Val Royeax was having a festival – a celebration of the final conflicts of the civil war coming to an end, the Dales finally safe from roving soldiers and demons awoken by undead abominations. All of Orlais knew the Inquisition was behind the stability of both the throne and the countryside, and invitations to balls on the day of the festivities created a small pile in front of Sinead's door, to her dismay.
"Are we the only representative of the Inquisition invited?" she asked Varric frantically after dinner one night.
"Probably not, but the Inquisitor's been busy flushing out the Venatori in the west, and everyone else has their own job to do – no time to make it here before the festival. We're the only ones in town, so I guess we should chalk this one up to doing a favor for our mutual employer."
"But I can't attend all of them, and I have no idea which ones are the 'right' ones to attend, or even what that means! And I'll have to play-act all day, without a moment to think." She kicked the seat in front of her and threaded her fingers into her braid.
Varric cocked his head. "Tell you what, Dusty, why don't I take care of the diplomatic stuff this time? You've been working hard for a few weeks now. You could use a day off."
She looked up, eyes bright with hope. "Are you really sure? I mean, I don't want to slight anyone, or leave you alone, or –"
He waved her off. "I'll be fine. And anyone who asks about you will be told that you've been given an important task by the Inquisition. They don't have to know that by Inquisition I mean me, and by important task I mean having a little fun."
She threw her hands around his shoulders and hugged him. "You have no idea how thankful I am."
"I have an idea," he said, chuckling. "Oh, and I know I don't even have to ask, but drag the kid with you, even if he's reluctant. He's starting to brood, and the last thing we need is someone like him brooding. That's how we get bad poetry."
The day of the festival, Sinead woke early, her excitement having kept her sleep light. She quickly dressed in her usual Skyhold dress – long red tunic, gold sash, gold trousers and red slippers – and braided her hair in a crown, setting it with her hairpins. Mathilde arrived with breakfast as she wiggled the second pin into place.
"Oh, my lady, I thought your green dress would be more suitable for a day like today," Mathilde said with slight disapproval.
"Mathilde, you know I am grateful for everything you've done for me, but today is my day off and I feel the need to look like me." Sinead smiled and stole an apple from the breakfast tray. "Do you also have a day off today?"
"After my morning tasks are complete, yes." Mathilde wiggled Sinead's hairpins, testing their hold. They were stuck fast, and Mathilde sniffed with appreciation at Sinead's work. "And now I am free. Have a good day my lady." She curtsied with a smile and left.
Sinead quickly finished her breakfast and knocked on the adjoining door to Varric and Cole's room.
"Are you decent?" she called.
Varric opened the door and ushered her in. He was in a silver coat with trim so ostentatious that he nearly gleamed in the sunlight filtering through the window. As always, his tunic was cut low. Cole was propped up on the bed's backboard, in a green doublet and very dark green trousers. He had on yet another jaunty hat, this one the same green as his trousers.
"Now I know why Mathilde wanted me in the green dress," she muttered with a grin at Cole. "Are you sure you're fine with attending balls all day alone?"
"Don't worry about me," Varric said, checking his cuffs in the mirror. "This should be a very lucrative day. I've got my eye on a few lordlings with too much gold and not enough skill in cards or business. You two go and have fun. Get into some trouble even. Wait." He looked up from his sleeves. "Between the two of you, 'getting into trouble' probably means you'll come back with a herd of kittens. No bringing strays home. That goes double for you, kid!"
Cole jumped down from the bed. "Stray kittens?"
"Stray anything."
Sinead giggled. "Goodbye, Varric. Don't grift the lords too badly. It's a festival day for them, too."
He winked at her as she pulled Cole from the room.
The streets were already starting to fill, the crowd walking toward the central squares of the city. Sinead wove quickly through the people, unconcerned about Cole's ability to follow her – he was a shadow, ever attached to her movement. Finally they entered the main square, where people massed around booths that lined the edges of the square and the streets for each connecting square. Music was everywhere, each square with its own troubadours. Jugglers, mimes and acrobats were ringed by people as they performed, each act completed with whistles and cheers of delight.
