was a few meters away from her and cleared his throat. "Excuse me."
His voice wasn't what it was. The red had deepened it, wrecked it… and people used to say it sounded awful before. They didn't know what they were talking about. Still, he attempted to sound polite.
The woman turned, though Samson hardly saw her from how the lantern was positioned, "Hello," she said, calmly. "Can I help you with something?"
"No thank you. Just looking around."
"Trying to find anything?"
"Nah. Not yet."
A small wave whooshed as it covered the sand.
"Are you a fugitive Templar?"
She must have seen his shield. Samson hated the bloody thing, but it gave a good impression to others. That was important when recruiting. Though, he wouldn't need to recruit for much longer.
"Yeah, but that's not saying much. Aren't all the Templars lost these days?" Samson said, admiring the night sky.
"It's not pretty, that's for sure," the stranger agreed.
He strolled forward, his toes dipping into the sand, to take a closer look at her. Even holding out the light, it was too dark. "Did you take a midnight stroll in the wrong direction, Seeker?"
The Seeker was calm. "No. I am camping nearby," she said. "Where are you bound?"
"The nearest town," Samson invented. "I haven't set up camp yet."
"You mean you haven't slept?"
"Not really. Been too worked up," he lied. "Anyway, I'm so rude. It's a pleasure to meet you. I've never met a Seeker before but I've always wanted to."
"I suppose Seekers are a rare sight."
"Definitely. May I sit?"
"I mean… I'm not leaving in a hurry. If you must."
He put his lantern next to where he sat, and lowered his shield, in an attempt to seem accommodating. If he needed to, he had the power of the lyrium. "What brings you to this isolated thicket of bushes?"
Still her features were challenging to see.
"Do you know the Knight Captain of the Kirkwall Circle?" she said.
"I do," Samson replied, curiously. "Why?"
"My faction of Seekers are going there, to Kirkwall," she said. "Have you ever been?"
"Yes." He was right. These Seekers weren't on his side. This one was an enemy, but it wasn't wise to let her go without gathering more information. "What do you need to chat to Knight Captain Rutherford for?"
"That's complicated," she replied. "Who's asking?"
"My name is Samson."
The response was not as immediate as he would have expected.
The Seeker moved closer, inadvertently dusting sand over the edge of his leg. Her voice was serene when she said, "Not Raleigh Samson?"
How in the name of the Black City did she know his name? He didn't think his name had traveled outside the Free Marches. Suddenly suspicious and alert, he leaned nearer. "And how would you know that name?"
The woman appeared to smile. "You mean you don't remember the face of the girl who sent you letters?"
Letters… he'd sent Faith letters from the Circle. Was there someone else? It felt wrong to think about. But he knew her name. Eye to eye, he remembered how she'd enchanted him in dreams, a world that didn't exist anywhere except his own head.
"Zoe?" he said in a small voice, unsure of himself.
She nodded.
This wasn't right. Zoe wasn't supposed to be a real person. She'd been an illusion, a trick, a perfectly placed distraction. "Why are you here?"
"I explained," Zoe said, and she put the lantern down.
"Like that means a toss," Samson said. "Don't mess with me, Zoe. I'm no fool. I know your sneaky methods to fuck around with my head. If you're here, really here, what's the sinister plot you're hiding?"
"Is it out of order to clean up my leg?" She splashed water on the wound, flinching slightly as it hit. "Sorry I asked."
There was a hint of bitterness in her tone.
Feeling unnerved, Samson watched the flickering shadows on her. Was he somehow in the wrong?
This person appeared to remember him.
Faith had sometimes been in her own world.
If the lyrium was lying to him, as it sometimes did for Faith, what was the reason? She was from the faction of Seekers that were up to no good. He already knew she was an enemy so the lyrium must be trying to hide something else.
Blight, his head hurt. Zoe opened her cloak slightly to remove some clean bandages.
She wasn't real. But what if she was?
If for some reason he was mental, like Faith had been, he had to explain what the lyrium was doing.
Looking at the black sea, he said, "The choir told me you're not real. You are a figment of my imagination."
