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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The soldiers move aside, stiff with formality, and there he is. From under the ridge of his eyebrows Samson watches the young commander approach until eye contact would become meaningful, then drops his gaze to the cell floor to avoid it. His frown is already well in place.

There's a new scar above this left eyebrow, only recently healed and still pink—the work of a potion, no doubt—but otherwise, were it not for the blood still dried on his skin, the few dark stains on his clothing, one might not guess he'd been injured at all. The Inquisition's healers have done their job with the usual efficiency. And yet, the prisoner slouched there on his knees, hands bound, his dark hair hanging lank around his face, is obviously suffering nonetheless.

Apart from his breathing—shallow, quickened, through nostrils flared by restrained emotion—he bears Cullen's scrutiny in silence.

The quiet stretches until it feels so thin and sharp Cullen is sure he can actually hear a roar of silence, the absence of sound deafening in his ears.

"Go," he says to the guards, not looking over. Just one quiet word of dismissal. Perhaps it's surprise, or perhaps it's Cullen's hint of trepidation, that makes them both pause, glance to each other, begin to raise a weak protest. His second insistence of "leave, now" is much more effective, though he feels no swell of confidence to match. He can fake it, though. He can fake it with the best of them. Can't lie for shit, but he can present a facade of confidence when it's needed.

Cullen growls, the soldiers depart—their reluctance to abandon their commander does them credit—and the two of them are left alone as footfalls fade into quiet. The soldiers won't go too far, Samson thinks. Up to one of the stone landings, perhaps, or loitering near the doorway at the top of the stairs, enough to offer privacy but still within earshot of trouble. They seem loyal that way. And given what Samson's gleaned over these last months, Cullen himself seems to have taken to leading them like he was born to do it.

Bitterness fills his throat, his mouth, presses to escape. He should hold his tongue, probably, just keep on smouldering in subjugation with his eyes averted, and let the commander address him first.

"Look at you," he says. The rasp in his voice is deeper than it was those years ago; the wry lilt is much the same. "All grown up."

(He's never been fond of should or shouldn't as guidelines.)

Cullen has taken to leading them in order to have a purpose. Templars without a purpose don't fare too well. He's not sure if it's the time spent in service to the cause that changes them, or if there's just a certain type of person, a certain type of personality, that decides to make such a commitment. What might he have done, cut adrift? What wrong choices might he have made out of a desperation to feel useful and needed? Could he have slipped so far?

"Look at you," Cullen repeats back to the captive. He doesn't have the energy for wry. He can't quiet his thoughts. It's an impossible task. "What happened?" During the fight, since his arrival, since the last time they were actually face to face. How did life bring them both here?

Tonguing the inside of his cheek, at the corner of his mouth where the skin keeps splitting, Samson considers the question. In lieu of a detailed account of the last four years, which he sees no point in delivering, let alone does he feel up to it, he decides on a broader interpretation. His words grind like sand on stone, like he needs to clear his throat. He doesn't.

"I was given a chance to change the world and I took it." Just the same as you, he could add, but doesn't do that either. "We deserved better than they gave us."

Part of Cullen is very glad that the details are spared. He's not sure he'd be able to hear it right now. Looking at Samson hurts in a way that pulls at strings he's done his best to cut, deep in his chest, tied to beliefs so long held they're practically a part of him. Why was he given the chance to redeem himself while Samson was not?

It occurs to him that he might be making a show of his circumstances to bring up guilt, because Cullen is not stupid, and neither is Samson. Of course, it also occurs to him that no one in Skyhold has any reason to treat Samson well, and he doesn't actually know if the man has been getting his meals. The guards eat, though, and drink, and Cullen turns away from the cell to go to a small table in an alcove and pour a cup of weak wine.

It's easier, somehow, when he doesn't have to look at him. He takes his time, staring into the dark liquid. "Why didn't you leave?" Such a long time ago. Cullen hadn't been able to help much, but he'd been able to offer the means to get very far away, to try and find a new life.

So much easier with his back to him.

"I couldn't. Your men were right on top of us." And his own soldiers needed him to hold them back. And he did, at his own foolish expense—wasn't even a sword that brought him down. The shame of that alone boils up from below, laces Samson's words with fresh bitterness. He might've ensured his men's escape, but he'll never outrun his own wretched nature. "Or don't you remember what it's like to lead from the front?"

