faderift | semi-closed; i cannot see the path

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semi-closed; i cannot see the path

WHO: Samson, Cullen, Mia, Anders, Thranduil, and more perhaps
WHAT: Even more dungeon visits
WHEN: One backdated, the rest current
WHERE: Skyhold Dungeon
NOTES: Preemptive warning for strong language and substance addiction.

the commander's visit;

How long since they first hauled his sorry carcass down those steps and dumped him in a cell? Hours? Days? No sun or moon to tell by, not down here. In the lingering aftermath of his own foolishness, consciousness has been elusive. Through the murk of his memory he glimpses a brisk voice and gentle hands, faces reduced to indistinct shapes, there and gone again. He slept after that—for how long, who knows—and it's from that same sleep he's just been jerked by a well-aimed boot.

Samson is hoisted up from the bedroll before his wits even have time to congeal into awareness, strangers' hands gripping him rough under the arms. They jostle him till he'll sit on his own. Now awake enough to be aggrieved by it, he shrugs them off abruptly, and thereafter two armed and armoured men leave the cell to join others outside it. Shadows and torchlight beyond, bodies moving or leaning to look, the man at the cell door glaring down at him expectantly. The chains are heavy on his wrists as he drags them toward his lap.

Someone important's coming down. He can tell that much.

a captive audience;

First hours, then days, and now weeks later, Samson is still here. Same clothing, same sweat-stained bedroll, same small space to call his own. Apart from sluggish but persistent beard growth that waxes and wanes from week to week, not much else has changed since the first day—not at a glance—only now there's a pail sitting outside his cell, the long handle of a dipper keeping its wooden lid just slightly ajar; from this he can drink when he likes.

It's just as likely you'll find him sleeping as standing. Occasionally, he'll be seated on the bedroll without any shoes or stockings or gloves, biting or tearing at his nails when they grow long enough to need a trim. His hair might still be wet from the occasional wash achieved by bucket and rag. Sweating or shaking, listening or waiting, he's still here.

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"Technically you could say we're all dying."

He's on more solid ground now, though. Dramatic overstatement is easy to deal with, familiar. Anders leans against the bars, looking in, reminding himself of what side he stands on. He can walk out of here. It's not anything against Samson, simply a reminder that he needs to keep the nerves at bay.

"With some of us having tried to charge down that path a little faster and harder than others." There's a beat as he takes a breath, watching the Templar. "I'd wondered about you, once or twice, you know. After Thrask died. But I don't know how much of that you remember."

"I remember," he says, with a knowing inflection. Those two words can take some time to sink in while Samson rises on weary arms, gathers himself up with the deliberate sluggishness of a man resigned to his aches, and settles into a slouch, each of his arms finally resting on a bent knee. He bows his head between them, sucks in a yawn and sighs it out; the last of it grumbles loose.

There.

"Yours isn't a face I expected to see again. Thought for sure you'd've been put to death by now." Spoken conversationally, as if they're discussing the weather and not the foregone consequences of mass murder. He sniffs. "They got any idea who you are?"

He takes a slow breath as Samson gets up, studying, waiting.

"They know." Samson's not speaking with anger. It's... He's not sure what he'd come in here expecting. Anything, really. Maybe even nothing. Rumor has it that the man's been dealing with red lyrium for who knows how long, after all.

"With some very helpful and fancy words about how Hawke passed judgment when she was given the authority in Kirkwall to do so and spared me, the Grey Wardens managed to get me spared here. I am one, even if it's meant they're rather more unpopular now."

They hadn't been bound for winning popularity contests in the first place, though he's willing to admit he's not helped there. He exhales, voice and expression contemplative despite how his hands have tightened on his crossed arms from keeping the far past solidly in the past.

"I didn't expect to see you again either. Or hear that you'd taken up arms for Corypheus. How does that even happen?"

That Anders is entwined in Samson's nostalgic recollection of Kirkwall—not the happiest times, but far happier than these—is the only reason Samson doesn't tell him to bugger off at once for joining the ranks of those who expect him to justify his decision. It doesn't hurt, either, that he defied the Chantry so hard it literally exploded.

"The Elder One gave me a chance," he says, quiet. "He saw something in me I thought I'd lost. He trusted me. It's as simple as that." And that's as much as you're getting.

Anders glances down for a moment, not comfortable with how close to home that struck. Being trusted, having someone have faith in him, neither had been things he'd thought he'd find again. And he so-desperately doesn't want to lose them.

"Well. This is a cheerful conversation." It's gotten too personal and too deep. Anders takes a breath to center himself again, sparing a glance around at the other prisoners. "In the heart of the party zone in Skyhold, no less. At least there's often people passing through?" The griffons are nearby, there are guards present, visitors for some of the captives, all of that would make it better than solitary, he thinks. He's not wanting to test it out, though.

"And though I don't want to get too bogged down... You'd... views, back in Kirkwall that didn't align with Meredith's. I'm wondering if you still hold them."