It sounded insane. Maybe it was. But maybe it was true.
She'd once been his favourite girl, his butterfly; yet felt more far away than ever.
"Sorry. What's the choir?"
"The lyrium," he said tentatively. "Sorry, I… They communicate with me sometimes."
"So voices… oh."
This hallucination looked different to the one from his memory. How unusual.
The Seeker had thickened scars across one of her ears, so severe it almost didn't look like an ear but an uneven stretch of flesh, and there were specks of dirt on her body from travelling. Could hallucinations age? Maybe it was a trick too. Time played tricks on people all the time. The green eyes never seemed to change, even if everything else did. Hers had no redness or lack of colour.
Zoe wrapped the bandages around her leg with some difficulty and didn't answer for a moment.
"Would you behave any differently if I was real?"
Samson shrugged. He didn't like these questions. She'd been out of his life for so long, he hadn't thought about her in so long, he didn't know anymore. Distractions had to be ignored.
"I need to get back to trying to sleep. I got a lot to do tomorrow."
"I… probably do too, but it's... nice to see you," Zoe said, softly. He turned away to leave when she said, "Hey." A pause. "Are you alright?"
It was the tone that suggested he was crazy. Of course a hallucination would try to confuse him. Still, how would Samson want to respond to this woman, real or not?
"I had a leg cramp," he said, "but it's okay now. I'll be able to sleep."
Zoe didn't answer for a moment. "Oh. You've been… I guess everybody is traveling these days. If… if you're sure."
Samson was so used to writing letters, so accustomed to following the will of the poison that his motivations and its intentions were mixed, indistinguishable. Even if Zoe was really here, he didn't know what to say. She didn't glow like the Templars or the living did. She was someone who had a history with him, no matter what side she was on or where she had come from. Thrask's legacy and his Red Templars had been built on the basis that those things didn't matter. He should try to hear her out.
"I am sure. I think it's best I go back to my tent. I'll give you one sentence to summarise what you want to say," Samson said. "That's all. Make it count, Seeker."
"Can you lend a hand with this first?" she requested, eyes darting to the bandages. "I should have asked Phillipa to help. The dressings will fall off tomorrow if I don't have someone to hold them in place."
Reluctantly, Samson placed a single finger where the fabric wrapped around her leg, and Zoe slowly unrolled the bandage and redid her work, keeping each rotation firm.
"Thank you," she said, focusing on what she was doing.
Samson didn't know what to say. It was like he wanted to say so much it became nothing at all, many clouds that formed an overcast sky with no distinct shapes.
Her body was definitely solid, but lyrium could make things seem real that weren't. All a trick…
Once he thought he had touched that leg without anything covering it at all, but it was a faded picture, another one of his dreams.
When Zoe tucked in the bandage she picked a loose strand of hair off her cloak, then off Samson's head, leaning close as if to embrace him. She brushed his hair back with her fingers and moved the loose parts to the sand. It seemed like she was trying to tidy his appearance. It didn't feel unusual to allow her that. For a moment he felt protected, even if he didn't need protecting. And safe even if he should be leaving. This experience felt new. After Faith had her most recent stroke he sometimes helped remove her makeup or brushed her hair. She was sick. She needed the help. Faith had never done the same to him. Not out of apathy. She seemed to like his scruffy appearance, and had told him time and again he was striking.
Zoe brought her hands to her lap. Her words were almost the same volume as the gush of the ocean. "Ser Chandler let me know what you said."
A tense silence followed. Samson tried to remember what this was referring to, but his mind was so foggy a headache was all that answered. He poked his fingers in the sand, as if searching for something buried underneath. "What are you talking about?"
Zoe sounded concerned. "Maddox was his charge. I… I guess it was a long time ago, but I thought you'd remember something like that." She peered down at her bandages. "Never mind. It's not like it matters anyway."
It wasn't the description of Chandler that triggered Samson's memory, but the appearance of regret on Zoe's face. She'd looked that way when he'd left the Gallows. That's right.
It didn't feel real. The memories were all foggy and grey. Guess that made sense, given Zoe wasn't real either. But maybe he had said something important.
