-"How does Compassion become such a deadly killer?"
-"Templars."
- Party Banter in DA:I
The cell was plunged into darkness and Compassion had to take a moment for his eyes to adjust to the low light. He held Cole's single, frail hand in his own two hands, and could only watch as Cole closed his eyes, let his head fall to the side, and was still.
"Cole?" His voice was more urgent the second time, and he anxiously searched his mind. Cole didn't answer, but the spirit sensed a spark of thought, of emotion, dim but real. He wasn't dead, not yet, but it was only a matter of time now. He would never wake up again. Compassion could not save him.
He looked peaceful sitting there, his back against the wall, and his head leaning to one side. His eyes and cheeks were sunken in, but he was taking soft, shallow breaths. He didn't know how much longer he had, but the spirit would be there for him.
Compassion reached up, intending to brush a thin strand of blond hair from Cole's face. As his fingertips touched however, he recoiled from it. It didn't feel right. Not Cole, but him; his hand. A sensation he'd never felt before that coursed through his fingers.
It was only now that he realized this same sensation was coming from his hands as it held Cole's. He reflexively let go, his mind struggling to comprehend this new sensation, and he stood up with the intent of retreating.
It had been a mistake. An unseen force pulled him, snagging his unprepared body and causing him to stumble backwards. He fell and banged his head on the hard stone floor.
As a spirit of Compassion, he had the ability to feel the pain of others so he might heal them, and this included physical pains. He, however, had never felt actual pain himself. He let out a loud, sharp cry, grabbing his head and curling up on the floor with a whimper. His eyes, shut tight, became wet – yet another sensation he'd never felt before – and he reached up with one hand to wipe them away.
He'd become so focused on Cole that he hadn't noticed his surroundings, and the environment suddenly bore down on him in an oppressive wave. The stench of the cell made his stomach turn, the sounds of fleeing rats and water made his head hurt, and the cold, painfully-rough floor made him shiver uncontrollably. Panic began to set in, and he noticed his breathing -am I breathing?- was increasing rapidly.
He carefully tried to stand, but he only managed to get on one knee. It was like his body was heavy, a force pulling him to the ground even as he tried to lift himself. He twisted around, trying again to stand, but only stumbled backwards into the wall of the cell. He prevented himself from hitting his head this time, but he still felt the air knocked out of him, and he grunted, coughing as his lungs forced him to breathe.
He was a spirit, he didn't need to breathe, but the sensation of losing breath was still agonizing. He took several more gulps of air, trying his best to center himself. It helped, and he slowly gathered his bearings again.
He turned towards the cold, stone wall, pressing his hands against it and trying desperately to push his way through. The wall was wet, slimy, and refused to move.
"Let me through," he begged the rock in a hoarse voice that didn't sound like his own. "Please." It wouldn't budge; it wouldn't listen. He tried again, pushing with all his might, pleading with the wall to obey, but it defied him.
He tried standing up again, using the wall to support his untrained legs. It helped greatly, and he found himself walking, sliding against the stone. The room was so dark, he could barely see anything, but he noticed the door. He turned the corner towards it, grasping the handle, the way he'd seen Cole do in the Fade, and tried to open it. The handle jiggled, making it just slightly more cooperative than the wall, but it refused to open for him. He tried banging his hand on the door as he'd seen some people do, but it only caused a shocking pain that radiated all the way up his arm, and he gasped, falling to the ground and cradling his arm.
If he'd had anything in his stomach, he would have vomited right then and there. He could hear what he assumed was his heart pounding in his chest and ears, making his head hurt even more. Not just his head, everything hurt. He was trapped in a static horror, and it was torturing him.
He felt a sick darkness well up from somewhere deep inside him, a darkness that was filled with fear and despair, threatening to completely overwhelm him and turn him into something else. He took deep breaths again, trying to calm himself, and doing his best to ignore the horrible stench that came with every gulp of air. It was a technique he encouraged others to use – the people he helped – when they needed to calm themselves, though he'd never dreamed he'd need it for himself. With each subsequent breath, the darkness subsided, falling back into the depths it came from, and the pain and panic he felt diminished, becoming a dull ache. He dared to open his eyes again, surveying his surroundings.
