for notes, letters, and other exchanges
- the door to Samson's room is guarded by an armed man; open-door visitors may come and go during appointed hours; private visits may be held with permission from the appropriate authority (or by bypassing the guard somehow, if you're so determined)
- paper messages may be exchanged; all contents will be skimmed by an officer unless delivered surreptitiously
- he has no sending crystal nor any message book at this time
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![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
letters;
Dear Samson,
Hello! It's Merrill. I'm back in Kirkwall, for the moment, though I think I might leave for a while. The Inquisition can handle things without me, but there are many others who aren't so lucky. We have traveled through many places as the Inquisition, but I worry about the other elves I've met. The letters will get to me, though, so don't let that stop you from writing back!
I worry about you, too. I hope you're not being treated too poorly. Have they fixed the part that fell off the mountain? Is it very cold?
Your friend,
Merrill
no subject
Merrill,
My treatment remains the same as it was before the Inquisition sent the lot of you off to the Marches, but now, with scarcely any visitors, the time passes more slowly. I listen to my fellow prisoners, few that they are, talk amongst themselves – I'll join them sometimes, but there's a lot of effort in talking. So more often I listen. I listen to the wind – there's plenty of that. Whispering at all hours, day and night.
If the hole is fixed, the griffons won't be able to fly off and back again. Is that why the beasts have gone? I listen for them too, out there croaking and beating their wings about, but there's been no sign for weeks.
I spend much of my time sleeping, or trying to. I am always cold.
How's the north coast been treating you? It's best not to tell me where exactly you've been – whoever's tasked with examining my letters will just stroke it out anyway. Can't blame them for that, can you?
[A thick scribble, just one or two words long; rather than third-party censorship, it looks like the author changed his mind.]
Samson
no subject
Dear Samson,
Do they talk about anything interesting? Have you made any friends with them? I'm sorry that the days pass more slowly, now; I'll try and keep writing to make sure you at least have something to do.
The griffons came to Kirkwall. I don't know which they prefer; I'd think the mountains. I know I did. Kirkwall is a maze, as always; I've left to clear my head. I'm outside Sundermount for now, where [ and there there is a blotch of ink, as if she rested the tip of her quill on the paper, thinking ] my clan used to be. Sometimes I think I can still hear them, but my dog chases any ghosts away, if they linger in the camp.
His name is Barkley; a mutt who was given to me when he was a puppy. He and Honeysuckle, my horse, are the only companions with me now other than my thoughts. It's strange, going from living in a clan to being by yourself. I suppose it's similar to you; you were used to the barracks and then the crowded streets of the lower parts of Kirkwall. Now both of us have too much space and feel cramped for it.
Perhaps they'll let one of the mages cast a sleeping spell on you, to help - and perhaps more blankets, also. You should ask. Or whoever is reading this first, if you could do that, it'd be very nice of you.
Your friend,
Merill
no subject
Merrill,
—
[Quill down again, and he leans back with the elf's letter held against his mouth and chin, the paper's natural edge grazing the underside of his nose. Eyes closed, breathing softly.]
What you said about space – how it can be too little and too much all at once – has stuck with me since I first read it. Keeps turning over and over in my mind. Ponder that long enough, it makes you wonder if any of what you're seeing is real.
Blankets can't help – this chill comes from the inside. There's nothing for it but what they won't give me. But I'll not beg this time.
[Tap, tap, tap, blot.]
That's all I've got this time. The rest isn't
[The rest of that line is scratched out, the thought left abandoned; he's clearly struggling to finish the letter properly.]
Please write again soon.
Samson
no subject
Dear Samson,
I hope what I said about space hasn't kept you up. I suppose being asleep is less dangerous for you than it is for me, and hopefully it is comfortable, but I also don't know; I have never known dreams where I wasn't aware of the Fade. I was gone from my parents at an early age because of it, but not in the way most mages you're familiar with are. Another clan needed mages and so I went with them and was raised by the Keeper. They became my clan, my family, until I left.
My clan and I did not always get along, but I miss them. I miss Hawke and the others from Kirkwall, too.
Maybe I will leave the Marches soon. I am tired of seeing ghosts.
Where is one place you haven't traveled that you have always wanted to see?
Your friend,
Merrill
no subject
These are only conversational thoughts, but they'd be taken as attempts to gain intelligence; he might even be made to rewrite the letter. So he thinks for a long time before he lays down any ink.
Same trembling strokes, same paper, same musty traces in the fibres.]
Merrill,
If you'd asked me years ago, I might have answered Minrathous. The capital of a nation ruled by mages – always wondered what such a place might look like. But I've since lost all desire to see it.
One of the other prisoners (a Warden) described a place near Weisshaupt that boasts a huge statue of Andraste, hewn right into the mountain – it may be the largest in the world. They call it "Our Lady of the Anderfels". Odds are I'll never see her with my own eyes, so I'll have to be content with imagining.
Often I've wondered, too, what it must be like to live as a mage. Not the most obvious parts, being in a Circle and what-else – saw plenty of that firsthand – but everyday things we take for granted, like dreaming, as you mentioned. What's it like to be conscious while you sleep? Do you find any rest at all?
On the other hand, I know just how you feel about your family. Mine are long gone, but even if they weren't, I wouldn't want to see them again. Wouldn't want to spoil whatever memories they might've had.
The Chantry teaches its children that ghosts aren't real; but we know better, don't we?
Samson
[Almost as an afterthought, squeezed in at the bottom of the page, is the small outline of a rat. It's a bit lumpy, but what do you want, he's not an artist.]
no subject
Dear Samson,
I have spent most of my life traveling and yet it seems like I have seen very little. I haven't; I could tell you about beautiful trees and hidden pools and where vines wrap around stone so well that you can climb up using them. But cities? Statues that are not of elven make? I know next to nothing about them. I've been to the Anderfels, though. It was [ another slight blotch of ink; thinking happened, here ] eventful.
