Blood on the hands, her mother's blood, the fire burning all around as the qunari bleeds to death and the people in the huts scream out for help and the Templars burn to ash and the blood seeps into the skin and demands to be used and the demons whisper of power and flame.
She awoke, gasping for breath, panic gripping her chest. She threw off her bedding and swiveled, placing her feet on the thick rug and her head between her knees.
Druffalos, she thought. Druffalos, druffalos, druffalos. But the blood was there, there for me to use, if I used it he'd be alive and Rein too perhaps if I had made him see made him know the blood was wrong and no! I'm not thinking of druffalos, not thinking of druffalos.
The panic refused to leave her. She had to run. Had to flee from this room that was hers but not fair, it was not fair that she had a room, had a place, had a chance at happiness when all the others were gone and it was her fault, her fault.
She slipped on slippers, slipping from the room with her cloak thrown over her shoulders, letting the door swing free, unseeing as she ran the corridor to the battlements, arms crossed. Her thoughts were tumbling around, unwilling to still while the air choked her.
Power flowing free around the mana and I killed him, killed him, and they screamed for help – if I had used the blood they would have lived, would have walked free and fire wouldn't burn if the creature had burned before he bit she would have lived and I was too slow, too slow.
Away she fled, up and up the newly hewn steps of the main tower, up and up the ladder, to the top, emerging into starlight and moonlight and the vast unending sky. She staggered to the tower wall, looked down at the quiet, snowy plains.
It's all death, all death, and blood, and power, and wrongness, and I didn't, I didn't, I did nothing, I am nothing, I am wrong. She leaned over the wall, shaking. A little more, let the body lean, let the weight take over, let it topple and fall and be gone, gone, gone, away from undeserved rooms and books and love and the people who know like Edith that I am mad and wrong and terrible.
But she could not. The panic refused. It froze her, locked her body in place so that she could not lean further. She stepped back and sank to the stone, covering her head with her arms and rocking on her knees. Coward, coward, coward, coward. She sat, shaking, for seconds or minutes or hours or forever, it felt like forever, with the failure and death holding her down, crushing her chest.
As the panic ebbed, she slowly realized that someone was humming. It was a familiar melody, one she had not heard for ten years – her mother's lullaby. She lifted her head to find the young man in the wide-brimmed hat crouching a few feet away from her. He had her word game, and was laying tiles out on the board, humming the lullaby in a loop.
She opened her mouth to ask who he was, why he was here, how he knew the lullaby, why he had her game, but the words stuck, the panic not yet through with her. Instead she crawled to the young man to see what he was writing with the tiles.
It was names, her names, the ones her tongue refused to say: Norwin, Rein, Eluard, Glidda. The panic flowed back, her breath became short. How does he know the names? She propped herself on her knees, clasping her thighs and forcing her lungs to take deeper breaths.
The young man dropped the tiles in his hand and they clattered on the stones. "It's still wrong, still not unknotting the names." He sat, not looking at her with his expressionless face, fingers clasping and unclasping, his voice frustrated and confused. "The mind is a mire, blackness borne back by good memories, but I keep getting it wrong and speech is still silenced. Let me try again, I promise I will get it right. Let me help." He held out a hand. "Forget."
It was an instant flash of realization, a combination of moments – a second pair of footsteps in the snow, DRUFFALOS spelled out in tiles, Varric's comment about the kid starting over again – that made her reach out and slap the young man's hand away. How many times was I made to forget?
"Four." The young man lowered his hand, finally looking at her. "You are very hard to help."
Though she shook, and the panic still gripped her, and her breath was tight, her mind was rushed with wonder. Can he read my mind?
"I hear what will help the hurt." The young man picked up the fallen tiles with nimble fingers. "But this was wrong. The blackness is building and will spill over again." He moved to brush the tiles off the board.
Sinead grabbed his wrist. "Please," she stuttered. "Please. Say the names. Please."
The young man paused for a moment before touching the board in front of each name as he spoke, ignoring her tight grip.
"Norwin, understanding, kind, couldn't keep from helping apprentices in distress, even when they stole his books and hid them away. Rein, charming, childish, friendly, fun, but angry underneath, wanting more for him and all the others. Eluard, calm, cool, caring, kept his secrets to himself but shared his knowledge with the girl as penance and then as pleasure. Glidda, firm and fair, strong and sure, always chose a path and followed it to the end. Glidda of the glittering knives is what he called her long ago before the girl changed everything."
The wind left Sinead's lungs, and she felt her chest release. She was light-headed. She let him go and sat heavily on the stones. She laughed, low and whispery. "You know them all," she said, voice cracking as tears began to fall. "I-I could tell no one. But you know them all."
The young man's eyes gleamed. "I know the others, too, the ones you think you killed but didn't, the ones you think you shouldn't have killed but did and should have, and –"
"Stop." She wiped her face, not thinking of druffalos. "It's too much. The names are enough. They're enough for now."
"Sorry. I didn't mean to make you not think of druffalos." He held out his hand again. "I can make you forget."
