Samson knew what to expect when he was allowed outside of his cell, to roam the grounds, and breathe the free air. He knew that the people of Skyhold would see him with disdain, and knew without prompting, they would spit as he walked by. The Inquisitor may have declared Samson under her protection from physical harm, but humans were a finicky bunch, and they always found a way to circumvent authority.
So he bore the angry looks, the disgusted noises, the spittle that followed him, and even the children who mocked him. He bore it because he knew himself, knew his own mind, and lived in his truth. He could hardly say the same for Cullen, who had bolted when faced with the fact that his lover may not have known the entire truth about him. Samson took small pleasure in that, because there was nothing he'd rather see than Cullen's fall from grace, or at least a fall that made him realize that he and Samson were not much different.
His first task was from Master Dennett, the crabby horsemaster from Ferelden. Surprisingly, the horsemaster was less acidic toward him than Samson anticipated.
"You can start by mucking out the stables," the older man said with clipped pragmatism, "and once you're done you can oil down the saddles and bridles, and clean out the brushes." Samson passed by the each stall, slightly alarmed when a dragon-looking creature hissed and trilled at him when he passed too close.
"What the hell kind of stable…?" He muttered. Dennett looked back, snorted.
"That's Her Worship's, mount, Argo. Dracolisk. She found him in the Approach, brought him back here. One thing I'll say is this: working for the Inquisition definitely expands one's…horizons." Samson stared at the creature a while longer, marveling at it. Hadiza certainly had strange tastes. The stable was filled with fewer horses than he thought although there were a few sturdy, recognizable mounts, including the majestic Friesian he'd seen her riding into battle when she came for him. Samson recalled that with a strange sense of pleasure. She'd looked like some magical warrior queen, all bathed in light, left hand glowing with the Anchor, her staff raised high; Samson hadn't given it much thought then, but looking back, Hadiza had bestowed herself like a true savior, and he was somewhat accepting that it was she who defeated him in battle and not Cullen.
Beyond that, his contempt for the Inquisition at large remained.
The first stall he had to muck out was by far the worst, and the most embarrassing. It belonged to a creature called a nuggalope, and had he not been cleaning up its mountainous piles of shit, Samson might have laughed. It was a giant nug with horns, what in the fuck did the Inquisition need with such a beast?
Samson learned, in the few hours it took him to muck out the stables, that he did not mind the work. The strain and the labor made him forget the ache in his body, the burn in his blood, and even, for a time, the contempt in his heart. He worked tirelessly, heedless of the passerby, heedless of anything but the next task. It was the first time he had felt so driven and full of purpose, even if that purpose was shoveling shit and brushing down mounts. He fell into a routine in those days, recalling times before when he was a Templar, when he stood for something far greater than himself. He knew he had much to answer for, even if he felt he had the best intentions.
No, this was a sign that he would begin anew. Start from the bottom, prove that he was just as worthy of respect as Cullen. He would not ask for mercy, for he had not yet earned it. He would prove to Hadiza that her judgment was sound, that sparing his life was not a waste.
And he could not for the life of him figure out why proving himself to her had become so singularly important to him.
When he wasn't mucking out the stables, chopping firewood, or helping in the construction around Skyhold, he was in the undercroft, bearing Dagna's questions and prodding.
"I've already told you everything you wanted to know," he snarled, "what more can you wrench from me?" Dagna wasn't daunted by anything, Samson realized, she simply laughed and continued her work. He stood, sighing as she prodded the muscles of his lower back, taking measurements with a pair of calipers.
"It's not like I can get Corypheus to come and explain the complexities of how you're resistant to this stuff," she said matter-of-factly, "and the Inquisitor needs more runes—Samson?"
Samson felt light-headed, dizzy. The world was tilting to the left, and then spinning. He wasn't sure what was happening until he realized that since coming into the Inquisition's custody that he'd not had any lyrium in his system. His head pounded, his bones ached, and all this time he thought it was because he'd lost the red armor. Perhaps that had something to do with it but this was worse than before; this was worse than the time he was expelled from the Chantry, when he was forced to beg in the streets for enough coin to get a vial, just enough to tide him over until the shakes started again.
"Samson!" Dagna's voice sounded slower, as if time was slowing around him, then stopping because the darkness rushed in from the sides of his vision, spots dancing in his eyes, the light of the world dwindling and rushing away from him so fast until he couldn't see it anymore.
Murmurs woke him.
"—long he's been off the lyrium? You could have mentioned that he wasn't on his doses." Samson's vision was still bleary, but he recognized Hadiza's angry voice. He heard a deeper murmur, agitated and angry, Cullen's.
"Do you really want him to retain his abilities when he's our prisoner? I couldn't risk him becoming a danger to the mages…or to you." Cullen protested. Samson's vision finally sharpened and the world came into vivid focus, the fuzziness turning into defined slopes and lines. He recognized the cot in the undercroft, and realized he was still there. Dagna and the smith were nowhere to be found. For now, he was alone in the presence of the Inquisitor and the Commander.