It depends on the night. Some are worse than others. Sometimes you wake up feeling as if you've been in a great battle. Sometimes it's because you were.
They say that the People, the elves, used to be immortal. Instead of dying of old age, they went in uthenera - the long sleep, the endless dream. When they were weary of the waking world, they slept. Sometimes they would wake up and tell us of what they found in their wanderings. Sometimes they would truly die, wasting away. I have often wondered if it was less dangerous to dream then, that our elders would willingly do it.
There are always ghosts. Some are just more literal than others.
A friend of mine used to feed the rats in the prison. I wonder if anyone else does, now.
Your friend,
Merrill
no subject
It's gloomy down here today: there's been rain and the damp is everywhere. The only body not curled up beneath a blanket is the guard's, and I bet she wishes she had one too.
I had a dream about those things you mentioned – the secret pools, the climbing vines, the trees. Our Lady of the Anderfels was there, her feet tangled in ivy. Water poured down like thunder from the eternal flame in her hand. Soaking the wasteland with life. And not a ghost to be found. Like one of your elders, I wouldn't have minded staying there forever.
I should thank you for the letters. They've helped make everything a little more bearable. Even the damp. I thought these months gone by would be my last, but there they've gone and here I still am. I might even be gaining some weight back.
Getting fat on your words...
Samson
[While looking over this completed letter, he feels suddenly foolish and nearly succumbs to the urge to crumple and tear it apart—but instead he lies down on his flat bed on the floor and frowns and stews in thoughts that feel like bruises until sleep comes. Upon awakening, he adds a hastily drawn cheese, captioned for the rats, then folds the page and pesters the guard into to taking it before he can change his mind.]
no subject
It's gloomy here, too; all muddy and wet. Barkley has snuggled under the blankets and furs with me at night, and hogs them all while we're traveling during the day. Honeysuckle and I sit outside while we travel in our own blankets; he's quite cross whenever we have to cross water, since it's so cold. I was able to get some sugar from a trader, though, which makes him more willing to do it.
I hope you continue to have good dreams - and I'm glad that my letters have helped! There may be times when I'm not able to send them, but know that I will when I get a chance. I hope you're able to save them and can reread them; I save all of yours.
I realized I don't know how you came to the Marches. Were you born there? I like knowing about people, especially those I care about.
Your friend,
Merrill
[ There's a doodle of a grumpy-looking horse. There's a slightly more intricate drawing of flowers, trees, a waterfall, and the sun, as well, along with a scribbled "I'm not very good at drawing Andraste" next to the sun. ]
no subject
Dear Merrill,
Your last letter filled me nearly to bursting – and just like that, I remembered everything, and the dream came crashing down around me. And I just sat and hid under the rubble like a coward. That's why you've had to wait this long for a reply.
Merrill, I'm afraid we have drifted too far from the reality of things.
You must have noticed the difference in my handwriting by now. The tremor has nearly gone... at least for a few hours after my dose. It's still not enough, but now I can sleep again. All it took was a trade.
I bartered the safety of my men for lyrium, Merrill. I tried not to give away too much, but that little bit I let slip could be enough to do some real harm. I might as well have gone out and killed them myself. My own men. That's who you've come to care about.
For your own sake: don't forget who I am and what I've done.
Samson
[No doodles this time.]
no subject
Dear Samson,
Your men were already not safe. I've studied the red lyrium. I was there in Kirkwall, after all. I met Corypheus when he drew Hawke to him. Your men have a better chance with the Inquisition, even as prisoners, of surviving. Just as you do.
But if that doesn't soothe, then let me tell you of what I've done.
I left my clan because they believed I would harm them, because I was attempting to cleanse an ancient artifact of the Blight. My mere presence caused members of my clan to run away and straight into traps, straight into their deaths. Years later, my Keeper let herself be possessed because she thought that I would be possessed instead. After I had to kill what she became, I had to kill my entire clan - because they would not listen when I said that the Keeper had become an abomination, because they attacked me for killing her.
I killed my clan, my people, my family. I will never get that blood off my hands. I will never be welcome among the People again.
You are not the only one who has done things they regret.
Merrill
no subject
Most of what I want to say concerns the war and would be blocked out on review. That might be for the best, since none of it's very nice.
There is no comfort in knowing that you understand what it means to be an outcast – to be soaked in blood. The specifics of your story offer even less, if we are to be honest. Should it still matter to me, after what I've become? I don't know that it should, but in that place not yet dead, deep inside my worthless guts, it does matter.
Don't forget who I am and what I've done.
I'm sorry it had to be your family.
Samson
no subject
Dear Samson,
People are suspicious, wary. They do not always question authority. They did not question my Keeper. I imagine you have had plenty of instances without questioning authority yourself, on both ends of the spectrum. Hawke used to tell me that what happened to my Keeper and my clan wasn't truly my fault; that they made their own choices. Sometimes, I even let myself believe it.
I may not be able to write for a while. I'm going somewhere without much in the way of mail service. If you will have the guards send any letters you may write to Ellana Ashara, I will be able to pick them up from her. I'm in Skyhold as I write this; I wanted to visit, but I wasn't sure if you would want to see me. I thought it best not to risk it.
If you don't wish to hear from me any longer, I understand.
Still your friend,
Merrill
no subject
He's squeezed inside by a cold fist when his thoughts drift to Merrill, or their friendship, or the mess he fears he'd have made of it—just like he makes a mess of everything—so he does his best not to. He throws himself into what little work he's given. He nearly tears the head off of anyone who attempts to ask him about the letters or why they've stopped.
And then, the move...]