Trigger Warning: Physical and emotional child abuse; prolonged death and murder, dark themes

Author's Notes: The rough draft of this story is finished (seven chapters total,) and I will be posting them as my beta readers and I clean them up.

"It is dangerous when too many men in the same armor think they're right."
- Cole, DA:I

It was so dark.

Even with all the time he'd had for his eyes to adjust, Cole could only see vague outlines and shapes. If it wasn't for a dim light source somewhere far down the hall of the prison cells, he would be in pitch blackness.

He felt a sharp pain at his feet, and he kicked out at the rats biting his ankles. He could barely see their tiny shapes scattering away, but they always came right back to bite again. Trying to get the vermin to leave him alone was a losing battle.

He slowly stood up, his entire body aching, most especially his empty stomach. He wasn't sure how long he'd been here, but it had been far too long since he'd had a bite to eat. A tiny trickle of foul tasting water from the side wall that leaked from a mysterious source kept him from drying out, for now. This left the rats and lack of food as his biggest concerns.

He slowly walked to the front of his cell, putting a hand out in front of him till it hit the thick, wooden door. He tried to look through the tiny, barred window of his cell door, were the light-source came from, but he still couldn't detect its origin. He contemplated calling out to someone, but fear of his captors - the templars - kept him silent, even now.

He shuddered at the thought of the templars. He had been warned they were coming for him, a betrayal that let them know an illegal mage was living on an old farmstead, and he was forced to flee from his home. He had only meager supplies, loaded in an old blanket, but it kept him going through the night and into morning, before he stumbled upon a river in the middle of a secluded forest. He dropped his "sack" on the ground, leaning down to drink greedily from the clear water. Once he'd had his fill, he removed his tunic from his thin, boyish frame and tried to wash out the caked blood in the water.

He'd been crying, but his tears had long since dried, leaving only dirty smudges, and a numb tightness on his hallow cheeks. His blond hair clung to his face and partially covered his eyes, though he never seemed to notice. He felt detached now, as he washed his clothing, vainly trying to clean away the guilt and horror of his past. He made a conscious effort to forget where the blood came from and why it was there. He just wanted it all to go away.

As hard as he tried, though, he couldn't get the stains out. He had always been poor, and this was the only tunic he owned, as evidenced by the patching and re-patching. He couldn't bear to wear it until he got rid of this cursed blood.

He hated magic, and he didn't want to use it, but he didn't have much choice. His mother had taught him a few spells before she died, including one she frequently used when his father wasn't looking.

He lifted his hand, channeling just a little bit of energy through his body. He rarely evoked his curse, and it felt incredibly strange, even frightening, but he tried his best to focus. Swiping his hand over the wet tunic, he willed the blood stains to disappear. The magic worked, and although the other stains remained, the blood vanished. He breathed a sigh of relief as he slipped it back over his head.

"Yep, that must be him."

The sudden voice startled him to his feet and he spun around. Stepping out from the trees was what must have been a templar, even though this was the first he'd ever seen. He wore a polished breastplate, emblazoned with the symbol of a flaming sword. He was not wearing his helmet, so Cole could see his bearded face clearly. His gaze reminded the young man of a bored and hungry cat who just found easy prey.

The templar took another step towards him and Cole stepped back, his arms raised defensively. This was his worst fear come true; the templars had found him. He'd only heard stories of the things they did to apostates-rogue mages, like him-and he didn't want to find out if they were true.

His eyes darted all around him, looking for escape, and it was then that he saw another templar, quietly stepping in to flank him from the other end of the river. For men in full armor, they were surprisingly stealthy. With templars on both sides, and a river behind him, he could see only one possible path to freedom.

The first templar sighed in annoyance as he watched the wheels turn in the young man's head. He was undoubtedly a veteran mage-hunter and he knew what was coming, "Don't do it, mage."

Cole bolted, away from the river, running as fast as his legs could carry him into the safety of the forest. He leaped over logs, nimbly dodged around trees and ran for his life.

It was a wasted effort. Cole was blindsided by a blow to his head out of nowhere, and he fell to the ground with a thud. His clasped his throbbing head, curling into a ball as he whimpered. Apparently, there was a third templar. He had been trapped on all sides.

