Waking up in a prison cell had been a bitter experience.

After losing the Shrine, after the hard-fought campaign in the Arbor Wilds, after watching Trevelyan destroy his lyrium armor with but a gesture and leave him weakened and outraged, Samson had comforted himself in his last moments with the thought that it would at least be over. The whole sodding nightmare drama of his life finally ended in the flash of Trevelyan's sword and a gout of lyrium-tainted blood. But, then the darkness had passed and his eyes had opened once again to stone walls, iron bars, and the burning, gnawing ache of lyrium withdrawal. And he had known that, far from the end, it was only the beginning of what was to come.

Rutherford had been his first visitor. His former barracks-mate and Knight-Commander had appeared not long after Samson had woken, striding through the door the instant the guard unlocked it and driving a gauntleted fist into Samson's face so hard that the blow momentarily sent him back into darkness.

"Nice to see you again, too," Samson had growled, spitting blood onto the straw as the commander snatched the front of his tunic and stood over him.

"What did you do to her?" Rutherford had seethed. There was a fury in the man's face that Samson could not remember ever having seen the like of back in Kirkwall.

He didn't have to ask who "her" was. His thoughts went back to Trevelyan chained to the wall of his chamber, covered in bruises that he had given her and still defiant. Trevelyan, her body beneath his fingers, her growls of pleasure against his shoulder and cheek. Trevelyan in his arms on that last night, whispering his name to him over and over as they filled each other's emptiness for the last time.

What did I do to her? Samson had chuckled, hollowly.

"Nothing that matters now."

"I gave you back your place in the Order. I believed in you when no one else did. This is what you did with your second chance?" Rutherford had shouted at him in disgusted anguish, gripping him harder, shaking him. "What you've done to those men - what you've done to her - is worse than murder. So help me, Samson, if she dies, I will personally tear you apart piece by-"

"Cullen," a calmer, more authoritative voice had interrupted from the corridor.

Samson had glanced past the looming figure of his erstwhile friend to see Trevelyan standing outside of the cell. He could not see her face, but he did not have to. He knew her voice as well as he knew his own.

The former Knight-Commander had paused, grimacing with unspent wrath, and then turned back just as quickly as he had come. Samson had pulled himself up onto his elbows, watching as Trevelyan inserted herself between him and her commander, speaking quietly and laying a hand briefly on the man's shoulder, before Rutherford nodded tightly and stalked away. It was only when she had turned to follow, casting a glance into Samson's cell, that he understood with true spine-chilling horror what had prompted Rutherford's rage.

Trevelyan's eyes - once as blue as pure lyrium - were now a bloody red, putting even her fiery hair to shame. They glowed faintly with the oily crimson light that Samson had grown so familiar with among his Red Templars. A sanguine vein snaked across one side of her face, branching vine-like across the skin of her cheek and jaw. She had regarded him wordlessly for a long moment as Samson felt the blood drain from his face, and then she had swept off after her general.

"It was that last night, wasn't it?" he asked her some time later, the bitter gall of the words filling his mouth like bile.

The gaol was quiet between guard patrols and Trevelyan had come alone. Samson sat on the low stone bench of his cell, looking up at her now as she had once looked up at him. She stood beyond the bars of his cell, the same beautiful, fearsome, imposing dragon woman that he remembered - but unreachable to him now. Tainted by his touch, like everything else.

How had it happened? For days, Samson had poured over every moment of their time together. He had never given her the red. He had always prepared the pure lyrium for her. She would never have taken the red from him, knowing what it did. But, little by little, a dozen small lapses that could have contaminated her had revealed themselves. He had used the same tools for both. His body was saturated with the stuff, though his resistance kept the worst of its effects from him. Even a minute amount of the red lyrium would have been enough to corrupt the rest of the lyrium in her body if swallowed. There had been one event above all others that seemed most likely and Samson had roared with self-loathing when the realization hit him alone in his cell, punching his fist into the hard stone of the wall.

"It was in my mouth when I kissed you. Maybe it was in my seed all along."

"There's no way to know for certain," Trevelyan had told him, levelly. "And it no longer matters."

