No one noticed him as Cole hovered over the children. Their hurts were the loudest and required immediate attention, or they would burrow deep into them as they silence their cries. A long ache that would echo Everyone forgot the children, especially the elven ones. The others, the older ones had deeper hurts that were loud and confused him. Their immediate pains could wait or they could aid themselves. But the children, the young ones, they were loud too but simpler and easier.

Cold. Hungry. Sleepy. All of it could be attended easy, simply. He didn't have to make them forget. Some were too young to fully see him, the others whispered - worried but were grateful for the soup, the blanket, the comforting words, and the attention. He acknowledged them. Emotions weighted, pains soothed, wants quelled. They weren't happy but he helped.

Cole's finger hovered over the pointed ear of one. Memories, whispers, faint callings of one such ear, larger and swathed in stringy hair protruding from a hollowed husk. He'd been too late. Too late. He wouldn't be too late now.

He tucked the blanket around the children, feeling their hurts unwind and release. He could no longer see them, but he watched them, waiting for the nightmares before twisting and turning them away.

Everyone needed rest.

A faint ripple across the veil of a strong and pure pride came across to him. Deep swirling cavernous black guilt, hidden behind a layer - veneer of distant obligation. It was there, still hurting, but there was nothing to be done. At least not yet. Not there, not now. He would have to wait to heal that one.

"Compassion?" Soulful and sorrowing, the elven mage recognized him. Steps lighter than snow left no prints as he approached. Old, ancient and proud.

"I'm Cole." Cole tilted his head, hat tipped up to observe and see.

"Cole…" He spoke.

Cole didn't want to look into his eyes, afraid the churning well would swallow him. The veil was loose, porous and leaking the fade around him. Lavender touched where they shouldn't, reaching high up and holding the sky.

Cole watched, careful, unsure. "It isn't your fault. You tried, but you couldn't open it. Sleepy, bleary, drowsy. You're seeing, really seeing and it's grim, gray, gutted. It makes it an unwieldy yield. You try to collect it but it's hard, slow. It will take time."

The elven mage frowned, brows furrowed.

"Its sticky and stretches when it should flow - never ending, never stopping. A gesture at your will and the river shifts. It shouldn't be like this." Cole shifted his weight as he delved deeper, listening and looking down. "You want to help."

"Yes."

Silence stretched. Bodies moved around him. Cole would have noticed but there within the elf's presence it was quiet. He could think and only feel the elf's hurts.

"Be careful, there are templars who would see harm to you."

Cole flitted and fitted between the whole holes of people. Dark spots that called him closer, whispering willful wishes that pulled and prodded. Balming their burns, wrapping their wounds, soothing their simpers. They marched, the snow was bright and warming, but a shiver ran across the spines of a troubled people.

Knees raised, heads down, but a renewed strength every night. A spot too bright to look, with a twisting knife of remorse that edged him closer. The elven mage told the Herald to look to the north but she lingered, staring past the mountains to a valley where the dead on her shoulders were buried. A ruined village, a lost chance, a mistake made, advice untaken, a girl -

Cole had to look away, blinded. He'd looked at her then, but had saw with his eyes. The bright sun was too much. Tears pricked at his eyes.

"You might try not staring at the sun, kid" The stone spoke, hands rubbed close to warm them. The wind bit at his skin and exposed chest but he didn't close his jacket. He was cold, and knew how to fix it but didn't do it. Cole squinted. He didn't understand. "Tends to hurt your eyes."

"I'm not a kid."

"Really? Could have fooled me." He pointed to his shoes.

Cole looked down to his loose shoelaces. He stooped low, fingers holding them up. "Stay tied, please." He whispered. They slid from his fingers and the veil caressed them into place, shifting and phasing through each other until they were tied, tight and tidy. "Thank you."

"Huh." The stone tilted his head. A quiet ache deep inside him, words wilting in his head as a play began but ended before it could come to fruition. "So what's your name, kid?"

"I'm Cole."

"Well, Cole. I'm Varric Tethras. Here." The stone pulled a small cloth wrapped around bread with cheese. "You look like you haven't eaten, kid."

Cole started, questioning as he held the bread aloft. He didn't need to eat. He didn't hunger anymore, not like before. Before when he thought he was Cole.

He tried to listen to the stone. Deep echoes to an old song distant and rumbling but still and somber. It made him miss things, miss how it used to be, his family of hawks and miscreants.

"Even if you had told the Seeker the truth, it wouldn't have changed anything." Cole tried. The ache burned. Cole frowned. He did it wrong.

He made the stone forget him, made him return to the others. The ache was too old and tangled with others hurts. It was unchanging and set in stone. It would be hard to smooth the surface, if at all. He would have to try again, when he listened more.

He gave the bread to someone who needed it, sharing it. They forgot him, but their full bellies reminded them to thank someone but they weren't sure who.