"He's a speedy little shit, I'll give him that," he heard the first templar say as he came through the trees. A rough hand grabbed his arm, forcing him to stand up. Dazed, but still desperate to escape, the mage made one last attempt to draw magic. He didn't care what kind of spell came from it, he just wanted to do something.

It was the last thing he remembered before a brief explosion of pain turned his world black.

A nip at his fingers woke him from his daydream and he snatched his hand from the floor. The rats were back. He swatted at the hidden critters, but hit nothing. It was too dark to see them, and he could only hear them scurry about, letting out the occasional squeak.

He reached behind his head, remembering where the templars struck him. He could still feel the caked blood, but, thankfully no pain. His mother had taught him a simple healing spell, and it did wonders for his headache. He contemplated using his cleansing spell on his hair, but he decided against it. He didn't see the point.

The cell wasn't just dark, but also painfully quiet. Only the noise from the rats, and the occasional banging echoes from somewhere far away permeated the still air. He stood up again, walking over to the back portion of the cell, reaching his hand out to feel for obstacles. As far as he could tell from his blind searching, the room's only distinguishing features were a bucket in the far corner and the door. With the exception of the tiny, barred window on the cell door, there was nothing here to give him a glimpse outside. It was all just filthy, sometimes wet, stone walls; not even a cot to give him some sanctuary against the rats.

There were no blankets or bedding, leaving him shivering from the cold, stale air. He leaned back against the heavy wood door, trying to ignore the stench of filth, sweat, and death all around him. In addition to the pain in his empty belly, he became aware of his aching loneliness. Save the templars, who weren't much for conversation, he hadn't spoken to anyone since he'd left home. The need for someone to talk to was even stronger than his need for sustenance, but all he had were the rats, and even they wouldn't stick around long enough for a greeting.

Cole closed his eyes, trying his best to relax. More than anything, now, he just wanted to sleep, to temporarily escape from his cell into the world of dreams. He imagined the cold would make it difficult, but his body was eager for the rest.

There was nothing else he could do here.

The Fade, the world of dreams, is an ever-changing, ever-fluctuating realm. All the people of Thedas, with the exception of dwarves and Tranquil, visit this realm every time they lay their heads to sleep. Most have little control there, allowing the spirits to peer into their memories and form a strange and emotional world based around it; to create their dreams.

Cole, however, was a mage, and he wandered the Fade aware.

It was both a gift and a curse. A mage could control and manipulate the Fade, even in the real world, bringing things into existence through sheer will. Their manipulation of the Fade also meant they were far more likely to attract the denizens of the Fade, spirits...and demons.

Cole wandered the ever changing world. Normally, he'd come here to find shapes and scenes from his memories forming, but right now it was just an empty, ethereal world. His mind created a rocky ground beneath his feet, but it was vast and empty, with only a few jagged outcroppings and floating islands. The place had a strange, greenish tint to it, and everything blurred around him, further reminding him that he wasn't in presently in the waking world.

The mage had never had any real magical training, but he knew he needed to be wary of demons. According to the Chantry priests, demons were jealous of mortals, and had a strong desire to see the mortal world, to experience the realm beyond the Fade for themselves. They could only do so by possessing a body, living or dead, and the connection mages had to the Fade made them an easy target for possession. The destruction and death a possessed mage, an abomination, caused was the main reason templars hunted them.

Thankfully, not all spirits were so aggressive.

"Hello."

The mage turned around, and was greeted by an obvious inhabitant of the Fade. The figure before him was only vaguely humanoid, translucent, and had a soft greenish glow. Its "face," if you could call it that, consisted of two small glowing white orbs for "eyes," a vague impression of a nose, and a small mouth, which was smiling gently at him.

"Hello?" The mage was hesitant and wary, but did not attack. He knew demons could be deceivers, but he sensed nothing but kindness and comfort emanating from this creature. If it wasn't for his desperate need for both right now, he would have fled.

The spirit continued to stare at him in a curious but friendly manner. When it spoke again, in a voice neither male nor female, it was in a rapid but soft whisper, "Happy times, before the spark hit the trees. Fleeing from the Blight and the hunters. The spirit draws the hare away as the witch hides her relic. More blood added to the already bloody knife. Frightened, fretting, foreboding, but cannot flee her killer."