As his mind calmed and his panic subsided, he remembered where he was. He'd seen this dark cell many times before, as he'd studied it very carefully from the Fade. He was close enough now that he could hear the walls sing; a sad, lonely, and sickening song. He covered his ears instinctively, trying to block out the horrible sound. It sang whispered words of hopelessness and horrors to him, and he didn't want to listen. He knew why the walls sang this song; Compassion, like Cole, was now trapped here. There was no way out, except to go back to the Fade.
But he couldn't go back, not yet.
He crawled on his hands and knees over to where Cole lay, sitting himself beside his old friend. He focused again on the young man's mind, reaffirming that he was barely alive, and he reached out to touch Cole's hand, tentatively at first. He was a little more accustomed now to these new, strange sensations, and realizing this touch didn't hurt, he intertwined his fingers in Cole's again.
The reaction he sensed from the mage's mind helped reassure the spirit. Even in this state, even without consciousness, Cole could feel the touch, and it calmed him. Compassion gently squeezed his hand, not even sure why he was doing it, and laid his head back against the stone wall, gazing into the face of his dying friend. If he could bring him this small amount of comfort as it all ended, he would. He could do that much.
Strangely, holding Cole's hand gave him some small amount of comfort as well.
Cole was dead.
Spirits had no concept of time, and Compassion had no way of knowing how long he'd sat there, holding the mage's hand, until there was no longer any trace of life from him. He had wept at that moment, wetness leaking from his eyes and nose. He'd wiped the tears away with his sleeve, but he couldn't brush away the rough numbness it left on his sensitive skin.
Now he just sat there, still holding Cole's dead hand, letting the sorrow overtake him.
He noticed Cole's skin growing colder, but he still held on. He couldn't bring himself to let go. The new sensation of touch was alien to him, but strangely comforting. The only source of comfort he found in this dark, lonely cell.
Compassion lifted his knees up, hugging his free arm around them as he buried his head. He contemplated returning to the Fade, making himself forget all of this; make himself the way he was before Cole died. He could wash himself clean, make himself pure, become Compassion again, helping those who hurt and going on as though nothing happened.
But why? Even with all of his effort and focus, he had failed him; failed to save his friend. Cole had been right; he didn't know enough about being human to help. What good was being a spirit of compassion if he couldn't help? But he was Compassion. He wasn't anything else. What else could he be?
A loud noise in the distance woke him from his musings, and he lifted his head to listen. The cell had been so deathly quiet until now. Not even the rats and roaches had bothered them, and Compassion surmised his mere presence was enough to frighten them away. This noise was not caused by any rodents or insects; there were shouting voices behind them, and the sound of banging doors and footsteps.
Someone was coming.
If he'd heard these noises before Cole had died, he would have been elated. Now the voices just frightened him. Who were they? What were they going to do to him when they saw him? He had no way of knowing what he looked like but he knew that when spirits attempted to form a body on their own, it was always monstrous and frightening to people. Would they try to kill him? He had nowhere to run if they did.
He finally released Cole's hand, crawling into a far, dark corner to hide. It was a pointless gesture; there was nothing in the cell that could truly hide him. Could he fight them? He may not have a choice.
"...Could have found her if you let us stay out longer." The voice was clearly female, gravelly from age or use, gruff and very annoyed.
A second, younger man's voice spoke up. "We've been away too long. The boy might be dead."
"So? Mages die here all the time. You get used to it."
The footsteps were coming closer, and he could see a light growing brighter through the cell window. Compassion pushed himself further against the corner, trying his best to pass through it and hide within it. As before, the wall refused him passage and the safety of its cover.
The light shined directly into the cell, illuminating it so brightly that Compassion shielded his eyes from the pain of the glare. Please, don't see me!
