The hardest part of an attack was not the attack. An attack had fear and panic and death, but it also had adrenaline and speed and acts that saved the last left lingering. Attacks were fast, fearsome, and then finished.

The after was much harder. Picking up the pieces while praying for pity from the gods, weeping over those lost, those hurt beyond full repair, things that weren't given a thought before they were no more.

The dead and wounded were all collected and the villagers moved on to cleanup. Krem volunteered himself to help build a massive funeral pyre near the small chantry's grounds. He was off in the woods collecting lumber. Dorian was moving rubble load by load from the destroyed houses, his magic speeding the work along much faster than the villagers could manage on their own. Tal-Ashkaari had given up all of her linens and silks for shrouds, and was helping a group of women with the dead.

Cole made sure Sinead was wrapped within her healing before leaving her to help others. He managed the little things, the things that people often forgot in a frenzy – digging trinkets out of rubble, finding people still stumbling around in the woods and leading them home, sharing stashes of sweets found in homes with children still in shock, pulling dogs and cats from their hiding places deep within cellars or up trees. It was the little things that made a person whole, the little bits of memory and joy and knowing that someone was there listening and caring. Clearing rubble and burning the dead would always be completed – finding a woman's mother's grandmother's wedding teaspoon, however, was too often dismissed as unimportant. Yet the light in the eyes of that woman when he produced the spoon from his pocket told Cole it was the most important.

By mid-afternoon, the pyre was complete and the wounded who would live were treated. Sinead staggered off to the barn, waves of exhaustion rippling from her. Her thoughts were barely coherent, her eyes only kept open this long due to the urgency of her task.

Cole was busy trying to coax a cat from a rooftop when he felt Sinead fall into a deep, fitful sleep. He approved. The less time she had to think about the deaths she caused, the less likely the darkness would swallow her. It was a risk, to urge her to fight – but if she had not, and the deaths of the innocent were many, the darkness would have come for her anyway, a guilty spiral of hate. He hoped the sleep would push the blackness back before it had time to become a problem.

The cat finally crept to him over the thatching and jumped on his shoulder. "See, there's nothing below but people, now," he said as he climbed down the house, using the slats as footing. "You didn't have to stay up there so long and make yourself hungry."

The cat gave a mournful mew and hopped away from him once his feet touched the ground.

A gong sounded in the village square, summoning the people. They dropped their tasks and walked to the square, and Cole followed them, feeling their sadness and loss and anger and despair and grief. Dorian caught him up, falling into step beside him.

"You all right, Cole?" he asked. He was haggard – or, as haggard as Dorian allowed himself to be. His clothes were dusty from ash, he needed a shave and his hair had not been combed given how quickly events happened. He felt tired, tired in a way that was more than physical – his mana was depleted more than once as he worked, and the sadness of the villagers was starting to cling to him. "You've been running around all day. I saw you flit about the rooves earlier."

"Yes. I'm fine." Cole dug in his pocket and pulled out a bag of hard candies. He held them out to Dorian.

"Oh, no, I – wait, are these rum spice? I don't think I've had one of these since I was an apprentice!" He scooped a few candies from the bag and popped them in his mouth. His mood lightened a little, memories flickering around the fatigue. "One of the best things about Northern Thedas – the food is demonstrably better here."

Cole gave him a small smile and pocketed the candies.

In the square, the village seer stood atop a small platform, her hands raised. She felt peculiar, like she was holding a conversation within herself, voices whispering back and forth in the quiet place of the mind. Then it dawned on Cole – a spirit was within her, joined with her to help her lead in this difficult moment. The spirit was kind, solid, friendly, soothing – Confidence.

The seer waited for the square to fill, and then spoke in a clear, carrying voice.

"We have experienced a tragedy today," she said. "One which should have been avoided. We had no notice of the threat of Tal-Vashoth, something our Qunari neighbors have always warned us of before. We have sent runners to other villages, both of our kind and Qunari, to gather information. I assure you, we will make sure this never happens again."

She nodded to a group of men, a group that included Krem, who began carrying the shrouded bodies to the pyre. The villagers watched in silence as the bodies were stacked together in rows atop the pyre. When the task was done, the seer picked up a torch, lit it with her magic, walked in even steps to the pyre, then lit it as she circled it.

Flames leapt up, clawing away at the linen covering the dead. Smoke drifted over the villagers, smelling of evergreen and cooking meat. The villagers were no longer silent. Most wept openly, some called for their dead, holding those who were left. Many gagged on the smell, holding their noses as they sobbed.

"I hate this part. Let's speed it along, shall we?" Dorian lifted his staff. The flames climbed into the air, growing hot and fierce, covering the top of the pyre. Soon the smell of meat was replaced by the sharp smell of char. Dorian let go of the flames, and they flickered down again to a steady burn. "There we are. The last thing these people need is to lose their lunch."

Cole nodded. The little things were important.

