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 poor souls down here tend to be forgotten. It's a thankless job, watching the prisoners, and Mia's taken it upon herself to look after the forgotten. A few sweet treats, a bit of conversation, it makes the dreary work a little more bearable. And while she'd done it initially for no better reason than to make sure they, like the others in Skyhold, were taken care of? It proves to pay back in kind when she's decided she has cause to have a discussion with one of the prisoners.

The guard is kind enough to warn her. He's dangerous, my lady. Don't tarry there any longer than you have to. I don't want the Commander coming down on my head, you understand. A valid concern, and one that comes with a promise that she'll be swift as she can, and Cullen is not to be cross with him for not forbidding her entry. Not when he wouldn't do so himself.

Though given who she's come to speak to, perhaps she's misjudged that call. It hardly matters now.

Samson wouldn't have much to distinguish who she is, beyond the curly blonde hair and brown eyes she shares with her brother. Her dress is plain, typical of a Ferelden, though there's a very fine-looking pendant at her throat that seems at odds with her otherwise practical attire. There's a basket still under her arm, with the sweet scent of honeycake drifting from beneath the woven cover. And on her face? Something between sternness and curiosity.

Perhaps he'll be asleep, and all this will be for nothing.

Most of the time he's down here it's quickly passing through to the griffons, keeping his breathing under strict control and focus on the doors. It's not easy to be in a set of cells even now. This time he can't go through quickly so he pauses before going in and takes a slow breath, coming in with what composure he can manage to cling to as he walks to Samson's cell.

The former Templar seems to be awake, at least, which means Anders' preparation isn't wasted.

"Hello." For a moment he's at a loss for more words, just looking at the man. He was so close to being here too. There were plenty that still thought he should be, that were surprised he was walking around. Some days, he was surprised as well.

"How are you feeling? Physically, I mean," Anders finally comes up with.

He is not asleep. Nor can he be counted among the forgotten, despite what some might wish. No, by all accounts, Samson has been spoilt by the number of visitors he's received, many of them strangers, some friendly, some less so—a healthy assortment of gawkers come to see the big bad general in his cage. For the most part, he doesn't mind the company.
Especially when it smells of fresh baked goods.

Roused by the guard's voice, he's waiting at the bars when this woman appears. As she draws near, his gaze follows her without focusing on her entirely, as though it's too slippery to keep hold. And as she draws near, she will see what even this meagre passage of time has wrought: as the weeks have come and gone, especially in these last few days, his condition has worsened. He's dreadfully pale; he sweats nigh constantly; his hands always tremble when they aren't resting somewhere. Fever chills and nightmares, often jolting out of sleep, long stares into the dark while he strains to hear a whispering that seems to call to him from somewhere beyond the walls.

"I like where this is going," he says, as though continuing a friendly conversation they have yet to start.

He is indeed awake, though not upright. The other day he turned his bedroll so he could look at the cell door while lying down, or else turn his back on it properly; now he greets this new visitor only by watching him approach the bars. Just lying there on his side, uncomfortable, breathing with a steadiness that speaks of conscious effort. Torchlight glinting in his heavy-lidded eyes and limning the fine beads of sweat on his brow.

The mage says hello, and he stares. The mage asks him how he's feeling, and he grins weakly—and between this glimpse of crooked teeth and the slow blink that follows it, for just this moment he seems drowsily content, like he's been awoken by pleasant news.
The rasping of his voice scrapes that illusion away in an instant:

"I'm dying. How're you?"

Edited 2016-11-21 06:31 (UTC)

"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."

If at first you don't succeed--

Try, try again, this time unglamoured and first making polite small talk with the elven scout currently running the shift. It's warm enough down in the dungeons. He supposes it must be the hot springs on the other side of the wall that make it so. Thranduil's dressed just as he was the last time he visited Samson-- tunic, pants, boots, long white gold hair bound up in a braid to leave the small points of his ears visible.

He makes his way over to the cage once more, stops exactly where he had before, and does not bother sitting this time. Just like before, he smiles, and then: "Good afternoon."

"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?"

"You again." There's no malice in the prisoner's voice, only drowsy surprise. "Come to try again, eh?"

Whether he means to tempt him into a bargain or simply to talk to him, Samson sounds far less wary than he did during their first encounter. He seems not at all inclined to expend the effort wariness would require, actually, having not even stood up to receive his guest. Let the elf tower over him while he sits on the floor, he doesn't care. The wall is cool against his back; that's all he wants.