"Meredith," he mutters, and spends a moment rubbing his nose with the back of his wrist. It doesn't seem to affect him at first, but that name looses something in his mind, leaves a little space for memories to slip through, and as they come tumbling, the scowl finally surfaces on his brow.

"You give your life to the Chantry, you sweat and bleed for it, and what does it get you? Turned out in the gutter by some mad bitch on a power trip, that's what." He's looking at his hands now, the calluses, the scars on his palms. "It drains you dry and leaves you with nothing." Once again he rests his forearms on his knees, and his gaze likewise settles between them, brow still knotted, sullen.

Right... the mage had asked him a question. He glances sideways at Anders without looking him in the eye. "I've no plans to alert the authorities about the apostate on my doorstep, if that's what you're getting at."

He watches Samson, but it's no longer a wary watchfulness. There's something stirring there that he can't quite put name to. Not exactly empathy, not quite sympathy, not even pity, but a cousin of the three.

"I've no worries about the authorities," Anders says quietly. He does have some, but they know about him. Being turned in isn't a risk. "I'm more wondering about where you stand, now, on apostasy and Circles. I don't know what your future holds. I don't know if they'll keep you here for the rest of time or eventually give you some chance of parole. What I..."

Breaking off, he takes a slow breath. "What I do know is that being in, being held, that while you're in a cell, it's a lot easier if you've something to focus on. To look toward, to have as a goal. If our stances align, I can try to find something."

The Templars who weren't cruel, who didn't kill or abuse for the fun of it, had always been few and far in between. Now there are even fewer. It costs him to be down here and to offer this opening, but the price might be worth it.

No worries about the authorities, Anders says, and Samson emerges from a moment of muzzy, drifting awareness with a huff of incredulous amusement. "Maker. You've got a rock solid pair, haven't you? I haven't got any future, and neither will you if you don't get out of this city while it's still too busy burning to notice."

He lifts a hand to his forehead, winces as he presses his thumb along the slope of his temple, the skin oily with sweat. Days and days of enduring this pain as it grows and shrinks like the tide, each time a little closer, a little deeper. Squeezing at him, his heavy skull, his hollow belly. Thirsty delirium twisting his perception around a memory.

Everywhere he's been, the stones are the same; you can't tell one wall from another. In this moment he can't remember when they locked him up, or why, but it doesn't surprise him. This is as fitting an end as any for gutter trash.

Now his expression grows concerned.

"We went over this a few moments ago," Anders says slowly, "and Skyhold isn't on fire." He hesitates before glancing over at the guards, contemplating, and then mentally shrugs it off. He's a healer. They know it. And Samson hasn't been sentenced to death, or he hasn't been yet, so helping him can't get Anders in trouble. Frowning, Anders looks back at Samson.

"Will you come over here? I may be able to ease what you're dealing with." The wince had been clear even from here. "And to review, they know I'm here, they know who I am, and Hawke sparing me, combined with the Inquisition's need for legitimacy and the Grey Warden's less-compelling-than-usual authority over me the sparing has continued."

"You can't." Samson's head is still bowed, his hand still quivering at his brow. For a long and painful moment he sits just like that, breathing steady with his eyes closed, quietly terrified, as awareness suddenly returns to him like an icy hand clutching at his guts. Is this it, then? Has the degradation already begun—or is it because they cut him off so suddenly? Either way, he's doomed.
But there stands Anders, who escaped a fate that must've seemed so certain at one time. He can't bring himself to hope he might be so lucky.

Finally, Samson runs his hand all the way back to his neck, where it stays, grasping at his own dark hair. Just keep talking. Eyes forward. Maker, both his hands are shaking hard.

"You can't," he says again, wretchedly hoarse. "Magic can't ease this. Nothing can. Nothing but dust or death—and they won't give me either one."

Addiction. He's still struggling with it, years later? A moment after Anders has wondered that he's mentally kicking himself. Of course Samson is. He'd found some in the meantime, obviously, it's not like he's somehow been going through withdrawal this whole time.

How easily this could have been him, lost in his own mind, awaiting execution. Justice could have kept control. The Wardens could have chosen not to protect him.

"I have water." His voice is quiet. "It won't help with what you want, but it can help your throat." Slowly, aware that he's being watched very closely, Anders pulls the waterskin off his shoulder and offers it out.

"In time the addiction will ease up. I know it doesn't seem like it, but that's how most addictions go." He thinks. He doesn't know much of anything about lyrium withdrawal, truth be told. In theory it would act like anything else, but he's not helped Templars struggling with it. Honestly, most times he's heard of a Templar suffering he's felt joy. It leaves him at a loss here.

"If your joints are sore, I can at least ease that."

Samson glances from the waterskin in the mage's hand to the water bucket on the other side of the bars, newly full, and back again. His eyes narrow. The crease between his brows deepens. But this puzzling offer, in partnership with what Anders says, compels him to leave the bedroll despite his suspicion. He'll let the sluggish labour of his movements answer the question of sore joints.