"He's not moving." The younger male voice was hushed, fearful.
"Go on in and have a look." A different voice spoke this time from further beyond the cell; a deeper, raspy man's voice.
Compassion heard the jingle of keys and a clicking sound before the handle moved down and the door swung outward. Even more light flooded the room. It was still dim, but it was more light than this cell had seen in who-knows how long.
A young man, a templar, entered the cell, holding an enchanted lantern in front of him. He had the standard issue armor, a solid, silver breastplate with the symbol of a flaming sword on the front. His hair was a dark brown, and he had a thick mustache to match.
The light from his lantern illuminated the cell, leaving the spirit completely exposed. There was no way the young man wouldn't see him now.
Yet, he didn't. He didn't even glance his way.
He slowly approached Cole's body, letting the lantern lead the way. As he neared, he grunted in disgust, but reached his hand out, tentatively. He shoved an arm against Cole's shoulder, causing the body to shift slightly, but he didn't respond. The templar lifted the lantern up, looking closer at the body.
He reached out a hand, grasping Cole by the chin and lifting his head up. Stop it! Compassion thought to himself, becoming angry. Don't touch him! Get away! He wanted to rush over there and shove the templar away, attack him for daring to rough up his friend, but he was too terrified to move. He could only protest in vain while continuing to push himself into the corner.
The young templar dropped Cole's head, letting it fall to the side and stood up quickly. "Shit!" he cried out of fear and anger, leaving the cell so quickly he almost stumbled into the templar woman. "He's dead."
She rolled her eyes in disappointment. "So we came all this way for nothing."
The younger templar frantically gestured towards the body. "The Knight-Commander is going to have our heads for this!" His voice had grown high-pitched, though whether from fear, sorrow, or both it was hard to say.
"Don't worry," she soothed, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "We'll erase his records. The Commander will never know he was here."
She patted him on the shoulder and turned away. "Knight-Corporal, go down to the incinerator and get it running. I'll go upstairs and find his records and personal effects and bring them down here. You," she turned back to the younger templar, "Get the body and bring it down to the incinerator."
Compassion could see the horrified expression on the young templar, "W...what? Why do I have to handle the corpse?"
"Because you're the new guy," she said with a laugh. He could hear the other templar give a boisterous laugh from beyond the cell, their mirthful echoes bouncing against the walls like the fists of a starving child.
The other templars departed in separate directions. The remaining one stood there for a few moments, staring at the body, before also leaving the cell.
Compassion was hopeful that he'd given up and just left, but such hope was short lived. The templar came back, carrying an old, filthy blanket in his hands. He set the lantern down at the entrance and unfurled the bedding, laying it to rest on the ground just in front of Cole.
"This is not what I signed up for when I joined." The templar's voice was barely a mumble, but it carried in the empty cell clearly. He walked around the blanket towards Cole, hesitating as he stared at the body in disgust, before pushing him over, letting him fall to the floor.
Compassion could only stare in helpless horror, recoiling as the body fell towards him, Cole's soft blond hair slowly settling onto the concrete floor and the hand the spirit had been holding earlier laid out before him, as though reaching out for help. The templar braced himself, before rolling Cole's body onto the blanket. Stepping forward, he then proceeded to role him up like an old rug.
Stop! He tried to stand, tried to stop the templar, but he only succeeded in kicking a stone across the room. This startled the young man, and he looked up abruptly for the source of the noise. Compassion retreated back into the corner again, staring wide eyed at him.
The templar glanced around the cell with a confused expression. His eyes swept over Compassion, but they passed over him like he wasn't there. After a few moments, the man sighed, shaking his head, and proceeded to wrap up the body.
Cole could barely be seen inside the blanket. The only thing that indicated his presence there was a hand poking out one end. The templar gave of a sickly groan, and he clutched his stomach in an obvious attempt to keep from retching. He grabbed the opposite end of the blanket, twisting it in his hands to get a better grip, and began dragging the bundle, body and all, out of the cell, and down the hall. He stopped only long enough to slam the cell door shut behind him.
