#also gloom hands first time and I went 👀

[decembermoonskz]

TALKED WITH SIDON 🥹🥹

[kyberblade]

Bring You Back (Din x Reader) - Back To You Halloween AU

A/N: You all can blame @fordo-kixed-rex for this. She asked me, “What would happen if there was an AU where the reader in BTY went Darkside?” And I said how dare you here’s what would happen and it went from there. I’ve been sitting on this for months. It’s been torture. The name is based off of a song that just clicked for it, Bring You Back by Gold Brother, LIIV and if you want extra emotional damage, put it on repeat while you read. I am not advising this for health and safety reasons. I’m not to be held responsible for any turmoil this may cause. You do so at your own peril.

I do not own Star Wars or it’s characters. Sadly. But I carry them in my heart. Does that count for something? My soul says yes.

Summary: The Darkside is always a temptation, even at the best of times…. What would happen if you ended up slipping further and further down a dark path? ….A path they couldn’t follow?

Warnings: Angst. Fluff. I know. I’m confusing. Welcome to my brain. Part of the Back To You Universe, so you’ll be kinda confused if you read it on its own, bc spoilers, but it can be read as a stand alone if you want. (Idk where exactly it takes place, but I know it’s after Part 19, sometime before or during TBoBF timeline that will be coming up in the sequel Close To Home.) Mando’a. Arguing. Mentions of saga typical violence. (See how frustratingly vague I was there?) It ends on a brighter note, don’t worry. It’s not all gloom and doom. I couldn’t do that to them. ……or could I? 😈

Word count: 2,326 (I know. What even is this drivel?)

Thank you to @fordo-kixed-rex for the idea and seeing this through from start to finish. And @littlemisspascal and @what-the-heckin-heck for flailing on this with me as it developed. I really appreciate you guys. You make me smile a lot. 😁

Also, stay tuned at the end for some kick ass art by @fordo-kixed-rex. 👀 (You’re not prepared. I’m telling you now. Buckle up, children.)

Xxx

Din POV

It had been little things, at first. Just small things he’d normally not think twice about, but they started to make him take a closer look. 

The way you’d look at an enemy.

At him.

His son.

It was icy, glazed over, and distant, yet fiery and ruthless all at the same time. It painted those under its gaze in shades of fear. 

Of disdain.

With something close to death.

Din hated that last thought, but he’d been around enough of that in his life to know what it looked like. He knew death intimately. It was a close acquaintance. He’d brushed up against it time and time again, and each time it would kiss his cheek with a promised, soon, as he whispered back, not today.

He wouldn’t pretend to know the workings of the Force. It was still a mystery to him. But he knew you.

And this wasn’t it.

This was something else.

You were shadows. Shadows of what you were. Of yourself. A shell. Something wasn’t right. But like always, Din felt like he was looking at a sun when he’d stare at you for too long, so he could never look long enough to tell exactly what was off. He’d only get lingering impressions, spotted vision that left him open and vulnerable.

A rattled crate here. A broken box there.

A common thief just after a few credits left clutching their throat as the life was choked out of them by an unseen hand; their wide eyes peering over your shoulder, pleading with him through his visor for just an ounce of mercy, an ounce of forgiveness from this…. Hell they had found themselves in.

But what could he do?

It had been made clear time and time again you didn’t listen when he told you what to do. In fact, you came to resent it. I am not a tooka, you would say, he remembered fondly, smiling down at the painting in his hands.

He’d bought it for you once upon a time. A token. A promise. Though unspoken, it was his vow at the time to always make it back to you. Then it had been used as a threat against him, against you, that had propelled this whole adventure into motion. Until….

Now….

Now he looked at the painting that once symbolized home, a dream, and he saw…. A void. Nothing.

He sighed.

If this was the path you truly chose, then he had to choose his own. For the good of the child. Himself. And for you.

He’d confront you somewhere private. Some backwater planet. You’d always wanted to see somewhere green…. He just wished he’d gotten around to it sooner. Maybe then…. Maybe then you’d be happy about this visit, instead of what he expected, which was anger at him.

But he couldn’t keep waiting.

Couldn’t keep putting it off.

Din turned toward the ramp with another sigh. He knew this would break your heart.

He knew because his was already breaking.

Xxx

Normal POV

You looked around at the towering trees, smiling. Off in the distance between mighty boughs, a flicker of light…. Then another…. And another…. “Fireflies!” Despite your voice going up several octaves in excitement, you kept it hushed, hoping to not scare off the insects. But it turned out you didn’t need to worry about your voice, because as soon as you started toward them, they scattered, despite being a whole ships distance away from you.

Cocking your head, you tried to move towards another batch, but they too suddenly disappeared, scattering like the sparks of a dying fire.

