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Chapter Text

It was such a small fragile tiny little thing. Even wrapped in a blanket, the baby couldn't weight more than five pounds. The bundle had been shoved into Samson’s arms with almost no second thought for the young mother whose cries he could still hear from the hallway. The child echoed the sounds of her mother as soon as she came into contact with the young templar.

“Don't just gawk at it!” Knight-Captain Wentworth’s voice boomed behind him, making the baby scream even louder. “Take it to the Chantry already!”

“Y-y-yes, ser,” he stammered. “Right away, ser.”

He laid the child delicately into the small basket he had been given to transport her. She continued screaming and, for a moment, Samson wondered what he could do to quiet her. He didn't know the first thing about babies. Templars weren't trained for that and he was too afraid to hurt her with his heavy armour if he so much as tried touching her again. So he dashed through the Gallows with a roaring infant. The mages gave him the stink eye as he passed by them. He didn't like it any more than they did, but what was he supposed to do? Disobey orders? If not him, someone else would be taking this girl away.

“Is that Violette’s child?” he heard a stern voice halt his race as he was reaching the heavily barred doors.

He almost replied with a biting comment. There had only been one pregnancy in the Gallows this year so of course, that could only be Violette’s child. But Meredith was the Knight-Captain's pet and would take his place one day, soon if the rumours were to be believed. Angering her was not a good idea, especially for a young recruit such as he. Instead, he gave her a curt nod. She bent over the basket and peeked under the blanket. The child’s cries intensified, a feat Samson didn't believe possible. He was impressed.

“It doesn't look like much,” Meredith said, sounding disappointed. “I was hoping it might give us a clue on who the progenitor was. Pity.”

Samson almost rolled his eyes. He did not care about the father’s identity and, quite frankly, thought Meredith’s hunt a pathetic waste of time. “If you’ll excuse me, I'm expected at the Chantry.” He walked around her and exited the fortress.

He made his way to the ferry in a few quick strides. The ferryman made a grimace when he heard the baby. Samson couldn't blame him. Even he was starting to feel a headache coming. “With all due respect, ser, perhaps you could try calming the little thing. It ain’t healthy for a babe to cry this much.”

“I… I don't know how to,” Samson mumbled, his head low.

“You could try rocking it. Or maybe singing to it.”

“Singing?”

The man shrugged. “That's what my wife does. It works well enough on our children.”

Samson sat on the boat, the basket resting gently on his lap. “I can try.”

He wasn't convinced it would work, but it was better than doing nothing. He started moving the basket over his knee in a slow regular motion. He didn't know many songs, and most of them were bawdy tavern rounds that were not exactly kid-friendly. Not that she’d understand or remember them, but Samson figured the ferryman might disapprove if he started singing My naked lass in the grass. He did remember, however, parts of an old rhyme his mother used to sing before he was sent to the Chantry.

“Beware ye well, my son and belle, beware ye well the calling. For you will face, with time and grace, our failing and our falling. My failing and my falling.” The first verse was easy enough to remember. “We sought the beast at farthest east and paid a bloody tithing… Something, something writhing…” In front of him, the ferryman started undocking the small boat. He didn’t look bothered by Samson’s failing memory. In fact, he seemed impressed that the templar could carry a tune to begin with. “A doggle-boon our hopes had strewn, a bargain… drained? and… straining? Errr… Gird in steal and train your zeal… I think.” Soon, the child’s cries subsided until they were no more than small hiccups. “Do not be swayed to drop your blade, when danger comes a-stalking.” She looked at him in awe, her wide grey eyes boring into him. He smiled at her as he continued humming and balancing the basket over his knee. “Your heart is true and arrows too… Hmm hmm… Now begins the waiting. As then began my waiting… The red, your will it leeches… Until your heart it reaches. Unless my lesson teaches.” Her eyes started to close slowly. Samson only stopped singing when he was sure she had completely fallen asleep. He could hear her slow steady breaths, but even then he kept rocking the basket until they reached the docks. He expected the baby to wail again as they approached the city and the loud noises of sailors yelling profanities hit their ears, but she didn’t. The little angel wiggled a little under the blanket without ever saying a peep.