"It does," he had snarled at her, rising. She had not budged backwards even an inch as he gripped the bars of his cell forcefully, cursing. "I should have snapped your neck myself before sending you back to die like this. It would have been kinder. Your fucking commander was right. I've as good as murdered you, you daft girl, and you stand there and tell me that it doesn't matter?"

His skin had felt enflamed, his eyes had stung as he glared into her face. He wanted to see her as angry with him as Rutherford had been. He wanted to feel the hate that he so richly deserved so that it could finally, finally be done with. Instead, Samson felt the heat of her hand - fevered by the lyrium - press against his cheek, dragging from him the first tears that he had shed in too many years to remember.

"It does not matter," Trevelyan had reasserted, authoritatively.

She had leaned her forehead against his through the bars and almost reflexively Samson reached through to grasp her cheek and hair, drawing a ragged breath as he pressed back against her. Before her, he had almost forgotten what it was like to be touched, not for coin but simply for desire. And he had not realized until after she was gone just how much he would ache for that again.

"This is justice," she had insisted, her voice softening. "An elegant response to the hubris of my ambition. Almost, some would say, divine. You were only the arrow, not the archer. The Maker does love his little jokes."

"You're still dead."

"Not yet," she had replied.

The next time that he had seen her had been when they hauled him up from the dungeon and brought him before her seat of judgement. The great hall of Skyhold had been packed with bodies and voices, nobles and soldiers and servants alike straining for a look at one of the monsters that they had been fighting all this time. Trevelyan had been seated on her bladed throne, her burnished scale armor shining in the light that glowed forth from the stained glass windows behind her, her auburn hair flaming around her face like the fiery corona of Andraste herself. His dragon, unchained. Beauty and terror in equal measure, made even more terrible still by the red in her eyes and on her face. An Inquisitor worthy of the stories that were told of her in every corner of Thedas.

Samson had faced her there and he had uttered his last defiant words, giving her whatever he thought she needed to hear to condemn him. He had already destroyed everything that mattered. Death would be welcome, and it would be better than he deserved.

Instead, cruel bitch that she was, Trevelyan had offered him the only mercy that she knew he could not refuse: the chance to aid the Inquisition and help his men by finding a cure for the corruption. And for his Templars, for her - because Samson knew that the sound of his name whispered from her lips would haunt him long after the lyrium had burned away everything else in his miserable being - he had accepted it.

Rutherford would not make that process easy or painless. The mages and that damned dwarven arcanist came to his cell daily. They asked him reams of question. They poked and prodded, took samples of his blood and his flesh. They brought him potions and powders and he downed them all without complaint, no matter how foul they tasted or how much they sickened him. They scribbled their notes. They pulled his armor to pieces. Before it was over, Samson knew that they would likely pull him to pieces, too, but what did it matter? He bore it in silence. He did not snap at them when they pressed him too far for answers, nor did he break their necks when they hurt him. If it would undo even a modicum of the damage he had inflicted, Samson would have gladly let them drain every ounce of tainted blood left in his body.

Weeks passed. It was impossible to tell time in the gaol without daylight and the hours and days began to blend together into one long, torturous present. The void that had once been filled by the lyrium gnawed and widened and hollowed Samson inside until he began to wonder if there was anything left of him but the lyrium at all.

Finally, laying on the cold stone bench after a particularly grueling round of trials, his body burning with fever from the latest poison they had fed him, Samson heard a voice that he had never thought to hear again.

"Corypheus is dead," Trevelyan told him. "I thought that you would want to know."

He opened his eyes, at first unable to believe that it was truly her and not some cruel hallucination of his lyrium-starved mind. But, there she stood at the bars of his cell in the flesh. He sat up, wincing.

The corruption had spread, the veins in her face were somewhat more visible than they had been, but the progress seemed slow. Samson had seen too many of his Templars turn from men to man-shaped monsters not to know the stages. There were no visible crystals protruding from her flesh yet. Her face had not yet taken on the semi-translucent, raw redness of the advanced sickness. That was a good sign. As far as he knew, his resistance was unique and his Templars had been trained for years in the discipline necessary to resist the call of lyrium. Trevelyan had not had the benefit of that training, and he had worried that the corruption would take her more swiftly for it.

"You killed him? You're sure?" he asked her, frowning. This was a worry that had occurred to him well after his capture. If anyone could kill the bastard it would be Trevelyan, but Samson had not been entirely certain that Corypheus could be killed at all. When she nodded, he scowled, bitterly. "Good."

