Trevelyan is bright, a beacon burning brightly, bits of the Fade framing her face like flickering flames. Faith and fear guide her hand, heavy with hate, but light with the love of the Maker. She is afraid, fighting forgotten fears, fleeing the stretching shadow silent in Skyhold's tower. Cullen doesn't want her to be afraid - ashamed, angry, I am not like them. She won't look at him, the shape behind the armor, afraid of what it means.
Beatings, worse than beatings, just like Cole - the real Cole; alive, but sometimes wishing she wasn't. The dreams were better, but the Breach brought them back. A dark room, lost and locked away, afraid of keys turning, being turned, Templars' footsteps as they come closer - memories but different, deformed, damaged and damaging.
I want to help.
"You're afraid of what happened, but you don't have to be. You are stronger - they can't hurt you anymore," I say. "Sometimes, you wish I was there to help you, like I helped the mages at the White Spire, but I wasn't. You didn't need me."
"What is it on about?" Sera shrieks. "Shut it, you!"
Trevelyan sighs. "I suppose we won't be hunting snofleurs today after all."
"The Templars lied - worthless, pathetic mage, crying again, I'll give you something to cry about - they thought you would break, but you didn't. They were wrong. You are strong enough."
The voice made her body hurt, but she doesn't understand why. Fresh fear, bruising and bleeding from a broken bone that didn't heal right. Swimming in shadows, a sinking darkness untouched by the dawn of day, drowning. She thinks, and her thoughts hurt her - it will never be right, I'll never escape, falling, faltering, following at every step -
"This isn't the sort of thing to discuss walking around," Dorian says. "Just drop it, Cole."
Trevelyan asks to go home. It's hard not to help.
At Skyhold, Trevelyan says she wants to see me in the garden. Being human hurts - it makes me afraid, anxious, but she isn't angry. Gentle - a light alight on a lake.
She speaks, but it isn't to me. "The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world - she shall know true peace," she says, soft, breath shallow but deeper in the words. Trevelyan smiles, soothed. "That's in the Chant of Light, from the Canticle of Transfigurations. It's one of my favorite verses, actually," she says.
I wonder, afraid of wounding, worrying. "It's very pretty."
Trevelyan laughs. "It is, isn't it? It's comforting, too." She stops, thinks. "Whenever life is difficult, I come here to think and reflect on the Chant. Have you ever read it?"
"No," I say. "Reading is… hard. Silently sitting still, but thoughts thundering, words whispering the wanting of the one that wrote them. It's a lot to think about at once."
"I'm sure it is," she says, then sighs. "I suppose what I'm asking is if you believe in the Maker, Cole. It's a question that's been plaguing me for a while."
"Everyone says he's gone, a ghost," I say. "I've never met him."
"Of course, but that's doesn't mean you can't believe in His existence - well, it doesn't matter. That's not why I asked you here." She stands and smiles. "I had an idea, one that might makes things easier for you… and all of us."
A small room, once dark and covered in dust, now bright with painted stones and a wooden box. "It's a confessional! You can take a potion to alter your voice, and then people can come in and tell you their secrets."
"I... don't understand."
"I know it's difficult for you," Trevelyan says. "I know you want to help, Cole. You have a pure heart and everyone knows it, even Vivienne. But sometimes, it helps more if you wait until a person is ready to talk about something. That's where this come in." Fingers trace patterns in the welted wood. "Certain times of the day, you can come and sit in this side of the box. People who want to talk will come and sit on the other side. This way, they can come to you for help. Technically, you're supposed to be a brother in the Chantry before you're allowed to hear confessions, but as a spirit, you are one of the Maker's first children, so I'd say that counts just as much." She is excited, barely breathing as she bounces, brilliant and bright. "So, what do you think?"
"You want me to help, but be inside a box?" I ask.
She sighs. "Let me see if I can explain it. Sometimes you… frighten people, Cole. You can't make them forget you now, but you know all these things about them. It makes people afraid, even our friends."
"You're afraid, sometimes," I say, quiet, words worrying, "of Cullen. Not all Templars are like them."
"I know, Cole. I've spent half of my life try to learn that, but it's not easy. You have a gift - you can see things clearly, even when others can't, but you have to be careful. You have to learn how to be gentle."
"Gentle," I say, "like you. But how do you know when to help? When it won't hurt?"
"Do you remember when you talked about Rhys and Evangeline, and I told you that we didn't have to talk about it if it was too painful? You said I didn't have to worry, so I knew it was okay to talk about. You felt safe enough to open up because we're friends." She takes my hand. "That's the beauty of the confessional. People enter it when they're ready to open up, like you were. They ask you to ease their hurt. Doesn't that sound nice?"
"Yes," I say. "The box is better. It can help without hurting - secrets safe, shrouded in sacred solitude - softer songs without the sharp, prying parts. But what if they don't go in the box? How will I help?" I ask.
"You could always ask them to, if you like. I'm sure some of our friends would be willing to give it a shot." She stops and sees, smiles softly and squeezes my hand. "Would it make you feel better if you practiced with me?"
"I will try not to hurt you," I say, and maybe it's funny - she laughs.
"I know, Cole," she says. "I know."
She is gentle, a soft song carried by the wind, waiting and watching. She thought she needed me, but she didn't. I needed her. She helped so I could heal without hurting. She understood.
I would have to understand, too.