Beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

Ciri dismounted from Zephyr's back within sight of Horsemaster Dennet's farm. She handed off her reins to the nearest scout and stood to the side, waiting for the rest of her party to join her.

"Not long now," Dorian said cheerfully as he walked over. The strained edge to his smile and darkness in his eyes gave lie to his good humor.

Ciri smiled at him and nodded anyway, not calling him out on his bravado. She'd been surprised he'd wanted to come to Redcliffe when she'd given him the letter, but though his anger had been breathtaking, one thing had been clear. He wanted this dealt with. Despite that, she still knew remarkably little about the rift between him and his parents. On that subject, he remained closed-lipped.

The rest of her companions came over as a group. Not for the first time, she felt a rush of gratitude for Olgierd's presence. Between Solas and Varric's ceaseless arguments on the way here, Cole's anxiety, and Dorian's simmering anger, Ciri never would have had a moment's peace without him.

She hadn't thought there would be more along for the journey than just her and Dorian originally, but things had swiftly gone awry when she'd given Cole the Amulet of the Unbound. Cole had initially been excited to receive it, but something in the enchantment rebounded, and quite violently, when Solas attempted to charge it with magic. Something, or someone, in Redcliffe was interfering with Cole's ability to remain unbound.

Then, for whatever reason, Varric inserted himself in the proceedings and opined that the true reason it wasn't working was that Cole was too much like a person. His stance led to Solas and Varric squabbling across a distressed Cole while Ciri and Olgierd looked on in annoyance.

"We're all people," Vlodimir had said in the Nightmare's lair. Ciri didn't doubt Cole's personhood. But was he human, as Varric had likely meant? She had her doubts.

Whatever the reason, all of them were here now: a tense and angry Dorian masking his feelings with humor, an anxious Cole with Solas and Varric hovering like two overly protective owls with their first chick, and Olgierd patiently along for the ride, a steady bastion of good sense beside them.

Even as she watched, Olgierd set a calming hand on Cole's shoulder. "We'll see this taken care of," he assured him.

"I help where it hurts," Cole insisted, wringing his hands. "But I can't, I'm caught –" He broke off to look up at Olgierd. "You help. Hurts healing, now you help the helper. Joyous inside, Josephine –"

Olgierd's quiet chuckle cut him off. "That I am."

"At least one of us is joyous," Dorian muttered. He cleared his throat and cast him an apologetic glance. "My felicitations, of course."

Solas offered Olgierd a small smile and said to Ciri, "Redcliffe isn't far from here. The sooner we deal with the source of the interference, the sooner Cole will safely be under the protection of the amulet."

"Or he'll be able to deal with whatever it is and go back to his normal life," Varric countered. "The kid came here to be a person. Let him be one."

"It is not that simple, child of the stone –"

Ciri cleared her throat loudly. "Redcliffe, gentlemen. I assume the four of you have Cole's amulet problem in hand?"

"We'll handle it, whatever it is," Olgierd said.

"Good," Ciri said. "Then Dorian and I will leave you to it and deal with his parents' man in the tavern."

"And if it's a trap," Dorian said with that same forced cheer, "we'll kill everyone and escape to tell the tale another day. That's something we're good at."

Privately, Ciri hoped that for once it would be as straightforward as it seemed, and she'd be able to keep her sword sheathed. But he'd have her blade if he needed it.

"Then we have a plan," she said instead. "Come on."

They set out for the creek together, heading toward the high, narrow gorge that would take them to the Witchwood and on to Redcliffe. The walk was pleasant at this time of year; late summer blooms scented the air, and the breeze was gentle over the turning temperature. Even the dark canopy of the Witchwood seemed less oppressive.

A vaguely familiar face met them at the gates, and Ciri narrowed her eyes, trying to place the pale man with the shaggy black hair and short, full beard.

"Inquisitor," he greeted her, shifting a sack full of spindleweed from one arm to the other. "It is Inquisitor now, isn't it? Your soldiers gossip out in the Crossroads. How are the others?"

"Levyn," Ciri said in realization as she recognized the apostate from the Witchwood. "It's good to see you again."

"The others are well," Olgierd added. "They're back with the free mages. I'm sorry to tell you that the apprentice, Jance, died in Haven."

