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Cole is almost past feeling pain. He can’t move anymore, each breath a labor he can’t afford. It’s so dark he wonders in his delirium if he’s gone blind. The dancing shadows only a figment of his imagination, his brain creating images to save him from insanity. He can’t remember the last time he saw light - probably the last time they brought him food too. The old bread had sat heavy in his stomach, relief so sweet it made him sick. He’s still red beneath his fingernails.
He doesn’t want to die. He’s scared, Maker he’s scared.
His stomach hurts. A hollow ache burning inside him. Like the embers of a dying fire he sizzles and screams, if only he could grasp it with blistered palms. He’s so tired, the stone floor cool against his skin.
Rough hands, tough hands, armoured fists and armoured feet.
He licks the damp from the wall, dripping through dirt and down rock. Wets his tongue, enough to lift his head.
The dark begins to twist and turn, taking shape and substance.
A bird flits through the shadows, a fish leaps and spins - splashing through the air. A dog howls, it’s muzzle dark. Mothers fingers run through his hair, her old song fills the spaces where she used to be. Would she forgive him?
Hop hop goes the bunny, there goes the bunny, there goes Bunny, gone, dead.
His fault, it’s all his fault. His evil, his hands. Be quiet, please be quiet, he’ll find us. He’ll find us and he’ll kill us.
Kill. Killed. I killed her. Quiet, quiet. Shhhhhhhhh
It burns. Stomach rolling and tightening until he’s hollowed out.
He’s reaching out, gasping, may Andraste hear his prayer.
Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.
Falter, falling, he will not fall.
His mother’s knife - all that’s left of her, no flesh, no smile, no lullaby - hits the floor. His father’s blood drips, drips, pools and floods. Dead man.
The boy lives, corpses at his feet.
He is a murderer, one death earned - finally he is free - the other, a life flickering between his two good hands snuffed by clumsy fingers, smoke billowing, stinging his eyes and clogging his throat - the Templars chains are heavy on his wrists.
Desperate. Hurt. Empty. Empty. Hungry. Dying.
If you die but there’s no one around to see it, are you really dead?
A cry in the dark.
Am I dead? I don’t want to die. Maker please. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease
Someone, anyone, find me . Don’t forget me down here. I want to live. Please Maker, I want to live.
A voice through the haze soft like his mothers blanket settles around his shoulders.
Comfort. Lonely. Familiar. Hurt. Hurting
How does one heal a hurt?
Don’t leave me. I don’t want to be alone.
A promise.
His mothers stomach swells and swells until she screams, she screams, she screams. Never alone now. His to protect, to love. His sister. His Bunny. Her fingers weaved daisies in his hair.
Compassion whispers in the spaces.
Twisting, stumbling, a tight embrace.
It takes him weeks to die, a hushed voice in his ear. Sinking and falling but never moving. He’s read and known and real and whole. He knows Compassion too. A shuddered breath and then he’s gone.
And then not.
He unwinds, limbs light and unsteady. Stands on rusted knees made fresh and new. He’s a boy, with shape and thought. But he is also a spirit, helpful. He will help. He is both and neither, a whisper and a knife.