At first, Sinead stared at the revelry with joy, never having seen such a large group of people buying and selling and eating and enjoying entertainment. But something sparked in the back of her mind, some memory of another crowd from long ago that bumped and surged in a scared, hopeless mass, and the cheers turned to cries of anger and frustration and fear and desperation.
The panic hit her like a shock of cold water, stealing her breath. She trembled, lightheaded, unable to move as her breathing became shallow.
A hand encircled her wrist, warm and gentle. Cole smoothly led her to the relative seclusion of a lover's alcove, past a couple clandestinely sharing a kiss, and sat her down on a bench. She put her head between her knees and took deep breath after deep breath until the waves of panic gradually lessoned and ceased, leaving her shaky and tired.
She lifted her head. "I'm sorry," she croaked.
"Why?" Cole sat beside her, still holding her wrist, calmly watching her.
"For being bloody embarrassing," she said, dabbing her wet temples with a sleeve.
"You aren't embarrassing. You're Sinead."
"You know what I mean."
"Yes. And I mean what I say."
She gave him a look and bumped him with her shoulder. "Shall we try again?"
"Okay." He moved his hand into hers. "Remember – you're not there, you're here."
"Right."
They left the alcove hand in hand and re-entered the crowd. The panic immediately threatened to return, but Cole squeezed her hand and she took a few deep gulps of breath and walked on. As they walked, the crowd slowly returned to its unthreatening cheerful first impression, the smells of roasted meat and nuts, the bright colors of the booths and the joyful music bringing her back to the present.
Panic conquered, she pulled Cole along from booth to booth, admiring the fine jewelry and weaponry and silks and goods. She stopped at a booth selling intricately carved hair combs, admiring the skill that went into the work. She bought one that was small, but thick and sturdy and had a motif of runic symbols that the seller claimed meant strength – a gift she hoped Dagna would appreciate, given how often she complained of her hair refusing to stay in place during a long day at the forge.
They wandered the festival, stopping to watch a set of jugglers. Sinead cheered and clapped as they tossed fifteen balls back and forth, and then added apples, cabbages, and figs in the mix, keeping everything in the air as if by magic, but not by magic, which was astounding.
"Their father would be proud of them," Cole said matter of factly. "They always had trouble with the cabbages when he was alive."
They tossed coins at the jugglers' basket, one for each ball, fruit and vegetable.
Near midday Sinead's belly began to rumble, and she wove her way to the food booths, Cole close on her heels. The smells were intoxicating – pies, every type of meat on sticks, fruit and vegetables that had been roasted, or candied, or fried, also on sticks.
"Food on sticks is the best way to eat food," she said, buying a pheasant and onion kebab and a candied apple. "You can walk and talk and when you're finished there's nothing to clean." She held up the kebab to Cole. "Try a little?"
Cole stared at the kebab with distaste. "A quick burst of fear, a flash of bright pain, a memory of chicks long grown, and then nothing."
"Ah, not the meat then," she said, her appetite lessoned a little by the pheasant's last thoughts. Nontheless, she took a bite, the savory meal filling her empty stomach. "But try the apple, please? When I was a little girl, it was what I looked forward to at every fair – beautiful green apples shining with sugar."
Cole shook his head. "I still don't eat."
"You don't have to eat. That's quite a bit different from never eating. There are many things we don't have to do but still do because it's pleasurable, and that's okay. Pleasure is necessary sometimes, and taste can be very pleasurable."
"But I already know taste. I've seen the memories of taste."
"Memories are never the same as being in the moment." She waggled the apple in front of his nose. "I promise, you won't regret it."
He held her hand to steady the apple, hesitant. Her brows lifted as he took a bite. He held the apple piece in his mouth, the look on his face that of revelation. Slowly he chewed and swallowed, staring at her with wide eyes.
"Sharp sweetness and soft flesh followed by crisp, cool wetness. This is taste?"
