"You had him moved?" Cullen demanded, somewhat angry and Hadiza whirled on him.
"Of course I did. Your guards beat him to a fucking pulp! Is that how the Inquisition treats its prisoners? Shall I begin using magic to torture the other prisoners who may have witnessed this? Are we tyrants, now, Commander?" Hadiza was raw in her anger and Cullen knew she had every right to be. The abuse was a blatant undermining of her authority—a spit in the face of her judgment decree—and since the guards fell under his purview, he knew it was his fault. He hadn't heard about the incident until the runner came to report it, and in truth, he hadn't felt the least bit sorry for it happening.
And he never wagered the way it would make the Inquisition look, and for that, he was sorry.
"Hadi—Inquisitor," He said, "I only just found out when your messenger reported it. I…I'll admit I do not share your sympathy for Samson, but I'd never condone abuse from any of the guards under my command. I'll see to it that the offenders are punished at once and promptly reassigned."
Hadiza glared at him a moment, then relaxed. They were alone in his office, but for some reason the heat rolling from her was not the attractive kind. She truly was angry.
"Hadiza," he said quietly, "I am sorry. You must know that."
She looked away.
"I try and do right by everyone, Cullen," she said fiercely, "I do. I can't please everyone but I really do believe everyone deserves a chance to prove themselves. Isn't that why you joined the Inquisition?" Cullen's cheeks burned. He had been such an ass about this Samson situation that he was beginning to look the hypocrite. Hadiza had executed no one as of yet, save the Duchess at the Winter Palace. Magister Alexius was working closely with Dagna in the Undercroft and in truth the man was…rather honorable beneath the Tevinter stigma that clung to him. Every prisoner Hadiza judged was given a chance to work for the Inquisition and turn their skills to the greater good, or imprisoned until she could think of some way to redeem them.
No one was beyond saving to her, and he should have known that when he told her his story and she did not walk away from him.
"Hadiza, I just…it's complicated. I cannot in good conscience forgive him for what he willingly participated in. You've seen what red lyrium does to those who attempt to harness it." Cullen paused, briefly considering, "I've seen it up close, watched it corrupt the mind, body, and soul of Knight-Commander Meredith. What's left of her is still in the Gallows. That is what Samson has done to the Order. That is what he sanctioned. You may rehabilitate him if you wish, and as your subordinate I defer to you. But as your…" He searched for the word, "…as your companion, I cannot. I'm sorry."
Hadiza's brows went up. At least he was honest. But she still could not believe that he refused to see the bigger picture. He literally supported her wholeheartedly in all else, why not this? She took a deep breath, sighed heavily through her nose.
"I understand," she lied, "but it is no excuse to allow your guards to brutalize prisoners in our custody. The Inquisition—our legacy—must not be that we were as cruel and frightening as the one prior. We stand for order and justice in all things, and that includes treating our prisoners as people, not punching bags."
Cullen's face was hard. He understood. She was right; of course she was right. But of all the people she had chosen as her pet project for redemption, why Samson? Was it because he'd told her that Samson had been a good man once? The man was a lyrium addict and unapologetic about it, and an alcoholic. His redemption would be a chore.
Cullen realized the poison that burned his blood was not all anger, but jealousy.
"You are right," he conceded with a firm nod, "and I have been unfair to you about all this. I should not let my personal qualms drive me to beleaguer you and cloud your judgment." For some reason, Hadiza felt as if his words were passive-aggressive and she rankled at them, snorting.
"You have not clouded my judgment, Commander," she said wryly, pointedly using his title, "only your own. I shall continue my current course, and you will instruct your men that any abuse will not be tolerated, be it against a prisoner or otherwise. We all lost people at Haven and the Conclave, but the true culprit isn't sitting beneath Skyhold." She didn't let him answer or acknowledge, she simply turned and left his office. Cullen fumed, fury and that…that other poisonous emotion making his skin hot.
It was only after he took a few deep breaths that he finally calmed down enough that his messengers and scouts weren't in danger of being roared at.
Samson liked his new cell. It was not the cot, or the fact that there was actually a tiny window that let a little light in, or even the fact that it was actually dryer than his previous confines.
It was because the Inquisitor had given it to him.
He'd seen her, during battle, on horseback, sitting a pretty saddle and barking orders. Seen Commander Cullen too, fighting by her side. The two made a pretty pair, and he hadn't missed how Cullen had been hovering around, protecting the Inquisitor while she slung spells with all the elegance of a dancer. Samson had been in the thick of the fighting, but what glimpses he caught had been a sight.
When it came time for her to pass judgment he kept his eyes downcast. Not out of respect, not even out of shame, but because he was tired. He was tired of it all. Everything he had done, in the twenty or more years he had served the Order, had turned to ash in Kirkwall. The Chantry, the place he had devoted his life to, had turned him out and slammed the doors. There was nothing for him and he found himself begging on the streets of Low Town for the entire ten years he languished there after his expulsion. Cullen had left the Order not soon after that apostate blew up the Chantry.
Samson didn't blame him, but that did not alleviate his contempt for the Commander. Somehow the man had managed to get by in life and come out on top. He survived the Fifth Blight, he survived the entire shitstorm that was Kirkwall, and now he was commanding the Inquisition's armies and from the looks of it, he was fucking the Herald of Andraste.
Where had he gone wrong?
What had he done to deserve the amount of shit life had heaped on his shoulders?
He didn't dare look up at the Inquisitor, with her haughty features and gimlet eyes. Not unless she was ready to see the full weight of what burdens he bore.
Breathing hurt; the surgeon had done what she could to mend his broken body, and the mage healers had alleviated the pain, but it was all very temporary. He spent his nights learning how to force himself to sleep after spending hours controlling his breathing. Then he would wake, in worse pain than before. While he had been afforded isolated and marginally better living arrangements, it earned him no compassion from his jailers. So, like all things, Samson endured it, waiting for whatever it was the Inquisitor planned for him.
Those plans came in the form of a very peculiar dwarven girl named Dagna.