"His Venatori have largely fled back to Tevinter. There are still a number of your Templars to be dealt with, but that will take time. Your men were well placed and instructed. It could be years before we've routed out the last of them," she told him. He saw her lips press firmly together for a moment before continuing. "I've had orders dispatched to all of our field commanders that any Templars who surrender or who are captured are to be treated as humanely as possible."

Months ago, Samson would have said that it would be a cold day in the Hissing Wastes before the famously ruthless Inquisitor would have shown any mercy whatsoever to her enemies. But, though she had never served the Order herself, Trevelyan was a Templar in her own way - and no doubt she understood better than anyone else in Skyhold except himself the horror of what his men were facing. If anyone would see to it that they were treated fairly, she would.

"Thank you," he told her sincerely, both humbled and relieved.

He watched as she fished a key from her belt and opened his cell, closing the door behind her as she stepped inside. She moved very differently in her own fortress, he noted. There was a self-assured grace and elegance to her step that he had not seen in her when their positions were reversed. In her tastefully cut surcoat and breeches, with her hair neatly bound up into a knot at the back of her head, she looked every inch the noblewoman that she was. That she had once stood naked before Samson - lowborn Lowtown trash that he was - and allowed him to take pleasure in her body and pleasure her in return seemed something too improbable to be true.

"They tell me," she continued in a quieter tone, "that there is unlikely to be a cure anytime soon. The corruption is progressing slowly for me, but any future cure will come far too late."

"Then it's all been for nothing," Samson growled, frustration and defeat welling up within him. Even when his body and blood were all that he had left to give, it was not enough.

"There may be another way."

He listened as she described what she had learned about the nature of the red lyrium. It was Blighted, just as the darkspawn were. And the only known cure for darkspawn taint was to become a Grey Warden.

"I won't allow this to continue to the inevitable conclusion," Trevelyan stated as dispassionately as if she were discussing troop movements and battle plans instead of her own death. "I've made the necessary arrangements. A recruiter was already on his way to collect another member of the Inquisition. If I die in the Joining, it will be a merciful death by comparison. If I survive and am not cured, then the Inquisition will know to look elsewhere and I will go to the Deep Roads to die with the dignity of a Warden instead of waiting until my mind and body break. And, if I survive and the corruption is stayed, then I will renounce my titles and serve like any other. Fitting, I think. My time here was already coming to a close. This is an honorable way to step down."

"The noble Inquisitor fighting in the dirt and sand alongside murderers and thieves?" Samson asked her, teasing her without mirth. His heart sank, realizing that he would lose her all over again, this time to the Wardens, but she was unbound now - no longer his to keep.

Her smile quirked at that, just the edge of her characteristic haughty irreverence resurfacing.

"The Grey Wardens conscript kings as well as thieves."

She approached him, her fingers sliding onto his neck, her lips leaning against his brow. Samson allowed his arms to encircle her waist. He did not deserve this. But he reached for it anyway.

"I will be leaving for Weisshaupt in a matter of days. Cullen will take my place and I've extracted an oath from him that you will be treated well. There will be no more tests after today. They have all they need to continue without causing you further pain," she told him. "But, I've also come to tell you that the offer of recruitment is extended to you, too, if you wish it."

Samson chuckled dryly, pulling back from her enough to look up into her face to see if she was serious.

"Me? What would the Wardens want with a burned out failure of a Templar?"

"In the words of their recruiter, you wouldn't be their first," she quipped, wryly. She caressed his neck, looking down at him as her brow knitted. Her expression grew pained, vulnerable once again. "It's your choice, Samson. If you stay here, they'll keep you safe. If you want them to, they'll end your suffering when it becomes too painful to bear any longer. I hate the thought of you dying in a cage, but it's your decision to make. If you come to Weisshaupt, then you will likely still die. I'm told that a Warden's life is usually hard and short. But, for whatever time you have left, you'll be free. And you will have me."

For an instant, all he could do was look at her. Her red eyes - once crystal blue - remained fixed on his, no longer the worshipful Inquisitor with her many masks but once again the girl who had decided to die rather than kill him when she had the chance. The girl that he had been willing to die to save in return. His girl. He stood, pulling her into his arms and laying his cheek against the crown of her head, feeling her body conform to his just as he remembered it. She returned the embrace warmly, leaning against his shoulder as she had on their last night together.