"What?" The mage asked, now confused. "What are you talking about?"

"Stench of rotting grain and a soldier's promise. Answers buried like a dagger in silk. They are all gone. Am I alone? Struck down, cast down into the darkness, deserted, disregarded and dismissed. They have forgotten you, Cole."

"I don't need you, demon." Cole spat, but with far less confidence than he normally had when dealing with creatures of the Fade.

"Yes, you do," The spirit countered, zero malice evident in its disembodied voice. "I find those who hurt and I heal them. I am Compassion, and I am here to help."

"Begone, I won't let you posses me!" he wished he could say it with greater conviction, as he'd done in the past. If there was one thing he'd always been good at, it was telling demons to piss off. Deep down, however, he didn't want it to leave, and the "demon" knew this, too.

"I'm not here to take your body, I'm here to take your pain. I'm here to help." The spirit looked around the Fade quizzically, "Why are you not shaping the dream? Why is it empty?"

"Maybe I like it this way."

The spirit looked back at Cole in confusion, "No, this is not what you want, it's what you are. Alone, abandoned, cast aside, you form a forsaken field. Nothing but you within."

Cole opened his mouth to answer, but soon closed it again without saying a word.

The spirit smiled back at him, filling him again with a sensation of safety and comfort, "Shall I try?"

Cole stared at the spirit, swallowing nervously, but nodded, "Go ahead."

The spirit turned its gaze to the side, and Cole followed it, looking out at the expanse of the Fade again. Despite the bleakness of this place, he noticed for the first time small balls of light, wisps, flitting about playfully. There were slightly larger spirits as well, wraiths perhaps, similar in appearance, but not as pronounced as Compassion. It was clear who the dominant spirit in this part of the Fade was.

The presence of the compassion spirit seemed to be changing the realm as he watched, from a place of bleak emptiness to an ethereal garden. Small transparent flowers that could barely retain a set shape sprouted from the rocky ground. Trees with multicolored leaves and braided branches grew before his eyes. A river with a waterfall that flowed up instead of down flowed into the sky. It was strange, yet somehow comforting.

"Does this help?" he heard the spirit say behind him.

He couldn't suppress his smile, "It's...better. Weird, but better."

"You can do it, too," Compassion gestured with an ethereal hand towards the scenery. "You are aware. Try."

Cole hesitated for only a moment. Why not? He looked around, seeking an empty spot, and attempted to will something into existence. Whatever he used to shape the Fade, he must have used too much. Despite focusing on the single, empty spot, the entire landscape changed. The mystical garden slowly changed into a simple farm house and field, humble but beautiful in its own way. The fields had recently been planted, and there were already small, green buds emerging from the fertile soul. A line full of recently-washed sheets were hung out to dry, a tiny kitten played on the porch, and a healthy mule grazed contentedly in the fields.

The house itself was an unpainted two-bedroom homestead with a shingled roof. It wasn't new, but it was well repaired and comfortable.

The spirit gazed around, admiring the mage's handiwork. "Is this your home?"

"It was, a long time ago," Cole gazed longingly around him.

The spirit nodded, content, as though it somehow knew more than Cole was letting on, "This is a good start. We can bring the old hurts here."

The mage frowned, still gazing longingly at his childhood home. "I prefer to remember the good things that happened here."

"The old hurts cannot heal if they are not set free."

Cole spun on the spirit, his eyes flashing with anger, "If all you are interested in is my pain, then maybe you really are a demon after all."

The spirit looked back at the mage, unfazed. "I do not feed on the pain like Despair, or spur the fear as Terror. I free you from the hurt so it doesn't."

"I've never even heard of a spirit of Compassion!"

The spirit cocked its head curiously, "How many spirits do you know?"

Compassion had him there, and he looked away without saying anything. Considering the warnings the Chantry priests drilled into him, he couldn't help but wonder why he was still interacting with this spirit.

