A/N: Thank you so much for reading! The kid mages are definitely going to show up more, later on.
...-...
Again and again.
It hurts.
Him, them, everyone.
They were happy in their home, hesitant to hear the calls for aide. They were safe and stable, sustained within the soaring void.
But when the Wardens called, it was not with welcome wishes.
They came with force and bindings and the spirits had no choice but to succumb. They were bound and stolen away from their purposes, the only release, only way out through death.
Theirs or their Warden captors. Not that they could go back to where they wanted, if they wanted.
He tried not to think of them. They are gone now, and he should focus on others. The ones he can help. He knew better than to think of them and him and how easily they parallel.
But it hurt.
Everything.
The back of his mind, the way the thoughts came in waves from all around.
Adamant Fortress had been an old wound with whispering scars, barely covered before the fighting began. So many had died, and so many did die.
Falling, fighting, fearing, fleeting.
Lives snuffed out for a greater cause, dying wishes that the world will be better for those left behind.
Why can't I see it? Why did I have to die?
Those words whispered as they passed, but worse were the words that stayed and burned bright and loud.
Why did I have to live?
It seemed there was no shortage of pain, no way to make it right for so many.
And that thing on the other side.
Cole could almost see it, it's twisted nature making hearts heavy and minds scatter. It made it harder to help, a tug-of-war on each and every mind, a war of hope and fear.
He might have lost them, if not for the turn of tide, the wavering from the other side. The loss in the Fade that meant the win in the waking world.
He'd known when the inquisitor returned immediately. He'd felt a shift in the hurts.
At first, it was slow, almost imperceptible.
Relief.
The inquisitor still stands. The mark is here. We can win.
It swept through the fortress, radiating out as people saw her, heard of her victory.
The fight was worth it.
The demons—the Wardens were stopped.
It made it easy for Cole to breathe again, the hurts toned down to less of a scream than before.
But there was still so much of it.
He left the healers to tend to the physical, searching for Finley and the ones he knew so well. Their hurts pulled him through like anchors.
Perhaps it was just that he knew them better that he could recognize them.
Omissions needled the storyteller. The champion felt naked. The hero felt betrayed, old wounds un-scabbed in the Fade.
His fears were still palpable. Twists in the Fade, a sense of dread that her reach was further than he'd thought. That the daughters were everywhere. What more could they want than an archdemon's soul? Than his blood to awaken dragons?
What was this one after?
He wouldn't help them this time.
He'd thought a life with Des would be worth living, worth a single night.
In many ways it was, but in others….
How many nights had he laid awake wondering just what he'd let loose in the world? How many times had he heard rumors of monsters and known that this time, this one was surely his doing?
Now she speaks against him and he can't trust. Does she worry he's caught on to her? Is that why she was so kind, so enthusiastically helpful at first? What did she want? What does she want?
What will she ask of him?
He can't give up a single night again because it's not a single night. It builds and it builds and no matter how much sleep he loses he will never be prepared for whatever is going to come.
Whatever he made.
Maker, let the spell have failed, he asks, knowing that his mere standing there means it didn't.
Worries nagged him, festering upon his re-opened wounds like a cloud of gnats, picking at the sensitive skin, the sensitive memories, the sensitive hurts.
The truth would help. It should have.
It did.
His heart still hurts, but the mistrust instilled in the Fade is fading. Now it is anger at his own, denial that they could truly fall so far—
But he is too far.
Cole cannot reach that hurt anymore, even if its taste still lingers on the back of his tongue.
He hopes the hero will come back. He would like to help him with so many other little tangles.
He wanted to go with the commander. His hurts are...so clustered, so bound and solid. Like boulders catching him in place. If he struggles wrong, they shift and crush him more. But he can't keep pretending. He has to face what he did and what he didn't do. He has to accept himself before he can…
Heal.
If that is to happen, it will be a long way away.
Cole is not sure that he understands the heaviness, the pain that curled in Cullen when Finley talked of Flemeths.
He will have to take a closer look when he gets back to Skyhold.
For now, there are others who need him.
The injured have been left behind—no, left in safety. The keep will let them heal, and he has already pulled loose many different pearls of pain.
Cassandra departed with their group, after the little bird threw a fit. Solas told her it was there for her, and he would need her to let it lead them. She was not happy to leave the others, but Knight-Captain Rylen met them, as she argued.
As if guided by the Maker's hand.
She thinks that often with the encounters she has these days. Wonders it about the man who watches her with such admiration, and then quickly tries to think of anything else. She doesn't know and doesn't have answers, and her gaze is sharp when Cole is about.
She doesn't let him speak to her.
She should, though. He could tell her all the things she needs to hear, the words that will lift the weight on her heart.
Her mind turns toward sharp things when she sees him, so he keeps his distance and helps those he can reach. Like the templars.