Your brows narrowed in confusion as you came to a stop. They’d always swarmed to you, swirling around you in a cloud of light and energy, never had they run from you.

“That’s weird.”

“Maybe they sense it, too.”

You whirled around at Din’s low modulated voice. Once again he’d been able to sneak up on you, not a single bootfall down the ramp giving him away.

Smiling bemusedly at him, you settled your weight easily, head tipping back in question. “What do you mean?” You asked after a moment, turning to give him your full attention.

“Your powers, mesh’la. They’ve changed you.” His voice was low, pained. He stayed near the bottom of the ramp, his weight shifting slightly before he planted his feet and stood resolute, a sigh shrugging his shoulders gently before he went on. “At first I thought that was just the Jedi way, what do I know?” You chuckled softly. “But things have gotten worse. You’re…. You’re different.”

You scoffed, arms coming across your chest as your hip cocked out to the side, head tilting slightly with a sarcastic smirk. “You’re right. What do you know?” The words practically sneered from your lips, and you regretted them the moment they spilled, but you didn’t make a move to take them back.

It was like something had taken over your body, your motions…. Nothing felt entirely like your own, but it also felt so right down to your very bones. It made you shudder slightly at the contradiction warring inside your mind. 

Ignoring your slight, Din went on, his weight shifted to one leg. “Fine. Explain it to me.”

Arms going wide, you began to gesture as you spoke, voice raising with each word. “I’m doing this to protect the two of you, Din! I was useless before! Now I’m-“

“Now you’re what?”

“Strong.” Your brow furrowed as you stared up at his visor bravely. Holding his gaze, you never once wavered under its unforgiving stare. “Now I can help.”

“Really?” Din nearly chuckled, gesturing vaguely back toward the ship. “Because Grogu is so scared of you,” he dropped his arm, leaning in closer to you, his voice lowered, “he won’t leave the ship.”

“That’s not-“ you turned around in a circle and realized the kid wasn’t there. “Where is he, Din? You’re hiding him aren’t you? To prove a point.” Looking around once again, you let out an emotionless chuckle. “You stashed him in the bunk, didn’t you?” You started up the ramp. “I told you not to-“

“Don’t.”

You stopped in your tracks, staring blankly ahead toward the opening of the Crest, not really seeing anything in front of you but the white hot anger that began to brew just under your skin. “Excuse me?” If your words were any quieter, you’d not have heard them yourself. Turning to him, you arched a brow.

He stared at you in silence for only a moment before he spoke in a soft, but firm, voice. “Until you sort this out, don’t go back on the ship.”

With a scoff in disbelief, you shifted your weight to your other hip, one hand coming to rest there, and rolled your eyes. “It’s my home, Din.” You chuckled again, your tone still dry and mirthless. “What are you talking about?”

He walked past you up the ramp, turning once he was at the top and hesitantly lifting his hand onto the lever. “Until you sort this out, until you get back to…. You…. It’s not.” His visor fixed squarely on you, Din’s fingers rolled in a procession of indecision along the spine of the metal gripped tightly in his hand, his gloves creaking with the effort in the silence. You stared right back. Met him ounce for ounce. Until…. He pulled down and closed the ramp.

Stumbling backwards as the ship lifted a few feet off the ground, the ramp beginning to close, you fell to the ground with a thump , landing flat on your back. The wind knocked out of you as you stared up at the shrinking form of the Crest, an anger you’d never felt before consumed you, and you reached out one hand, crying out in anguish as you held the ship firmly in place. 

Whether it was a cry of pain, emotional or physical, fear, maybe even frustration, you didn’t know. All you knew was you couldn’t let them leave, and whatever it was boiled up and out of your throat as you watched the ship struggle against your hold. The metal moaned and groaned against your pull, the trees surrounding it bowing and bending in the wind from the engines. Limbs began to catch fire from the flames as Din hit the accelerators to try and break free from the phantom grip, but it was no use. 

Somehow you made it to your feet, one hand extended to keep the ship held still, tree limbs doused in flames falling to the forest floor with loud thuds all around you. With your other hand, you reached for your saber, not really sure why, but suddenly it was in your hand and ignited as you made your way toward the viewport of the ship.

Stalking around the corner, you stopped short when you saw your reflection in the transparisteel - your eyes had gone yellow and your saber - it had started to bleed. Red streaks were oozing down from the tip, tainting the once brilliant purple glow of balance with the bright red of hate. 

Blinking rapidly and shaking your head as you released the ship, you disengaged the blade and threw it to the ground, staring at it as if it had bit you while Din brought the ship back down with a thunk. 

