closed; his ears filled with the song of multitudes

[redinside]

WHO: Cassandra Pentaghast, Raleigh Samson
WHAT: Prisoner interrogation
WHEN: Early Wintermarch
WHERE: An undisclosed location within Skyhold
NOTES: Andraste take the wheel

One of the guards on dungeon rotation dislikes Samson less than the others. She makes sure he's fed and watered and given fresh garments on time, and the words they exchange are civil and brief; she's careful not to be overtly friendly with Samson, keeps a clever eye on the various distances between them. Under her watch, each member of Skyhold's small prison population is treated with basic decency at a sensible arm's length. She's a good one, he thinks.

This is why, when she raps on the bars one morning and tells Samson to pick himself up, that the Seeker plans to meet with him—not the Seeker he cursed at, but the one in charge—he listens. He's given a pail of lukewarm water and greasy tallow soap and told to wash, given clean prison togs and told to put them on, which he does with his back facing the bars. She turns her back, too, though she's not supposed to, and he thanks her for affording him some dignity by being quick about it. Finally Samson is instructed to put his wrists together and remain still until they're bound. Neither of them look at the other's face.

Two soldiers come and take him away, up the long stairs, and there are two more soldiers waiting for them at the upper door. Cool air, the sun warming the courtyard after dawn, the scents of grass and soil and smoke. The breeze barely sighs across his neck before a thick gloved hand pulls the canvas hood up and over his head, palms the back of his skull, pushes it roughly forward. The man behind his shoulder growls at him to get moving.

The living earth beneath his feet gives way to stone stairs, flagstones, wood. He's commanded to sit there, and the chair creaks beneath him. The hood is torn back from his head, baring his thinning dark hair swept back, his sallow skin, the sharp lines of his nose and cheekbones. He keeps his head bowed while the eyes of the guards bore into him hatefully.

The room is quiet as they all wait for her to arrive.

Comments

[stabsbooks]

Cassandra doesn't keep them waiting. She might not like Samson, or trust him, or respect him, but she's not so petty as to deliberately dawdle merely to increase his discomfort or apprehension. The door opens, and she takes in the scene, her expression turning sour with disgust as her eyes light on the man in the chair.

She marches forward, nodding to the guards, who step back but remain in the room.

"Raleigh Samson." She spits out the name as if it tastes bad. Her eyes rove over him, taking in his pitiful appearance. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you now."

[redinside]

There we go. That's the sort of bluster he'd expect from a hot-blooded soldier in charge—good to see the intelligence lines up. If this weren't a Seeker before him, he might even find it charming—but most templars distrust the Seekers at the best of times, and Samson's heartsore disillusionment leaves little room for anyone, least of all the Chantry and its agents.

"If you wanted to, you'd've done it by now." He sounds nearly as wretched as he looks.

Samson's time down below has taken its toll by degrees; both his weight and muscle tone are diminishing as the weeks crawl by, the fat gradually melting away, the hollows becoming hollower. The thirst still growing. Even now the lyrium withdrawal squeezes at his skull, presses unseen thumbs into his eyes, and at any given moment his pain is obvious—at times even to those who can't see it, by his delirious muttering and groaning in or out of sleep. The other prisoners must have complained by now.
Sitting here, in this wooden chair with his wrists chained, he looks very uncomfortable.

"But I suspect you're more interested in what I know than in stickin my head on a pike in the courtyard. If it's not that, I've no answer for you."

He has yet to lift his gaze to face her directly.

[stabsbooks]

Cassandra scowls, not bothering to point out that what she might want to do and what she is allowed to do as a representative of the Inquisition are two different things. Samson must already know that Cassandra is bound by the rules of her organization, but that doesn't mean she has to remind him of that.

She stops in front of him, arms crossed over her chest, and studies him. He looks terrible. He's been imprisoned, of course, but he will be suffering from lyrium withdrawal too. Does Cullen feel like this man looks? She pushes the thought out of her mind, focusing on the task at hand.

"Then tell me. What do you know?"

[redinside]

"You think I'm foolish enough to hand over the only thing keeping me alive, just like that? Give me some credit." The only thing, of course, other than the rules she kindly doesn't mention. Samson is overflowing with bitterness as well as pain, and it's less satisfying to share these things with a person who refuses to be affected by them. "If you want me to betray the Elder One, you'll have to do a lot better than pain of death. My chances with him are hardly any better, now."

A wince briefly deepens the creases by his eyes. There's a chance the Master would welcome him back, if his men managed to cross the river while he held the Inquisition, if his foolish sacrifice wasn't completely in vain, but there's no guarantee he wouldn't be killed on sight—or, worse, after being dissected for every detail in his memory of the enemy stronghold. If that alone didn't kill him.

"Torture won't work, either," he mutters, while it's on his mind. "Might as well save you the wasted time."

[stabsbooks]

Cassandra scoffs, dismissive and almost insulted.

"The Inquisition does not torture," she informs him. Which is true, though she won't hesitate to make things very uncomfortable for him. "Unlike your master, I am certain." She pauses, looking down at him. "You are very loyal to him, even now. Tell me, does he share that loyalty? Were you to return to him now, would he accept you back, after you have failed him so utterly?"

[redinside]

See, this is why he hasn't bothered to lift his head. He'd just have to lower it again when faced with questions like this one. While he drags it around his head in consideration, silence has time to stretch itself long. At length comes his answer: "I don't know that he would. But he's surprised me before." By coming to him in the first place; by believing he could be more than he was. It was that, even more than the promise of lyrium, which bought his devotion.

Samson wets his lips by sucking one, then the other, between his teeth and letting them slip free. Clears his throat softly. Anticipating a painful answer but still hoping against it, he asks, "What became of my men? The wagon—did it get through?"