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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in the gardens;
Merrill has work to do that she cannot do in the alienage, and so the garden is her break spot, the best place to rest when she cannot bear to look at red lyrium or puzzle over the history of her people a second longer. It's harder lately, and Merrill has been taking more breaks in the cold. Her burn is healing, but she still wears shirts that have had the front cut down so that the fabric won't rub against the new, pink flesh. Her arm is healing as well, the scar from a magic lightning strike running down it like a tree. It still twitches without her control, sometimes; Merrill holds it tight to her side, keeps her work with her staff and her knife to the other hand when she can. Neither are out at the moment, of course; instead she is leaning back on a bench, eyes half-shut. Her feet are in boots, but the laces are untied, and there's a scarf balled up under the back of her head. It looks a bit like she's planning on taking a nap, as if people taking naps on benches in the garden during winter was perfectly normal.
Then again, it's Merrill; perhaps it is completely normal.
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Samson can only see a bit of her face from where he stands, and none of her afflictions, so he can only guess what she looks like: she must be dozing, because were she awake, she'd be doing something, if only fidgeting in her lap or moving her feet to keep time with her thoughts. And why shouldn't she rest here? She's surrounded by the things she loves. And the wild elves always bare their feet, besides, so what should she care about a chill? She's wearing boots, yes, but that must be a sign of wisdom, since the streets of Kirkwall aren't friendly to anyone's soles. Or souls, really.
After a time, he leaves the garden entranceway, quietly as he came.
When he returns, holding a flat book-sized something in his hands, he crosses the threshold properly and makes a point of skimming one of his boots over the grit to warn her deliberately of his presence. She probably already knew he was there, being an elf and all—elves have good hearing, don't they, otherwise what are those ears even for—but it's the gesture itself that's important, he figures. And it's less expectant than clearing one's throat. He is almost certainly overthinking this. He can feel how awkward he looks, how big and stupid and clumsy he is, how ugly and sick-looking, compared to the delicate little woman on the bench.
Please be awake.
(Please be all right.)
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The skim of the boots, though. That's movement, closer movement, coming to her. She shifts, wincing slightly as she moved her newly scarred arm, and blinks her eyes open.
She's not expecting to see him. The surprise leaves her momentarily speechless, eyes and mouth both rounding into circles, a quiet gasp replacing her hiss of pain.
(Not ugly at all, in her opinion. In contrast, Merrill is acutely aware of the scarring on her chest, the points where heat met metal and it touched her flesh - and the fact that it's bared for all to see. Her arm twitches, a spasm of electricity - from the spell still or from her brain, she isn't sure - and she wonders if she can tattoo along that scar, make it a tree. Would that be pretty?)
"Samson," she manages, and while the surprise is evident - she sounds pleased to see him.
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Make no mistake, the sound of her voice is heartening—it's not easy to imagine Merrill addressing anyone with disgust, but he's persevered—it's just the sight of her that fetches him up. Beneath a deeply frowning brow, his eyes dart about in assessment of every part of her but her face.
He'd rather not confront her gaze directly. Not yet.
"I, er..."
Well, there have been worse starts. Perhaps a step or two closer will bolster him. (It doesn't, but at least he's closer now.)
"I heard you'd all come back." From the battle, in the war ongoing. As a front line veteran he's seen much worse—he's seen worse even as a regular old templar, having tied up not a few failed Harrowings in his time—and he should know better. He does know better. But he's staring anyway, having been drawn and snagged by the movement of her limb.
He is wearing a hat. It's a winter hat, knit in blue-green, with flaps to cover his ears and a sort of yarn tuft on top. It is ridiculous.
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Not all, and Merrill's gaze flicks away for a moment; down, toward the untied laces of her boots, toward the remnants of mud and blood that no longer cling to them (she had scrubbed) but that she remembers.
Samson doesn't mean anything rude by it, she reasons; he is glad that she, at least, has come back. At least, she thinks he's happy about it. He's the one who approached her, after all.
Creators, people were difficult.
"Mostly," she manages, with a sad sort of smile. Her gaze travels up from her boots to Samson's, up and up until she sees his hat and her smile turns more genuine, if a bit bemused. Her fingers twitch; whether it's the electricity in her system or something else is hard to determine, even for her.
"Did you make your hat?"