Compassion wasn't sure how long he sat there. The lantern still sat on the floor nearby, illuminating the cell in an eerie light, but it only further emphasized that the cell was now empty. The spirit was alone.
He stood up, slowly but deliberately. It can't end like this. Not like this! He walked along the wall of the cell, keeping one hand there to steady himself as he approached the door. He was terrified he might still be trapped in here, but when he grasped the door handle and pushed it down, the door swung open with a loud and ominous creak.
He looked down the hall of the dungeon. There were rows upon rows of cells, most of which looked like they hadn't been used since the First Blight. He heard the scraping sounds coming from the left, and headed in that direction, deeper into the cell block.
He walked swiftly, his hand still pressing against the walls, though he was now certain he could walk without the support. It didn't take him long to catch up to the templar and Cole around a bend in the hallway. He knew now that he was invisible, but he still instinctively ducked back around the corner, watching them from cover. The templar was focused on his task as he dragged the body deeper and deeper into the keep.
He kept pace, always keeping the templar and his bundle in sight. He didn't know what he could do to stop him, but there had to be something. Perhaps an opportunity would present itself when the time came. For now, he just needed to make sure he didn't lose Cole.
There was a bright, burning light up ahead. The templar continued down the hall, dragging his haul behind him, with the spirit following unnoticed at a distance. They're journey lead them into a vast chamber, far more open and spacious than anything else in this pit. They entered from a stone-walled balcony, a brick staircase leading down into the large room. A stream of water from behind a wall flowed into an over-sized trough on the far side of the room. The place smelled of soot, fire, and pain.
It was clear why when Compassion gazed towards the center of the room. A large, scorched brick furnace sat prominently in the center, the door to it wide open and a fire already blazing inside, like a massive fire-breathing dragon ready to consume its prey. One of the templars was there, coaxing and nurturing the flame inside.
The man was older than the templar that had Cole, but not by much. He had short, salt and pepper hair and a full beard to match. He was larger than the younger templar, and far more intimidating. He also looked dreadfully cheerful.
The young templar dragged Cole's wrapped body over to the furnace, but the older templar stopped him. "Hold up, it's not quite ready yet. Just leave it there for now."
Compassion waited at the top of the balcony, looking over, not daring to come near. Even from up here, he could feel the heat from the furnace, an uncomfortable heat that warned him to stay away. He gazed around the room, trying to see if there was something he could use to stop this, but nothing he saw seemed useful. The tools used to stoke the fire were all by the templars, and entering the light of the wide open space frightened him too much to go near.
He heard the older templar laugh. "This sure beats throwing stray cats in a river, doesn't it."
"You're sick," The younger templar berated. "This isn't funny."
"Settle down, tenderfoot," he gave him a toothy grin, which made him look even more menacing. "This isn't the first time this has happened."
The younger templar's face lost all color. "How can you be so casual about this? This is murder! This boy was our charge, and we killed him."
The older templar snorted. "Oh come on, did you really expect that being a templar would be all about shiny parades, heroic stories, and swooning ladies?" He walked over to the blanket, throwing back the cover just enough to show Cole's emaciated face to his startled and horrified comrade. "This is what being a templar is about; dealing with demons, abominations, and murderous apostates, and then cleaning up the shit they leave behind. Like this guy." He pointed down at Cole for emphasis. "You and I both saw the body at the farm, and he was washing blood off of his clothes. This piece of filth was a murderer first, and there's no reason to feel any remorse for him.
"What we do isn't fun unless you make it fun. I suggest you learn how, or you won't last here."
He covered the body again, giving a menacing grin as he went back to stoking the fire. Compassion was shivering with barely contained rage. His friend was not "filth," he was Cole. He wanted to go down there and punish them, hit them, kill them. They didn't deserve the same life they took from his friend. Cole was dead, and he wanted his killers dead, too.
