Work Text:
Hadiza could not recall a time her life was ever truly at peace. There were snatches of memories, barely impressions and blurs that could be likened to smeared watercolor for all their permanence and clarity. She remembered dancing the gavotte as a child in one of the drawing rooms during one of her mother’s lavish parties. It was an awkward and ill-timed gavotte, but there had been dancing. When her training began, she scarce had time for such frivolity.
And then, of course, there was the Circle.
Life there had, in retrospect, not been so terrible as it could have been, but a life of confinement was not one suited for one of Maribasse’s line. None of her daughters were suited to captivity, and it showed in the tenacity with which they clung to their individuality. It was in Hadiza’s pride, Aja’s ferocity and stubbornness, and Ariadne’s games of secrecy. They had faced their own individual trials during the long decade overshadowed by the Fifth Blight, and yes, Hadiza maintained that it could have been worse. Her mother’s love had protected her from much, she realized.
When the sky tore open, Hadiza’s life shifted. She stared down at her left hand, which flickered in an arc of thin, green light in response. And then, she made a fist. The war that had torn Thedas apart had wound down in the wake of Divine Victoria’s ascension, the sky bore the sickly scar tissue of its own trial, and Hadiza…well, she was forever marked.
“Contemplating the universe again, princess?” All at once, Hadiza felt as if she were drawn back into herself, reknitting in an effort to contain the vastness of thought within mere skin and bone. She was suddenly aware of the biting chill of the evening, of the way her nose ran, stinging from the sharp wind that cut through the layers of her robes and blanket to freeze the blood. And then his fingertips crept along her shoulder, and his armor and leather creaked. The wind died down and she could smell him, all sweat and oil and horseflesh.
“Not the universe,” she replied gently, “just myself.” Hadiza turned to face Samson with a soft smile, the starlight casting his angular features in stark relief and shadow. Most called him a sinister-looking fellow, and were ever-wary when he came near. Hadiza found that she liked the sharp planes of his face, evident in how she mapped them with her fingertips, suppressing a grin at the scratch of his stubble as she charted the archaic and unread text of the story his expressions told.
“Yourself, eh?” He mused, delivering a kiss to each fingertip as she finally mapped his mouth, which she found surprisingly sensuous for a man purported to be so vile. He shut his eyes briefly, leaning into her touch. “Discover anything interesting?”
Hadiza laughed. “Only that my life is always uprooted at the worst possible times.”
Samson’s eyes opened. He wanted to ask if she regretted any of it, because on the bad days…when the withdrawal was keen in his system, his bones dry of every vestige of lyrium he could pull from, he could see it. Hadiza was never good at hiding herself from the world. She could school her face to calm, but her eyes said everything else. He knew she was weighing her options, questioning her complacency and support, but she never complained. She never begrudged him his choice.
“I suppose it’s all been part of the Maker’s plan,” she continued, taking her hand away, her fingers warm from his skin, “but I’d really love if He’d stop toying with me and give me my happy ending.”
Samson couldn’t help it, he laughed. Hadiza had never been the most steadfast Andrastian, and given the adventures they’d had, there’d been a lot of cause for her to doubt. Still, she maintained her beliefs in the wake of all she’d experienced, but was not completely opposed to challenging the doctrine. She didn’t even pray so much as she sat in quiet contemplation in the Chantry, likely questioning her place in this world on the brink of madness. Samson knew, because he often did the same thing.
That, he told no one.
“Happy ending? You fancy yourself a hero from one of the old tales, then? Going to find yourself a prince and a steed and ride off toward the horizon?” He teased, but part of him wondered if Hadiza entertained such drivel. She was a romantic at heart, and Samson knew eventually she would tire of him. There was only so much he could off her, and he’d already been in pieces…he did not think he could break much more.
“Not a prince, no,” Hadiza replied softly, stepping closer, “and I’ve a steed of my own should the horizon call to me so strongly.” She tilted her head, her smile waning. “Are you afraid I’ll leave?”
Yes, he wanted to say. He was afraid. This…all of this…was not a future he had entertained even as a templar. He’d had his fair bit of fun in Kirkwall, in the good old days, but when he’d lost both status and coin to lyrium and humanity, he had no time to consider his future beyond the next few hours. Days, if he could stretch the dust out long enough. And then he’d made a series of terrible decisions. No, not terrible, for he’d thought himself in the right at the time.
