Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Part 1: It’s harder, now that I can’t make them forget. But now I think it helps that they know someone cares.

They hurt.

The realization came onto Cole like a swift sunrise. It seemed to be a passing thought, until he stood to observe it.

His feet ached.

Not only that, but he couldn’t hear. The forest around him was dulled, its memories lost to him and replaced by the itch to lie down in the soft spring grass.

No. I’m too close. Not now.

He had been walking for many hours, searching for the nearest village. It was a place called Lamshire. A few days outside of Highever, it was in the Ferelden Coastlands, where Cole had been wandering for the past month and a half. His last stay had been longer than he intended. Usually, Cole would only stop briefly, a week at most, but his time in Derk had spanned just over two weeks. He had been . . . preoccupied.

Even then, walking with the sun coming down in patches around him, Cole remembered the words of the young boy who he’d helped.

“Where will you go now?”

“Forward.”

“You won’t go home?”

“I don’t have a home.”

The boy frowned, confused. “You’re silly. Everybody has a home.”

Cole didn’t know what to say. He had a home, once. Twice. At the Spire, with the Inquisition . . . But it was time to move on. To do what he was meant to do. So why did he feel a tug in his chest at the mention of a ‘home’? Did he simply want somewhere to return to, or was it more? Was he lonely? Lonely, like the scared little boy who’d ventured out of the familiar dark of the Spire to aid his friend in an impossible quest? The boy who’d followed the Inquisitor himself out into battle, just so that he could speak to him, to his friends? No. No, it was more than that. He was more than that.

Cole stopped. Ahead of him, the trees began to give way to a clearing, though he was too far to decipher where it led. Eager for rest and for food, Cole jogged toward the top of the hill the trees laid on and found them to cut off all in a line. Man-made surely. Cole pushed past a tree’s thick branch and glanced up. Leaves danced around his fingers as he held the branch, and in front of him he saw a village much larger than he had expected.

Immediately in front of him, about fifty paces out, was a building made of stone—a chantry, presumably. It blocked much of his view, but to his left he could see farmhouses and homes of wood and stone alike, with varying builds dotting the edge of the forest. He guessed beyond the village it would be flatter, or at least, less filled with trees.

People moved about the village, the roads not quite bustling but certainly occupied at the late hour. Somewhere deep down Cole felt a pull. It was an instinct, formed from his years spent hiding in the shadows. It told him to be wary, to stick to the edges and hide in the dark. But that wasn’t why he was here.

Cole adjusted the pack at his side and stepped over the large root protruding from the earth. And then he walked, towards what he presumed was the main road leading to the village entrance. It was west to where he had initially entered the clearing, but it proved a short walk. Although perhaps that was just in comparison to the past few days spent walking.

As Cole approached the archway, a heavy smell of smoke fell upon him, and he glanced to his left, where just inside the village—or city, if the size of it was any indicator—a blacksmith’s forge stood proudly, its juxtaposing humble build giving it a familiar look. He had seen many forges like this before. They were the type of place Harritt had dreamed of often.

Passing through the archway, Cole took in the sounds of feet moving over rock and dirt, the sight of many people around him, and the thoughts--distant, quited, yet there nonetheless--of the people he would soon be aiding. Nobody seemed to pay him much heed, to which he was grateful.

After a short time wandering the village, Cole found what he was looking for. A small, two-story inn stood before him. It was built on a rock foundation and was made of a strong Ferelden wood. Hanging by the entrance was a faded sign that read “The Storm’s Rest.”

Cole found himself proud of the remarkably short time it took him to realize that even though storms did not sleep, the sign had a different sort of appeal to people.

Holding the strap of his heavy bag, Cole tilted his head down, his hat shielding himself from view, and entered the building.

The inn--or tavern plus inn, as Cole realized, was bathed in a warm light from a central stone fireplace separating the living space from the bar. The area was not too crowded, although Cole guessed as the hour drew later, dinner rush would change that. Cole moved past a chair with a gristeled, balding man and made his way to the bar. Uncomfortably, he waited for the bartender to finish helping a person at the end of the bar, and he found himself moving his fingers, testing the feel of his palms. The tavern was quieter, yes, but there was a feeling, the familiar whisper that drew his thoughts to the person down the bar. A woman’s voice was hushed, echoing inside her head, but Cole did not find barriers in the flesh. He listened.