The blaze of the fallen branches painted the reflective hull of the Crest in an eerie glow, shadows dancing all around as you curled in on yourself, staring at your saber where it had landed on the forest floor.

Din lowered the ramp and stomped down to you, getting in your face, but didn’t touch you. A deep enough breath would be all it would take to close the distance. You had to crane your neck back to hold the gaze of his visor, your face about to crumble under its weight this time. It’s the first time he’s seen you flinch in a long while. Looking at your reflection in his visor, you see your eyes are back to normal, but that settled next to nothing in your gut. “Let us go, mesh’la.”

“No. I won’t.” Then quieter. “I can’t.”

Din sighed, and you almost smiled at the borderline normal response from the Mandalorian. “Why not?”

Eyes fluttering shut, you willed yourself not to cry. “Because without the two of you, I’ll completely break. And when that happens….. when that happens, you’ll never get me back.” Making your way the few steps to the bottom of the ramp, you sat on it, still looking up at your warped reflection in his visor. It was fitting. Your eyes may be back to normal, but your face…. Your face looked twisted and broken. Exactly how you felt. “I’ll never get back to you.”

Xxx

Shooting up in the small confines of the bunk space of the Crest, you took a sharp breath. Eyes darting all over, familiar blinking lights winking at you in greeting, the thunk under the cargo hold saying hello, and the soft snores of Grogu sawing steadily away in the background….

You jumped as strong, warm arms wound around your waist, the comforting press of a familiar chest leaning into your spine, the prickle of facial hair tickled your shoulder where it softly came to rest as gentle breaths puffed against your cheek….

“Mesh’la….?” A deep voice hummed in question.

A voice you’d know anywhere.

Vocoder or not.

“Sorry,” you breathed. “Bad dream.” Huffing out a laugh, you shook your head gently. “Bad dream.”

“Wanna talk about it?” He sounded like he was already halfway back asleep.

Turning your head to look at his profile in the low light of the bunk, you smiled softly as your eyes flicked over his face. “No, cyare.” Reaching a hand up to cup his cheek, you pulled him into you for a soft kiss. “Thank you. I’ll be fine. Nuhoy.” (“Beloved.”) (“Sleep.”)

As he pulled you back down toward the bedroll with him, your face melted into something a bit more contemplative.

It hadn’t been just a dream.

It had been a warning.

Slipping from the bunk once Din’s breaths had evened out, you walked over to where your belt hung by the fresher. Taking the saber from the belt, you glanced over to the open bunk, your expression tight, and closed the door with a wave of your hand.

Dismantling it down to the kyber inside, you breathed a sigh of relief when the crystal winked at you in the low light, unblemished. It’s purple hue completely unmarred from the ugly red it’d had in your dream.

After you reassembled the hilt, you ignited the blade and relaxed your shoulders further when the cargo hold was illuminated in the soft purple glow.

You stared at the blade for a moment, getting lost in the sea of silence hyperspace surrounded you with.

Careful.

Careful. 

Careful.

Be mindful, little one.

I sense much fear in you….

“Not right now, kyber blade,” you mumbled to yourself as you addressed the saber. “Now it’s time for sleep. Not time for voices.” Disengaging the blade, you clipped it back to your belt before making your way back into the bunk. “I couldn’t get a blue crystal. Or green. No. I had to get a wise ass purple one. The universe is testing me. Literally.”

Luke had told you to be careful, as well.

Maybe you needed to listen.

But this was a problem for the morning.

For now, you needed to do nothing but settle into the arms of your Mandalorian and rest.

But come morning…. Come morning, things were going to happen.

And you knew you would do whatever you needed to do to protect your family, your aliit.

Your clan of three.

Whatever it took, no matter how far you had to go….

You would always find a way to bring them back to you.

Xxx

(Click here for just the art in its own post.)

Xxx

Tags To Come!

[nirikeehan]

Happy Friday! I'm really interested to know more about the Nightmare!AU 👀 So maybe: "Composed characters losing their composure" for anyone of your choosing in that AU?

AAAHHH thank you. I’m obsessed with this AU because I like it when everything is hideous. The previous fic in this verse set up a conversation between my Inquisitor Thalia and Samson, so I went with that. Things got long, weird and terrible. I’m so sorry. 

For @dadrunkwriting

Also thank you to @inquisimer for the encouragement and the vital piece of headcanon that made the ending possible.

Rating: M 

Word Count: 4593

CW: Some mild non-con elements, because Samson is a creepy sad sack. Also a situation that is construed by one character as a suicide attempt. 

---

At least I’m still alive, Thalia thought grimly, peering through the bars of her cage. 