But now, he was not so sure. He’d come to care for this woman, love her with all the fierceness his heart could still muster; this woman who was faithful, beautiful, determined, and compassionate. How she managed to stymie her blade from the killing blow in the Wilds he’d never know. Had the roles been reversed, he would have killed her.
Yes, he was afraid she would leave him. Not even for someone better. She did not have to look far to find a better match. But he was afraid she would disband her Inquisition and vanish from the annals of history much like her predecessors had done. And in the vanishing, she would take no one with her.
“I think,” she murmured, “you want a happy ending too.” Samson made a derisive sound in response. Hadiza stepped away and went back inside. A moment later, Samson heard booted footsteps and the door to her chambers opening and shutting. His brow furrowed but he thought nothing of it, deciding instead to strip down from his armor. Nothing was more relieving than that, in his mind. Without the lyrium the pain in his lower back was more pronounced, and it lingered even with the unguents and massages Hadiza gave him to ease it. The comfort was temporary and helped him sleep at night, but Samson had to face the harsh truth that his age and hard usage of lyrium had finally caught up to him.
It had its perks, if one could call them that. His workload in bed had decreased, but that was bound to happen irrespective of the circumstances. Hadiza was content to simply lay in his arms most evenings, too tired to muster the amount of desire necessary to engage in coitus, let alone finish.
In that, they were in accord.
It was perhaps an hour, maybe more, when Samson began to wonder where exactly his lady went. She’d been in haste to leave earlier, but as far as he knew there were no pressing matter for the council to convene upon so late in the evening. Samson finished the routine of polishing and mounting his armor on the stand before sitting quietly in the darkness of the bedchamber. The only sound was the muffled howl of the wind outside and the crackle of the logs on the fireplace. His thoughts and actions were turned inward as he considered what Hadiza meant by him wanting a happy ending.
What did he want?
Samson found he did not truly know, in all honesty. He knew what he wanted in the past, of course. What he’d wanted when forced to cringe in the shadow of Meredith Stannard. He’d known what he wanted when he’d begged for coin in Lowtown, when he’d helped smuggle mages out of the Gallows and onto ships bound for anywhere but Kirkwall. Under Corypheus’ influence, he’d wanted the templars to die at their best, knowing he’d not live to see the new world the magister sought to build upon the bones of the old.
And now, yoked to the Inquisition, and bound inextricably to Hadiza, he did not know what he wanted. To do some good to counter the ugliness his actions wrought? To be a better man? He didn’t know. He was coming up on the end of his life, soon, he knew, and he didn’t think it mattered what he wanted, only what he did with the time he had left.
Another hour passed, and Samson finally deigned to get up and look for Hadiza, throwing on his jacket—the same one he’d been issued during his imprisonment—and heading down the steps toward the main hall. Everything was relatively quiet, of course, as Skyhold prepared to sleep. Candles had been snuffed, leaving only the wavering light of the torches in their sconces to illuminate a path. Samson guessed Hadiza would be where there was food, books, or both, and so he tried the most obvious choice first.
He found her in the Herald’s Rest with Maryden, the bard. At first, he didn’t think they were conferring together, given the thin crowd. But then Hadiza sipped her mug of ale and motioned to the bard who beamed with pride at being so favored by the Inquisitor. Her slender white fingers thrummed the strings of her lute once, testing the chords, making a satisfied sound when the tune settled. And then she began to sing.
The song was one familiar to all present, at least in melody. Samson froze, his body tense with the encroaching instinct to shield himself from the accusatory looks, the knowing smiles hidden within mugs of ale and beer, the averted glances.
Of those, there were none.
The melody of the song remained the same, the words, however, did not. The story this song told was a continuation of the original ballad, which Maryden sang first. Samson knew the words by heart. They were as poisonous reminder in his bloodstream, when the shakes took him and the uncoiling in his gut was too great for Hadiza’s hands to soothe. They were a bitterness on the tongue that reminded him of his mistakes lest he forget his past. Samson had not forgotten how to swallow bitterness, despite finally being able to sample sweetness for once in his life.
The rest of the song, however…Samson heard the shift in key, the terrible dirge and drone of the melody melding into something gradually uplifting, the words shaping a story still fresh in the pages of those who dared to pen it, the ink scarce dry on the page. The story was that of the recent exploits of the Inquisition, but there was his tale, a strong and shining red thread.
From his mantle of shame, he found redemption beneath the shadow of an ancient evil, standing in the light of the templar he once was.
