Breakfast was a lonely and quiet affair for Hadiza, and for once, she was at peace with it. Cullen usually ate with her to discuss the day's work, and Hadiza would tell jokes to get him to crack a smile. She had been an unasked for gift to him, providing a spiritual needle and thread to mend the torn and tattered parts of his soul. He was doing better, but there were some things even a spirit healer of her level could not hope to heal. They quarreled, of course, like any other couple, and in truth, it did not seem they were a couple at all. Hadiza actively refused to make their relationship official, not with the conflict of interest it would cause both within the Inquisition and with the press of Orlais and Ferelden on either side of them.
So they simply were, but it was obvious the Commander was smitten.
Hadiza had just finished her breakfast when there was a knock at the door to her chambers.
"Door's open!" She called as she stood to go behind her changing screen and get into her clothes for the day. She heard the sound of leather and armor creaking, but the footsteps were too unsure to be Cullen's.
"Your Worship," it was a runner from the tremor in her voice, "your presence is required in the dungeons." Hadiza paused in buttoning up her blouse, brows furrowed. That was new; she never visited the dungeons on request. She locked people away and never thought about them again. She thought for a moment, as she looped the final button of her high-collared blouse, that perhaps it was time to change that.
"Right." She said, stepping from behind the screen and dismissively waving off the runner's nervous salute, "I'm on my way."
It turned out that her presence was required because someone in the Inquisition decided Samson being held in prison was not enough. She arrived to a scene that for some reason boiled her blood. There were healers present, but too many guards, so she cleared her throat.
"Are you lot going to move or must I summon lightning to get you out of my way?" She demanded harshly. The guards scrambled and Hadiza ignored the cacophony of "my apologies, Your Worship" as she pushed aside to see what required her presence, personally.
Samson was a wreck.
He lay on his back, barely conscious, his chest barely expanding to accommodate what were clearly pained breaths. The surgeon was stitching a cut on his lip, which was split badly. His nose was crooked from a recent break, but it had clearly been reset. The sight summoned the spirit healer within her, and all she saw were injuries, all she felt was the itch in her hands to do something. Cast a spell, mix a poultice, grab the needle and thread to begin mending torn flesh.
And she was angry. So angry.
"Who is responsible for this?" She asked in that dangerously quiet tone, the kind of calm that cloaked the approaching storm and all the violence it entailed. Her sterling eyes were steel—cold and unwelcoming, but demanding all answers and nothing other than the absolute truth.
When the nervous silence stretched on for too long, Hadiza let her anger focus onto a point, honed to a razor's edge. When she spoke, her voice was the crack of a whip, her displeasure palpable as the smell of ozone filled the air.
"Who did this?!" She shouted and several of the guards jumped slightly as lightning crackled in her eyes.
"If no one comes forward, then all present will be held accountable," she continued, back to that dangerous quiet, "and my judgment will be swift. Come forward now, and you will be turned over to the Commander for disciplinary action. Remain silent, and face me instead."
Samson was just conscious enough to roll his eyes and search for her. He could barely make her out, standing tall and rigid, but he caught glimpses of her face as she turned her head, looking at all present in the room. Samson wanted to laugh. He didn't even think Andraste could be that splendid in her anger. And all because a couple of guards decided justice hadn't been properly meted out.
Hadiza looked down at him, but the cloud of her anger never left her face.
Maker's breath her eyes were like the edge of a blade glinting in the sunlight, pale and cool and so at odds with the dark, burnished umber of her skin, the jet black of her hair. He loved the way her eyes didn't match the rest of her. She looked away, back to the culprits. If he could speak he would have told her not to worry about it. A few broken ribs, a broken nose, a black eye, and a split lip weren't the worst injuries he suffered in his lifetime.
"It was I, Your Worship," a young guard stepped forward, his face carved and hollow, likely from too little food and much exercise, "I…" Hadiza's gaze was hard, and her expression pitiless. The boy inhaled, drew himself up a little taller.
"My brother was killed," he said, "at Haven."
"As did many others," Hadiza countered, "but what you have done here undermines my judgment. Would you like the mantle of Inquisitor? Would you like to hold the lives, the political burden, and the moral burden of Thedas in your hands? Because this," Hadiza pointed to Samson, "tells me you are ready to accept the consequences of all your actions, regardless of how small they are."
The boy looked sullenly at the floor, said nothing, and Hadiza sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"Go and get Commander Cullen, and report this incident. Until this is cleared up, have Samson moved to an isolated room under guard." She placed her hands on her hips, turned her gaze back to Samson again, pensive and still angry, but no longer about to burn everyone in the room.
The runner hesitated. Hadiza's quicksilver eyes cut to him.
"That means now!" She snapped and the runner scurried off. Samson listened to the footfalls fade, then coughed, groaning in pain.
No one saw how Hadiza's expression turned to a grimace at the sound.