Ser Jensen is wholly devoted, ensnared with faith. He saw Finley's face when she saved him, when she fought to heal. There was a franticness, a desperation to do right. The weight she carries on her hand must be divine right, for the Maker would not be so cruel as to let a single person be burdened thus by chance.
For a random stranger, a random mage, to be so willing to risk their life, to sacrifice everything, for people who would put her to the sword as soon as look at her…
How wrong is the world if that could be the case?
Cole whispers that it doesn't matter what made that mark on her hand, that what he's doing here is good and worthwhile, and maybe this can change the world.
It dulls the ache of the unknown.
Ser Yorric frets about being overbearing, to both Cassandra and his brother.
Cassandra is like a brillant, beautiful beacon, he can't help but seek out. He often thinks of the first day he met her, of the way she stomped through the snow, clearly angry with their dear inquisitor, only to all but forget that anger and come to the defense of a friend.
Maybe not a friend then, but...there had been something about her.
She was incredibly gifted when it came to combat—no doubt years of training and serving went into that—but she was also fiercely loyal. He saw it in the small things she did. The way she reminded the commander to take a break or how she would stop him with a warm drink in Haven. The way she would keep track of Finley—not as someone trying to save that Maker-forsaken mark, but as someone who wanted to protect.
He couldn't put the words to it, but there was a longing there, building in his chest, and it hurt to think she thought him a nuisance.
He would respect if she did, though.
Cole reminds him of the way Cassandra blushes when she looks at him, and the time she was reading one of his reports and the smile she got when she got to his name—just before she saw him, of course.
There is something there, and it is worth talking to her again.
Sometime when they're not racing to save the day, of course.
Ser Cadwin's worries are of the Templar Order and what will happen when their lyrium runs out. She knows of the commander's resolution, and it terrifies her. She does not want to be leashed either, but the weakness that settles into her bones if she goes too long without lyrium scares her more than anything else.
She wishes they had told her before she took her first draught.
She wishes they would tell others.
Years ago, she was nearly kicked out of the Order for telling a few recruits the truth. She'd wanted them to have the choice she never had, though they'd been rounded up and fed spoons of honey-coated words to make the leash sound pleasant. She'd been required to attend their inductions and after that, they'd moved her away from where she might influence young recruits.
Perhaps the disbanding of the Order was for the best. Perhaps there will be no more leashes once the last of the templars die.
But then, who will fight the abominations? The demons?
The mages will do it.
Ser Cadwin's scoff at the thought makes Cole frown, and he hears her mind echo thoughts of Tevinter and how well that worked for them.
He can't help but remind her that there are very few tales of abominations from Tevinter.
It quiets her fears, for now.
Ser Othelle's worries are that they are wrong. Of the five that Finley recruited, he keeps the most distance.
Documents forged, names changed, all to get close to his sister, all to look after her in the Circle. And he made it, and he made himself known, and his sister would have naught to do with him. Called him a traitor. Tried to set him on fire when they fled.
He joined the rebel templars to look for her, though for all he knows she's already rotting in a ditch somewhere.
A soft breeze reminds him of when they were little, when they played beneath the weeping willow, before her magic came in and she was taken away. She trusted him then, though that is long gone, through no fault of his own that he can see.
More and more, as he walked those Circle halls, he saw that mages simply did not trust. He sees it in the Inquisitor's posture whenever she's in the presence of people who have been nothing but loyal to her. He sees it in the way she appraises others, as though finding them wanting.
Ser Yorric has suggested many a time that she simply had a hard life, but then why do all the mages trust so little? How can they not tell the difference between the good and the bad?
How could his own sister turn against him when he'd done nothing but work to find a way to keep her safe?
Cole hums an old nursery rhyme they used to sing as they played, and the tension in Ser Othelle's shoulders ease up a bit. Maybe he can still find her, maybe he can fix whatever broke between them.
Ser Rodrin remembers an old mission, years ago, that took him into the Arbor Wilds. He remembers the light-footed girl who disappeared during the chase, with magic caught in her eyes.
His partner had claimed abomination, but he'd been unsure.
He'd thought the girl was no threat and had stopped his partner, wanting to try to talk to her, to bring her somewhere safer than that merciless, wild land.
To a Circle, where she could have a roof over her head and three meals a day, where she could study with others and not have to sleep in the freezing rain or hope to evade the dangerous beasts.
But she had been gone when he turned around, and no amount of searching had brought about even a trace.
He was censured for letting her get away. It was why he never made knight-captain.
He'd thought that girl to have surely perished long ago, yet seeing the herald sitting upon the rocks, watching them with the same look the girl had had...
That knowingness that templars struck far too quickly.
If this is her, he's glad. Too many blades find homes where they don't belong, and his alone can't stop them all.
If he stopped one, that's...not enough, but at least a start.
Cole reminds him of the girl's wild red hair and the freckles across her nose that mirror Finley's.