Fuck him.
"Cullen, you said yourself that many don't survive lyrium withdrawal," Hadiza's voice was plaintive, and he knew without seeing that her lips shaped the words beautifully, that her brow was creased with concern, pleading with her obstinate subordinate to see reason, "if he dies, then we have lost our only lead. I may as well have executed him after judging him if this is the fate I've condemned him to."
Samson let out a small sigh; they didn't hear him. He listened for a while longer.
"And what would you have me do, Hadiza? Put him back on lyrium? He'd retain his abilities, and what if he decided to try and escape? What if he corners you? I can't…" Samson heard Cullen hesitated; the fucking idiot was always hesitating, "…I can't risk you being alone with him."
Samson froze. Is that what this was about, then? Cullen was so fearful of Hadiza's sparing his life that he thought he risked losing her? The woman had beaten him fair and square in battle, how the fuck could he possibly hurt her, now?
Why in Andraste's sacred name would he ever want to?
Samson shied from the answer.
"I'm fine, Cullen. But I said I wouldn't tolerate abuse. If you are doing this out of some deep-seated vendetta, then stop. Put him back on the blue, even if it's just small doses at first. I need him healthy…or as healthy as he can be." She said firmly. Samson listened to the creak of leather and armor, heard Cullen's sigh through his nose, and knew without needing to see his nostrils were flared in anger.
"If that's what you wish, Hadiza, then fine. I'll let the stock keeper know," footsteps, he was walking away, "…what do you intend to do with him when this is over? When Corypheus is slain and order restored?"
Samson found himself wanting to know that as well. Would Hadiza turn him loose to die a slow and painful death from lyrium corruption? Or would she lock him in a deep, dark hole, his usefulness expired as the Inquisition turned its attentions to other pursuits? He couldn't see her being compelled to do either, but he was an asset only because the greatest threat to her was still at large.
"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, Cullen," she replied imperiously, "just get him some lyrium as soon as possible. I'll do what I can to ensure he isn't in too much pain."
Samson narrowed his eyes, his lip curling into a sneer. Cullen didn't fucking deserve her, honestly. She was compassionate and he just wanted Samson to rot. What did she see in the man aside from his charming good looks and his knack for being befuddled around beautiful women?
Why did he even care about that?
"Very well," Cullen acceded reluctantly, "he's your responsibility, then." And with that, the Commander left. Samson's ears strained to listen for Hadiza's footsteps to follow. He bet she would, but he was surprised to hear her come closer. She pulled up the chair next to his cot and sat down with a sigh. For a moment, Samson said nothing, and watched her. He was too exhausted to do too much moving, and she seemed to exasperated to do much talking. Better to shut up and wait, then.
"You know," she began after the silence of the undercroft grew too much, shattered only by the dripping of melting ice on stone, "sometimes I think it might have been easier to simply exile you." She didn't sound angry so much as she sounded amused. She made a tsking noise with her teeth, turning her gaze toward the open-end of the undercroft. Samson loved her profile, he realized. She was haughty and proud, yet her face was expressive, capable of a range of emotions from hard to soft.
He liked the look of her when she was soft.
"But then I realize that's not the kind of person I am," she explained and Samson understood that this was the listening part, "I can't in good conscience condemn a man to die the same way the Chantry did."
That got his attention.
She hazarded a slow glance toward him, pale eyes wondering, her expression caught between concern and amusement at her own musings. It was unnerving, staring at her, so he looked away, trying to calm the fluttering shit in his stomach. Was this indigestion? His appetite had been all over the place lately, but his stomach only did this when she was around him.
"You mentioned that the Order expelled you and left you with no support to help you get off lyrium or even live a comfortable life in gratitude to the years you sacrificed for the Chantry," she said, and her voice was sad, "Cullen told me why you were expelled. I think—between you and me—he still clings to whatever beliefs he held in Kirkwall."
Samson wanted to smile, so he turned his head away from her and grinned. Smart girl, that Hadiza. Smart enough to realize that a Templar who had been just as responsible for the mess of the Kirkwall Circle for his inaction as the proactive abuse of his knight-commander was likely not going places. Still, he wondered why she was telling him all this.
"I managed to mend a bit of the damage the lyrium's done to your body. I can't slow the corruption but I can ease the withdrawal symptoms and perhaps…add time to what little you've got left." Samson didn't turn to face her, but his smile faded. Maker where the hell did they find this woman?
"I've also informed Dagna to hold off on her research of you for a while. I need you to recover, Samson. You're no good to the Inquisition if you're half-dead." It sounded cruel but she was right. Samson turned to face her as she stood up.
"You're too kind, my lady," he said softly, and she smiled at him and it might as well have been a benediction from the Maker.
When she walked away Samson regretted not reaching for her hand.