"And Rutherford?" he asked her. Seeing her touch the former Knight-Commander had sparked something visceral in him, but he had made her a promise and he had kept his peace. Still, he needed to know.

"Will be better off if he's nowhere near me. There was no way to know how the corruption was spread. I would never endanger him that way. His life is more valuable to me than my own," she responded, adding wistfully, "You were right. I broke his heart in the end. He believes that I left him only for fear of spreading the corruption to him, but the fact of the matter is that I was never truly his. He was mine, but I was yours. You were right about that as well."

"Daft girl," Samson growled at her, but he was smiling despite himself. He sighed into her hair and drew back, his hands on her shoulders. Trevelyan looked up at him expectantly. "I guess Warden isn't such a far cry from Templar. Not like I'm good for much else as it is. Send your recruiter. I'll talk to him."

Her lips tipped up and she kissed him. Three days later, he was standing in the courtyard of Skyhold before a crowd that had gathered to watch their Inquisitor depart. The sky overhead was bright blue, the air clear, the Breach a distant green seam over the peaks. His body still ached for the want of lyrium, but Samson would bear up as best he could. He knew now that Trevelyan, mounting her horse next to him, was suffering in the same way. Any philter she took now would only hasten her corruption, and she had chosen to give it up besides. She would never allow herself to be weak in that way again.

Rutherford watched from the overlook in front of the keep. The former Templar's face was a somber mask. He had spoken for a long time to Trevelyan and she had kissed him briefly on the cheek before turning away. Samson didn't begrudge the man his final goodbye or envy his grief. Few could ever hope to fill the shoes of the Inquisitor and Trevelyan was a hard woman to lose. He knew that from experience. Still, when she turned in her saddle to cast her smile over Samson, he could not help but feel a surge of fierce pride. She was his. First, and last. And whatever happened with the Joining, that was more than enough.

"Will you miss Skyhold, my lady?" asked the third recruit in their party, a grave, bearded soldier that had been introduced to Samson as Thom Rainier. Trevelyan regarded him with a level expression that told Samson there was a history between them - a largely unpleasant one - but his question was civil and her response was gracious.

"There are no nobles or titles among the Grey Wardens, Rainier. We are now equals. 'Trevelyan' will suffice. But, yes. I will miss it."

The conversation was interrupted as their Warden recruiter rode his rangy bay horse up before them. He was a rough-looking Marcher with grey in his short dark hair and a thick scar that crossed his brow and down the side of one cheek. His grey and blue armor was well-cleaned and shone in the light of the rising sun, despite its battle scars. He had so far proven to be an amiable sort.

"I know your type already," the recruiter had said, walking into Samson's cell for the first time and grinning, his thick Starkhaven accent good humored. "You're asking yourself two questions right now. The first is: what's this man hope to get out of me? The second is: can I take him? The answers are 'another strong sword arm against the Blight, never mind the killing' and 'not a chance' respectively. Any further questions or are you ready to get out of this hole?"

The man hadn't been wrong. The recruiter had assured him that his past didn't matter. Samson had proven himself an able fighter. If he was willing to serve, that was all that mattered and that was all that would ever be asked of him. Those were terms that Samson decided he could live with.

"Well, recruits," the Warden said, smiling. "Said your goodbyes? Made your peace? Good. Off we go."

It would be weeks yet before they would reach the Anderfels and the Warden stronghold. Whatever happened when they arrived, would happen. Samson would concentrate instead on the road and on the woman who shared his tent.

"I think you miss the chains," he teased her on their first night together, grinning as she straddled him on their bedrolls, her body pressing down warm and solid against his own. He watched her fingers trace the fresh scar on his chest. It was hers - the one she had left him with after the temple of Mythal. His fingers squeezed into the flesh at her hips and thighs in anticipation. "Don't think I'm going to go easy on you, girl. Chains or not, I can still easily pin you down and take what I please."

"Not if I take it from you first," she replied, showing her teeth at the challenge. And then she did. And later, with her curled into the curve of his arm, Samson reflected that being devoured by a dragon was really no bad thing.