Well, Finley has more now, but Ser Rodrin is more sure every time he sees her.
It is not just a desperation to have not failed that poor, lost child.
She lived. Maybe not because he stayed a blade, but...she lived.
That's what matters most.
There are a few others with their party, all with their own weights and worries, some more easily untangled with a soft spoken word or a smell or a touch than others. It is good work, though, and Cole is glad to do it.
Only one member of his party is beyond Cole's reach.
Solas leads them to the inquisitor's rescue, telling himself he must keep track of the mark. It will be needed, along with the focus.
Part of him, though, whispers that no children should be exposed to the horrors of this world. Not even for a little while. Not even if he will unmake them in the end.
And part of him wants to make sure that his friends are safe, though he won't let himself say the word.
He cannot afford to have friends.
Cole wants to tell him that's not true. He's tried, a few times. Solas is too stubborn though. His pearls are held too tightly, clutched in such a vice grip that they merge and melt together.
It nettles at the edges of Cole's mind, if he focuses on the ancient elf too long.
Just as it seems he would have to choose between the nettling or the sharpness from Cassandra, they arrive.
Cole hears the new hurts before they find the bodies. Crying, cradling, carrying on is too hard. No, no. Don't think like that. Don't think at all. Don't think. It hurts.
I'm too slow.
I won't make it in time.
They're hurting them.
The words tumble together like a whirlwind, and Cole can see the battle before they make it over the ridge. He sees each fighter struggling to gain ground, terrified that they will not reach the frightened in time.
Cassandra leads the charge over the ridge and blossoms like a wildflower, petals of determination radiating from her and invigorating those around her. If she can be confident, sure of her steps, so can they. She has been wilting the past few days, teetering on a notion that she toys with when she looks at Ser Yorric, but now she buries those doubts deep, throwing herself into what she knows.
The sight of her, in shining armor, blade drawn as she leaps from her horse to enter the fray, gives hope to those who were so stricken before.
The rest of them break over the ridge, and the templars are swift, riding like the heroes in storybooks to cut down the wicked.
The Venatori fall back, regrouping.
They are afraid.
Good.
NO.
The word is a wall that slams into Cole and makes him stop even as the first of the Venatori falls to his blades.
Whirling around, he can seen Finley. She sports cuts here and there, daggers dancing and drawing blood. She doesn't see them, doesn't feel them.
All she sees is the blood mage bent over a little body.
A shield shimmers, a small voice cries.
Finley tackles the Venatori mage away from the little one with a scream, wrenching his dagger from his hand and bringing it down hard.
Again and again and again.
When she finally stops, she's shaking.
Blood. So much...too much, too much blood. Get it off. Get it off. Not a blood—
Crying interrupts the spiral, and she snaps from it, the hurts dimming just enough for her to focus on the present.
She heals the little one, oblivious to her own injuries, turning their arms this way and that, whispering over and over that they are good and safe and did nothing wrong.
They are words that helped her, the only ones she ever knew to carry healing without magic. Someone else comes over to take the little one from her. The first enchanter. She picks up the child and says something to Finley, too soft, too quick.
Her hurt quiets as she heals herself and looks over the battlefield.
Cole can't see her thoughts under the mark anymore.
It is brighter, stronger.
Solas is afraid for Finley.
He notices Cole's catch and hides it away.
Cole bristles, but says nothing. He can't heal the hurt if he can't reach it. Solas knows this.
It is not fair that he choses what can and cannot be healed.
Such thoughts help no one, though, and Cole focuses on those he can heal.
There are so many.
There are always so many.
Too many.
Why does this world have to hurt so much?
"Little bodies, large eyes. Left alone or led astray. If I help them, does it in the end? They'll trust the armor and then run into the wrong arms." Cole rocks from heel to toe beside Ser Yorric and looks up at him. "You can help them. You can keep them in the right arms."
The templar turns to eye him, frowning. "You must be Cole."
"I'm help."
Whatever his thoughts are, they do not hurt, and Cole cannot see them now. He pinches his brow together as Ser Yorric strides over, a wide smile in place, and offers to help one of the mage children, asking if they want to be as tall as a qunari. They are unsure at first, looking for the blazing sword that should mark his armor.
Instead, they see the Inquisition's eye.
A smaller girl, new to the Circles for a month before they fell, nods to him and holds her arms out, the way she did when her mother would pick her up. He kneels and lets her clamper up onto his shoulders. She clings to him a moment before relaxing a little and nodding shyly to the Iron Bull as he slumps his shoulders to let her be a bit taller than him.
Ser Yorric apologizes, saying he didn't realize he was so short.
The girl giggles.
A few others watch, wanting to be held and safe.
The Iron Bull flexes his arms and offers rides to anyone who can hold on. A few more adventurous children accept the challenge gleefully, just happy to be safe.