A field of broken arrows lays

Splintered across the grass

Among the wood are bodies splayed

Death is all that lasts

My love, my love, she’s fallen here

Her body cold, bloodstained

I find her in a heartbeat

Her face remains so pained

A field of broken arrows lays

The wounded left to die

Not a single sound in the broken haze

But the whisper of a lie

“Hello? Are you alright?”

Cole blinked. He turned from where he had been hanging his head, his eyes closed, and instead met the eyes of a middle aged barmaid with two long, brunette braids. Her eyes were curious, but not malcontent.

“Uh, yes. I was looking for a room.”

The woman nodded. “Just for one?”

“Yes.”

“Right. We have one available, lucky for you. Business has been booming lately, with all the people scrambling to join that damned Inquisition.”

Cole remained silent. What did this small town have to do with that?

Then Cole realized. Lamshire was just outside Highever, a crucial port between Ferelden and the Free Marches. Anyone from there would be likely to go through Highever to get to one of the Inquisition’s bases.

“So one room will run ya 10 copper, per night. Although if you stay the week we’ll make it 50.”

Cole nodded. “For the week.” He fished around in his bag and retrieved the promised 50 copper coins, setting them on the table. In turn, the woman handed him a key.

“Just come find me if you need anything. The name’s Frida, by the way.”

“I’m Cole.”

“Nice to meet you, Cole. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .” Frida turned to the balding man Cole had seen before, who was now making his way to the bar.

Cole moved out of the way and began walking toward his room, though he watched the woman he’d heard earlier out of the corner of his eye. Her hair was hanging in her face, nearly obscuring the empty look in her eyes. She drank not idly, but with intent. She meant not to be sober. He would come back for her.

The stairs creaked beneath Cole as he climbed them. He thought of the strange song the one at the bar had been thinking of. Could the lyrics have been hers? Cole had a friend once who was skilled with lyricism. He missed her.

The hallway Cole stepped into was rather short, with three doors on either side, moderately spaced. He made his way to his own and drew out the key, cold and rough in his hand. The door opened to reveal a modest room, although it did have amenities Cole found scarce in his travels. The bed had a wooden frame, there was a bookshelf, a dresser. Once, Cole had found these things meaningless. And indeed, he still did not understand why a bed needed a frame. Pictures had frames to keep them inside. Beds could stand on their own. However, now that he had belongings, he was grateful for the shelves and the dresser.

Cole made quick work of placing his few items in their respective spots--a change of clothes in the dresser, a bundle of food on the shelf. He kept his daggers with him, along with a small book and the key to the room. He didn’t have much, but he didn’t need much.

He didn’t need anything but himself to speak to the woman downstairs. In fact, he began to feel himself being pulled to the door.

He was needed. Sleep could wait for the evening. Now, it was time to act.

Chapter Text

Cole was still not used to sleeping.

He laid on his bed, twisting about, energy coursing through his body. Why did people need pillows? Cole took the feather stuffed sheet and let it fall to the floor.

Even with the pillow gone, it took Cole near another hour and a half to finally walk the line between consciousness and dreams. And then sleep took him, his eyes falling closed, the room around him fading serenely into black.

“Cole, get off the table!”

Cole blinked, confused. Why did this seem familiar?

“Yes,” he said, scrambling to move. “Sorry.”

The inquisitor rolled her eyes. The room was full with friends—the inquisitor’s friends, but Cole’s too. They were all sat around a table, a game of wicked grace spread across, coins and cards piled high. Cole found himself flushing slightly for the faux pas. He needed to talk to the Inquisitor, but appearing as he did had obviously made her upset.

Cole watched silently as they played, Josephine feigning fear— her cards are happy, she is doing well —Bull slamming his hand on the table, laughing at one of Varric’s jokes, who sat smiling at him apologetically. Did Cole miss something?

Compassion.

Cole jumped. Who was that?

He glanced around the room, past the crackling hearth and scanned each chair. None sat any stranger whose voice it might have been.

Compassion, the voice repeated.

“Cole?” Varric watched him, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. “You alright, kid?”

Cole met his eyes. It had been so long since Varric had called him that. Would he still see him as such, now that he’s changed so?

“Probably” he mumbled, finding the only empty chair and sitting down. He was between Dorian and Cullen, and as he sat, Cullen gave him a weary look.