Even as he thought it, he knew the answer. He remembered the Chantry priests telling him one thing, but his mother, a Chasind shaman, had a different take on spirits. Her people actually revered them, and she tried to teach him to do so as well. He never fully bought into the all-spirits-are-evil-demons rhetoric, nor the idea that spirits were worthy of reverence, but even without his crippling loneliness, he felt he owed it to his mother's memory to hear the spirit out.

He walked over to the house, climbing the steps to the simple wooden door. His father built this house, soon after he and his mother chose to settle down; soon after she had learned she was with child. He entered the house and found it clean and pristine, with a simple table and chair set up in the corner, right next to the door that lead to the cellar. Ahead and to the right was a row of cupboards surrounding a wood stove, and a counter with a filled water basin; the kitchen area. On the right was another door that lead to a single bedroom they all shared.

The only thing strange about this place was that it was empty. There was no one here but Cole and...

The mage couldn't help but yelp in shock as Compassion entered the home by passing through the kitchen wall as though it wasn't even there. "Where is your family?" it asked him, innocently.

"Can you not do that?" Cole gasped, clutching his chest as his breathing got back to normal. "You could have used the door, you know."

"Why?"

"Because going through walls is weird! And I don't know where my family is."

"You don't wish to make them real here?"

Cole thought about it for a moment. It's true, this was the Fade, a dream. He could just make them appear, relive the happier moments of his childhood as he wished. But...

"They're gone. I don't want to make them 'real.'"

"Then I will do it for you."

Compassion stepped back from the kitchen, and waved its hand. A humanoid form shimmered before them, the green glow of the Fade forming the shape of a thin woman. She appeared to be in her mid to early 30s, with dark-brown hair, put up in a curly ponytail that reminded Cole of a frizzy flower. She wore a conservative brown dress with an apron, typical of the farmers in Ferelden, but the abstract tribal tattoos decorating her face betrayed her Wilder heritage.

Mama? Cole thought it to himself, his mouth open in surprise. He loved his mother, and the view of her only brought him a yearning ache.

"Yes," the spirit answered the question he never asked. Compassion turned towards the table and waved its hand again. Another, much smaller figure began to take shape underneath it, eventually forming into a toddler. The baby appeared to be just old enough to start walking, with wispy blonde hair, an ordinary, brown baby dress and wool diaper. The little girl, which Cole immediately recognized as his sister, was playing with polished wooden horses, thumping them on the floor while making adorable "clop clop" and neighing sounds-when she wasn't trying to chew on them.

Cole spoke with hoarse emotion, in barely a whisper, "What are you doing, spirit?"

Compassion didn't answer. Instead it stepped towards the cellar door, gesturing past it. A cacophony of noise suddenly sprang up from inside the cellar, the sound of crashing wood, thumping, shouting, and laughter.

The mage instantly knew what was going on in that cellar and he cracked a smile. The spirit, who moved back to float next to him, had picked a happy memory after all. It was such a relief.

"You were all happy," the spirit said again.

"Yes," he answered. "This time in my life was good."

The cellar door suddenly sprang open, and what was clearly a very young Cole-probably no more than eight or nine-leapt out of the cellar, carrying a small tree branch and giggling. He leaped out of the cellar, almost running into his mother. Ignoring her protests, he ran to the front door to swing it open. He didn't step outside, however, instead turning to face his "adversary," who was just emerging from the cellar as well.

A very large, burly man burst through the door, carrying a stick similar to the boy's. His ash-blond hair was balding in the front, but still long enough to be pulled back into a small ponytail at the nape of his neck. His square jaw was freshly shaven, and he was wearing simple leggings and a smallshirt.

The grown man, grinning like a child, pointed his "sword" at the boy and addressed him in a terrible Orlesian accent. "Orlais zhil take back zeh Empire. You canna stop us!"

Cole pointed his own "sword" at the man and would have responded triumphantly if he could have stopped laughing. "I am the great Ser Loghain, hero of Ferelden, and we will be freee."

The grown man lunged at the younger Cole, swatting playfully at his "sword," as Cole backed out of the door, the two of them trading sportive swings at each other.

The infant on the floor began crying, startled by the sudden excitement. Her mother sighed in annoyance, cursing the men of her household under her breath as she reached under the table to pick up her daughter, trying her best to soothe her.