"Maker." Levyn grimaced. "Poor boy. He was barely out of childhood when the Circles rebelled. What a waste."

"Our condolences on your loss," Solas said.

Levyn accepted Solas' words with a brief, "Thanks," and fidgeted for a moment with his sack of healing herbs. He looked at Ciri, conflict writing lines across his brow. "You pardoned the apostate who blew up the Kirkwall chantry, didn't you? Anders?"

"I did," she told him quietly. "I met him, and we separated him from the spirit possessing him. There was enough doubt about his guilt and competency at the time of the bombing that I felt the right thing to do was let him go free."

His gaze slid away from hers. "That's – that's good." He sighed. "I used to look up to him, back at Kinloch Hold. I'm glad for him. He deserved better than the hand he was dealt."

"All serpents and no angels?" Varric said sympathetically. "Blondie never was good at Wicked Grace."

A short, surprised laugh escaped Levyn.

"Might you wish a pardon someday?" Olgierd asked him, keeping his voice low.

Abruptly, Ciri remembered the rest of what Levyn had said, and what had been said about him, that night in the Witchwood. He'd had to grow a beard in order to come anywhere near Redcliffe, his face was so unwelcome here. And a 'charismatic bald mage' had offered him private lessons, and it had ended in tears.

"Me?" Levyn asked. He laughed again, this time without humor. "Ha. No. There's no spirit to explain away what I did, and I'd rather not have the former arl of Redcliffe howling for my head if I turn up on your doorstep asking for mercy."

"You would have passed," Cole said abruptly, and Levyn went white.

"What?" His eyes darted wildly between Cole, Ciri, and Olgierd in a desperate search for answers.

"Your insecurities itched at you, but Irving would have waited. Uldred saw your fear, fed it, fostered it, and then Irving feared, too. Uldred only wanted power. You were useful until you were used up."

The sack slid from Levyn's arm and hit the dirt road with a soft thud. A faint, wounded noise flew from his mouth.

"Loghain's lies steered you astray," Cole continued. "'Death for the arl or death for me? He promises us independence – what's one more crime in the face of that?'"

"Stop," Levyn whispered.

"Useful," Cole said. "Used up. Your fear made you foolish, but you help people now!"

He picked up the sack of spindleweed and set it back in Levyn's slack hands. "Forgive Jowan. His mistakes hurt people. You don't have to be him. The past can be just a part of you, not your present, too. You need to forgive."

Levyn blinked rapidly, and a subtle tension eased from his shoulders. "I don't…what?"

Ciri gave him an encouraging smile and nodded at the spindleweed in his hands. "You're probably expected back at the Crossroads."

"Yes, I…I have patients waiting." He blinked again and hefted the sack higher. "It was good to see you again, Inquisitor. Please tell Melora and Letia I said hello the next time you see them."

"We shall," Olgierd told him. "Be well."

Levyn walked off down the dirt road alone, and once he was out of hearing range, Varric asked with a touch of resigned humor, "So. The guy who poisoned Arl Eamon. The rumored blood mage? We're just letting him go?"

"I've called too many killers 'friend' to judge him based solely on that," Ciri said. "Cole found good in him. That's enough for me."

Varric looked past her down the road, then shrugged in easy agreement. "Yeah. My friends don't have the cleanest hands, either. So I guess it's enough for me, too."

"He needed help," Cole said. "He'll be better now."

"You did well," Olgierd praised him.

"I help the hurting," Cole said firmly. "That's what I do – all I do!"

Varric winced and looked like he was about to protest.

Solas cut him off before he could. "We've lingered long enough," he said. "Let's go and find the source of your trouble, Cole."

"Yes," Cole said with a hard nod. "Then I can help better. They won't take me if I can't be bound."

"I'll drink to that," Dorian agreed.

They proceeded through Redcliffe's gates and parted ways at the base of the path leading to the griffon statue commemorating the Hero of Ferelden's victory over the undead eleven years ago. Ciri watched Cole lead the way deeper into the village for a few seconds then turned back to Dorian.

"We can still turn back, you know," she said.

