closed; and before his eyes the dark skies parted

[redinside]

WHO: Gwenaëlle Baudin, Raleigh Samson
WHAT: an interview and/or cussing-out
WHEN: well after troops have returned from the Battle of Ghislain
WHERE: Samson's room in the Mage Tower of the Gallows
NOTES: will add as needed

The Gallows has been quiet for want of those who dwell here. Bodies went out from the island in streams and left it behind, listless, grey as a corpse, and though many of those bodies have since returned, not all of them came home. Or, they came home missing pieces, blood and limbs and lives left behind. Ghislain has sucked the vibrance out of this place and spat it back on them as misery.

Other than to oblige the occasional necessity, Samson has not left his room since the Inquisition marched—and since they've returned, he's left it even less. Barely a word spoken to anyone. Barely a glance above shoulder level. Before departing with the rest of them, Derry managed to snag eye contact just the once, by accident, and smiled oddly—lips hidden, like a shrug, an expression of guilt and pity, the very same one a pedestrian will flash to a beggar as they pass them by. That smile he's seen so many times. He could hardly stand it.

The young woman coming to see him won't give him one of those, he's pretty certain. It was good of her to send word ahead. She could have come at any time, with permission and without warning, but she chose to share her intentions weeks ago—a strange Satinalia gift among other unexpected trinkets. Samson unrolls the notes again, presses them out on the table, smooths them down under his palm. If she's that interested in candid answers, there's no doubt she's been given leave to interview him with the door closed—otherwise, what would be the point?

For a long time he sits, tense, his guts clenching like a cold fist, and waits for the guard's knock. For days he hasn't slept more than an hour or two at a time, and he looks it; he looks as grey as the fortress feels.

By the time the door swings open to admit her, he's already standing.

Comments

[redinside]

"Running dick-first into a pit of spikes," Samson answers, with immaculate deadpan spirit.

Not in Skyhold is what he's chosen to hear; either she means the war, and the Reds, or she's planning on leading him there anyway, and he's got no patience for preamble.

"Those templars out there, still fighting and dying, they were all of them dead from the start. I wanted to help them as best I could. Wanted to help myself most of all," he mutters, looking at (through) the floor next to her feet, not shifting or fidgeting. "When he, Corypheus, when he put that sword back in my hand," one hand opening where it rests on his thigh, palm up, relaxing again around a loose handful of air, "it was like having another chance to be... to do something that meant something. Can't even say I didn't see what he was really doing. He didn't trick me, you understand—he trusted me. That's all it took."