It was a bitter-sweet memory, and Cole smiled sadly as he gazed at his mother and sister. His emotional state didn't escape the notice of the spirit next to him. "You miss them."

It was not a question, but Cole nodded in response. "They're all gone now."

"Lonely, lost, and longing."

"Yes."

The spirit moved over to the door, seemingly ready to pass right on through it, but it hesitating. It stole a quick glance at Cole, then turned back to the door, and placed its disembodied hand on the handle. In a markedly deliberate motion, the spirit pushed the latch down, waited for the clicking sound, then pushed the door wide open. It looked back at Cole again, smiling almost boastfully. The young man chuckled in approval, delighting the spirit.

They both stepped outside, closing the door behind them, and watched as father and son played sword fighting.

"You loved your father." It was a statement, not a question, and Cole responded with a cold grimace.

"I wanted to be a warrior, like he was."

"He was once a soldier. Did you want to be a soldier, too?"

Cole glanced curiously at the spirit. It proved, once again, that it knew more than it was letting on. "Nah, I wanted to be a hero, like King Maric or Logh...well, maybe not Loghain anymore."

The spirit nodded, "He liked to tell tales."

"I loved hearing them. I often pretended to be a mighty warrior, or a spirited rogue, and my father encouraged me. He was proud of my passion." Cole suddenly turned sober, "Until..."

His sentiment was interrupted by a loud crackle, like a thunderous lightning strike, that knocked the little boy onto the ground, his stick flying out of his hands. A patch of trees in nearby burst into flames.

All laughter stopped, replaced instead with the sound of roaring flames and a crying baby. The boy and his father could only stare, stunned, at the flaming trees, even as the flames quickly began to spread.

A lump appeared in the older Cole's throat as he watched. This was no longer a happy memory.

"What happened out here?" His mother stepped out of the house, still carrying the crying toddler. She rushed over to where the burly man stood, looking out over the flames.

Cole's mother seemed to be the only one to keep her head. She quickly handed the child to her father and stepped towards the flames. She lifted her hands into the air, drawing power from around her and directing it towards the blaze. A mist of water appeared above and around it, dousing it within minutes, leaving a few blackened, smoldering trees behind.

The baby finally stopped crying. Fascinated by the use of magic, she stared in wonder. She was the only one who seemed to approve, however, as the boy looked terrified, and the father, holding his daughter in one hand and the stick-sword in the other, looked furious.

Cole's mother turned around, her eyes immediately setting on her husband. A sense of fear flashed in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced with resolve. "I had to do it. I had to use magic. The flames would have eventually reached the fields, and you know it!"

He narrowed his eyes at his wife, but said nothing. Instead he turned his frightening gaze towards the boy next to him.

She gazed down at the boy as well, but her expression was of fearful concern. "Cole? Son? Did...did you do that?"

The boy-Cole sat up, looking down at his hands in shock and horror. He clasped them together, hugging them to himself, and looked up at his mother, lip quivering.

His father suddenly threw the stick he was holding in front of the boy, who flinched as it landed at his feet. "Looks like you won't be a warrior after all, boy." He then stormed into the house, slamming the door shut behind him, just as the baby cried out for her Mama.

The young Cole hung his head, bringing his knees closer to his chest. His mother walked over to him, kneeling so she could put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Cole, it's alright. I'm here, you're not alone."

He didn't respond. He seemed to be trying as hard as he could to fight back tears, and failing.

"Cole," there was nothing but love and compassion in her voice. "Be proud. You're a shaman, like me. The Chasind hold us in high esteem. I can teach you how..."

"I don't wanna be a shaman," boy-Cole finally sobbed out. "Papa told me all about magic. I hate magic."

She drew her child closer and held him as he sobbed into her shoulder. There was a fresh look of pain on her face, and not just for her terrified son.

"The words hurt her," the spirit said as he watched.

Cole frowned, "I know."

"She was happy for herself. She was happy you were like her. She didn't like being an only."

The mage turned away from the spirit, pursing his lips.

Compassion sensed Cole's sudden guilt, and it panicked. "Oh, I said the wrong thing. Wrong, wrong, wrong," it quickly raised a disembodied hand to Cole's head. "Forget!"