He summoned up a wan smile for her. "Where else am I going to get the drink to toast our spirit friend if I don't go inside that tavern?"

Ciri felt a burst of pride and worry, and she reached out impulsively to grip his hand. "You're a brave man, Dorian Pavus."

Dorian gave her hand a hard squeeze and let go, breathing deeply. "You know, I'm really not. But I'm glad you think so."

He squared his shoulders and strode toward the tavern door, Ciri at his side. His hand hovered over the handle briefly, then his eyes hardened. He let them in without a word.

The inside of the tavern was dim and still, entirely free of patrons on what should have been a bustling afternoon. Not even the tavern keeper was there behind the bar. Ciri and Dorian exchanged wary looks, their hands drifting to their weapons as they ventured farther in.

"Our 'trap' theory is looking more and more likely," Ciri murmured.

"Agreed," Dorian replied, keeping his voice low. "This doesn't bode well."

They both looked over abruptly at the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs, their pace steady and unhurried. Dorian stiffened, his spine going rigid as his staff, as the owner of the footsteps came into view. It was an older man clad in mage robes sewn from luxurious fabrics in sober colors, his face stern and lined. He looked remarkably like Dorian: the same warm brown skin and strong nose, the same shape to his light brown eyes, the same thick black hair.

"Dorian," Magister Halward Pavus said, grave and quiet.

Dorian's voice went as tense as his spine. "Father."

Ciri didn't like the sound of that at all, and she slowly began to edge in front of her friend. Magister Pavus' eyes caught the movement and dismissed it, looking past her to Dorian.

"So what is this, Father?" Dorian asked. "Your ruse with the letter worked, as you can see. Now what? Do you have someone waiting in the wings to drag me off?"

The lines in Magister Pavus' face seemed to grow deeper at that, and he took a step closer. Dorian stepped back, and his father stopped.

"Then you knew." He finally acknowledged Ciri, who edged further in front of Dorian. "You have my apologies, Inquisitor. I never intended for you to get involved in this affair."

"Well?" Dorian snapped.

Magister Pavus sighed. "No, Dorian. There is no one 'waiting in the wings.' Is it so unbelievable that I would want to see my son?"

Dorian let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, and Ciri's stomach dropped at the faintly hysterical edge to it. "Want to see your son? Is that what this is? Some sort of twisted family reunion?"

Magister Pavus took another step forward, and Ciri dropped her hand to her dagger's hilt and glared up at him.

"Not another step," she commanded.

"Why must you always make things into a fight, filius?" Magister Pavus gave her a dismissive look and turned unhappy eyes to Dorian.

"Why wouldn't I, after what you tried to do?" Dorian scoffed. "I haven't even begun to fight, Father."

Ciri froze. Far too many people had 'tried to do' things to her before she'd faked her death, and the sound of anger and betrayal in her friend's voice was all too familiar.

"Dorian," she whispered. "What is this about?"

Magister Pavus held up a hand in alarm. "Filius, there's no need to –"

Dorian's voice was low and hard behind her. "He disapproves of the fact that I prefer men."

Ciri reached behind herself silently and felt Dorian take her hand. Magister Pavus closed his eyes briefly, as if pained by the words. Like before, Dorian gave her hand a hard squeeze and let go.

She'd always felt a sting of prickly defensiveness when judging eyes and sneers turned her way as a girl, back when she'd run with the Rats and called Mistle her lover. She'd feared telling Yennefer and Geralt the whole of her tale, and their unstinting, unwavering love had made her cry more than once that night. For Dorian to be cursed with a father like this...

"Nobles do have something of an obsession with maintaining their lineage," Ciri said with what she felt was remarkable composure.

Dorian snorted softly. "Every Tevinter family is intermarrying to produce the perfect mage. 'Perfectus animus, corpus perfectum,' as they say. Every insignificant flaw, every aberration from the norm, is deviant and shameful. So you can imagine what a disappointment I was."

"And how," Ciri asked Dorian, staring at Magister Pavus, "does Tevinter deal with disappointments?"