Samson paid the ferryman his due and ventured into Lowtown. He kept the small basket close to him as he walked through the streets, carefully avoiding the shadier elements in the crowd. He placed his free hand on the hilt of his sword as a warning. He would cut down any of these thugs if they so much as approached the baby.

Passing through the market, he couldn't help but stop in front of a small stall selling carved wooden objects. They had everything from furniture to cutlery. And even a few children’s toys. A short whimper escaped from the basket.

“Is it your child?” the merchant asked him with a broad smile.

“Of course not,” he huffed. “I’m taking her to the Chantry.”

The woman didn’t seem interested in his reply. She peeked into the basket and gasped. “She’s so cute!”

“I suppose.” Truth be told, he had not looked at the baby that closely. Her eyes were a pretty shade of light grey, like silverite shining in the sun. But beyond that, she was a newborn, pink-faced and wrinkled, with thick black hair covering the top of her head and small pointy ears peaking from underneath the covers. Meredith was right, she didn’t look like much.

“Would you like to buy her a toy, ser?” the woman offered. “My brother carves them. We have all sorts, nugs, mabari, lions… They’re only one silver each.”

“I don’t know…” He looked around the stall. Maybe the lion? Her mother was Orlesian after all. No, not the lion. Upon closer inspection, Samson thought the animal’s face looked stupid. The dragon was nice, though. He rummaged through his pouch. He needed to keep a few coins for the trip back to the Gallows. Maybe some for a round or two at the Hanged Man as well. “I can only spare seventy coppers.”

The merchant looked saddened, but Samson must have looked worse for she knelt behind her stall and searched through her stock for something. She arose with a new figurine in her hand. She waved it at him, a smile plastered on her face.

“This one is misshapen so we can’t sell it,” she explained.

‘Misshapen’ was putting it mildly. The figurine was carved in the shape of a griffon, or at least Samson thought it was supposed to be a griffon. One of its wings was much shorter than the other, and the carver had given up on actually completing it halfway through, leaving the tail end unfinished. It was uglier than the lion, but he didn’t have the coin to buy the lion. Did he really want to spend his money on an ass-ugly toy, for a child he would never see again after today?

“How much do you want for it?”

The woman smiled. “Keep your coins, ser. We weren’t going to sell it anyway.”

“I- Thank you, miss.”

He dropped the crooked griffon into the basket, next to the baby. She cooed when he adjusted the blanket around her small body to protect her from the winter wind. “We wouldn't want you to catch your death, now would we?”

She only cried twice as he climbed the massive stairway leading up to Hightown. The second time, the song wasn't enough to soothe her. Exasperated, Samson sat down on the steps and took off his gauntlets. He took the child into his arms and rocked her gently. She squirmed and cried for a while before calming down, sucking on his little finger with eagerness. He set her back into the basket and proceeded to walk faster.

He reached the Chantry without any further incident. It had been a while since he had last visited the place. Templars might have been the arms of the Chantry, but the Circle had its own chapel, and those stationed there rarely left the Gallows, let alone to pray. The place was as grand as he remembered with its ostentatious display of rich decorations. In the back, the giant statue of Andraste looked over whoever crossed the threshold, more threatening than inviting.

A middle-aged woman approached him. “I am Revered Mother Elthina. You must be Ser Samson. We've been expecting you.”

He blinked in surprise. “You have?” Idiot! Of course, they had. The Knight-Captain must have sent a raven ahead of him.

Mother Elthina smiled kindly. “May I?” She gestured toward the basket. Samson nodded and handed it to her. She carefully took the baby in the crook of her arms. Once again, she started howling. The Revered Mother rocked her back and forth while making shushing sounds.