"This is one taste. One flavor," she said, giddy. "Flavors upon flavors within one flavor. What do you think?"
"I…don't know. It's." He was swaying on his feet. He stumbled back, and Sinead dropped her apple as she moved to catch him, letting him lean on her shoulder. "To eat is to taste is to hunger and crave and want. It's so real."
"Et voila, someone is enjoying himself today!" a man crowed, slapping Cole on the back as he passed, throwing the two of them off balance. "Steady on, boy!"
"This is what being drunk is like?"
"Absolutely not. He's an idiot. And I'm a fool." She helped him to a bench. "I practically forced it on you. You won't regret it, oh, you stupid cow. I didn't mean to distress you."
"You aren't a fool, you're trying to help me know." He took off his hat and shook his head to clear it. "And it isn't distressing. It's…hard to explain. Like thinking that a circle is the only way to be, then seeing a sphere, then being a sphere. It's hard to stop thinking circle without feeling dizzy." He gave her a small smile. "Thank you. But I will not try to taste again until I feel more sphere. Also, the boy behind you is trying to pick your pouch."
She jerked her head around. A ragged boy of about eight stood behind her, frozen, hand raised, eyes wide with shock. The way he was positioned, there was no way Cole could have seen him. The boy unfroze and tried to jump away, but Cole quickly reached around her and snatched his arm, pulling him to the bench.
"Let go you demon man," the boy shouted, wiggling and kicking at Cole. Cole was unmoved, holding the boy firm. People in the crowd glanced their way, but continued walking.
"He's hungry," Cole said, examining the boy with his cool, assessing gaze. "His uncle doesn't feed him unless he brings in enough coin. He used to beg, and now he steals. What coin he does bring in the uncle drinks away. He'd run, but he has a young sister that the uncle threatens to throw out of the house if he doesn't stay."
The boy stopped struggling and gaped at Cole. "How'd you know all that," he whispered.
"I saw it in your head."
The boy's eyes doubled in size. "Are you a demon man?"
"Not anymore."
The boy was suitably impressed with this answer.
"Oh, dear." Sinead kneeled down and looked the boy over. "We can't just let him go. He'll go back into the crowd and end up back with his uncle. Or he'll get caught."
"I won't," the boy said stoutly. "I'm very good."
"Cole's not the only one capable of catching small-handed thieves, mind reading or no," she said sternly. She sighed. "I suppose we can bring him to the hotel. Varric would know what to do with him."
Cole shook his head. "Varric said no strays. And he meant it."
"Well I'm certainly not calling the guards or turning him into the Chantry," she said, crossing her arms. "The former will treat him no better than a cut-throat, and the latter is already overwhelmed by war orphans. What do you propose?"
Cole thought for a moment, still examining the boy. "Will you work, if the boss is good and the food is plenty and your sister is safe?" he asked finally. "I think you will, but say it out loud so that I know it's real."
"I-I will," the boy stammered, bemused, looking from Sinead to Cole. From the look on his face, this was the last reaction he expected from someone who caught his hand in their purse.
Cole nodded and stood, leading the boy by the arm. Sinead followed them, out of the festival grounds, away from the main squares, and eventually away from the main boulevards. They entered a part of the city she had never seen, one where the craftsmen worked their wares before selling them to the merchants – wood workers, smithies, arcanists, tailors, weavers, goldsmiths, coopers and so on. He stopped in front of a narrow shop door and knocked.
A small woman opened the door, looked at each of them, and smiled brightly. "You here for a deal on pots? Most of our best were bought up for the festival, but we have some fine products for a merchant looking for a good bargain."
"I don't need pots." Cole pushed the boy towards the woman. "He needs an apprenticeship. Your husband needs an apprentice." He pointed at Sinead. "She has money to pay for his place."
The woman looked surprised. "How did you know we were in need of a helping hand? My husband has not yet posted notice of a position."
"He saw it in your mind," the boy said with awe.