He looked over at Krem. It was interesting, how Krem simply moved through events as they happened, letting them slide past him without hurting him. He was watching the pyre burn, and his thoughts were focused on a job well done – the Tal-Vashoth were defeated, the dead weren't as many as there could have been, the pyre had been built before the light died which meant that no one had to hover over their dead for long. Or the dead of their enemies, which could get ugly – people weren't kind to the corpses of their families' killers. 'Course, that was natural. But this was better. Now the people could mourn and move on, protect themselves from another assault, keep their neighbors from suffering a similar fate.

However, Tal-Ashkaari was hurting. She stood at the edge of the crowd of villagers, looking over them, studying their faces. She had never seen an attack like this before. Bandit raids, she had seen – it was not an abnormal occurrence on the road. And Tal-Vashoth she had also seen, very small groups, two or three who thought they could take on a caravan she was once part of. They were wrong. But this attempted destruction of a village, this terrible show of violence, it fed every old fear the Tamassrans put in her head of the grey ones who creep in the night, hungry and slathering for the flesh of good Qunari. But what the Sten said – why did she keep thinking of him as such? He was no Sten, not when he died – shook her. It must be recorded, this truth that came from him, that duty demanded death of those who did not deserve it. Who understood the Qun better, a man who refused that duty, or a man who followed it? And the lives of these villagers, she had to record what she could before the others decided to move on in their mysterious quest.

Cole slipped away from Dorian and wove through the mourning people, placing a trinket in a pocket here and there as he moved toward Tal-Ashkaari. When he reached her, he pulled out a small journal, and as she noticed him and gave him a nod, put the journal in her hand.

"What is this?"

"The girl who wrote this journal is gone. She and her grandmother were the only ones left. Now there's no one – they died when they breathed in the smoke that filled their home."

The Qunari propped her spear against her shoulder and opened the journal. She was filled with sadness, but purpose built up around the sadness, giving it structure, meaning, reason.

"I won't let her story be forgotten," she said, closing the journal and placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Thank you."

He slipped away from her and turned right into the path of the village seer. She was standing still, staring at him with hands folded inside her robes. Waiting for him. Her thoughts were muffled, not completely hidden but behind a veil that he would have to press against to see through. He decided to leave them – he was often called rude (particularly by Cassandra), but it was one thing to open himself to thoughts and another to dig for them.

The seer waved her arm in front of her. "Walk with me."

He nodded and followed her away from the square and down a small path between houses untouched by the flames.

"My friends call you Compassion," she said as they walked. "An odd name to call a young man, I thought, when you and your companions came into the village. But watching you work today, I now see the truth of what they were telling me. The spirit who became a man. It's much like an old folktale I know."

"I know it, too." He paused. "I know it doesn't end well, but he isn't me. I'm much more me than he was him in the story."

"Mm. And the woman you travel with, the one who smells of copper? Also a surprise. A blood mage with finesse. Not to mention the Tevinters and Qunari working together to help us. You are quite the crew." She stopped and turned to him. "Why does the young woman wish to meet Seer Hana?"

"Her former master told her to find Hana so she can find him."

"Former master? Did he by chance give her a memory crystal?"

"Yes. But she doesn't want to show it to anyone, just in case."

"In case?"

"In case."

The seer mulled this over, staring at Cole with a small frown.

"I was told expressly by Hana not to give away her whereabouts to anyone unless I was shown a memory crystal and given a specific name."

"Eluard."

"That…is the name." The seer closed her eyes for a moment, debating with whoever was currently within her. Then she opened her eyes and nodded. "Very well."

He felt a small rush of images enter him – a map made of memory. He blinked and took a step back.

"I hope for my sake the woman is who Hana is waiting for," the seer said as she walked away. "Else she will have my hands. She always threatened the young ones with taking their hands."

Cole shook his head. The memories were quite clear, almost brilliantly so – not real memories, something constructed to be passed along. It felt solid in his mind. Did the spirits who made their homes around the Rivaini do this?

He decided it was something to think on later.

He ran to the barn, carefully opening and closing the door as silently as possible. He crept over to the pile of straw that Sinead had dropped into to sleep. She lay curled up in a small ball, uncovered, her boots still on. Her hair had shaken loose from the braid she normally slept in, and it covered her face and shoulders in black waves.

He kneeled next to her, gently pulling her hair back around her ear. Her brows were deeply furrowed, and her teeth were clenched behind a frown. Her dreams were dark and bloody, but she was far too deep within to jolt awake to escape them. He carefully unbuckled her dead arm from its brace and spread her hand open. Then he drew his knife and placed the blade against her palm. He hesitated a moment. Perhaps he should wait until she woke up to tell her – she did not like sharing memories like this. It was too much information at once, too much to experience someone else's point of view directly.

But the darkness of her dreams worried him.

"Sorry," he whispered as he made a cut. She did not stir, having felt no sensation.

He turned the knife on his own hand and slit it open, then held her injured hand in his and pushed the strange memory at her. She let out a long breath and shifted in her sleep. Her brow smoothed and her dreams altered – dark, but less so.

He smiled and took his hand away, wincing a little at the sting of his cut.