He can't outrun the past, either, but facing bygones will have to wait till he's done lashing out.

He sighs deeply, and carries the cup of wine back to the cell, setting it carefully on one of the horizontal bars. If there is one single thing Cullen can thank Anders for, it's his almost unshakable ability to withstand needling. At least on the outside. "Why did you stay in Kirkwall?" He'd given what he could, enough to get Samson far away from the turmoil. Why had he stayed? Why had this happened?

Cullen's pretty sure he knows the answer to the first part, actually. Lyrium. Enough for the means to get out of the city, or enough for a couple weeks' worth of smuggled lyrium. It shouldn't surprise him. It definitely shouldn't hurt him. Nothing should hurt him, at this point in his life.

Cullen's refusal to follow him in conversation brings a proper scowl to Samson's face—and now he does lift his eyes to show it. From the commander's higher point of view, the ridge of his brow must deepen it all the more.

"Kirkwall is my home." Is. Presently. So declares the crest on his armour, wherever it now lies. "I couldn't leave it in Meredith's hands. That mad bitch didn't deserve the satisfaction of running me out." Railing against her still provides him a small thrill of pride, years later. "I still knew people. I could still..." Help, he's about to say, but the word dissolves on his tongue. He couldn't leave Maddox behind. He couldn't leave all those young and frightened mages under her power. And the lyrium—he couldn't stop.
His glare loses his resolve, drifts back down to meet the floor.

Samson never did thank him for that chance he never took; but it's too late now.

It's too late for a lot now. it's too late for all those what ifs and roads not taken. This is life, for better or worse. Sometimes for both. Often for both. Real life offers a depressing lack of opportunities to stick to a simple, black and white view of things.

"They want to know what I think we should do with you. How to handle your situation." He rests his hands against the bars, palms flat, without curling his fingers around them. Maybe it's unfair, but he's not actually certain Samson won't bite, and he's not fully clear on how the parasitic lyrium functions. Christine might know. She'd be further along in her research if they could have agreed on a way to handle her request for a live test subject. Not the first time he regrets that stalemate in the War Room.

"So?" He sounds aggrieved to be part of this, as if kneeling here, bound and bloody, is an inconvenience. Impatience kicked up by fear like so much dust. He'd rather be set upon by angry soldiers left unsupervised; the anticipation is worse. "Now that you've had yourself an eyeful of my situation, what's it going to be, knight-commander? You gonna do the old lady proud?"

The barest angry tick at the corner of his jaw. "There is nothing there to be proud of." She'd been sick, twisted, taking loyalty and fear and manipulating them so expertly... sometimes he wonders what might have happened if Hawke had never intervened. Would he have lost himself entirely? Everything he was, everything that mattered, ground under her heel?

He picks up the cup of wine again, takes a sip to show that it's safe, before replacing it. He's not going to force the man to take it. Samson is not a child, he does not need minding. He needs... something neither of them will get - a fresh start. Or perhaps a blade between the ribs would have been kinder, in the long run.

Samson watches the cup rise, linger, and come down again, and still, in his fatigued and rumpled state, it takes some time for the intent of its placement to become clear. Rising to his feet is a laborious task, accompanied by the blunted jingle of the chains on his wrists, and when finally he reaches the bars of the prison cell the creases of his face have deepened, his expression pinched with effort. His hands are shaking as they close around the cup and drag it from its perch and up to the level of his chest.

"So you do have some sense left in you after all," he murmurs, looking down into the darkness of the wine, the beading on the rim where Cullen sipped. "Pity you're fighting for the wrong side." He then drinks from the opposite side of the cup, and again, more deeply, with his eyes closed.

"There are a lot of things in my life that I question." More than Samson can understand, more than Cullen will ever share. "One thing I am certain of, is my place in this fight." It comes out more tired than angry. Anger just takes so much energy, and he has precious little of that on the best of days. Now, on top of it all, he gets to add doubt. Could he have made a difference here? Is there anything he might have done, back then or in the time since, that could have changed the path Samson's life took?

It's useless to wonder. Doesn't mean it's easy to stop. "Have you been fed?"