The woman laughed with delight. "What a fine petit garçon" she said, clapping her hands. "Come in, come in." She bustled them all inside an airy shop where copper and steel pots hung from the wall and the ceiling. "Un moment, let me fetch my husband." She passed through a door into a back room that Sinead took to be the workshop given the tinny sound of hammer against metal.
"She didn't believe me." The boy gave Cole an exasperated look.
"People don't like to believe what they don't think is possible," Cole said with a shrug.
"Then will you read her mind again? Maybe say something about her sister," the boy said excitedly.
"I can't. She doesn't have a sister."
Just then a burly man slammed through the workshop door. He looked at the boy and grunted, then took him by the wrists and studied his hands. The boy was completely quelled by the man's size and allowed his fingers to be wiggled one by one and his arms to be squeezed. The woman padded through the door and looked over her husband's shoulder.
The man gave a satisfied snort. "You willing to work hard, lad? Wake up early, bed down late? Be polite to my wife? Run errands, get your hands dirty, and your arms sore? And you won't run away when the job gets tough?"
"Y-yes sir. I mean, no sir. I mean –"
The man snorted again and slapped the boy's shoulder. He stood and crossed his arms, sizing up Sinead and Cole.
"I'll take on your boy, but I'll need his premium up front. I've lost business with the war, and I'm still setting things right." He held out a hand. "One Hundred and fifty gold."
Sinead blanched.
"That's everything I have," she hissed at Cole.
"I know," he whispered back. "He was the only one on the street you could pay."
"Oh, dear. I hope Varric doesn't mind if I ask him for a loan."
She untied her pouch, looked inside, and then handed the man the whole thing. The man nodded and went back to the workroom.
"Now, ma petit, let me show you to your quarters," the wife said.
"I have to say goodbye first," Cole said, pulling the boy aside. He whispered something in the boy's ear. The boy nodded, then took the woman's hand.
They left the shop, Sinead feeling light on her feet, her heart full.
"What did you say to him?"
"I told him to wait until tomorrow night to fetch his sister, and to show her to the woman first. She will be reminded of her own daughter. She'll make the man take in the girl." He pulled his hat over his eyes. "I don't know if I helped. The potter will be hard. He will sometimes hit the boy when he makes mistakes. He thinks it's necessary – hurt with hands so that the boy does no damage to himself with the tools. The boy will be fed for a long time, his sister will be too, but he will still hurt. He may still run away or go back to stealing."
Sinead returned to earth.
"There are many people who hit their children without beating them," she said tentatively. "There are people who are hard in the mind but soft in the heart. And there are paths you can't control. At this moment you have done what you can for this boy and the person he loves the most in his life. Be happy."
"How?" He gave her a pained, lost look. "Before, it was enough to help any who needed it, then go on and help another, or help that person again, and each time I was happy. But now I think, I helped them this time, but what about next time? And after that? And that? Will they never be free from needing help? And I think, there are so many, always someone who needs help, too many who will never have it. How can I be happy?"
"Well, you think of the good – or perhaps you don't think of - oh, Andraste's knickers, I don't know." She kicked at a pebble in the road. "Saying be happy is too simple, but I don't have an answer for this one. All you can do is help when you can, and let yourself be happy. How to do that is another matter altogether, and if you find out you'd best tell me."
"I won't," Cole said sadly. "Because I think there is no answer."
It was the helplessness in his voice that hurt her the most. She recognized that tone, that knowledge of the Void that was her constant enemy. To think that someone with such an infinite well of empathy would falter after standing on its precipice and realizing that he was but a speck of light in the darkness upset her.
She could not leave him on that ledge, thinking himself alone and adrift. Her thoughts were swift, flying through her mind in a whirl, one word their focus: closure. She took Cole's arm and turned down a street.
"Come on," she said, not thinking very hard about druffaloes.
"Where are we going?" He was suspicious. "You're not thinking of druffalos and I was sad. We aren't going dancing are we?"
She was so surprised at his guess that she laughed hard as she walked. "Why do you think that?"
