Simon's arrived early and been fiercely hard at work, as often as they'll let him be. If he were the sort of templar who could control himself around lyrium of any color, he'd be volunteering (stupidly) to work double shifts. He's not that sort of templar, of course; he'd narrowly escaped being the sort who got disciplined for sneaking extra from the stocks because the rations weren't enough anymore, but he'd managed to retain just enough dignity to keep from actually doing it. Small mercies. There's more than enough lingering shame in these walls without adding that on top of it.

Haunted
It doesn't immediately register as odd when he hears voices. They're too far away to comprehend at first, and he assumes he's just hearing other work crews talking amongst themselves. But they come closer, ever closer, until he can hear their eerie monotone.

"--belong to Ser Alrik now..."
"...knew you would never give up..."

The rust stains on the walls look like branded suns. Simon backs slowly away, stomach leaden, and trips over a toolbox he knows wasn't there ten minutes ago.

"Why am I the only one doing any work here?" he snarls, ears burning with wounded pride and a conscience that twinges even harder.