She had been imprisoned in this metal rectangle for untold days in Skyhold’s freezing Undercroft, under a sheet to blind her to everything but the sound of the falls. She had feared going mad there. Only hours ago she’d been moved, and the sheet had been reveal a nasty quartet of Red Templars, and the room was her own. 

“What’s happening?” she’d demanded. 

“Boss wants to see you,” grunted the Red Templar.

“Corypheus?” Thalia asked, but the guards said nothing more, and left.

Seeing her quarters like this filled Thalia with sadness and dread. She had loved the luxurious tower in Skyhold she had been afforded as Inquisitor. More decadent and spacious than her rooms in the Trevelyan estate — and a far cry from the cramped dormitory she’d shared with half a dozen other mages in the Circle — it had felt, for the first time in her life, like a space that truly belonged to her. 

Now it was marred and violated: furniture ransacked, her beloved bookshelves bare, the beautiful lute gifted to her by a discerning noble smashed into kindling. What hadn’t been destroyed was replaced by ghoulish ornamentation: overflowing chests of gold and jewels, stolen pieces of artwork, divans and carpets and ornately carved tables littered with the foul remnants of vice: empty bottles of all shapes and sizes; rotting, half-eaten fruit; scraps of clothing belonging to both men and women. 

Footsteps on the stair forced her upright. She squinted through the gloom, her blood pounding in her ears. A man cleared the landing. A thrill of joy and relief shot through her: she’d know the silhouette of that fur-lined coat anywhere. She grabbed the metal bars and pressed her face between them. “Cullen?” 

The man stepped into the dying glow from the fireplace, and shot her a nasty smirk. “Sorry to disappoint.” 

A horrified gasp escaped her throat. She shrank back. “You— you—”

“Yes, me,” said Raleigh Samson, Corypheus’s general. “I’m king of the castle these days, so to speak.” 

Thalia had not seen Samson since the siege of Skyhold, when he and his men had breached the battlements, followed by Corypheus on his archdemon, framed by swirling black sky. With her remaining companions, she had stood behind Cullen as he’d drawn his sword, determined to make one final stand. They’d been separated in the ensuing chaos. She’d hoped, even in the bleak solitary confinement of the Undercroft, that others might have survived. 

“He’s dead, then?” she whispered. 

Samson drew closer. He had a face that might have been handsome once, but now his skin stretched over his bones. Premature lines criss-crossed his face, and his hair was thinner than the last time she saw him. Dark circles seemed a permanent fixture under his grey eyes, and his smile pulled on dry, cracked lips.

“They all are, love,” he said softly. “You’re the last one left. Too valuable for the master to kill, of course.” 

His gaze dropped to her left hand, emanating a sickly green light. 

“Yet.” Thalia swallowed. 

“Yet,” Samson agreed. “He’s still got business to attend to before he has need of the anchor. You’ve been left in my care for the duration.” 

“What the hell does that mean?” 

Samson sighed, turning from her abruptly. “Now, now, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I don’t know what your boyfriend might have told you about me, but I assure you I’m a perfect gentleman.” 

“Perfect gentlemen don’t usually have to assert themselves as such,” Thalia retorted. “Nor do they usually work for crazed demigods bent on destroying the world.” 

“I’m wounded,” Samson murmured, staring into the hearth’s embers. “You’ve built your opinion of me on rumor and hearsay.”

“What else could I do? It’s not like you ever stopped by Skyhold for tea.” 

“Sounds nice, actually.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Would you care for some?”

Thalia stared. She was kneeling in a cage, her wrists and ankles shackled, cold and dirty and hungry from the untold time spent in the Undercroft. “You’re offering me tea?” 

“Why not?” Samson turned to face her. “Or are you thinking I’m too barbaric for such a thing?”

A sense of unease crept along Thalia’s ribs. He must want something from her, but she couldn’t figure out what: unequivocally, Corypheus had won. She was at his mercy, and Samson’s. She swallowed against a lump in her throat. “I’ll take some, I suppose.” 

She expected, at best, to be handed a cup through the metal bars, but Samson fished through the inner pockets of his stolen jacket and produced a ring upon which hung a set of skeleton keys. He inserted one into the lock on her cage door and turned it. The door creaked open. 

“You must be toying with me,” Thalia said. 

“Does it look like I’m toying?” Samson stepped back, palms up as if in surrender. “Where you going to go, exactly?”

He had a point. The exit was downstairs, in an area surely crawling with guards. Her only other option was the balconies, with a hundred plus foot drop into the icy ravines surrounding Skyhold. Thalia limped out of the cell cautiously, the chains on her ankles too short to allow for a normal stride. The shackles on her wrists pulsated with imbedded shards of red lyrium. In small amounts, it had not been enough to cause corruption, but something about it prevented her from summoning enough mana to work a spell. She’d desperately wished Dagna were here to study it. To Samson, she was completely harmless. 