Dorian smiled at him, a twinkle in his eyes. “Oh cheer up, Cole. Join us, if you’ve a mind.”

Cole looked back at the stack of cards that somehow made its way in front of him. Could cards move?

“Woah now,” said Jasna, her chiseled cheekbones tilting downward as she raised an eyebrow. “You don’t mean to scam him out of his money, do you?”

“I don’t have much money,” Cole admitted. “Why?”

“You see,” Dorian cut in. “This is a game of bets—gains and losses. Money, that is. And all who sit at the table must play.”

Jasna watched him disapprovingly, her natural regal air striking Cole as...sad. He missed her. But that didn’t make sense. He was just across the table from her.

Compassion, the voice called yet again, echoing through the chamber. Or was it in his head?

“Who said you could make the rules? As the kid’s sole advisor, I say he stays, and doesn’t get forced to play. You can not play and still participate. Right, J?”

Jasna nodded in agreement, though Cullen spoke. “You may have to speak to Solas too, if we are to be asking his advisors.”

“Bah,” Bull snorted. “He’d be pulled out of here by his hat. Spirits don’t gamble, ” he cooed, doing his best to immitate Solas’s clear, serious tone.

The others laughed, but Cole froze. Spirits didn’t gamble. Spirits...

Compassion!

He started. Where was he?

Cole glanced around, and suddenly it became clear to him. He was dreaming. He was in the fade.

Slowly, his friends began to fade, disappearing one by one, all glancing at him as they left.

“No! No, come back!”

But they were gone.

Cole blinked and stood, his chair toppling to the ground. He was in a desolate waste of greens and purples, the table old and rotted, the chairs looking as if they’d been vacant for decades. The walls of the room were gone, replaced by a vast landscape filled with memories.

You finally wake.

Cole turned, and before him stood a spirit—well, it floated, really. The spirit was no more than a wisp, a cloud of blues and greys, its voice both feminine and masculine all at once. Cole recognized it immediately.

“Guidance. What’s happening to me?”

“You’re forgetting. The world you live in—it is pulling you in, and farther from the Fade.”

Cole felt a surge of panic rise in his chest. He couldn’t forget. That would mean he couldn’t—

“Be at peace, Compassion. You have chosen your path.”

“But—“ Cole paused. What did he mean to say? That he didn’t mean to?

But he did. Cole chose to become real, to enter the material world. But he was afraid. He was so afraid. What would happen to him? Would he lose himself, his purpose? Would he—

No, Cole thought. If I lose my connection to the Fade, I won’t become a demon. It’s impossible.

That small thought allowed him a breath of relief, but it didn’t last long.

“Please,” Cole said, hearing his voice break. “How do I stop it?”

“Stop it?” Guidance’s voice was devoid of emotion, but Cole could sense their surprise.

“There is no stopping who you are becoming, Cole. But that does not mean you have to forget.”

“Then how? How do I remember?”

Guidance was quiet for a moment, then they spoke softly, knowing Cole was hanging on their every word.

“I do not know.”

Cole shut his eyes, feeling a deep and profound sorrow. He felt it for himself, for the people he was meant to help, for the future he could have, becoming one of them— the mortals who sought only to help themselves, who fell so easily to vices outside of the very nature of a spirit. He couldn’t become like them. No, he had to do something.

Cole opened his eyes and sat up, surprised to find himself lying down.

 He was back in his room. His blanket was tossed aside, and he felt horribly cold. A terribly real feeling.

Cole leaned down and retrieved the cover, and was shocked to feel something wet hit his hand. He glanced up. How could it rain inside ?

But there was no rain. He lowered his head, and the movement caught a breath of wind on his slick cheek.

Was he...crying?

Cole felt at the tear on his cheek, its trail leading down past his lips. And then another fell. And more still built.

Cole wiped at his eyes, but by then, it was too late. The sorrow had returned, and its grip on him was merciless. He choked and sputtered in its grasp, his own thoughts racing in his mind. It was too loud. Too—

He curled up, holding the blanket with both his hands, clinging to it as if it could stop the torrent of emotions curling inside him.

It did not.

Chapter Text

I’m slipping, simmering, suspended in fog. I see everything but none of it is real.