"Because you want to cheer me up when I'm sad, and I like dancing. But dancing in front of other people would be…bad. Please don't let it be dancing."
"It's not dancing," she said carefully, turning onto a wide boulevard, once more in the wealthy district of town but far from the festival. "And I'm afraid it won't be very cheerful."
The White Spire came into view, and they climbed the wide stares to the entrance.
"It's locked," she said, waving a hand in front of it to remove the magical wards. "Can you do the rest?"
Cole gave her a curious look, but she kept the druffaloes at the forefront of her mind, nickering and flicking their tales and telling no secrets. He took his lock pick tools from his pouch and quickly made short work of the lock.
As they entered the Spire, Cole said, "Is it a book then? Some sad story to show me an answer?"
She said nothing, passing the grand staircase to the library and walking on down a hallway to a small set of stairs that led to the lower levels of the Spire. At once, it clicked for Cole.
"No," he said firmly, stopping in front of the doorway. "I'm not going down there."
"Very well." Sinead began the descent.
Cole grabbed her arm. "It's dangerous below," he said, agitated. "Everything sings down there, and it feels wrong. And I'm not even in armor."
"I'm not going to the bottom of the Pit, just to the dungeons." Her voice was resolute. "I want to see the place where you became who you are. And I'm not exactly helpless if I run into anything nasty."
She shook him off and flicked her wrist. A small, yellow ball of fire appeared over her shoulder. Then she continued down the stairs. She did not look back, but she heard him pacing above. She was already at the second flight when he finally caught her up. He was sullen as they circled downward, hunching his shoulders more and more as the inky blackness of the stairway blotted out all light but that of her floating lantern. Finally he stopped in front of an arched, stone doorway.
"This is it," he muttered.
Cool air that smelled of old rot and mold brushed around them as they crossed the threshold, their footsteps echoing across empty space. A glowstone hung above an old table from a chain that disappeared into the dark. Sinead turned her hand, and it flickered to life, along with every glow stone along the wall. Sinead gasped. They were in a small alcove, a guardpost. Beyond was a circular cellblock with a railed ledge of a walkway. She approached the walkway and looked down – there were dozens of levels that stretched downward, each with twenty-odd cells.
"They kept the mages they found here," she said, her anger flaring. "Even the young apprentices?"
"Yes." He was hunched, his face pale and dappled with moisture. "I hate this place." Pure loathing was in his voice, an emotion she had never heard from him before. It sounded like he was both going to be sick and willing the place to burn down with his mind.
"I don't blame you," she replied with disgust. The cells did not put her in the mood to help him hold back. "Show me."
He was still for a moment, but finally he walked on, each step heavy and slow. They descended six levels before he stopped in front of a cell. His eyes were dull.
"I don't want to go in."
"I do." She tried the door, but it was locked. Her anger piqued, she threw a burst of power and flame at the door. It cracked in two then burned, making a hole big enough for her to squeeze through. Once inside she turned around. The cell was small, six feet by five, with a cot bolted to the wall. She sat on the cot and looked through the door. Cole was sitting on the ground, arms curled around his knees.
She set her jaw. "Tell me."
His words came slow. Methodical. As if reciting an old epic poem, an event that did not happen to him.
"It was helping that mattered. Others, they wanted to do more, become more, align to big things – love, justice, peace, hope, faith. But I didn't want to be big, I just wanted to help. I could hear the pain through the veil, some places better than others. They were easy to find – people hurting, people needing care. I could whisper in a dream to soothe someone with a small secret, or nudge a man to help a hungry beggar, or tell a traveler where they lost their trail. I never stayed in one place, because the helpless weren't in one place – they were everywhere. I was happy."
"And then, I came here." He was rocking back and forth. "This place was so full of pain, the mages pushing against unseen cell walls, the Templars pulling against unseen chains. It confused me. And when I tried to help, they pushed me away. I didn't know why. Now I know that they…they thought I was a demon, pushing on their minds. But I didn't know. And I kept trying, telling them of other ways, whispering to dreamers. I knew if they just listened…and then I felt his pain." He stopped rocking and touched the damaged door. "Cole."