He nodded toward the door off the bedroom. “Go on. Washroom’s over there. Clean yourself up, you look a fright.”

“I know where the washroom is,” Thalia retorted. “I used to live here.”

“So you did. You always stick your nose up at hospitality, or is that a newfound practice of yours?” 

She bit back another flippant response. Her time as the Inquisitor had emboldened her, but before that she’d endured over a decade in the Ostwick Circle, where the mages were always one sarcastic remark away from discipline at the ends of the Templars. She could see something of the Templar bearing in Samson, in fact; a rigidness in his posture that reminded her, painfully, of Cullen. 

“Thank you,” she muttered through gritted teeth, and turned away. 

The guise of washing gave her a few precious moments alone to collect herself. The washroom behind the main room of the tower was largely unchanged. A basin full of clean water awaited her. She cupped some in her hands and stared at herself in the mirror. Samson hadn’t been kidding: her hair was a greasy, tangled mess, face streaked with dirt and dried blood. 

She splashed the water on her face and took to scrubbing at her skin with a washrag. The grime melted away to reveal a face paler and thinner than she’d recalled, the circular tattoo of the Ostwick Circle standing out prominently on her brow and cheekbone. She had no means to wash her hair, and the shackles made styling it difficult, but she managed to pull out the half-unraveled plaits. She pulled the unruly mass back from her head in a simple bun and looked almost respectable afterward.

She paused with her hand on the door knob. Surely Samson would become suspicious if she took too long, but she relished a moment alone to think through her strategy. Samson had her bested in every way. There was no point in trying to fight him, but at the very least she might be able to learn something by conversing.

His motivation was likewise a mystery. He was trying to get her to lower her guard, but why? Did she possess vital information in turn, something that Corypheus’s forces had been unable to uncover? She couldn’t imagine what that could be. 

She hobbled out into a brighter room. Samson had stoked the fire and lit a number of candles, cleared some of the mess off the low table. He put down a teapot of finely crafted porcelain and a matching set of delicate teacups. The image jarred her — this rough and grizzled man setting a place for her, as well as a tin of biscuits, a pot of jam. She wondered which noble’s manse had been ransacked for the finery. 

“Sit,” he said, in a tone that was both kind and a command. 

Thalia perched on the edge of the divan. She recognized it. It had been moved, and stained with a number of untold substances since she’d last seen it, but it was hers. She recalled a number of times sitting here with Cullen as the light outside turned golden and faded, curled up with a book, her feet in his lap. She thought of the smile he would give her each time she peeked over the top of the tome. Her heart ached.

She clutched her hands together, the weight of the shackles pressing down on her lap. Samson leaned over and poured the tea into her cup. She watched his hands tremble, another familiar sight. 

“Low on lyrium?” she asked before she could stop herself. “I’m surprised Corypheus would deprive you.” 

He halted, jerking his head up to catch her gaze. His eyes looked more red than grey now, but perhaps they were only reflecting the firelight. 

“I’ve plenty,” Samson snapped, standing upright. 

“I see.” It’s just not enough, then. His addiction is that bad. She’d known Cullen had considered Samson a cautionary tale, an example of a future where he could not resist the lyrium’s siren call, and she was beginning to understand his fear. Even world domination could not cure Samson’s sunken eyes, sallow skin and constant need for a fix. She reached out and took the teacup off its saucer. “My thanks.”

He only grunted in acknowledgement, and Thalia knew she’d hit a nerve. 

Samson sat down heavily in a chair across from her and picked up his own cup of tea. She didn’t drink until he’d taken a sip himself, though she knew if he wanted her dead, he could have killed her weeks ago. He watched her closely as she drank. She tried to maintain the posture she’d been taught as a child, but her stomach was so empty she experienced a ravenous desire to fill it. She eyed the biscuits hungrily.

“Go on.” Samson slouched in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. “Didn’t put them out for decoration.” 

Thalia hesitated. If she resisted, she would maintain the moral high ground but not much else. A full stomach would help her more in the long run. She leaned forward and snatched a biscuit, shoving it in her mouth in a decidedly unladylike manner. When she looked up, Samson’s gaze still bore into hers, with an intensity that made her uncomfortable. 

“Ostwick, eh?” he said. 

She leaned back, to put more space between them. “What do you mean?” she asked, licking crumbs from her lips. Surely word had traveled far enough that even Corypheus’s forces knew the Inquisitor had hailed from the Trevelyans of Ostwick.

He waved his hand in front of one eye. “The mark of the Circle.” 

“Oh. That.” Her fingers crept to her cheekbone, where the tattoo began, curving its way around her eye. “Most people forget that’s what it means.” An absurd statement — as if there was anyone left to care. 

