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The first time he saw her she’d been on horseback, the sun was hidden away behind the iron gray clouds, but she carried it with her wherever she went. She’d been burdened with a terrible duty, as evidenced by that mark on her hand, but she bore it with a haughty demeanor that told him she was clearly nobility. He’d recently been brought into the Inquisition from Kirkwall, and he admitted he wasn’t in the best shape. He reeked of alcohol and cheap lyrium, the kind that was mixed with other potent ingredients to recreate the effects of the pure, blue song of the good stuff.
That’s how he met her, when he was freshly yanked off the streets and worse for wear.
That had been months ago, and he’d cleaned his act up since then, finding renewed purpose in his sword and shield, trying to forget how he was cast out and declared anathema by the Chantry to which he had devoted nearly all of his life. He took a sense of pleasure in the fact that the Inquisition had not been sanctioned by the Chantry, and despite it all, was pleased when she—the Herald—had returned from Val Royeux to report that the Templars had abandoned the Chantry. While it did not bode well for the Inquisition, it certainly gave him a sense of grim satisfaction that the Templars sought to break free from the collar the Chantry had placed on them.
Over time, he watched her. She was beautiful; the kind of beautiful one knew they didn’t deserve to be around. She was the peak of a pristine mountain, and he was the shit that lived in her shadow. That’s how he felt. She didn’t speak to him at first, and he felt as if she actively avoided having to speak to him. He knew he wasn’t the prettiest lad in the group, not with that blonde golden boy Cullen strutting around, but he was one of the most seasoned warriors and he felt she at least owed him respect in that sense.
Over time, she spoke to him. Greetings, silent smiles, maybe even a laugh within earshot. She had a lovely smile, and he found himself thinking too often that she was too pretty to have the fate of the world on her slight shoulders.
Over time, they conversed together. She asked him about Kirkwall, he declined, and he didn’t pry about her time in the Circle. Both had a past they didn’t want to talk about, and he liked that just fine. When it came time to choose mages or Templars, she chose the Templars, which he found odd, what with her being a mage. When she explained her reasoning, he found that his respect for her grew, albeit stubbornly. She was too pretty, too quick to offer a smile or kind word. Her silverite eyes and lovely mouth wouldn’t woo the kind of enemy they faced; and if it were that simple he would have fallen for her sooner. Maybe he had fallen for her and just buried it.
Then Haven was buried, and they weren’t sure if she lived, and he knew.
He worried, in his own way, loitering on the outskirts of their camp, trying to figure out why he hadn’t stayed behind to help her, then remembered she’d squared her slight shoulders and walked out to face her enemy, proud and strong.
Beautiful. Too damn beautiful.
So he loitered, content to play the part of isolationist, just out of the ring of light of the campfire. He saw Cullen loitering too, but further up toward the mouth of the pass, keeping a vigil. Samson finally decided to join him.
“Any sign?” He asked. Cullen’s expression was agitated slightly, but he shook his head.
“Nothing. If she is lost to us…” Samson saw the slight blush on his cheeks and attributed it to the wind.
“You saw her when she faced down that dragon, Cullen,” Samson said, “If she’s anything, it’s not lost to us. Give her some time.”
Cullen’s expression hardened briefly, but after a few deep breaths, he nodded.
“You’re right. If anyone can survive that…she could.”
Samson waited with him, wondering how they came to be on such opposite ends of the spectrum. Cullen had always been a shining example of the Order, always by the book, always obedient. He never questioned his orders, and Samson knew that was what made him and the Lion of Honnleath entirely different. The Chantry looked out for those who remained in the Order, but once out, the ex-Templar was on their own. Cullen looked healthier than he did, likely because he never got truly addicted to the lyrium. He didn’t chase the song like so many of the rest of them did. He did just enough to keep the edge off and retain his abilities. Always a good man, Cullen.
“There she is!” Cullen exclaimed next to him. Samson saw a shadow in the darkness beyond, swaying, then dropping to the ground.
“Shit.” He swore under his breath and made his way to her. Cullen snatched the lantern from the small barrel they’d been standing next to and Hadiza came into view. She was half-frozen, icicles on her nose, ice clinging to her hair, shivering in her damp clothing. Her eyes rolled up to look up at the two men.
“Samson, grab her.” Cullen said and Samson did. It was the first time he held her, and he scooped her up with ease.
“S-s-so…f-fucking..c-c-cold…” She chattered out, trying to curl into the wolf pelt her wore over his shoulder.
“Don’t I fuckin’ know it, Herald.” He replied with a wry smile as he carried her down the pass toward the camp below.