"Sorry. I am tryna remember. It's the Blight to think right now."
"Can… I help?"
"I don't think so."
"That's a shame."
She honestly sounded sad. And he did too.
"I know."
Think. Chandler used to watch Maddox. Some Templar he was. Samson had been fishing, he thought, and Chandler had stopped by to chat.
What did we talk about? Cullen. Phillipa being depressed… Zoe… Samson had asked Ser Chandler to break Zoe's heart on his behalf if she ever expressed that she was… harbouring feelings. The theory had been she was in denial, but Samson had suspected it was gossip. The only logical solution was to stop her reveries in their tracks because there were better people out there for Zoe to be with.
The Seeker was trying to say, she used to… love him? No. That couldn't be right. There were so many questions he wanted to ask – can you remind me? What are you, really? How did you come to that conclusion?
Though the distrust in his veins was stronger.
"When did Chandler tell you what I said?" he questioned.
"When I didn't care anymore," Zoe replied, her voice dull, yet sharp like a splinter. She bent close to him, picked off another strand of his hair, allowed it to fall to the ground and wrapped the cloak tighter around her. The Seeker symbol was a constant reminder of her treachery.
"Care to be more specific?" Samson said.
She avoided his eye. "I've never been great at specifics. I… I can't say I was prepared for this conversation."
"Then why say anything?"
So if Chandler broke her heart on my request, was she truly in denial the entire time… or some of it?
"I thought my old friend would want to know," she said, hesitating, "even if letters are long behind us. No one knows who will get out of this war. I mean, I don't want another situation like my brother, where people vanish and… you know. Is that bad?"
Samson's muscles tensed in fury. She was a distraction. She made him feel things. Memories of the blood stained Wounded Coast returned, and Merrill saying they only found pieces of Thrask's bones. Thrask died unexpectedly too and there was more that Samson had wanted to say. That was impossible.
The Red was right - she was a hallucination. Not only was she a foggy picture in his memory, but she was stupid, she had abandoned him. She'd given into her irrational whims, given into temptation and fantasies. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl! "Is that supposed to make me feel sympathetic?"
Zoe's eyes widened. "I… I'm not sure. I thought it might give some answers, closure, and hopefully, peace of mind."
"Ha. Peace of mind. Nice joke there," Samson answered. "It only makes me angry at you."
"I'm sorry about that," she said, bewildered. "I… could you explain what about it is frustrating?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"It's too complicated."
"Right," Zoe was deadpan. "I'm sorry for trying to be honest with you and not some child who thinks that playing hide and seek is the better choice."
"What are you insinuating?"
"Nothing. Look, I can't comment on your situation, although I'm sorry trying to explain myself is so Maker damned terrible of me - and I care enough that I'm getting frustrated. I could explain more if you wanted me to, but you are busy and I get it. Who cares about something stupid and petty that happened a long time ago? Just forget I said anything."
He felt his blood boil as he gazed upon her, the silliest Seeker in Thedas. This was a mistake. None of it was supposed to happen this way. It was all some delusion and he needed to get rid of it. Not only that, she was a rotten Seeker and he was meant to find out why the Seekers were going to pay Knight Captain Cullen a visit. She had distracted him from that.
Not anymore.
"I'd love to."
Reciting an incantation in his head, Samson tensed the muscles in his hands and focused in the woman's direction. With a crackle reddish light shot toward her. Awkwardly, she tried to avoid it but it was too late. This wasn't a normal Templar incantation. This stunning spell was powerful and had a vast range.
Immobilized, the Seeker fell onto the sand, a limp, useless thing.
"Don't get frightened, Seeker. I don't want to fight you yet," he assured her, crawling over her, "I would like to negotiate with you."
He pulled her shoulder so she rolled onto her back. He sat on her legs and counted in his head when the stunning spell would wear off. With the lantern lying next to her, he could see some signs of age on her face. Still, she was a charming looking thing, with eyes that matched the hole in the sky in one of his dreams. Samson patted her waist, hips and threw her shield away, where it skidded into the sand. He held her sword in one hand and her lantern in the other. He dangled the lantern base over her face, so close the breeze could knock it into her skin. "Do you like the feeling of burning, Seeker? I don't, yet saying no doesn't make it go away. Maybe we can find common ground through this form of injury."