“I didn’t.” Samson squared his shoulders. “Worked with a few mages from Ostwick once. Heard about the things they did to you there. Branding you like cattle.” He looked away with a grimace. “Made my stomach turn.” 

Bits of biscuit caught in Thalia’s throat as she swallowed. His disgust sounded genuine, a disgust that she shared. As if collecting blood for mage’s phylacteries hadn’t been enough, the Templar leadership in the Ostwick Circle had decided that the best way to ensure mages didn’t escape was to tattoo a symbol of the Circle onto their faces. Phylacteries could be broken, went the logic, but disfiguring someone’s features was permanent.  

“I don’t remember the First Enchanter sending anyone to Kirkwall while I was at the Circle,” Thalia said quietly.

A grin quirked at the corner of Samson’s lips. “Didn’t work with ‘em while I was a Templar. I helped ‘em escape.” 

“You — what?” 

“Oh, did Cullen not tell you that part? That after I was tossed out of the Gallows, I ran unhappy mages to freedom across the sea?” Samson tilted his head. “Typical. He was always trying to shut us down, after all.” 

Was Raleigh Samson trying to tell her that he understood the mages’ plight — the biggest issue she’d once clashed with her advisors on? Even Cullen, who sympathized with her point of view, having been on the enforcement end of the mages’ oppression, who had ultimately supported her decision, had his misgivings about giving them their unconditional freedom. And now, was Corypheus’s general truly trying to say he supported that cause? 

Her eyes narrowed. “Hang on. Cullen told me you used to traffic people. For money.”

Samson let out a disappointed sigh. “A man’s gotta eat, love.” 

“Or feed a lyrium habit,” Thalia retorted. “Sometimes those mages ended up in the hands of slavers, I heard.”

“Hey. That wasn’t my doing. Some people can pay more than others. Or at all.”

“How magnanimous of you. And when the Mage-Templar war broke out, your customer base dried up. Then you turned to smuggling lyrium. Red lyrium, for Corypheus.” Thalia shook her head. “Forgive me, but you aren’t going to win much sympathy from me, painting yourself as the courageous freedom fighter. Where are all those mages now? Dead or enslaved, just like everyone else.” 

“There you go, sounding just like Cullen.” A muscle in Sams’s jaw clenched. “Thought maybe, given your background, you’d be more reasonable. But I suppose he has you wrapped around his little finger after all.” 

Thalia bristled. She wanted to throw the remainder of her tea in Samson’s smug face, but her fingers halted gripped around the cup.  

He’d spoken about Cullen in the present tense. 

Thalia slowly returned the teacup to its saucer, struggling to keep her composure. “Is that what this is about? Proving Cullen wrong?” What else might she be able to wheedle out of him? “Is that why you’re sitting there, wearing his coat, trying to convince me you’re actually the hero here? Do you wish you were him that badly?” 

“Ha! Me, wish I were him?” Samson leapt to his feet and began to pace. “Why on earth would I wish to be that simpering dog lord? Oh, sure, he was always the golden boy on the surface, kissing Meredith’s arse all the way to the top. But you didn’t know him like I knew him, love. Always battling the demons inside his little head. I helped him out when he needed it, filching an extra dose here and there to take the edge off. I was a good friend, see? And what did he do, when he’d made Knight-Captain and Meredith kicked me out into the gutter, copperless?”

Samson leaned down, leering at her. Thalia tried to inch away, but Samson grabbed her chin and forced her to look him in the eye. His pupils glowed with a scarlet fury. Thalia’s heart hammered against her ribcage. 

“What did he do?” she whispered. 

“Nothing,” Samson growled. “He did nothing. For years. Even when I tried — I tried to help round up the mage extremists and get reinstated, but he couldn’t take the risk. Too much of a junkie — too addicted to the lyrium the bloody Chantry poured down my throat. I was a liability to him, don’t you understand? I was worthless.” 

Pain cut through every word of his rant. Thalia watched him with a mixture of fear and sorrow. He was a deeply broken man, that much was evident. Thalia found herself recalling the long afternoons spent with Cullen, trying to track Samson’s movements, how every clue seemed to remind her that there must still be humanity inside him. Cullen never budged. He was moved only by rage at his former friend, the exact same rage she now saw fueling Samson. How did it end up like this? she wondered.

“And then— and then.” Samson sat on the divan beside her, clutching her hands. “I see him running the Inquisition. Following the so-called ‘Herald of Andraste,’ — a mage! When I’d had far more sympathy for their cause — when I’d done far more—” He let out an agitated huff. “Some men are just bloody lucky, I suppose. Good looks, charm, obedience, is that truly all it takes? He gets the fame, the glory, even the girl…” 

With one shaky hand, and a gentleness that surprised her, he cupped her cheek. His other hand clenched her palm, engulfing the light from the anchor, nails digging into her skin. Thalia froze, not daring to breathe. Cullen was right. He’s gone mad. 