Magister Pavus took a step back, holding his hands up defensively in front of him. "Dorian, please, if you'll only listen to me –"

"Why? So you can tell me another convenient lie?" Dorian brushed past Ciri and whirled to face her. He jabbed an angry finger at his father. "He taught me the perils of blood magic. 'The resort of the weak mind,' he called it. But what was the first thing my father did when his only heir refused to live a lie for the rest of his life?"

Magister Pavus shook his head slowly.

"You tried to – change me." Dorian's voice cracked, and his eyes glistened.

Ciri swallowed hard, and without meaning to, her hand pressed low on her abdomen. She realized where it had drifted and snatched it away, her heart pounding.

Emhyr and his plans.

Avallac'h and Auberon, and Lara's legacy.

The Lodge and their plot.

Vilgefortz and that nightmarish chair.

"I only wanted what was best for you," Magister Pavus protested.

"You wanted what was best for you!" Dorian spat, jabbing his finger at his father again. "For House Pavus and your blasted legacy!"

"I am so very sick of legacies being used to write off inexcusable acts as if it makes them somehow understandable," Ciri said. "Dorian. What do you want to do?"

"I want a fucking drink," Dorian said savagely, "but the barkeep's gone missing."

Ciri didn't flinch at his anger. She dropped her hand from the hilt of her dagger and came forward a pace to set her palms on either side of his prominent cheekbones and sharp jaw.

"You are a good man," she told him. "Brave, loyal, and intelligent. He took nothing from you, Dorian. You saved yourself."

His hand came up to wrap around her wrist as he blinked hard.

"We can walk out this door and forget we ever came," she said. "A pox on ambitious fathers who'd use their children. Back to Skyhold and Maxwell?"

She saw tired, pained agreement in his eyes, and for a moment it seemed he would concur. Then Magister Pavus made a small sound, and he ripped his gaze from hers, his face slipping from her hands.

"Yes," Dorian snapped. "You heard correctly. Maxwell, of the Trevelyan family of Ostwick. His parents don't disapprove of him, or us."

An expression passed across Magister Pavus' face that hurt to see, but between one breath and the next, it was gone. Dorian's father sighed and offered him a ghost of a smile. "A Free Marcher, filius?"

A startled bark of laughter escaped Dorian. "You –" He drew in a breath and sobered swiftly, glaring at his father. "Tell me why you really came."

"I hadn't realized how silent the estate could be until I no longer heard my son's laughter in its halls," Magister Pavus said quietly. "Your trust was a precious thing, and I betrayed it. I only wanted to talk to you, to hear your voice again. To ask you for your forgiveness."

Dorian glanced at Ciri uncertainly, and she hesitated a moment before nodding to him, a band of iron hard around her chest. She wanted nothing more than to hurry him out the door and get him safely away from his father. But Dorian wasn't her, and his father wasn't Emhyr. She couldn't dictate his forgiveness.

"I have a room upstairs where we can talk," Magister Pavus offered.

"Show it to us," Ciri said, her hand falling to her dagger again.

Magister Pavus frowned. "Our conversation isn't for you, Inquisitor."

"I don't care." She stepped forward to stand in front of Dorian again. "You may say you don't have a henchman lying in wait, or an ulterior motive, but I'd like to confirm it for myself."

"Ciri," Dorian said softly.

"Your safety first, Dorian," she said. If he knew half the things that had been done to her in the name of legacy, he'd understand. But she wouldn't make him carry that burden.

"She's right," Dorian said, turning back to his father.

Magister Pavus looked between them, and he offered Ciri a slight bow of his head. "You are a good friend to my son. Follow me, both of you."

He led the way up the stairs to the second floor of the tavern and down the hall to the room at the end. Ciri opened the door and looked inside to see a perfectly ordinary bedroom, clean but slightly shabby, with no sign of a hired thug or magical accoutrements for a suspicious ritual in sight.

"Go on," she told Dorian. "I'll wait in the hall."

He nodded to her and followed his father in. The door shut behind them, unnervingly loud to her ears. As their muffled voices began to speak, she folded herself down to sit on the floor, her hand clutching her dagger and her throat suspiciously tight. Waiting for things to go wrong. Hoping against hope that life would be kind enough that they wouldn't.