“You should try singing,” Samson suggested as if the couple of hours he had spent with the baby suddenly made him an expert on the subject.

“I think she might be hungry.” She waved to a lay-sister standing nearby. “Take her to the wet nurse.”

“Right away, Your Reverence.” She placed the baby back into the basket where she continued weeping. “Does she have a name?”

Both women turned their expectant eyes toward Samson. Shit! He had not thought to ask for a name. The Knight-Captain wouldn't have bothered, but her mother might have had something in mind. What was her last name again? He could at least give the girl a breadth of legacy. “Surana.”

He watched the sister leave with the basket and felt a pang of regret deep in his heart. It wasn't fair, he thought, that she would grow under the care of strangers instead of the loving embrace of her parents. The Chantry claimed it was for the baby’s safety, that mages were too dangerous to raise a child. But Samson had seen children as young as four years old be brought to the Circle. And who else but the mages were raising the little brats? Certainly not the templars, that was for sure.

When the baby’s laments had completely died out, Samson turned toward Mother Elthina and asked if he could stay a little while to pray.

“Of course. We would never refuse to give the blessing of the Maker to one of our protectors.”

She guided him to the altar. “If I may ask you, Your Reverence, is the girl going to stay here? In Kirkwall, I mean.”

“For a few months, until she's old enough to be transported safely.”

“Oh.” Once more, Samson could not hide his disappointment. He had grown quite attached to the little screamer in the short time it had taken him to bring her to the Chantry. He wondered for a moment if he would be the one to take her to her new home. That was unlikely, he soon realized. He was too fresh out of training to be allowed to travel out of the city.

“Children born in the Circle seldom stay in the same country as their parents. It's better this way.” She put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I believe this one is to be sent to Ferelden. Not a bad place for a child to blossom into an honest young woman.” She gave him a polite smile. “Would you like to receive my benediction now?”

“Thank you, Your Reverence.”

He knelt in front of the imposing statue of Andraste and bowed his head in quiet contemplation. The Revered Mother raised her hand above him and recited the Maker’s blessing. “May the Maker bless and keep you. May His smile bless all the days of your life and His light guide you to His side.”

Despite his Chantry upbringing, Samson had never been much of a praying man, but today he chose to believe. He prayed for the child’s safety, for her health and happiness. He prayed for the Maker to give her strength and courage. And if He was kind, He would not gift her with magic.

Chapter Text

Samson didn't know the first thing about childbirth, but he figured it was a painful and exhausting ordeal. Violette Surana was a petite woman and, stationed on the other side of the door, he had heard her scream for hours before the healer had shoved the babe into his arms. How could such a small thing, he had wondered, cause so much pain to a strong and defiant woman as she came into the world?

He shook his head to prevent his thoughts from wandering somewhere inappropriate and made his way back to the Gallows. He walked through the heavy doors with a sense of unease. The sun was starting to set behind the high towers of the fortress, casting dark shadows over the interior courtyard.

He found Violette sitting on a bench under a wall-mounted torch. She ought to have been in bed, resting, by the time he returned from the Chantry. Yet there she was, with a book spread open on her lap, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Or almost.

A fresh wound glistened at the corner of her nose — a nose that also appeared to be broken. A basic healing spell could have taken care of it fast and clean. She was likely still too weak to cast it herself, but any healer worth his salt could have healed her broken nose. Why had nobody helped her?

Samson would later learn that Violette had reacted violently after her child had been taken from her. She had attacked the templars still present in the room and tried to run after him. Her magic had still been snuffed, however, and the men had easily taken her down with a straightforward punch to the face. Samson couldn't put into words the amount of disgust he felt at the thought.

As a punishment for her “hysterical behaviour,” the Knight-Captain had denied her the right to a healer. Her injuries would have to heal the slow and painful way. They would leave a scar on her face, a permanent reminder to all mages in the Gallows of what happened when you stepped out of line.