Samson kept his face expressionless. The story didn’t end, of course it didn’t, but his story was changing. One bard may have only sung it thus far, but it was changing. He was leaving a mark on the world without destroying it. Hadiza was content, finishing off her ale, reaching for the remainder of the fish and egg pie she’d be eating. Samson smiled, and for the first time, he walked the tavern without the crawl of a dozen eyes along his skin. Sitting next to Hadiza, who nudged him gently with a knowing look.
“You responsible for that, princess?” He asked her, reaching for her fork. She pulled it away, making him frown through his smirk. Hadiza took a bite of pie, bringing it to her lips, refusing to answer him. Without preamble, Samson leaned forward, stealing the bit for himself, making her yelp.
“Yes,” she answered irritably, “I might have…encouraged her to continue your tale after a fashion. I’m no bard.”
“Tuh. I think we’re all very clear on that one, Inquisitor.” Samson huffed, then let out a choked laugh as Hadiza elbowed his ribs. “What? It’s the honest truth, is all.” Hadiza frowned at him and Samson offered her a choice bite of fish in apology. When she sucked in her lips and turned her head away, Samson made a face.
“Oh don’t tell me you’re raw about that? Hadiza you can shoot lightning out of your ass and heal a man three blinks from death. Are you really mad you can’t sing?” Hadiza was quiet a moment longer, and then relaxed her mouth, taking the bite of fish stubbornly.
“Not really,” she muttered around a mouthful of the morsel, “I just hate having you tell me I can’t sing because—"
“—there is nothing the Inquisitor can’t do.” Samson finished with a shameless grin. Hadiza huffed.
“No.” She disagreed, “I’m well-aware of my limits. I just…what must it be like to move the soul with your voice?” She sighed, dreamy and content, “I would very much like to know.” Samson finished the remainder of the pie, and while it did nothing to satisfy him, it did put a damper on his appetite. Hadiza rested her elbows on the table, chin in her hands.
“Your soul feeling moved?” Samson asked her, his hand coming to rest on her knee beneath the table. It was comforting to be able to touch her in public like this, to not worry that some ignorant Andrastian would mutter about him fouling the Herald’s body with his perfidious hands. It was a relief to see her glance at him sidelong, awarding him with a smile, her eyes heavy-lidded, with a belly full of pie and warm ale.
“Not particularly, but it’s stirring a little.” She bounced her knee under his hand to illustrate her point. Samson gave it a tight squeeze making her laugh involuntarily. For a while, there were no words between them, save those sung by the bard who had already begun the process of stitching their unlikely love story into the larger tapestry of the Inquisition’s legacy. The night deepened as Skyhold fell into slumber and one by one patrons left to attend duties or turn into their beds for the night.
“One more,” Hadiza said to Maryden, “for me?” The bard smiled, indulgent and delighted.
“Your usual, Your Worship?” She asked and Hadiza bit her lip, nodding. Maryden strummed a soft chord and Samson felt Hadiza shiver with delight.
“Dance with me?” She asked him and Samson frowned. He didn’t dance, and she knew it. He could no more dance with her than he could turn a handstand. Hadiza, on the other hand, excelled at such antics. What she lacked in her voice she made up for in the natural rhythm she seemed to exude in every part of herself. The song Maryden sang was soft and sweet, the melody snaking around the senses like satin. Samson glanced around. It was only the tavern’s keeper, the bard, Hadiza, and himself. He could indulge her.
“I hope your boots are sturdy, princess,” he grumbled, climbing to his feet wearily. Hadiza wasted no time. Samson knew from books and the few Hightown shindigs he’d heard of where his hands should go. He liked to hold Hadiza’s hips, but this was not a Rivaini percussion dance, all undulating and jumping, and acrobatic in nature. Instead, Hadiza guided him, subtle and self-assured, into a swaying rhythm. Samson tried to move his feet, making them both stumble. Hadiza laughed and he smiled despite himself.
“Told you.” He murmured, dropping his other hand to her hip and pulling her closer. They swayed, then, in time to the music at least, and he leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers, shutting his eyes. There was something about this moment he knew he should have hung onto, something precious and fragile he should have take and locked away in the secret part of himself he shared with no one. The way her breathing changed to match his, how the svelte curves of her body molded to the hard lines of his own. The soft smile of delight at the corners of her mouth as Maryden’s voice saturated them both in something sweet and consuming
Love. That was what was in this moment. It was the most simple and pure thing he’d ever felt in a long time and all it took was two left feet and a pair of sturdy boots.