Cole returned to those with simpler hurts. There were more of them. Yet he found himself drawn to the harsher ones, harder and difficult. Puzzles, trying to unknot the wiry thoughts and memories. Their hurts connected to others. He had to trace them and unwind others, unlocking and untangling. Breadcrumbs in the veil until he found where it released. Cole watched as the threads sagged and he pulled them to their owners, to wrap around them. Their hurts used as blankets for some and others to build. A crack in the wall filled with resolution made it stronger to the test of time. Others were crumbling breaking, their walls ready to fall. He had to return to those with whispers low in their ears and dreams. Winding the thread around them until it was a taut web for them to build their walls with wide windows to see inside but stand behind protected.

It was hard on the trek. Easier when the hold was in sight. Relief washed some of the fear away, the anxious worried wondered if the Elder One would find them there in the snow. With Skyhold they had crumbling yet sturdy walls to hide behind. There was much work to be done.

No one noticed him as he slipped between the veil. It was easier to hide here. To hide between folds of the veil, to quiet his steps and breath as he helped. The fade leaked between the porous veil here. Slow and steady. Sometimes he could remember things from before.

Before…the stabbing pain and gasps. Sharp eyes pleading for merciful sleep. Dry tears and parched sobs. A silent call. Even in his pain he tried to console. Still with unnatural unrest. The Templars forgot and flitted around them. Some people saw him; others forgot.

The weary horror vanished.

Cole found his place with the sick and the dying. With loved ones that yet lived and brought them, mourning. Final wishes, final thoughts, and final greetings. Yet those alone, he reminded them of things before, of things passed. Burnt turnips like mother's soup for the dying soldier that passed. The smell of daisies for the templar, haunted by the attack were replaced by memories of a field by Montsimmard.

When their pains were eased he felt the older ones and the new ones. Plums for spiders, and webs for frenetic healers. Cheese for the mice so the cats would come, and leafy mints to make them dance and play. Laughs for the Cook made cooking easier for the scullery maids. The maids made cookies. He left the cookies for the Jenny in the tavern.

She didn't like him, but he felt her hurt and could aid to soothe the soured memories hidden away, but he kept his distance. She called him Creepy.

Some days, it was too much. So he sat at the stairs to rest, close enough to hear - to help but far enough to let them heal. The air in Skyhold filled him with life. It was easier to recover here than out there. The fade was closer. It felt like...home. He hid away until the Enchanter pointed him out to the Seeker. He should have remained unseen but now he stood out in their sight. Sharp, crisp, and grey.

"There. That's the demon."

He was a demon. Or a spirit. He wasn't sure. Sometimes he was a demon, when his friends wept; other times he was a spirit being there for those he heard. Everyone had hurts, others were just louder, urgent, immediate. Sometimes he had to prioritize. They clung to life, trying to stay. He made it okay for them to let go. Then there were others who reached for death that he kept them at bay. They would stay with the birds. Cole went through a lot of bread for him but he stayed. The birds liked Cole, especially the crows. Well one Crow didn't.

When the birds were hard to see, the Herald was near. They approached, a heavy dark question on her tongue and in their stride. She wanted to understand, so he helped her.

The Herald wanted him to stay. He wanted to stay. There were so many people he could help. So many with swirling somber sadness that needed their hurts, to heal the scars, to hold onto, to feel whole. Others wanted it gone, so he made them forget. The Herald understand.

He wasn't allowed to steal honey from the kitchens anymore. How else was he supposed to sweeten the Nightingale's wine?

Cole perched on a scaffolding, one leg tucked and the other swinging. Refugees filtered through the gates. Cold, hungry. Easy hurts they can soothe themselves or the Sisters will help. Cole wasn't interested in those, he closed his eyes and listened. They were stragglers. Those who escaped Haven but hadn't found where the sky was held back. A bull's chargers returned. Memorials built - mourning and resources found -

He staggered forward when a fresh wave of pain, long and old. Aching, dripping blood and ichor. The veil whorled and its pores became gaping. There was crying - screaming - pleading for an end. A shivering crawling terror and hunger. Cole gasped as it rushed him. His throat tightened. A wretched stabbing pain washed over him. It choked and dried the air. Then… nothing. Quiet. The veil shifted, cringing and crackling and then soothed over. The quiet choked him. It reminded him - No.

Left behind. Hidden. Starved. Left to die. Haven. Snow. Months. Alone. Forgotten.

No!

Grim, Skinner, and Stitches hovered - protective. Bellowing betrayal with furrowed brows, Bull kept his distance. Guilt, squashed by loyalty and duty. I was following orders. Bull assured himself, but he looked back at the cart. A twist of knife the guilt was gone. He nodded reaffirmed in his actions, but tiny voices joined the others. Was it right?

Cole looked and looked. Hidden beneath sheets, within a cart lay a wisp of a person. If he was seeing he would have missed her. Bone thin, stretched grey skin, tufts of hair remained and bulging eyes. Yet she breathed. Shallow quick gasping breaths between cracked scarred lips. Weeping and leaking the fade wanted to swallow her up. Ready for her shade and the power of her memories.

She was dying. Cole knelt close. But she didn't want to.

REVIEWS:

Jemstone6259: Aww thank you! I hope I don't disappoint going forward.