The woman moved her face away, deeper into the sand, but Samson merely followed the movement.
"What are you trying to do?" she asked.
"Really, Zoe. I thought you knew me better than that. I needed a moment to compose myself. I was wondering if you can tell me what you plan to speak to Cullen about."
"We want to find out more about what happened in Kirkwall. The Chantry are keeping plans fairly quiet until we can pen the details. Cullen is the natural place to start since he was by Meredith's side for so long."
"You really think Cullen will tell you the truth?"
"As much as he can. Do you have a better idea!?"
The bitch was playing him, like all those Chantry loving types. He wasn't afraid. He knew how to manage a non-compliant authority. Samson pushed the lantern down on her face for two seconds. She groaned. The red skin underneath, in a diamond shape, started to swell.
"Shouldn't you chat to the oppressed first, not some privileged lad at the top?"
Zoe went silent. Good.
"You're a clever young lady," Samson continued. "I think deep down you know I have a point." More silence. "Would you like to join me in my travels? I talk to oppressed types every day."
The Seeker didn't answer immediately. "I don't… understand why you'd ask me something so ridiculous."
"How is it ridiculous? I'm just being honest. Or was that not what you wanted?"
Strangely enough, Zoe cackled. No empathy. It went for long enough that it seemed an uncontrollable response to stress, yet she hid the nerves from her voice. "I don't get what makes you think... I'd change plans on a whim. You don't appear to... have an obvious cause or allies."
"Things aren't always what they appear to be, darling."
"Not with you, anyhow," Zoe muttered.
Despite no longer being paralyzed, it was like she was waiting to die. As she turned her gaze back to him, she hit her face against the glass as the lantern was so close. She cringed. "You're still atrocious at talking to people."
A loud hissing sound came from the left. His shield was melting. The metal warped out of shape at a frightening speed, but Samson wouldn't show weakness. He moved the lantern away from her line of sight to deter her efforts. It was good he had remembered correctly that she would need to be looking at her target to have an effect on it.
"You Blighted…" he pressing her sword to her throat. She had to die for her defiance. Yet instead of drawing blood he stopped. Her breathing was still, her ribs unmoving. Just knowing he currently had her life in his hands, and she could do next to nothing, eased his rage enough for him to think. Murder was never the plan yet he had let his anger control him. This wasn't what he wanted to do.
"I know what you're saying. I'll put my hostilities aside if you do yours."
A long pause.
"Sure. For starters, how about you not cut the blood supply to my legs?" she asked.
Samson chuckled. Sitting on her legs was more annoying to her than the blade to her throat.
"Alright."
Keeping her weapon in hand, he slowly climbed off of her. The Seeker sat up and pressed one hand to the burning side of her face.
She looked bitter. "Now I have another injury to fix. Thanks."
"No problem," Samson said with a small smile.
Zoe sighed. "Your twisted sense of humour is not helping at all."
She got to her feet, lifted Samson's shield from the ground and sat back down with it. "Can I trade you this for my sword?"
Samson wanted to say no. But he knew that would not solve anything. Reluctantly, he dropped her sword and Zoe placed his shield back in his hands.
"Thank you," she said.
Samson hesitated and watched as she reassembled her sword in its sheath. How dearly he yearned to capture her, force red lyrium down her throat… He didn't know why he didn't do it. The opportunity was right in front of him.
"It's what an ally would do," he managed to say.
The Seeker laughed, as though he was still being ridiculous, yet he had not intended to tell a joke. She got to her feet and retrieved her shield.
"You have one sentence," Zoe said firmly, "Make it count, Samson."
He stood with his lantern. She waited with hers. There was so much he could have said. Even with his headache, the fact she was a delusion, he remembered how he had once felt about that imaginary person. He remembered when she'd left to Orlais, how intensely sad it felt. Once, he'd felt happy and nostalgic to read her letters.