A desperate smile spread across Samson’s face. “Well, I’ve showed him. Who’s laughing now? I’m here, second-in-command to a living god, and he’s below us, rotting in the dungeon…” 

He embraced her, clinging to her like a man drowning. Thalia let him, too stunned to fight back.

“I thought,” she breathed into his ear, “you said Cullen was dead.” 

Samson jerked back, eyes narrowed. “Technically, you said that, love, not me. Who the fuck cares about Cullen, eh? I can offer you so much more than him.” 

She stared, aghast. “You brought me all the way up here, let me out of that cage, tried to entreat with me… because you’re lonely?” 

“Why not? ’S very isolating at the top.” He drew a stray piece of hair behind her ear, making her shiver. “I thought you of all people would know that.” 

Trying not to recoil, Thalia took a deep breath. “And what does Corypheus think of this plan?” 

“Well. He don’t exactly know about it yet.” Samson scratched at the stubble on his chin. “But I think he’d come around eventually. He did with that Dorian bloke.” 

“I’m sorry, what?” 

Samson chortled. “That’s right, he was a friend of yours, wasn’t he? Heads the Venatori now. See what I mean? Corypheus can be reasonable.”

Thalia opened her mouth and closed it again, shocked. The Dorian Pavus she knew would have chosen death before siding with Tevinter supremacists, never mind agreeing to be their leader. Yet — all the rules of her reality had already been broken. If Cullen was alive, why not Dorian? Cullen was here in the Skyhold dungeons, and Dorian must be wherever the Venatori had set up their headquarters. Minrathous, probably. How many of her former allies might still be out there? Were any of them biding their time, looking for a sign, a glimpse of hope?

“Dorian’s a Tevinter,” she said with feigned blitheness. “I imagine he has a leg up from a lowly mage from Ostwick who accidentally got the anchor stuck in her hand.” 

“Perhaps.” Samson slouched beside her, leaning on an elbow to prop up his jaw. His gaze was feverish, a mix of hatred and desire — though she couldn’t be sure if it was her he lusted after, or merely the sense of superiority she would provide him. “But if I were to vouch for you, Corypheus wouldn’t have need to kill you anymore, would he?” 

“You mean work for him.” Thalia’s tone was cold.

Samson shrugged. “You got anything else going on at the moment?” 

“And— what? Agree to be your—” She searched for a polite term and tried not to shudder. “Paramour?” 

“Hey, don’t put it like that. I told you, I’m a gentleman. I ain’t forcing you to do anything. I just want you to give me a chance, that’s all.” He leaned forward and took her wrist, holding it up for her to see. “There’s a lot I could do for you, love. You’d like your freedom back, wouldn’t you?” 

Thalia looked down at his clammy hand, but something aside from the shackles caught her attention. Cullen’s coat hung open on Samson’s slighter frame, revealing an inside lapel pocket she knew all too well. When the jacket had been Cullen’s, he was forever stuffing missives and scraps of notes to himself in there. The fabric dipped open, revealing the ring of skeleton keys he’d produced to let her out of her cage.

I wonder what other locks those keys could open. She thought of Cullen, in the dank dungeon, any screams being drowned out by the roaring of Skyhold’s falls. She swallowed hard. 

“I suppose that would be nice,” she said softly. 

Samson let out a smug laugh and dropped her wrist. “Good girl. Glad to see you’re not as thick as Cullen. ‘Reckon she’s got a brain in her head,’ I said to myself. ‘I bet she’s not too proud to refuse me.’” 

“Is that what Cullen did? Refuse you?” Thalia felt a painful pang in her chest, because that sounded just like him. He would never bow down to the likes of Samson, now or ever. It was a wonder his stubbornness hadn’t gotten him killed already.

“Not only that, but he was an absolute tit about it,” Samson spat. “But I’ll show him. Oh, I will. Was being too lenient before now, outta the tenderness of my heart. Nah, I’ll get him in the end, when the red lyrium’s song consumes him.” 

“What?” Thalia cried. 

A slow smirk crossed Samson’s face. “Oh, don’t you worry about that. He won’t be a problem much longer. No one can resist the crimson melody for very long, ‘specially not a Templar. Soon he’ll be as compliant as the rest.” He stretched out slowly and luxuriously, like a cat. “And you’ll be mine, eh?” 