"If you're here to ask me why I did it, you can piss off now and save us both the time." With a tilt of his head, he adds, "Nothing personal."

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.

Important, yes, in more ways than one when it comes to Samson. Cullen's boots fall slowly and heavily, as though he doesn't want to do this, but is resigned. This will have to happen. It can't be put off, no matter how much Cullen might like to. What has happened to him? How has his life come to this?

He pauses outside the bars, looking at the withered man in the cell and trying to reconcile it with the face that he might have once almost called friend. There but for Andraste's Grace...

Eyebrows arching, her gaze falls to the basket, as though she'd completely forgotten she was carrying it all this time. "Are they feeding you well? I understand the Inquisition takes care of its prisoners, or does its best to," she replies, perhaps a little stiffly.

Because upon a closer look, it's clear that Samson's in bad shape. She can guess as to the reasons, and there's nothing they can do for him to cure that. It's not even a matter of whether he deserves it or not, at this point. No one deserves what that evil stuff inflicts on the people infected by it.

Not so different from the Taint, really.

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.

"Call me an optimist," he says, amusement wrinkling the corners of his eyes. "Or simply persistent."

Either works. Rivers carve their way through stone with slow, persistent work, Thranduil gets what he wants-- though hopefully in a shorter timeframe. He looks over Samson's cell- or, more precisely: Samson, his ridiculous get-up, and Samson's bucket, and then glances at the guard for a moment.

"I do not care." He shrugs, an elegant little movement of his shoulders. "It is done. Are they feeding you?"

Look, as dungeons go, Skyhold's is abysmal. He's free to judge the shems on this too. At least his is nicer and features a selection of delicate carvings. And rudimentary plumbing, which Samson could benefit from.

Playing coy with her basket, is she? Samson raises his forearm to the bars and leans on it like a cowboy on a doorjamb—not that any of them know what a cowboy is. His bearing is entirely casual, is the point, like he's chosen to ignore the grim fact that this is the dungeon of a mountain fortress—save, perhaps, the faint quivering of his fingers by his head.

"They do their best," he agrees, hangs on the silence a moment, then smiles for a reason that is rather less apparent than the small dry split in his lip. His eyelids seem to become heavier, too, with a pleasant drowsiness. "Plenty of folks seem to want a hand in it, too. Might have to start taking appointments at this rate."

"I can leave you to your own devices if you'd prefer."

She's taking note of all of this, without question. There are a great many questions he can answer, some without saying a word. But he does hold a particular interest to her, for very, very personal reasons.

Still. She'll excuse herself before playing into any of his games.

And here he thought he was just being friendly. Maybe his fresh prison scent has inspired second thoughts—it is getting to be that time again.

"Now, I didn't say that. Let's trade a few more words first, let me get a better grasp of my preferences."

Samson's lean continues to evolve with the passing seconds, sagging closer to the bars in search of the least uncomfortable distribution of his weight he can find. Once he's got his head tucked against his own bicep, like he's ready to take a nap standing up, that seems to be the end of it.

"So who're you, then."

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.

It looks deathly uncomfortable. But he's not here to be comfortable, is he? There's an odd conflict here, wanting the Maker's simple mercies for a man and yet knowing he'd earned every inch of his misery.

"Mia. I've been tending to the needs of the refugees here at the castle," she replies primly. The same refugees that had fled from the wrath of the rogue templars, in fact, among others.

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."

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.

"That's all anyone seems to do here... tend to the needs of the unfortunate. Granted, my experience's been limited," by the fact that he currently lives in a stone box, "but still there's been quite a few healers, caretakers, what-have-you." There's nothing disparaging in the way he talks, only casual observation. Just a few pleasantries offered by a sweating man. "It's a pleasure to count you among the ranks." A pleasure, he says, like his head isn't trying very hard to convince him it's about to cave in. "Mia."

He reckons he doesn't need to introduce himself.

Samson nearly laughs—just a brief squirm of humour in his belly. Trust an elf not to give half a shit about human affairs, even when they affect the entire world. He's had more than his fill of requests to justify himself to people he couldn't give half a shit about, either—and some that he could, but what would be the use—and that song and dance was old before it began. Maybe he won't have to do it again.

"You don't think the Inquisition feeds their prisoners? Some optimist you are." Samson's grin is wan and drowsy and full of crooked teeth. "Some people've tried to feed me extra, as a matter of fact. Can't imagine why."

He is well aware, of course, that he is both a war criminal and a man who consistently looks like he's dying. Funny how those two things play at odds in a bleeding heart.

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semi-closed; i cannot see the path

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