Now there was nothing. She knew that. She knew he was broken, but she'd still clung to something anyway, knowing it was impossible, a fool's gesture.
He turned his shield around. It looked like a used candle. The old Templar symbol was out of shape like smudged wet paint. It was no more, a fitting change. It held all his memories from the Gallows, but that place meant nothing to him now. Maddox could fix it. He'd turn it into something better just like the sword. He never wanted to return to his Chantry ways, for the Chantry was going to be destroyed, an organization she was still part of.
He was still fuming at Zoe for being stupid. Seekers were a powerful bunch of morons who followed the wrong rhetoric. The Seeker had shared something with him she already knew the answer to. Chandler's words were to reject her, so he'd destroy her so she could never feel an ounce of compassion for him again. They couldn't cross paths anymore… for both their sakes.
"I have nothing to say to you," Samson murmured; his head hurt so much it started to ring. "You already know everything your infected Chantry worshipping heart needs. Get out of my life. You're only getting in my way."
Zoe looked to her weapon, as though wanting inspiration.
"It's no coincidence we met tonight," she said, stepping away, "because now I know that everything I ever did to help you was for nothing."
The words were uncharacteristically calm. Younger Zoe would have sobbed at those words. This Zoe didn't. They weren't the same Zoe, just like Samson wasn't the same. They had found power in different places, but their causes made them rivals.
"I never asked you to help me!" Samson roared, half tempted to stun her again out of spite. "Why would I, when you're supporting the very organization you know are bullshit? You clearly can't think straight and would give rubbish advice. I bet you feel guilty for being so useless, you brainwashed, stupid Chantry pawn. I warned you I was a waste of your time. I never wanted anything from you!"
Zoe simply waited for the outburst to end, unreadable, With the gush of the air, her cape moved, yet she remained still, sturdy and certain. As her burn swelled beneath her fingers, her expression showed the same certainty as before.
"Stay away from me." It was a command, not a request. "Because Maker knows I don't want to kill you, but I have a duty and if push comes to shove, you will not get in my way either. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get more bandages."
Zoe departed, again, with no goodbye, the opposite direction to where Samson came, her march brisk and purposeful. There was never 'goodbye', just distance.
No. It had to be goodbye this time. He had to break her so much they'd never cross paths again. She couldn't delude herself into thinking there was anything to hold onto. It was the same as Cullen. No one from his past could find him. There was work to be done, and if at all possible, he wanted some people standing when the New World took hold.
"I'd kill you before you'd even drawn your sword, Zoe!" Samson shouted after her. "Just like tonight… if you come near me, I'll catch you. I'll crush you! So watch where you step. Such fragile, gullible butterflies like you don't deserve to die."
She didn't respond, but kept heading for the trees whence she came.
He paced the other way, to the trees where he couldn't be seen. As he did, he heard the voice of a stranger. Another Seeker, he guessed.
"What happened?" it was the voice of a woman, with a choppy Orlesian accent. "You're hurt."
"Nothing, Sister Nightingale," he heard Zoe say. "A rogue mage I wasn't expecting. He's gone now and won't be coming back. Can you help me with my burn?"
For a second, Samson wondered if everybody Zoe met was hallucinating, like the lyrium had preached, and there was a small ounce of him that questioned if the red lyrium really was capable of a feat like that. But his duty mattered more.
Samson knew his Red Templars had to move out of the Phanasene Forest in the morning.
Wind rushed in his ears, such freezing air. Samson's bare feet sunk into snow. The surroundings blurred around the edges, streaks of light distorting it, but Samson knew where he was. The snow was on an incline, and while he didn't see the Red Templar tents behind him, knowing they were there was a comfort.
The sky was a swirling ocean of black and green, a poisonous emerald. He didn't mind. It was a constellation guiding him, far more inspiring than the prophet everybody else was following. He didn't mind that his feet felt numb. This was a challenge. He needed to wake up. It was night and otherwise completely peaceful. His breath became white in front of him, forced through gritted teeth. He needed to breathe, to understand.