Compassion was startled out of his angry musings by loud footsteps behind him. He crouched down against the balcony, knowing he was in plain sight, but hoping he still wouldn't be seen. He had an idea of who it was and, sure enough, the senior templar came down, holding a wooden crate full of papers in her hands.
It was the first good look the spirit got of her. She had been attractive once, but harsh work in the outdoors had leathered and wrinkled her face. Her hair was a light-brown, thin and stringy, crudely tied back in a ponytail. She stopped at the top of the steps, looking down at the other templars. She didn't even glance at the spirit, despite being just a few feet away.
"Lieutenant, can you come down here and help us with this?"
She placed the crate down on the ground and went to her comrades, who appeared to be struggling with the furnace. Compassion watched her leave before his gaze fell back to the crate she'd set on the ground. He could see that it contained a few pieces of parchment, Cole's records from upstairs no doubt, but there was something else inside as well.
The spirit inched closer, trying to get a better look. Inside the crate, sitting on top of all the parchment, was Cole's one and only possession; an ornate dagger in a leather sheath with a brass handle shaped like a dragon.
It was the same dagger that Compassion saw in Cole's memories, and had recreated in the Fade, except this one was real. It had seen better days, covered in both dirt and dried blood, but it was his mother's dagger, no doubt.
Compassion reached into the crate, slowly and carefully grasping the dagger and pulling it out while keeping one eye on the templars below. Once the dagger was safely in his grasp, he scurried away, hugging the weapon to his chest.
It didn't take long for the Knight-Lieutenant to come back up the stairs to grab the crate, but as soon as she looked inside, she stopped.
"Hey, what happened to the da..."
"Forget."
Compassion made a quick gesture with his hand, and the memory left her, escaping to the Fade in a whiff of black smoke. She didn't notice the gesture or spirit; she just looked down at the crate in blank confusion.
"What happened to what?" The older templar called out.
She only shook her head, as if to clear it. "Never mind." She grabbed the crate and carried it down to the furnace.
The crate landed inside the now blazing furnace with the loud crackle of crushed charcoal and a shower of sparks. The incinerator now burned with a heat that hurt Compassion, but he dared not move from his spot. This was his last chance to save Cole. He had a weapon now. All he had to do was run down there and...
"Help me out," Knight-Corporal gestured towards the new templar, grabbing one end of the blanket and waiting as his associate to grabbed the other. With a quick swing, and a strong heave, they hurled the body into the furnace.
Compassion didn't even flinch when the furnace's door was shut with a loud, echoing clang. The templars sealed it shut, the flames still burning fiercely within. They were all sweating from being so close to the flames, but the older templars were still in good spirits, the younger one trailing just behind them.
"Maybe now we can go back to finding our missing apostate," the woman chimed in. "Remember, tenderfoot, if she ends up as an abomination and wipes out a village, it's on you."
Corporal snorted cynically. "The old man could have been lying, you know. She may not exist."
"It doesn't matter. We need to keep looking."
The spirit barely acknowledged them, even as they passed right by him; even as their voices became a distant echo, and then were too far to hear. He only stared at the furnace, still clutching the dagger to his chest.
Murdering Cole was bad enough, but his killers couldn't leave it at that. They had to also wipe him from existence. The only evidence of his presence that still remained was the dagger Compassion now held. It was all that was left.
He'd failed Cole. Again. The spirit stood, slowly climbing down the steps towards the furnace. He was hoping to come closer to the flames, to Cole's grave, but the heat was too much for his sensitive nerves. He could only stare at the monstrous stove as it consumed its feast, unfeeling and uncaring.
He was done here. He could try and return to the Fade again, but he had no heart for it. He remembered choosing to become Compassion when he'd matured as a spirit, because he liked helping people. He could sense their pain and make it go away, make it better. There was so much pain in the waking world, and he dedicated himself to making it just a little brighter, a little better for everyone. It was the whole reason for his existence
There was only darkness now. He'd worked harder on helping Cole than anyone he'd ever assisted, and this was the result. A burning flame in a furnace, and his murderers walking away gleefully.