He's still swallowing at the tail end of that question, so he shakes his head till he's done licking the moisture from his lips, running his tongue over his teeth to taste the last of it. "Not since your magickers poured some broth in me. I've been out cold for the most part." He muffles a cough against his forearm, banishes whatever's tickling with a quick growl, clears his throat. "Those four warriors, whoever they were, they put up quite a fight. I haven't been knocked on my arse like that in a good long time."

In the end it was his own recklessness that took Samson out of the fight for good, but his opponents fought hard nevertheless. Credit where it's due.

Edited 2017-01-23 03:36 (UTC)

"We've a good group here." That much is easy for him to admit. They're dedicated and brave souls, most of them.

He moves back to the table, retrieves the bottle of wine and one of the plates full of bread and fruit and cheese. If Samson puts the cup back on the bars, he'll fill it. If he doesn't, he'll still leave the food on the small metal shelf intended to make it easy to give prisoners necessities.

This prisoner makes no move to avail himself of any necessities beyond the drink in his hand. He holds the empty cup between the bars, resting on the crossbar, and waits, and as the liquid flows, he watches the face of the man pouring it. His own eyes have become strange, bruised sockets and heavy lids, the whites gone an angry red around the edges. Pupils wide and dark. He clearly aches, by the way he stands, and the weight of the chains is heavy on his wrists.
Perhaps the weight of the lyrium chain around Cullen's neck has stolen his passion—perhaps that's why there's no sign of the wrath Samson expected to face.

"You didn't come down here to feed me." His voice grinding at the words like gravel beneath a boot. "Go on, Rutherford. Get to the point."

"I did," he responds, though it may not be immediately clear if he means he did come down to feed him, or he did get to the point. Wrath is for men with far more energy than them. Cullen doesn't have it to spare.

Most days, he's certain his armour is the only thing keeping him upright. "Popular opinion is that you can't be trusted. That you should be put down. I'd hoped... that I'd see something of the man I knew."

One puff of humourless laughter escapes through his nose. "What chance do I have against popular opinion?" There's a low current of bitterness there—real bitterness, dredged up by the commander's prior insistence on looking to the past. "You can't just throw a few coins at this in secret and hope it goes away. Not this time."

The cup, now full, remains where it is, held heavy on the bar between them with both his hands curled around it.

"About as much as I did? I'm here. Just... give me something." Something that he can take back, something that he can make stick. There has to be hope. He needs to believe that it can turn out all right for them. Because he still can't help thinking that things could have so easily turned out differently for him, that he could be the one in the cell with death growing inside him.

Very well: he'll be the first to raise his voice.

"Give you what. What d'you want me to say? That you caught me, now I repent all my sins? That I'm ready to come crawling back into Andraste's bloody light? Fuck's sake—" With both hands he tears the cup from its perch and throws it at the cell wall. The resulting arc of wine spills across his arm, his shoulder, spatters at his feet. He doesn't care.

But just as quickly as it flares, Samson's temper drains off, leaving only shame to uncoil its familiar shape as he turns his back on the front of the cell and the man standing there. His posture crumpling, his head hanging low. Broad shoulders sagging and dark hair in disarray. While his pulse settles, he takes measured gulps of air, and the last of these breaths slips out as a weak laugh.

"I thought I'd be dead before it came to this."

Cullen can't actually remember the last time he hurt this deeply. He's been hurt worse since the start of all this, but what he's lost so far has all been recent additions to his life. The Herald, gone before he could even solidify his feelings, before he had a proper name for what he lost. Samson, though, that runs deep, and the wound it leaves is jagged.

He places his own hands on the bars, rests his forehead against them next. He's tired. He's so tired. "I have to believe there's something left of you in there."

Samson closes his eyes against the thrice-repeated demand. The way it lances at his receding anger, it's like a bubble of molten iron bursting, searing where it lands. Pulling as it hardens. He'll be bloody before long.

"You do, do you? Why? What does it matter? Whatever's left, it'll be gone, eventually. You know as well as I do how we all end up. In time, there'll be nothing left of your templars, either. You're using them the same way the Chantry used us, the same way the Inquisition uses you, still, and you can't even see it."

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semi-closed; i cannot see the path

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