"I suppose you tire of resting in your own odour, General?"
Her voice was powerful, extravagant, and captivating. And he ignored it.
"Hard to sleep, s'all," he muttered, refusing to look behind him. His gut pulled just listening to her. It hurt more as snow melted around his feet. A warm force circled his ankles and brought the blood flow back to his extremities. Magic. A kindness. Even then he knew. He envied her as much as he despised her.
"You can call me by my name," Samson called, "If you want me to address you properly, Vint mage."
The spell did not dissipate. The footsteps drew nearer. Still, he kept his gaze on the green in the sky. He didn't want to look at her. It didn't matter that she was doing his toes a service so they didn't have to be chopped off.
"I have no desire to rest while my associate is cavorting like a dragon beneath Thedas," she said.
Samson felt disgust. She'd hardly said anything and it was already too much. How could she say something so insignificant with such finesse? It was too much like someone he knew, a woman whose location was unknown. Someone he wished could be standing in her place.
"I didn't ask for your company," he said, clenching his fists. Her aggression didn't scare him. If he needed to he could fight her, pin her to the ground and destroy her pretty face.
As the mage reached his left side, he felt the ripple of her cloak on his ankles. Again, he refused to acknowledge her, a ghost in the night.
"I have deduced that you greatly dislike me," she said. Despite being shorter than him, her confidence was unwavering. "As evident as it may be, your hatred is without reason, or lucidity. No matter how I try to push it from my mind, I still desire answers - I demand the answer of why. The Elder One's arrangement will crumble in battle if we do not see to make our alliance strong."
Samson looked down at her. Her gaze was also fixated somewhere ahead of him, determined, as if trying to discover the trees' secrets. Even wearing warm clothes and a gown, her disposition of seriousness and superiority reminded him of a person who remained missing. Blonde hair tied elegantly behind her, she was nearly as pale skinned as he was. Her youthful complexion was scattered with freckles, her nose scrunched up just enough to crease the dots.
Anger was a perfectly understandable reaction. Her influence was impressive. But she wasn't his Queen. This was some imposter, an embodiment of everything he cherished. He despised that he wanted to hear her speak and pretend it was somebody else, but no amount of lyrium would make it real.
In the snow, protected from snowflakes by the palm of her hand, a different idea exited his mouth, "You're already strong."
The young mage peered up at him, steely eyed. "Our forces are stronger united. Again, I entreat you tell me why you loathe me so fiercely. I have been only courteous and your response is unheeded."
This mage didn't get it. That wasn't what he meant.
Calpernia's regard locked onto his, leaving Samson with a profound emptiness. It didn't dissipate as she stepped closer, and their gaze didn't break. Her irises were grey, like his, and he saw a light in her eyes that Faith didn't have, a brightness Calpernia didn't deserve. She hadn't earned it like Faith had, hadn't been screwed around and betrayed over and over like she had. Calpernia was only young. Even if she'd been through hell and back it wasn't the same number of years as him or Faith. That wasn't her fault, but it still enraged him. He picked every excuse he could muster to hate her.
"You strut around here like you fucking own the place," Samson said, and his acrimony poured unimpeded. "All you see when you look at me is what I stand for, and what I am, and not who I am. You don't care about how I came to stand here, what I sacrificed and destroyed." Perhaps his voice would wake up others in the tents below, but he had little concern for them now. "You don't get any of it, you parade around like it doesn't matter, like you don't give a shit, and you expect me to be nice to you? Fuck you!"
He realized his anger, now said out loud, was completely misplaced. They weren't here to be friends. They weren't here to be anyone. All that mattered in war is whom they stood for and whose side they were on. That's all anybody cared about. Here he was, wrecked with emotion by the very sight of her. It was so powerful he could not step away from it and see clearly, blinded by dedication to his former lover.
In shock of the outburst, the heat around his ankles faded away and his feet sunk into the snow again. A chill ran up his spine, both from the physical cold and the emotional distance he'd trained himself to maintain. The mage was staring at him wide eyed.
