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Calming, that’s how he describes the sound of the water as it pours down past the undercroft as well as his jail cell. It never dulls the pain in his gut, the occasional tremor in his hands or the twitch in his eye. However, it allows his mind to forget the discomfort, forget the past. Forgetting is the one luxury he has left.
“Where is the damn healer?” One of the Templar yells and it’s Maddox who comes to him. He says nothing but comes to the young Templar’s side and kneels silently beside him.
“You’re not the healer,” he says, spitting at Maddox.
Samson kneels on the other side then lays his hands on the man’s shoulders. The Templar is hardly out of boyhood, his face is smooth with sparse hair and even now, covered with angry red veins, he looks so young. "Maddox will help ease your pain, relax and stop writhing.” The young Templar resistance diminishes as he allows his General to push him back down to a lying position.
He turns his attention to Maddox, “Do what you can, Maddox.”
Maddox tilts his head. “I’ve put the Templars most tainted by red lyrium by the waterfall, General Samson. It seems to have a restful effect. For the ones close to dying I have herbs that can ease their passing.”
Samson digs his boot into the soft mossy ground underneath. “How many, Maddox?”
“There will be three who will not last the night. The other two are transforming and their deaths cannot be predicted at this time.”
Samson closes his eyes for a few seconds, then opens and nods to Maddox before heading back to his tent.
He sits on the stool he’s been assigned. Nods when he needs to, lifts an arm when required, stands up or sits down on command. Dagna’s voice is soft in its instruction, lyrical and oddly uplifting. She never talks down to him, although her orders are curt and when she berates him it feels like being scolded by a mother hen, her feathers fluffing in frustration but remaining soft to the touch. He can’t remember his own mother’s voice, he knows he had one once, before becoming a Templar. He remembers that it too, was soft and cheery, but the memory is lost in the dull thud and the crack of the red.
When not focusing on the water falling he centres on her voice.
Orders are barked across the Gallows, a new Knight Commander, Meredith Stannard. Her voice is not soft, not comforting or coddling. It’s harsh and has a lilt that sets his teeth on edge. The warble in her voice is as sharp fingernails running along the creased edge of folded parchment.
“The Mages are not to be trusted,” she says. “There is to be no more friendly banter with your ‘charges’. No more small talk. No more fraternizing.” She walks along the line of Templars and stops in front of him.
“Templar’s are not friends of the Mages, we stand to serve, and whom do we serve?” She turns to face him and he feels the revulsion wash off her voice. “Whom do we serve, Templar Samson?”
His eyes look straight ahead and never waiver from a point in the distance, “The Maker, Knight Commander.”
“And in whose service are we bound?”
“The Grand Enchanter’s and the Chantry, Knight Commander,” he replies.
Meredith sniffs loudly and continues down the line of Templars.
Today Dagna is lively in her conversation. Chatty, endless banter about anything and everything, of the circle, the Templars and Mages she knew as well as the few Tranquil. How she came to be at the Circle of Magi.
The stool his sits on allows him face to face with her so when she stares at him he sees hesitation flicker and his brows furrow.
“May I ask something of you?” she says.
He snorts and throws his hands to the sides, a grin falls across his face, “I’m not sure if I can spare the time. But, ask away.”
She doesn’t laugh, “I want to ask about Maddox,” she says.
Samson’s grin fades and his arms cross his chest, his posture stiffening.
“What do you want to know?” he asks.
“I know that he was tranquil, but in all my years in the circle—I’ve never seen such perfection in the arcane smithing. It’s beautiful and terrifying. What kind of man was he to put such faultlessness in these pieces?”
“He was a tranquil. Skills become focused.” Samson says. There is no mistaking the dull tone of his reply.
She shakes her head, “No. I’ve known tranquil arcanists. I learnt from the best. None of them came close to this.”
Samson bows his head, and for a moment, he lets a memory filter, his eyes become glassy. “He was the very best. His skill surprised even–” Samson clears his throat and his voice catches. “I don’t know how he came upon his skill, but I know he lost something before it was his. And all it took was was a letter. He loved and lost in the stroke of a pen.” He swallowed hard.
She lays a hand over his, her voice tender, “Shall we return to our duties then? We can talk of this another time, if you wish.”
“You wanted to see me, Maddox?” Samson stepped into the large tent that acted as Maddox’s makeshift workshop.
“General Samson, the Master has asked that I show you these pieces, and for you to choose which of your Templars is to have them.” Maddox points to a table where several pieces of armour and weapons upgrades are laid.
“Samson. I’ve told you many times, Maddox, call me Samson please. I’ve known you too long to be called General.”
Maddox nodded.
Samson scratched his head and sighed before perusing the work on display.
His eyes narrowed on the smaller pieces, the leather stitched as fine as any Orlesian seamstress. The details in the metal moldings that held some of the smaller pieces of red lyrium together were chiseled and minutely crafted. He picked up the dagger with the gilt-edged pommel, shook his head, and laughed. “These pieces—Maddox—”
“You are not pleased, Samson?” he asks.
“Maddox, I do believe these are some of the best pieces I have ever seen. They are— astonishing.” Samson’s smile was broad and he gave Maddox a toothy grin. “Well done my friend. Well done.”
“I only wish to do the very best by you, General. And of course the Master we serve.”
Samson’s smile dropped and he pats Maddox on the arm. He wished to evoke the Makers name, for he’s sure Maddox’s work could only be a gift from him. Then he remembers whom he serves and holds his tongue.
She wished him a goodnight as the guard comes to escort him back to his cell. She gives him a small wave and he returns it with a lopsided grin.
Inside the three walls of stone, he lies on his bunk, the white noise of the waterfall filters in through the gaping hole in the prison and into his cell like the echo of the sea caught in a shell. The sound is soothing, dulling his ache for the red and lulling him to sleep. His peace will last until the dead of the night.
“Whom do you serve, Red Templar Samson?”
“I serve the god who reaches the Black City”
“And in whose service are you bound?”
“To yours, Corypheus, for you are a new god for a new world.”