"His pain must have been awful," she said with a low voice.
"Like knives, nails, knotting his stomach. His mouth dry, cracking, crying in silence. And no guard would hear me. They would not hear me." He hit the door with a fist. "I could not help. So I crossed over and did the only thing I could do. I held his hand and watched him die." He stood and kicked the door, cracking it on its hinges. "He is gone and forgotten," he shouted, kicking the door again and again as he spoke. "Long lost, left alone to lie in his own filth and die. And he is not the only one, not only in these cells, this city, this century, this existence, so many stepped on and shoved aside and down and deep and the world holds no memory of them and so will forget again."
Alarmed, Sinead quickly stood and touched the door, freezing it through. With a last kick, it shattered, and she hid her eyes as ice shards scattered across the cell. Cole's breath was ragged, and he stood stunned by the damage to the door. He walked into the cell, boots crunching over ice, and placed his hand on the far wall. She placed a hand on his shoulder tentatively, and stayed silent, unsure of what to say.
"I became him to remember him," he said sadly. "But when I'm gone, he will be forgotten again. And someday another will be in this cell, hungry and alone, and no one will come."
Deep within, anger rolled over her. It was unlike anything she had ever felt before – years of pent up rage at the worst that people were capable of made her flush. She thought of Templars burning, but this time she did not think of the lives lost – she thought of the lives saved, the terrified children that the Templars would have cut down had she done nothing. She thought of hands on her body against her will, and taking one of those hands from its owner forever. She thought of a knife held at her throat and a threat of death for the trinkets in her pack, that threat cut short by an arrow.
She thought of a starving child, and the spirit who left his home forever, wanting nothing more than to help.
"I'll burn this place to the ground before I let anyone forget another damned person in this Maker forsaken hole," she snarled. "Show me the Templar quarters."
Cole looked at her, surprised. Without giving him a chance to reply, she stormed out of the cell, quickly ascending through the dungeon levels. He followed after her, calling her name as she left the guard room for the stairs, waving her hand and plunging the dungeon into darkness. As she reached the first floor, he finally took her hand and turned her around.
"Your thoughts are jumbled, jarring, beset by visions of vengeance." The flickering lantern threw shadows over his eyes, concern edged his words.
"Not vengeance. Justice. Remembrance." She prodded his chest with each word. "Where did they sleep?"
He hesitated a moment, his worry growing. "Near the top floor," he said finally.
She let out a hollow laugh and continued up the stairs, scaling them at a run. "Of course they are. The Templars need the very best quarters, don't they? Goodness knows a top tier room would only spoil the mages." She spoke at the top of her lungs, letting her voice reverberate around the abandoned Spire. "Why treat mages like people? Their power is dangerous, terrible, possibly evil. It's easier to lock them away, tell them they're monsters, have them fear the very place that gives them their power, treat them like chattel, take their minds if they don't comply, let them die in darkness." The lantern at her shoulder burned bright blue as her anger grew.
"They aren't all like that," Cole said quietly.
"No, they aren't. But that's what they're told to be. People don't come to the Templars to kill children." She clenched her teeth. "They learn to kill the innocents by being told that they're demons."
Cole stopped her. "Here. This floor."
The afternoon sun lit the darkened hallways. Old wooden bunks could be seen through open doors. She nodded and took Cole's hand, flipping it palm up. Then she grabbed one of his daggers, unsheathing it and laying the blade against his palm. She stared him in the eye.
"Do you trust me?"
"Yes." He paused. "But you are very angry."
"I am. And I need you to help me help you make it right."
He hesitated for a long moment. "Okay," he said finally. "If you don't hurt yourself."
"I won't."
She cut into his hand, a deep gash that made him gasp. Blood welled up, fast and thick.
"Dagna discovered something interesting about lyrium. You can use it to store memories."
Using the flat of the blade she spread it until it covered his palm, then she pulled him down with her to kneeling and pressed his palm against the floor.