The sensation did not diminish. Samson cared about his Red Templars for who they were in addition to what they were. And she seemed brutal in comparison, ordering around her Venatori like they meant nothing. He despised it.
Calpernia seemed invincible. She hardly flinched, though her eyebrows furrowed. Disapproval sparked in her eyes. Perhaps she felt a boiling rage too, although was better at keeping it down.
The gust of the frost continued to numb his ears and Calpernia's expression softened slowly, her eyelashes glittering with ice.
"I know."
Absolutely no hesitation in her words, no room for doubt or questions. That was simply the truth.
Samson turned back up to the sky, the only source of light. His reply was almost mocking. "No, you don't."
Calpernia was furious now. "I do!" She stomped in front of him. Some of the wind wàs blocked by her, almost a kindness. Still, he kept staring at the green of the sky. "You are obtusely unaware of where I have come from, what I have seen, witnessed, sacrificed to be here, who I had to depart and abandon against my better judgement, the guilt that plagues my sleep." Though he briefly glanced down at her, she was looking in the distance somewhere, perhaps reaching for the past. "You are a fool. I offer you manners because I am aware that there is far more to individuals than what appearances suggest or what their title proclaims! Now I ask again, a final time, Samson." She inhaled through her nose. "Why do you refuse to display a similar politeness? Why do you assume that there is not a reason why I am standing here in front of you? You are so convinced that I do not have a history twisting to the core of my humanity."
He hadn't expected that answer. The fury was there because she reminded him of somebody. Could she understand?
He met her eyes, still livid with this choler, begging for her sympathy. A ball of silver pressed away the harsh cold of the night, protecting her, but not him. She protected herself first and foremost, also like his dear princess who was probably dead.
The comparisons would never end.
He stepped forward and gripped her shoulders with claws for nails. She was so young. Was he kidding himself to trust her? He remembered what Faith had told him about how lyrium wasn't the problem, but withdrawing from others company. That was the enemy, the monsters under the bed. He had to try to answer her questions. Samson had to be better than Faith.
"Everything about you," he began, choosing his words carefully, "your eyes, your voice, your posture, your power, confidence and stubbornness. It's a pain in my ass and if it was up to me, I'd toss you over the Frostback Mountains and leave you to rot."
"…and do you have cause to detest these qualities so?" Calpernia murmured, not moving away, "They are fitting for leaders. That is what I have been permitted to do, and you."
The Red Templar General loosened his grip on her shoulders and lowered his face to hers, so she could hear his whisper.
"I want to step on your pretty face," he murmured, "for you remind me of somebody very dear to me, another ally of mine, a great fighter, and a leader. And she is gone. I don't know where she is. I don't know where she went, though I want her to return with all my soul." He moved his feet uncomfortably, though Calpernia's spell had faded in intensity with the explanation. "I am no fool. I know it is a mad dream. I will never see her again, though I wished she would, in one piece, appear before me, as healthy and as whole as you do now."
With all the words out his head felt a little more prepared to sleep, more able to depart to the Fade. He could think slightly clearer. All his ability to cry was stolen from him. It was the lyrium's fault, but it was also his fault. The two did not work independently of each other.
Calpernia didn't interrupt.
In the silence the mage waved her palm and both of their feet were being warmed by the spell again. Her expression was no longer resentful, though full of hurt. His skin stopped burning from agony. They turned numb, cool, to warm. Then, with no explanation, Samson believed what she said before. Calpernia did know his pain.
Gently her free hand rested on his chest. "You are a fool, though not by wishing for her to return. That is unavoidable in these times. I presume by your folly that she was greater than an ally." Her fingers slowly flexed, as though trying to grasp his heart, or just reach it. "You speak as if she was your paramour, that you… loved her."
She hesitated at the word, was frightened by it. So familiar, such an echo of what was gone.
Samson reached up his hand and slowly curled his fingers around Calpernia's wrist. He didn't know what to do with her hand, though he just wanted to know how it felt. Her hands were supple. She had a soul underneath the robust exterior.
"She was," he said simply, "I did… and I still do."