Samson sat down on the bench, next to her. Her eyes — the same silverite grey eyes as the baby — shot daggers at him. He started sweating. She was still weak from childbirth but Maker was she terrifying!

“What do you want, Templar?” She spat each word like venom between her gritted teeth. One false move and she would kill him on the spot, of that Samson had no doubt. The woman had nothing left to lose, she might as well take a few of those wretched templars down with her.

He gulped. “I, err, I was the one to take the baby to the Chantry.”

Her nostrils flared. Fire burned in her eyes. Definitely the wrong thing to say, you idiot!

“I didn't know what name you wanted to give her so I just gave her your name. Surana, I mean.”

Violette softened slightly at the mention of her daughter. “Her…” she whispered hoarsely. “A girl, then?”

Samson nodded. “If you had a name in mind, I could go back to the Chantry before they send her to Ferelden and tell them.”

It still didn’t sit right with him that Violette hadn't been allowed to even lay eyes on her own child.

She looked away from him, her eyes losing their spark as she stared at an invisible point in the distance. Her body tensed with quiet anger. Her hands were closed into tight fists, nails digging into the palm of her hands. For a moment, Samson considered taking his leave. Then, she took a deep breath and shook her head. “It doesn't matter. She's not my daughter anymore. She never was.”

He wasn't sure how to react to this so this time, he kept his mouth firmly shut. What could you say to a woman who had lost a child? No, not lost… taken from her. The silence didn't seem to bother her, however. She looked thoughtful and, all of a sudden, Samson didn't find her so scary anymore. As a matter of fact, he felt sad for her. Violette might have been called “the bane of the Gallows” by some of his comrades, but she didn't deserve that kind of cruelty.

“What was she like?” She asked with a small voice, breaking the silence.

“She cried a lot,” he said before thinking. Not the smartest thing to tell a mother mourning her child, but that had been the essence of what he'd taken away from his time with the baby. “Didn't like Meredith. Not one bit.”

“Good girl.” Her lips curled slightly up into a half-smile. A flicker of light returned to her eyes.

“She seems to like when people sing to her.”

Violette's left eyebrow shot up. “Did you sing to her?” she laughed, as if the idea of a templar singing a baby to sleep was the most ridiculous thing imaginable — which it was, now that he thought about it. “What did you sing?”

He shrugged. “Some Marcher song.”

“Can you sing it for me?” she asked, her tone somewhat teasing.

“No.”

“You're no fun.”

“I'm a templar. I'm not here to entertain you.”

Her smile disappeared faster than a man's coin at the Blooming Rose. “No, I guess you're not.”

There was another long silence. Samson should have taken the heavy tension that had fallen between them as his cue to leave her be. They were starting to receive dark looks from the people around them, both mages and templars. But he found that he didn't want her to be alone while she was mourning the loss of her child. So he stayed with her, and although she could have left at any point, she chose to stay with him. They sat together in silence until Samson caught a glance of the Knight-Commander, watching him from the upper balcony.

He rose to his feet. “If you— If you need anything, I can—”

“Can you give me back my daughter?” she cut him off bitterly.

“I… Sorry.”

She grabbed his arm as he took a step away from her. She recoiled slightly when he turned to look down at her, but her grip didn't loosen.

“Can you at least tell me, was she an elf?”

Samson frowned. “Yeah, why wouldn't she be?”

She didn't answer. Her face contorted into a grimace of annoyance. For some obscure reason, his answer seemed to displease her.

She slowly let go of him. “Thank you, Ser… err…?”

“Samson.”

“Anemone,” she said weakly. “I want her name to be Anemone.”

He gave her a brief nod. “I'll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, Ser Samson.”

Without another word, she returned to her reading. The normalcy with which she went on with her life surprised him. You wouldn't know, looking at her then, how much pain she must have been in.

At that moment, Samson realised she was the strongest woman he had ever met.