Happy that those hateful daggers are already being buried in the sands.
A few other qunari are helping to round up the children, as are the templars. They move them away from the blood shed carefully, quietly.
Cassandra finds Finley standing off by herself, watching with an uncomfortable look.
Before Cassandra can say a word, Finley turns away and leads her through the ruins where the Venatori had taken residence. The stones whisper of times when the dunes were covered in grasses and little animals would play, before the Blight swept through, so long ago, and made those things unable to live here.
People loved this place. The reading nook that barely has a stone left, the kitchen that looks more like an empty corridor. This place was happy to feel footsteps again, though the blood made it weep and relive when the darkspawn swept through.
There was blood then, too.
Cole pats one of the old walls, and thanks it.
It hears him and warns him of the loose stone ahead that would trip him otherwise. It apologizes as he steps over it, pauses, and then settles it in place more firmly.
Maybe someday, happy footsteps will come back.
It hopes.
Cole is glad that Finley can't hear its thoughts. She would likely miss the grasses, too.
A child runs past Cole, stricken.
A hand reaching out. Angry voices, another arm pulling back. A shield that the others bang upon but cannot get through. The room is small, but she can breathe for the first time in what feels like years. He strains against the forces of the others and his face twists in anger when the children try to channel their magic to help.
Not at them.
That they would even need to do so.
He helped. He's good.
Can't let them hurt him. Please don't be too late.
"...was helping protect a few children in this room so that the others couldn't get to them," Finley is explaining, motioning to a man in a venatori robe who is standing very straight in a corner. A phoenix paces in front of him, hissing if he slouches even a little. "He says he wants to help us."
"He saved me!" The little girl's voice is frantic, though she skids to a stop when she sees the beast on guard.
Finley reaches out and runs her fingers down the creature's nose, leaning her forehead against its head and then patting it gently. It turns and leaps out a hole in the wall—a long broken window—and races off for home.
The man in the corner does not relax until the girl runs over to stand in front of him. "He pulled me back in when they came to take me!"
Tears stain her cheeks, more threaten to fall.
Cole wants to help, but he waits. Here, things are already in motion.
"We can...take him back to Skyhold," Cassandra says, looking more than a little put out. "We can discuss his fate there."
"We would have lost all of them if not for him," Finley whispers. She turns to see Cole and offers him a small smile that doesn't reach her eyes as her fingers run down to rub at her wrist, near the mark.
Solas is right to be worried.
"Your name," Cassandra demands.
The man stares at her in shock a moment, more surprised that she's the first to think to ask him of it than anything else. "Crassius Servis, of the Minrathous Circle of Magi."
"Let the mad dogs bark as they will, while they look outward, I'll turn a profit. No harm, no foul." Cole whispers, stepping up beside Finley. Cassandra jumps and eyes him, as do the others. It is fine, they won't remember.
Cassandra will.
"He was thinking of himself when he came, but he couldn't go along with murdering children. He thought he was in charge, thought he could tell them no, and they would listen. They backed him into a corner instead."
Cole trails off, looking at the bewildered mage. Even as accusations of demons think to reach his lips, he forgets them.
Cole is outside the room, and Magister Servis cannot remember who spoke on his behalf as he explains that he thought leading a few fanatics through an empty desert wouldn't hurt anyone. He decides it must have been the girl.
Cassandra is disgusted, but relieved that there was someone here to help in the end.
Finley again whispers that they wouldn't have made it in time if not for him.
He will be spared.
Cole knows already as he heads back to the main bulk of where the fighting took place. Even if he can't see her hurts anymore, he knows she still feels sick from taking the mage at the Crossroads' life. She wants to give a chance to anyone and everyone, to prove that she is not her parents. She does not kill on a whim.
And she doesn't.
She doesn't, but it hurts, and she doesn't want to ever feel a life taken as something simple or forgettable. She makes sure it hurts.
Cole does not know how to fix that.
But for now, he can work with the little ones, who have all congregated around the qunari and templars alike on the far side of the ridge, away from the carnage, eager to be taken from this awful place in strong yet gentle arms.
Their elders are all slain, died defending or offering themselves first to buy the children time.
Cole whispers of the chances they wanted to give the little ones, of the lives. The world can be hard, but it is changing. It is changing, and they may yet have a chance to sit on a farm's porch or read peacefully by a bay window in the city. They will leave the dry desert to fade away behind them as newer, better things come into their lives.
He's just gotten the smallest of the mages to smile when he hears a thought that is in dissonance with the others.
He must know. We failed but he can still win.
Cole stands quietly and slips away from the group, following that desperate, hateful hope until he finds its owner. The Venatori is limping along the far wall of the ruins, making sure not to be seen as he tries to plan how best to get away.
To warn the Elder One.
Cole makes sure his plans end quickly and quietly and goes back to the others.