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The flame on the altar flickers, casting Andraste’s face in sharp shadows. If Cassandra stares long enough, she may believe the bride of the Maker is looking kindly down at her soldiers, mourning the loss of so many lives in the pursuit of justice.
Tonight, justice seems as cold as the icy wind that cuts through Skyhold. Cassandra cannot empty her head of the endless list of names, those lost so far in a war against an evil she cannot comprehend. The evil she has always been told existed.
And now? When she needs it the most, her faith gutters like the candles around her.
Is this truly the Maker’s will? That so many will die? Why? What is the point of the innocent blood shed? Has she made a difference? She, who is supposed to be the sword of her faith, the shield of those who need her protection?
Has it all been for nothing?
No. She cannot allow herself to give into despair and hopelessness. She must focus. Must–
“It’s so hard.”
His voice is a mere whisper in the night, but it makes her jump, hand flying to her blade before she places it as no threat.
“Cole,” she greets tersely.
“Thoughts spin. Ashes like holy fire. Ladies of stone can’t sing to the Maker, but you wish you could hear her.”
She should tell him to leave her in peace, but there is comfort in his rambling chatter. Since meditation offers her nothing this evening, perhaps there is no harm in seeking the company of another.
“A voice so strong it could bend the ear of the Maker,” Cassandra murmurs as Cole slides to his knees beside her.
“It must have been very loud to reach so high.”
His solemn declaration startles a laugh from her lips. His smile tips up hesitantly beneath the broad brim of his hat, as if pleased that she’s made such a sound.
“A teacher of mine once said the softest voices carry the furthest. A lesson I never learned, I fear.”
“I like your voice. Shouting. Speaking. Soft then hard. Cutting and careful. It sounds like home.”
Cassandra’s lips move of their own volition to match his expression. “You are too kind.”
“I’m Compassion,” he says, like it is obvious.
“So Solas says.”
“But you want to find Faith. It was easy once. Fearless. Flying. You were so sure and the words shined bright. What changed?”
Cassandra sighs and raises her eyes back to Andraste’s silent face. Cole waits, endlessly patient as if he is carved from the same stone. She considers her words carefully in the silence.
“Perhaps I have merely seen too much of the damage wrought by faith gone awry. It has been so long.”
Cole tips his head to the side, hat casting a comical shadow over Andraste. He frowns thoughtfully.
“Faith touched you so long ago.”
“It was not so long ago!” Cassandra protests. “I am not that old.”
“But long enough to forget. Faith fades. The fight lasts forever. Everything falls to pieces and something new rises. Do you wish Faith would touch you again?”
“It would be easier if it did.”
“I could touch you?”
Cassandra jerks her gaze from Andraste and back to the calm, level gaze of Cole. “What?”
“I’m Compassion,” he says again, as if it answers all her questions. “I can touch you instead of Faith.”
“How?” she asks warily.
Cole moves closer, lifting long, thin fingers. He waits, giving her plenty of time to object. In the candlelight, he seems to glow like the stars above, fingers gently outstretched, the soft blue veins beneath his almost translucent skin.
When she doesn’t object, he moves closer, his cool touch against her warm cheek. He traces the scar on her jaw with his thumb, soothing the wound long since healed.
His eyes sparkle with awe and reverence. “Steel through the air. The dragons roar. You were so scared. But you stood there. To protect them. Like you protect us.”
“It is my duty,” she says softly, covering his palm with hers. “I have no regrets.”
“Yes you do,” Cole says, blinking his eyes in the dim light, staring into her like he can see her soul. “But you couldn’t have saved him.”
“If I had been faster, if I had-”
Cole’s thumb swipes over her lips in a silent plea to stop. Cassandra pinches her lips shut, but his finger doesn’t move as his face creeps closer until the shadow of his hat falls upon her.
“Faith is still inside you,” Cole murmurs. “I feel them. Burning. Bright. But never as bright as you. A fire in the dark, a beacon. Safety.”
He smiles, an expression so heartbreakingly shy that Cassandra feels her face warm beneath his fingers.
“I do not feel special.”
“You should,” Cole says simply. “You are.”
“Cole…”
“I like that you’re touching me,” he admits. “Can I kiss you?”
She should not. It is foolish. Cole is…. Not quite human. Not quite spirit.
But then again, so is she. And inside her, she swears she can feel the fire of her faith bending towards him.
When was the last time she allowed herself to do something so foolish as fall into the soft hands of a boy with such sad eyes who said such beautiful things?
“If you would like to,” she says, keeping her voice admirably steady.
Cole smiles and leans forward, breath fanning against her lips. Then he presses a kiss soft as prayer to her lips, cradling her jaw in his long fingers.
He does not expect her to pull him closer, knocking his hat to the stone, burying her hands in his silky hair. But he meets her like the other part of her soul, like the spark she needs to ignite.
What is faith without compassion? Or compassion without faith?
“Lonely,” Cole murmurs against her lips, wrapping her in his arms. “But not anymore.”
“No,” Cassandra agrees, allowing herself to rest in his embrace. “Not anymore.”