"If lyrium can do it, blood can surely do it, too."
She picked up his hand by the wrist, leaving a clear handprint behind. She then flipped his hand palm up again and coated the blade in his blood, wiping it through the pooling wound.
"Hold it above your head for a minute to slow the bleeding," she ordered, and as he complied she cut her own hand. Then she wrapped his injured hand around the shaft of the blade and covered that hand in her own, cringing as her cut stung from the movement. She gave him a look. "Think of everything you remember about the apostate Cole. His hunger, his pain, his memories, his fear, even his smell. I'll make sure no one who uses this building can forget him."
Cole slowly nodded, not looking away from her gaze. Sinead took a deep breath and pulled at her blood. Immediately the power wrapped around her mana like thick armor. The voices came soon after, the veil like a gossamer curtain between her and the demons who taunted her, goading her to pull from Cole's blood as well. The temptation was strong, like hunger after a long day, but she sneered at it and pushed it away.
You'll get nothing from me today.
She brought the dagger down, stabbing through the center of Cole's handprint. It slid into the floor like a knife through lard.
As the shaft hit the stone, her head was awash with sensory memories that were not hers. The pain of a tight, empty stomach hit her like a punch, and the fear and sadness and anger and despair was so intense that she began to cry, tears streaming down her cheeks. Cole nearly let go of the dagger in surprise, but she held his hand firm. He looked at her, almost fearful.
"Your eyes are bright red," he said, worried.
"And yours are bright green," she said through trembling lips. They shone with their own light, the green of the Fade, and his old aura outlined his silhouette. She smiled shakily. "It's always with you, even if it's hidden."
"Of course. Are you safe, Sinead?"
"Yes. I just need to set the spell. Something that will get into the mind at night. Something that-"
She had it. She took a breath, and began to sing.
"Sleep my love, lay down my love
And rest your weary head.
The day was long but it has gone
And now it's time to bed.
Golden tales await for you
To visit in the Fade.
Close your heavy eyes my dear
And go where dreams are made."
As she sang, she pushed Cole's memories from her mind, through the blood on the blade and into the blood of the handprint. Each word of the song was permeated with the apostate's emotions. The handprint glowed, deep red fringed in soft green.
"Soft my heart, be still my dear
Think not of somber things
Calm your mind and be soothed by
The peace that slumber brings
I will hold your hand my love
As your breathing slows
So journey on and safe you'll be
Wherever you may go."
With the last line of the song, she let go of the memories. She pulled the blade from the stone and took it from Cole's hand, then healed his wound.
"I have to use the handprint," she muttered. "I don't want to pull from you by accident."
She rubbed her cut to get the blood running again and pressed her hand against the handprint. She gathered up the power within her, her mana, her blood, the blood from the print. Then she pushed.
She could feel every stone in the Spire, every crack in the mortar, every worn stair. She felt she was a part of the Spire, strong and old, steady and solid. Memories whispered through the stone, not just the ones she had forced upon the grand estate, centuries' worth of hopes and dreams and fears and joys and bitterness. How were these small memories of one lost child different?
They forget, she said to the Spire. They must never forget again.
The Spire did not disagree. It absorbed Cole's memories, mixed up in her mother's lullaby, set them in the stone, promised to sing to any who dared forget their humanity.
She smiled. Thank you.
There was a crack of power, the smell of burnt ozone. She released the spell.
She slumped forward, muzzily aware of a bright red, now dimming glow. She felt peaceful, her mana still nearly full, the blood power spent but not to the point of exhaustion. She calmly healed her cut and looked at Cole.
He was weeping breathy sobs, face contorted, wiping his eyes with his sleeves. Alarmed, Sinead took his hand in hers, pressed her other hand against his cheek.
"Maker, did I do wrong?" she said, studying his reddened eyes, anxious. "I'm so sorry. I-"
"No," he choked out. "No. I-I heard, I-"
He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her close, burying his nose in her hair.
"Thank you. Thank you."