Olgierd followed Cole up the path to the griffon statue, Solas and Varric blessedly silent behind him. He appreciated their concern for Cole, and in many ways, he agreed with both of them. But not once had either of them asked Cole what he thought, and the continued slight strained his patience.

Cole stopped abruptly, tense as tightly drawn wire. "Him," he breathed.

Olgierd looked to see what he was staring at and saw a mustachioed man in the leather and mail armor of a Ferelden mercenary, broken capillaries scattered across his pink cheeks. As they watched, the man handed a full purse to a dwarf and received a small bag in return.

The man said something he couldn't make out and tucked the bag away, then looked up cautiously at the weight of their stares. He spoke to the dwarf again and came over, his eyes roving across their faces with no recognition.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

"You."

Cole shot forward, a trail of roiling gray smoke at his back. Olgierd suddenly viscerally understood why Cassandra had thought he was an abomination so many months ago.

"You killed me!" Cole cried as he forced the man to his knees and drew his dagger.

"I don't – I don't even know you!" the man protested, holding up his hands defensively.

Olgierd started forward, alarmed by the very real rage in Cole's voice.

Cole tightened his grip on the man's head. "You forgot. You locked me in the dungeon in the Spire, and you forgot, and I died in the dark!"

Guilt flickered in the man's eyes. "The Spire?"

"Cole, stop," Solas called out sternly.

Cole spun around, and the man twisted from his grasp and scrambled to his feet to race away.

"Wanna tell us what that was about, kid?" Varric asked. He approached Cole like he might a wounded dog, keeping his voice low and soothing.

"He killed me!" Cole cried again. "That's why it didn't work. He killed me and I have to kill him back!"

"The boy you couldn't help," Olgierd recalled. "The one you came through for. He died in a Circle dungeon?"

Cole stared out into the distance from behind his stringy bangs. His words were soft. "Guts gripping in the dark, broken body banged on the stone cell. A captured apostate. They threw him in the dungeon in the Spire at Val Royeaux. They forgot about him. He starved to death." He looked back at Olgierd, his eyes lost and hurt. "I came through to help, and I…couldn't. So I became him. Cole."

Like Adventure, the demon-turned-spirit who'd spied Olgierd's dreams in Ostwick and become his younger brother in all but flesh. He pushed away the pang of loss that always accompanied Vlod's memory and gave him a steady look. "You tried to help. Sometimes it isn't enough, but it matters that you did."

For a moment it seemed that Cole would respond. Then he stared off in the direction the man had fled, and his lost, hurt look was swept away by anger.

"So if Cole – the first Cole – was a mage," Varric said slowly, "then that would make that guy a Templar. Who wants to bet he was out here buying lyrium?"

Cole's hands made fists at his side. "Let me kill him," he ground out. "I need to. I need to."

"No." Olgierd strode forward to place himself in Cole's way, and he set his hands on his narrow shoulders, catching and holding his tormented, furious gaze. "You'll not take a single step down my path. Am I understood?"

A high, thready whine spilled from Cole's lips as he ground his fist into his sternum. "But it hurts!"

Olgierd was vividly reminded of a seven-year-old Vlodimir, gasping for breath after having the wind knocked from him when he'd been thrown from his horse for the first time. He'd had that same look of hurt, confusion, and anger, too.

"I know it does," he said, gentling his voice. "But vengeance won't soothe that pain. Not for long. And not for one as kindhearted as you. You'll only do yourself a worse injury in the end."

Cole stared at him in silence for several seconds, his pale eyes wide. "Panicked peasants," he whispered at last. "Screams shattering silence, festering fear. Hoofbeats drown out the laughter."

Olgierd gave him a short nod.

"You hurt people, too. No curse to harden hearts before. Just –"

"Boredom and arrogance," Olgierd said quietly. "Two brothers and a gang of ruffians looking for excitement with no regard for who they hurt. I don't expect anyone I crossed paths with then to ever forgive me, but I can do my best to lead a worthier life now."

"You changed. You help people, you don't hurt them." Cole's glance in the direction the man had run still held anger, but there was reluctant conflict in it as well. "He…I don't want to look. He hurt me."

"He hurt Cole," Solas corrected him. "You are Compassion, a spirit. If the Templar feels guilt or torment over the role he played in Cole's death, then you have a duty to relieve him of his burden. You must forgive him."