The words vanished into the night, mysterious and as intangible as they ever were. Even saying them, he wasn't sure he could ever understand that emotion. A person could draw it or sing about it, and it had never made much difference. Melodies in the Hanged Man or novels in the Gallows didn't make it a lot clearer. Maddox words were close to his heart, he remembered the Tranquil had quoted him a passage in a book. Love was vulnerability. Love was trusting, the lowering of arms, even as a war continues. That he did comprehend.
Calpernia's spell faltered for a moment and she moved closer to Samson. Their knees bumped together, hesitantly. "I apologize for my rashness. It was a cruel fate, what happened to your lover, even if I do not understand the complexities. It is not necessary, if you do not see fit to provide me with them." As tears filled her eyes, her voice weakened. "I… I am familiar with this ache you speak of. I feel it like this snow. It is cold, despite its intent to fall and embrace. I think of him habitually. I pray he is still alive, I beg to the Old Gods I will see him again, but it is an unknown. I left a dear friend, somebody I cared about in Tevinter."
Samson found that now the virulence dissipated, tenderness remained. It was a familiar sensation, though he could not figure out when he'd felt it before. A small smile curved at his mouth. "Do I remind you of him?"
"Not in the least," Calpernia said. "I shudder at the thought of the pain that would befall me if you did. Perhaps I am granted a blessing that you are a despicable replacement."
"Probably," Samson admitted. "I'm sorry for being conceited, thinking you were judging me. I do that a lot. More than I should. Your Old Gods know lyrium does not give me the best insight at times. Or maybe it's just me."
The grin he gave her was sharp. Calpernia smiled. "Am I supposed to believe your hatred will be put aside so effortlessly? I have not known men to be so…"
"Simple?" Samson finished the sentence for her.
"Trusting," Calpernia replied.
Samson shrugged. "That depends. It can be this simple."
Calpernia tilted her head. "I am led to believe you have other ideas." She screwed up her nose, disapproving. "Is that because you are lascivious?"
Samson loosened the hand over her wrist. "That depends…"
"On?" Calpernia tested.
"On how simple you keep your partnerships, Calpernia." Samson chuckled.
"I am not your lover." It was law, with no exceptions.
"I know," Samson said, "Though if you feel entitled to indulge me, you can help me forget how much it hurts to be around you. For a few minutes, or hours…."
Calpernia hesitated, the gap in her teeth visible as her mouth was slightly open. "If I agree to your ludicrous scheme, may I request that you do not pretend I am another? That I am nothing any more or less than myself?"
"You may." He enjoyed standing. Her request sounded familiar. He thought he'd told somebody else that once. "I will do whatever you like, because that's what's polite and civilized, right Calpernia?"
The spell dissipated. Neither was protected from the snow, though it hardly mattered. Shrouded in the green of the fissure above their heads, snowflakes decorating their figures on the angle of the mountain, Calpernia grinned.
A/N: This chapter marks the end of Samson's POV for this story. Thank you Schattenriss for the beta.
This story now branches into multiple fics. Pick whichever ending you like. :-)
The next few chapters wrap this 'timeline' up but there's no more of Samson's POV.
In 2016, I got permission from redpurpleblack on FF (and Silveriris on AO3) for the scene with Calpernia to lead into her erotic one shot 'Something ugly in you (you also saw in me)' from her "Arsonist Lullaby" series - which made me a Calpernia X Samson shipper. Please read if you like these two characters. That means this chapter is nearly 3 years old, wow!
The end of this chapter/ the scene with Calpernia leads into my AU, "By the Blood of the Elder One". It's the quest-line of "In Hushed Whispers" from Inquisition told from the perspective of other characters.
The end of this chapter also leads into the AU/epilogue "You Want it Darker" which I collaborated on with my wonderful beta reader, Schattenriss. His Inquisitor Kai decides on a different 'judgement' for Samson than my Inquisitor did in this story.
The end of the first scene leads into my Inquisitor AU, "The Prophet Just Isn't as Pretty" (Samson doesn't stick around with Corypheus for long enough to meet Calpernia).
Thank you for taking the time to read my story. I hope if you liked this one, you can check out my other stories.