He's watching the skin, not Anders, when he reaches for it. It's only after his cold and shaking fingers close around the mage's hand that he looks into his face. Holds the skin just where it is, and holds his stare, the red rimming his eyes, the pallor of his skin, the sweat glistening.

"Most addictions," he rasps, now a murmur between them, "aren't like this one."

He leans in to sniff the waterskin's opening, just once, softly—and then breathes one ghostly syllable of a laugh. The grip around Anders's hand squeezes firm.

Still hushed: "Is this a joke?"

He flinches as his hand is grabbed, held fast, rather than Samson simply taking the waterskin. There's confusion in his eyes and a little fear in how he tries to pull his hand back. Bars, cells, and being held are not a combination he's exactly all right with and now there's tension in his jaw followed by a heavy swallow.

"Is what a joke? I'm, I'm offering to help. There's no joke to it."

"There is. And that you can't see it makes it all the worse."

Samson's chill hand squeezes once more for emphasis before finally he releases Anders, waterskin and all, with a little push to dismiss his offering back through the bars. There is no evil sneer on his face, no disgust or delight to the mage's fear, only frustration. He grasps a prison bar in each hand and leans there with one hip jutted against his weight, bows his head, draws a deep breath while he works his fists around the bars. Skin taut across his knuckles, patches of cream among the red. The grip only relents when, at last, he sighs.

"It's not your fault," he murmurs, by way of apology. "You didn't have to come down here."

He's still at a loss. Nothing Samson is saying is clearing up what's supposed to be the joke or what isn't Anders' fault. He exhales, putting his waterskin back on and watching Samson, arms kept fairly close to his body this time.

"I didn't, no. But once there was ground that was somewhat common, between us." He can't stand behind how far Samson went... but he can't stand behind how far he went either and the Templar has probably heard how he messed up more than enough times already.

"For that reason I'm here. I don't know that there's anything that I can do for you, but I'd like to see."

Common ground—Kirkwall, the Champion, Meredith's horrifying insanity spiral. All those mages clawing at the walls for freedom, for their lives. Samson looks into the face of the man who struck a massive blow against the Chantry—a roar so loud it started a war—and, while he considers it, presses the full flesh of his mouth into a taut line, sucks his lip between his teeth. As it slips free, once again, he sighs.

"All right." Straightening his back puts Samson's body a little closer to the bars; he's still holding on. "You can see," he murmurs. "But be quick about it."

He waits through the clear progression of thought on Samson's face, wondering at what's going on in there as he stares back. Anger? Derision? Shame? Despair? All that's clear is tension before Samson seems to lean forward a little.

Once he's given permission, Anders' hand is glowing green as he casts. No, he can't do anything about the addiction itself, but some of the symptoms, at least, can be eased. Stiffened joints, throbbing headache, they're what he knows how to deal with in most of his patients.

"I'm certain you need me to be quick so you can be ready for your meeting with a queen or empress or something of the sort." His voice is lightly wry. Samson's a captive audience and thus rather powerless. Anders can't blame Samson if he wants to have some control over when he has to deal with people or not.

"Duchess, actually." More like he doesn't want to see a mage needlessly clubbed over the head, in case this doesn't count as official business and the guard decides to be touchy about it—either way, the opportunity for banter is welcome, even if he does glance past a feathered shoulder now and then.
Mostly then.
Now, as he imagines the worst of his aches being drawn out like venom from a wound, Samson leans his head against his own hand and allows his gaze to drift aimlessly downward. It lingers on the hand held before him, on the restorative glow, with patient interest.

"You're lucky you came when you did. Normally there's a queue, up all those stairs and out into the courtyard."

"Mm." Most of his attention is on what he's doing, but he's got enough practice talking and healing at the same time that he can follow a simple enough conversation. "I suppose I am. When it came out who I was I'd a bit of a queue myself. Though it was to punch me, and I'm assuming the guards at least bother to stop that. Hoping, more like."

Samson's body is a mess. The effort it would take to make a lasting difference is nearly incomprehensibly difficult, if it could even be done. It's not something he can start taking on today, though. Right now it's about symptoms and he's nearing the end of what he can do here.

"Anyone interesting drop by?"

"Mm." Was that an affirmative? Negative? He should probably press through the growing drowsiness and try again, with some actual words. "It's interesting I've had any visitors other than the guards, given what I am. What I've done. Can't figure out why some of you people are in such a hurry to forgive it." Especially since, if Samson were provided a way out of this prison, out of the mountains, it's entirely likely he would go crawling back to the Master on his belly to seek a harder-won forgiveness.

"I've seen another one of your friends from Kirkwall... that Dalish girl, Merrill. Been seeing her. Comes down here sometimes just to talk about whatever swims into her head. She's a strange one." A bit daft, but charming in her own way.

"I think it's working," he adds, in a murmur. He knows it won't last, the pain will come rushing back in like an angry tide, but perhaps the reprieve will be long enough for some restful sleep.

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