And he had done nothing.
He felt wetness in his eyes again, making his vision go blurry, and he quickly wiped it away. He looked down at the dragon-head dagger clutched tightly in his fingers, but he could barely see it. The blurriness in his eyes wouldn't go away, no matter how many times he tried to wipe them, and a tightness in his chest and gut soon followed.
He fell to his knees, bringing both hands, with the dagger, to his face. He didn't fight it this time, simply allowing the wetness to flow, his body shaking and convulsing as he cried. He allowed despair to take him.
The darkness he felt before emerged again, welling up from a deep part of his being and threatening to consume him. It was a cold darkness that pushed the heat away, making it deceptively comforting. It wasn't long, however, before the cold began to hurt him as well, his body shivering and his teeth aching.
No! It wasn't right; it wasn't him. He clutched his head, his fingers digging into his scalp, the sheath of the dagger pressed painfully against his forehead, as he fought back the cold dark. It had come from somewhere inside his soul, so his only option was to push it back, force it down, exile it back where it came from. It was hard, the darkness didn't want to leave. But he prevailed, pushing the cold away until all he could feel was the unbearable heat from the furnace.
He tried to focus on something else, something to get his mind off of his despair. He brought the dagger closer to his blurry eyes, and noticed again that it was dirty. He tried to will the dirt and blood off of the dagger, only to be reminded that such trivial tricks only worked in the Fade. How did people in the waking world clean things? With water, maybe?
There was a large trough on the other side of the room, and he shuffled over to it. He removed the dagger from its sheath as he approached, the sound of the running water soon drowning out the roar of the fire. It reminded him of the river in the Fade, the one Cole helped him create, and it filled him with both comfort and renewed sorrow all at once. It was a confusing feeling, one he wished would just go away.
He reached the trough and looked inside, and stopped. He saw his own reflection in the water, the first time he saw what he had created. He hadn't intended to create a body for himself, he knew what happened when spirits tried. He had planned on simply coming through as a spirit, saving Cole, then returning to the Fade. The body he had was an accident, and he now expected to see a horrible creature, a gruesome thing that frightened the people of the waking world. Spirits could never get the human form right, and he didn't expect to be any different.
When he looked into the water, however, he didn't see a monster. He saw Cole.
He looked on at his rippling reflection, and tentatively reached a hand up to touch his face. He traced the contours of his, chin, nose, and lips, bringing his hand up to touch the strands of ash-blond hair that he hadn't even noticed falling over his blue eyes.
He still couldn't believe what he was seeing. His hands wandered down to his neck, chest, and arms. It wasn't just his body that was an exact duplicate; he even had an exact copy of Cole's worn, patchwork leathers and clothing. Did he somehow create an exact copy when he accidentally created a body? If so, he couldn't recall when or how he did it.
He looked back over at the furnace, Cole's grave, its flames still burning brightly. A new hope swelled inside his chest and he smiled as he glanced down again, hugging his body.
"I can still save Cole!"
He put the dagger back in its sheath, no longer caring how dirty it was, and strapped the sheath to his waste. It was his now, the dagger that belonged to his mother, that she buried in the garden to keep his father from selling it. The dagger that he used to kill his father, so he wouldn't hurt anyone ever again. The dagger that was his again. Cole's.
He couldn't be Compassion anymore. That life was behind him. He had failed as a spirit, but he could move on now as a person, a human being. He had a new purpose now. He had Cole's body, his voice, even some of his memories. That's all you needed to be human, right?
There was just one last thing he had to do.
In order to become Cole, he had to forgo his old life; he had to say goodbye to Compassion; to the Fade, to being a spirit. He had to become real.
With one hand still clinging to the dagger, he raised his opposite hand to his head.
"Forget!"