Varric scoffed. "Nobody just forgives being murdered, Chuckles."

"A spirit does," Solas rebutted. "The death of the real Cole perverted him from his purpose. Forgiveness will set him back on his true course."

"Oh, come on. The kid just needs to work through it – safely," he added swiftly. "No killing the guy."

Solas shot him a look of pure exasperation. "Spirits embody emotions. They do not 'work through' them."

Olgierd felt Cole's shoulders curl in beneath his hands, and he cast his arguing friends a quelling glare before catching the spirit's gaze again. "Tell me what's going through your mind."

"Real Cole. The face is false, the name not mine –"

He gave Cole's shoulders a slight shake. "You're as much Cole as Adventure was Vlodimir. And only at the start did I ever gainsay him."

Cole stared up at him, and he continued, addressing him much as he would his brother, "Not fifteen minutes ago you told a blood mage and a poisoner to forgive himself. I'll not tell you what to do, but your compassion is a rare gift. I'd hate to see it lost."

"I don't, I…" Cole shut his eyes tight, and Olgierd waited patiently. When he opened them again, a fragile sort of resolve filled them. "Come with me?"

"Should go without saying, I'd hope."

He let go of Cole's shoulders, and the two of them rushed up Redcliffe's winding paths after the Templar, past the tavern and around the back of the chantry. They found him at the edge of a cliff overlooking the water, his breath coming in sharp, short gasps as he looked around wildly for another path. He twisted around to face them at the sound of their footsteps, and his face went white.

"Not possible," he said hoarsely, falling to his knees.

Cole went still, then disappeared from Olgierd's side to reappear directly in front of the Templar. "Guilt grasping at his gut, a thorn in his thoughts," he said. "Outran the Order but couldn't shed the shame. He knows now."

The Templar pressed a shaky hand to his face. "Maker – I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"He hurt himself when he hurt me," Cole said quietly. "'Don't worry, we'll erase his records.' They laugh like Louis did when he made me drown the kittens."

The Templar flinched bodily at that.

"Stuck, mired in misery, memories bleeding black into the bitter present." Cole crouched down before him. "I forgive you. Now you can forgive yourself."

The Templar slowly got up from his knees. His face was still pale, but there was an ease to it that had been lacking before. His eyes skipped right over Cole and went to Olgierd.

"There was a boy," he murmured. "I knew him."

Olgierd inclined his head. "He left."

"I must…I must go." The man edged around Cole, entirely oblivious to his presence, and started down the path. "I have to…I have a letter to write."

Once he'd disappeared from view, Cole spoke up again. "A sister, estranged. She fears he fell when the Circles were sundered. He'll put quill to parchment tonight, words flowing like water. When it reaches her, she'll cry, and it will hurt. But it will be a good hurt."

The Amulet of the Unbound shone with a soft white light now, the glow throwing the sharp planes of his face into deep shadows beneath his ragged hat.

"I am," Olgierd told him sincerely, "so very proud of you."

Cole looked up at him from through his bangs. "Wind on your face, moonlight turning wheat to silver. The wager was three bottles of pepper vodka. Vlodimir won by a nose. You were prouder of him than you'd ever been."

Cole's words made the memory fresh, and Olgierd laughed. "First time he ever beat me in a horse race."

"He was proud of you, too." Cole seemed to look past Olgierd's eyes for a moment, and he frowned. "Adventure forgot. He fought for you, falling through fire and fog and flood, and felled his foe. But sleep stole his self from him."

And just like that, the amusement was wiped away. "But he lives?" he asked.

Cole nodded, his ragged hat flapping with the motion.

"I can make my peace with that," Olgierd said. "At least he survived."

Perhaps one day Vlod might remember. But it was enough that he lived.

"Come," he said, putting an arm around Cole's shoulders. "Let's get back to the others and give them the good news."

"Yes," Cole said as they began to head back down the path. "I'm free now. And so is he."

Head's up, dudes, dudettes, and duderinos: I'm switching to an every two week posting schedule temporarily due to some not so fun health stuff. It's not a hiatus and updates will still come regularly! I just need to get the headaches under control.