Panic gripped her. If anything was being done to Cullen with red lyrium, she didn’t have time to play the long game. She couldn’t afford to be sweet and obedient until she lulled Samson into a false sense of security. She didn’t have days, or probably even hours. All the while, Samson sat beside her, offering her treats and pretty promises.

“Cullen was right,” she hissed. “You are a monster.” 

“Eh, maybe. C’mere.” 

He grabbed the chain around her wrists and yanked her closer. In his eyes she saw rage and fear and a cruel triumph; underneath it loomed a fierce, fathomless sadness. 

He raised her chin with his finger and kissed her. She could feel the desperation there, all the loneliness and agony, the shadow of his addiction and the bitterness it had formed inside him, thinking he was unworthy, believing it damned him forever — unless he reached out and took the world by sheer force. It made her feel, for the briefest of moments, sorry for him. 

She kissed back. Not because she wanted to, but because a man so starved for attention would be distracted by any drop of the thing he craved. 

When they parted, Samson leaned his forehead against hers to catch his breath, and Thalia held a set of keys in one hand. “You’re lovely,” he murmured, and his cadence twisted a thread of pity deep inside her. 

She tried to slip the keyring behind her and under a cushion, but the shackles made her clumsy. She spoke to hide any noise they might make. “You could be better than this,” she blurted. 

“Nah,” Samson said. “I’ve made my choices.”

She tried to think of something else to say, but he leaned in again, too soon — knocking her hand and sending the keys clanging to the floor. 

Samson pulled away, gaze dropping in confusion. “Wha—?” 

Thalia grabbed the teapot from the table and shattered it against his forehead. Shards of porcelain and lukewarm tea flew everywhere. Samson let out a shriek of fury, clapping a hand over his brow where blood poured into his eyes. He lurched to his feet, but Thalia moved faster. She scooped up the set of keys and staggered away.

“You little bitch,” Samson seethed, swaying. “Get back here right now.” 

He swung for her, but clumsily; Thalia dodged and tried to run. The chains on her ankles limited her movement and she nearly went sprawling. She shored herself up by leaning against the metal cage. She gripped the bars and tipped it over to put an obstacle between them. The corner of the cage clipped Samson’s ankle and he let out another pained yell. “Guards! Guards!” 

Thalia limped out onto the balcony. A darkness black as night engulfed her, but the sky was roiling and starless. The wind was colder and more biting than she remembered.

 She had to get away from Samson long enough to see if the keys fit her shackles, but there was no time. He was storming drunkenly after her, one hand nursing his forehead. 

“Don’t be difficult, little girl,” he crooned. “Come back and I’ll be forgiving. There’s nowhere to go, anyhow.” 

Thalia hit the marble balustrade, breathing hard. She knew how utterly she was trapped. How many months had she spent on this very balcony, gazing out at the snow-capped mountains? How many times had Cullen stood here with her, slipping his arm around her shoulders to warm her while the sun set? 

It’s not going to work, she thought desperately. Cullen was directly below her, and she could never reach him. Soon the Red Templars would appear on the stair landing, and they would help Samson drag her back inside, and then… 

Thalia gritted her teeth and hoisted herself up onto the balustrade. With effort, she rolled into a sitting position, the keys in a vise-like grip in one hand. She looked around; Samson stood only feet away, one side of his face a curtain of red. The anger had drained from his gaunt face. In its place, lighted only by the emerald glow of her anchor, stood naked fear. 

“Come on now, love,” he said, his voice breaking. “Surely it can’t be that bad?” 

She recognized his tone. It was the one Templars at the Ostwick Circle had taken with distraught mages — the nice Templars, anyway. The ones Thalia had thought might still have a conscience beneath the facade of duty and protocol. The realization slashed something savage through her heart. She swung her legs onto the far side of the balcony.

“This is the world you built,” she shouted. “Look around you, Samson. Yes. It is that bad.” 

Samson stared at her, stricken. 

“Then I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I am. Come down from there and we’ll talk about it, yeah?” 

He held out a hand, sticky with blood. Thalia looked at it, and then, her stomach lurching, into the chasm below. She could see nothing but darkness, but if she concentrated, she thought she could hear vast, rushing water. She thought of the falls that ran through Skyhold’s dungeons, eating through so much stone that some cells could never be repaired, lest the keep’s entire foundation collapse. 

Was it Solas who’d told her that there may be some ancient magic warding Skyhold’s walls, making it impossible to hurt oneself by falling? Or perhaps it had been Cole. She’d never tried to verify the rumor herself, for obvious reasons. And what counted as “within” the walls, exactly? She swallowed hard, clutching the keys to her chest.

“Thalia,” Samson said. He drew closer, his hand trembling in the frigid air. “Please. Don’t.” 

“It’s too late,” Thalia whispered, and jumped.