She shook her head. "Don't ever make me forget again." She sat up straight as her head cleared, taking deep, steady breaths. The young man watched her beneath his hat and his lank, blond shag. Questions flooded her, curiosity uncurling as the panic faded. In the cool light of Luna, she could see the green tinge that outlined him, there but not there. "The only people I know of that can read minds are spirits. But you feel solid, and warm. Are you a spirit, or human?"
The young man fingered the tiles in his hands. "Yes."
Sinead cocked her head and furrowed her brow. "You're possessing someone? Or a spirit possesses you?"
"No. I am me." He stated it like a fact.
"Really? You're one entity?" Hesitantly, she reached out to him. He leaned away from her touch at first, but stopped as her hand pressed against his chest. "You're breathing." Her mouth spread in a slow, wide smile. "You…manifested with a human body? That's…well, there are old stories, very old, but not even an inkling of a hint that they may be any more than tales and…frankly, it's incredible. You're incredible…ah. Um, what should I call you?" She thought a moment. "You want to help, you hear hurt…Empathy? Mercy? Or –"
"Cole." He leaned away again until her hand no longer touched him.
She gave a short laugh and clapped her hands. "You have a name? That's brilliant. Amazing!"
"Why do you think so?"
He was staring, unblinking, curious. She should have known sooner that he was a spirit, she realized. Beyond the fact that he was clearly fade-touched with that green tinge, it was the eyes, the way they looked at her, or through her. The way they seemed both empty and seeking.
"It's thought that spirits don't have names, they just are what they are," she said. "But I must say, the study of spirits and the Fade is severely lacking due to fear, and here you are, defying traditional thought. And that's brilliant."
He looked away. "I took the name because I didn't know who I was. I kept it because I was me and he wasn't anymore." He shook his head. "I don't defy anything. I just wanted to help."
He was holding on tightly to the tiles, tight enough that they were probably biting into his skin, she thought. She frowned, uncurled his fist and picked out the tiles. She dumped the tiles into the leather bag next to the board, brushed a hand over the tiles spelling the names.
"I don't know why I can't…I used to try to say them, you know. Just try, when I was alone. I thought I was cursed. It took a long time to figure out it was me."
"Sitting silently on the stairs, why can't I whisper the words, I can't, angry tears, fists pounding the wall."
"Yes, exactly."
She swept the tiles into the bag and pulled the drawstring. He was staring at her again. She picked up the board, closed it and stood. She realized with a bit of mortification that she was in her shift and awkwardly tried to pull her cloak around her.
"I should try to sleep," she said. "I don't want to be the last awake tomorrow."
"But the dreams are too loud." He scrambled to his feet. "I'll play a game with you."
She was taken aback. "A game? What do you –" She stopped herself. Think like a spirit. She held up the game board. "You mean this game?"
"Quiet nights, tea, he teaches new words while winning each round, tallying tile points before sleep settles in."
"I see." She nodded smiling with excitement. "I – it's been so long since I played because no one's ever – you know the rules?"
"I know because you know." He cocked his head. "Will we need tea?"
"No, it's...it isn't required, just nice, but – oh, we should be somewhere more comfortable, warmer. Come on!"
She bundled herself up and slid down the ladder, then ran down the stairs and over the battlements to her room. She reached the room, huffing a bit, and looked behind her, but Cole was not there. Her stomach sank in disappointment. Then she turned and he was there, holding a mug. She gasped, and then coughed to cover it, not wanting him to think he had done something wrong.
"It's cold. I'm sorry it's not right, but the kitchen is asleep."
"That's alright." She took the mug and had a thought as she opened her door. "Oh, am I keeping you from sleep? That wouldn't be fair to you."
"I don't sleep." He took the board from her and set it on the bed as she set the mug in the warm ash of the dying fire.
"That's convenient," she said, hanging her cloak and hopping on the bed, crossing her feet under her. "I wish I didn't have to."
"It's lonely. I talk to the stars, but they don't answer. They're too far away to hear." He crouched on the floor and picked tiles from the bag.
He was surprisingly good for someone who learned the rules by pulling from her fuzzy memories. Suspiciously good, as the tiles he pulled were always exactly what he needed to score high for each word.
"Are you cheating?" she said accusingly after he scored another thirty points. "Because that was a very lucky draw."
"The tiles want to be the best words. I take the ones that want to come out of the bag." He said it like it was perfectly sensible for the tiles to be giving him tips.
It was not long before her head began to droop and her eyes refused to stay open. She felt relaxed, more so than she had in a long time. She yawned and tried to keep sleep from coming, hoping to rally against Cole's crushing victory. But her body refused to be awake, and soon she leaned back into her pillows.
"Give me just a moment," she said. "I need to rest my eyes."
She felt the bedding shift as he moved the board from the bed to the floor. As she drifted off, she cracked open an eye and murmured, "Thank you for saving me in Haven."
"I kept you from killing."
"I know." She opened her other eye. "Thank you."
For the first time that night, he smiled – a small, soft smile, but it reached his eyes and made them seem less alien. "I'm glad."
She closed her eyes, and the last thing she remembered was the sound of her door clicking shut as she drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