The last few seconds abruptly vanished from Cole's mind, and he glanced up again, slightly confused.

Compassion tried again, "It's not your fault. You can't stop your father from being him, just as you can't stop you from being you."

Cole took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. "I just don't understand how Father could love Mama and still hate her magic! It doesn't make sense."

"Regretting, resenting, running. I could have been a hero if not for her. I wouldn't have to hide if not for her."

"Is that what my father was thinking?"

"He was wrong to think that. It wasn't her fault the templars hunted her."

"It wasn't his fault, either," Cole countered.

"No, she could not choose, but he could. He knew what it meant, but believed he could control it, a fist gripping water. Smother, supervise, subdue, but it would not submit. It made him angry. He saw only his pain, his helplessness, and not your mother's." He turned to fully face Cole. "Or yours."

Cole shook his head, "He may have chosen my mother knowing what she was, but he didn't choose me."

"He chose you when he chose her." There was an intensity in the way the spirit spoke, and Cole found himself looking into the strange, glowing orbs it had for eyes. "He chose to regret. He chose to let those choices become anger and hate. He made his choices, not you. You didn't choose this. He did."

Cole turned away from those eyes, staring at the ground. There was still pain, but the words made him feel a little lighter, like a great burden had been lifted from him. It was exactly what Cole needed to hear at that moment.

Cole paced back and forth in his cell, wringing his hands. Back and forth, back and forth, like a caged animal. His stomach was tight, screaming for food, but he had none to give it. At least his constant movements kept the rats away.

Though raw rat was starting to sound tasty at this point.

He wandered over to his cell door again. He'd lost count of how many times he'd tried looking through the window, and how many times he'd been disappointed at what he did, or did not, see. He continued his pacing again, from the door to the back of the cell. Back and forth, back and forth.

He wanted to sleep. The Fade gave him someone to talk to, and allowed him to forget the pangs in his stomach for awhile. He wasn't in a dream, though. He was wide awake. Back and forth, back and forth.

He'd made one, soft attempt at calling for help. Fear of the templars kept him from calling out with more than just a normal voice or a stage whisper, but he made a tentative attempt. His own echoes in the stone halls were his only answer.

He resisted, but his mind wandered back to the templars that captured him. He remembered waking up, his body jostling to the movements of a horse. He was draped over it like a prized boar, tied down and blindfolded. His head hurt where the templar had struck him, and his body ached from his unnatural position. He started to squirm, to try and get more comfortable, until he realized with horror that he could feel the body heat and steel armor of its rider right next to him.

There were other horses around him too, but he couldn't tell how many. None of them were speaking, and their silence was more terrifying than anything.

"W...where are you taking me?" He regretted the words the moment they came out of his mouth, cringing at the sound of his own voice. His captors remained silent. They didn't even seem to flinch

"Are you going to kill me?"

He heard the templar he was riding with draw his sword, and he cried out in terror before another blow to his head knocked him out cold.

When he woke again, he was no longer on the horse but lying on the cold ground. It was night, and he heard a crackling fire nearby, but he wasn't close enough to feel its warmth. He reflexively shivered in the cold, but tried his best not to move and alert the templars to his consciousness.

He laid there for what seemed like ages, but still heard nothing. He dared to move again, testing his bonds to see if escape was a possibility. They had him trussed up tight, with ropes tying his elbows and wrists behind his back, and ropes tying his feet as well. Unless he found some way to remove them, he wasn't going anywhere.

He rested his cheek on the cold ground and he shivered again. He tried to curl up for warmth, but the task proved difficult with his bindings. Somehow, he knew he was going to die. The templars were going to kill him. No wonder his family took such pains to protect him and his mother.

Perhaps it was fitting he was here, then, since he no longer had a family to protect him. Perhaps this was his due punishment for...

Cole stopped pacing, shaking his head as though doing so would banish the memories. He didn't want to think about the templars anymore. They threw him in here, locked him up, and he never wanted to see them again. Part of him hoped that they really did forget him.

Though he still clung to the hope that someone would find him. Anyone but the templars. He didn't want to die here.