"Heaven and hell seem out of proportion to me: the actions of men do not deserve so much."
Borges Verbal ~ Jorge Luis Borges
He was supposed to forget, the memories are resilient. He was supposed to forget, he didn't, now she is plunged into a nightmare.
It is my fault.
It was not his place to judge. That was not what he had come through for. Whenever the pain yielded to ugliness, Cole always reacted, as naturally as one who did not shy away from battle did, by raising arms against an incoming blow. This retribution was not unfamiliar ground to him, he knew, the cool dagger handle ensconced firmly in his hand as he stealthily wove his way between shadow and moonlight down the sleepy halls of Skyhold. What was unfamiliar was the sharpness of his thoughts, the absence of the usual ritual of searching and understanding another's pain, the lack of his desire to embrace it, become one with it, and heal it. His eyes searched predatorily, awareness heightened, a drive to hunt down his mark overwhelmingly urgent. It consumed him, his body for once unfamiliar and strange as it reveled in the sensation. The poisonous thoughts coursed through his mind, signaling a response: rapid breath, heavy heartbeat, a fire igniting his resolve with absoluteness.
You will answer for this.
He recognized the emotion with easily dismissed surprise; it had gripped him too thoroughly already for him to extricate himself. He perceived it with the dull ache of the physician who understands himself lost to the symptoms of a disease he has treated in others.
Rage.
The soldier cupped his hands into the cold water in the washroom's basin and splashed it over his face; he pat his cheeks, peering into the mirror on the wall in front of him and contemplated his sunken, bloodshot eyes.
The more power those aberrations are given, the more they abuse it. They cannot be trusted.
He'd done the right thing, he reasoned, telling his superiors at the barracks about the mage from the dispensary.
Maleficar, he remembered his father uttering somberly. All of them. First opportunity they get.
He cupped his hands one more time into the basin and lowered his head reverently.
I, too, father, am not afraid or untrue.
He slapped the water on his eyelids, feeling slightly more invigorated and at ease. He took a deep breath, his hands shaking slightly as he recalled the mage's warm, soft, yielding flesh beneath his squeezing fingers. Her fear in the face of his decisiveness had felt good, the memory evoking a shiver of pleasure. His breath quickened as he replayed her helpless thrashing against his fierce grip and her mewling pleas. He closed his eyes, his cracked lips parting in a cruel grin. He wiped the excess water off, raised his head and glanced into the mirror once more.
Reflected in the glass, in the black and white half light of the empty room, a pallid, wraith-like figure stood ominously behind him.
He whirled around in terror, but before he could utter a sound, a gray hand shot forth and clamped over his mouth. The figure thrust him into the wall forcefully. A steel blade slithered up against his neck, making it difficult to swallow.
"You are the evil you see in others. This corruption is your own doing, your duty was to protect, to defend, scattered, lost to shrill shrieking, destroy what you fear, what you do not understand," the stranger accused him, a timbre of anger in his voice. "She is all kindness, the warmth of hope to those she touches in the solitude of their suffering, present and there, unafraid and alive…and you would snuff it out like that, plunge it all into shattered darkness. And for what?"
The blade edged deeper into his skin.
The demon has come for me!
He tried to seize Cole's arm, grasping it by the wrist with both his hands, but Cole's hold was unfaltering, and all his efforts managed to accomplish was to make him angrier. He rammed the soldier against the wall harder, debris from an emerging crack toppling down and dusting the top of his head.
"Unravel the lie you wove," he demanded. ""Un-tell it," he said, gravely. "So she can be free."
Cole noticed the soldier had begun to tremble. He'd squeezed his eyes shut and his lips feverishly muttered faint words.
"By Andraste's grace… soul…Maker…Deliver… evil…strikes in the day…lurks in the night…"
Still keeping his dagger's blade firmly poised along the soldier's jugular, he balled his free hand into a tight fist, his arm recoiling.
"Demon…" the man whimpered.
It was as if his fist ached, tingling with the anticipation of crushing bone, bruising flesh, the only offering acceptable to appease his fury. He'd grown tired, so tired, of those so filled with…
Hate.
He halted his forward swing, contemplating the frightened man.
Demons are bound when you tell them what they are so loudly that it's all they can hear.
He had almost succumbed to his hatred. It had screamed at him, relentlessly.
What does it mean? he puzzled.
Cole remained immobile, a putrid odor, earthy and rotten, rising between them. He realized the soldier had soiled himself in fear. He promptly withdrew the dagger, but held him by the collar.
I have made it worse, he realized. It is wrong, it swivels unevenly. I am not as before, he worried. Dangerous.
He pressed his lips together in thought.
"When you tell them, say it was 'Cole,'" he whispered in the man's ear. "This you must not forget," he added, releasing him. He turned, aiming to disappear into the night. A parting glance over his shoulder revealed the lonely figure of the man gradually sliding down against the wall, openly weeping.