Cole slowed his walk, pausing to listen. A voice, young yet worn whispered in his mind, breaching his thoughts. They think they are alone, that nobody will hear. Cole searched for the source of the low, melancholy voice and found it belonged to a woman no more than 25. She knelt by the river, her hand outstretched, breaking the path of the water softly running through her fingers.

The water is cold. It is...nothing. The trees, the town, the hills, the water. All part of a picture, held on display for me. So far away.

Cole made no sound as he diverted his path to meet the river, not far from the woman. He squatted down, arms resting on his knees, thinking.

He searched the water as his company rose as if to leave. Something caught Cole’s eye and he took it in his hand, rising.

“It’s smooth.”

The woman stopped and slowly turned, not certain if Cole had been speaking to her or not.

“I’m sorry?”

Cole faced her, looking into her eyes. “The rock is smooth, like you.”

The woman flushed and opened her mouth to retort, but Cole was not finished.

“You see the world as flat, static, too smooth. A surface to view, not to touch.”

The woman hesitated, taken off guard.

“But there’s more. Here.”

Cole reached out and handed the rock to the woman. It was about the size of his palm, yet slightly smaller. One side was flat, damp from the water and smooth without any bump or scrape. The other side was jagged, textured like dozens of rain droplets had skidded over it, not making any discernible pattern, just hills of rough stone.

She took the rock, holding it in her hand, smooth side down.

“Feel it.”

The woman seemed to regard Cole with bemusement, but Cole sensed her curiosity. She did as he said.

“It is smooth, like how you see the world. But when you turn it, it becomes rough. It pokes you, reminds you that you can feel. Like the world. It will always remind you.”

The woman took a moment to observe the rock. It was a simple, insignificant thing. What was the man going on about? And yet...As she recalled his words, it did feel...real. It was no different from the water, but this time, she touched it. She was no passive observer. She was making her mark on the rock, which made it real. Her real.

Like the world. It will always remind you.

“Who are you?”

She looked up, but the young man was gone.

It was raining.

Cole sat perched on the roof of the chantry. He made sure to stay a good distance from the edges. He had been caught sitting atop a stone building once and been reprimanded harshly for it. He still did not understand what was wrong with sitting there, but it had made it harder to help afterwards. So he listened, and avoided being seen.

Cole liked the feeling of the rain on his scalp. Sometimes it would get caught in his eyelashes, or drop into his eye, and those moments were uncomfortable. But he appreciated the time he got to spend feeling the light shower dust his face. It was...real, like the rock he’d gifted earlier.

The rain hit him softly, his head unprotected without anything to cover it. Sometimes he missed his hats, and he still wished he hadn’t lost his last one in a storm last month. The winds were violent that day, and Clyde had forced him to come inside to safety. She was always like that--harsh, but loving.

Cole looked out over the town, watching as children played in puddles, their parents fussing in quiet fury at the mess. He saw doors close, watched flames flicker from inside windows to warm homes. He heard the horses whinny and shake their heads, the clink of the blacksmith’s hammer as he set it down to head inside.

It was peaceful.

And yet Cole did not feel at peace.

There was sorrow, too much sorrow. Rain often made certain people less happy than usual. It forces them inside and draws out from them things they were trying to hide, or forget. He could feel those feelings, weighing heavily in the air. There was so much. Sometimes Cole wondered if what he did made any difference at all, but he knew that was void. Every life he touched was worth something. Wasn’t it?

The rain fell, and Cole began to think back on his dream just three nights before.

Since his nightmare, he’d slept peacefully, wandering the fade, feeling memories both his own and of strangers. And yet the words Guidance said still haunted him. He was forgetting himself, his purpose. He was losing himself, and each day he felt its toll on him. He longed to stay in bed, to eat and drink, to cry and to talk to someone. Not help them--but talk. Maybe talk about himself.

He didn’t understand how he could want such a thing. How would talking about himself help the people who felt sorrow in the rain? How could sleeping in mend a long forgotten wound?

He sighed, leaning back, letting his back hit the stone beneath him. Rain tapped against his skin, and he shut his eyes.

No. I’m still here. I still remember what I want, who I am. I remember my purpose. I will not forget.

He thought of rough rock and running water as his mind drifted farther away, the sorrow and the warmth and the stillness seeping into him.

Somehow, it was enough. His eyes fell closed, and listening to the rain tap against him and the roof, he descended into sleep.