Tales of a Child Eternal [NSFW]

[Tethras Clan]

This one underwent conditioning. This one underwent conditioning. Conditioning. Zevran takes a long, slow breath. "Can... can you... describe... what that... conditioning was like?" the assassin asks in a faintly curious tone.

[Helene Dakesh]

Helene closes their eyes briefly. "It was unpleasant," they admit, wetting their lips. "But this one was... this one is led to believe it is the state of the art in healing for this type of disorder."

[Tethras Clan]

"I was told something similar once," Zevran comments. "My Masters always prided themselves in their skill at... moulding their wares into the desired shape."

[Helene Dakesh]

Helene flinches. "This is not the same techniques. This is healing, for mental disorders, it is not... this one... assumes you are speaking of the opposite. Of inducing damage, rather than of healing."

[Tethras Clan]

"I was taught how to behave. How to be polite and proper. How to avoid offending and to... fit their expectations." Zevran smiles coldly. "Shall we compare what they did? The methods and manner? DId they favor rewarding good behavior? Or were punishments more common?"

[Helene Dakesh]

"Creatures like me..." they say, their voice small, broken. "Creatures like me don't... fare well. Have to be institutionalized our whole lives. I-- I do not. This one has surpassed all expectations, year after year. Before Drasslina, this one was... not."

[Tethras Clan]

Without getting any closer, Zevran sinks to his knees, gaze fixed on the collar of Helene's seeker robes. "Creatures... yes, that was much the same sort of thing I was called. One of the kinder words. And it is known as the institution of slavery. So. I... am slightly grateful that you went there, in that your path brought you here, but nevertheless... Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps their actions were kinder than it appears. But I doubt it. Perhaps what they did was truly the best thing that could be done. But I doubt it. I would... I beg of you, to seek answers at SummerHill. To seek answers from Wynne and Varric, Merrill and Anders. Please. Please let them help you if they can, more than..."

[Helene Dakesh]

"This one... this one will think on it," they whisper. 

[Tethras Clan]

"Thank you," Zevran says simply. "...can you eat?"

[Helene Dakesh]

They nod, once, and move toward him, falling silent.

[Helene Dakesh]

Helene's sketchbook was full of wolves.

Black wolves and grey, the grey wolves having dire protrusions and tusks, the black just as large and mean for all they look more like normal wolves. Somehow, it was the black wolves who looked crueler, more twisted, more monstrous. Snarling, growling, biting, always opposing each other, the packs fought their way across the pages of Helene's sketchbook, pushing other drawings to the margins around them. This type of fixation made their minders uneasy -- but they were compliant, and did not attempt to speak of wolves or canines during therapy sessions, so it did not earn them a black mark. Their sketchbook reflected their dreams -- and their dreams were not meant for the ears of their therapists.

One day a new figure arrived in the sketchbook: a smaller wolf, grey, with tusks. Clearly a pup. The next day, the grey pup was with the black wolves -- cowering behind them, in fact.

That was the day Tamika went missing.

The biggest of the grey wolves, the lead male, was backed into a corner on the next page. Black wolves all around, and his pack was growing smaller. Halfway across the page, three of his pack were in a standoff, fighting each other rather than him. On the next page he had savaged one of the black wolves good, but the pup was nowhere to be seen. (Helene got a warning about drawing violent images. They pretended not to hear, did not reply.)

The next morning, Helene refused breakfast, instead spending an hour drawing one full-page image. Above, a moon shaped like a chrysanthemum weeps a gentle rain on the land below. Beneath, the small, grey pup howls from a cage while a butterfly flutters past its head.

Helene put their sketchbook down, stood up, and walked toward the front door.

"Where are you going?" asked one of the orderlies.

"This one is finished with the program."

"No, you're not. In fact, you've been quite bad today--"

"This one is finished." There was a quiet intensity in their voice, a clearness in their eyes. "This one is of age. Has been for some time. This one has a calling that this one can no longer neglect. This one will serve Alydra. This one thanks you for your teachings, but this one is finished with the program."



That afternoon, Tamika's girlfriend Cybil found her hidden in the Cirenite district, returning her to her family just before her father was willing to rescind his nomination to become the head of the Keindranas order in exchange for his daughter back safe.

[Helene Dakesh]

The thing about prophecies is, after over a hundred years practice, sometimes, they're dead simple.

Helene wakes, and they know what they need to do. The path is in their feet, the timing in their hands; when they feel that urge to go wandering, they grab everyone nearby and lead, taking them home to the temple. Alydra wants to see them, they think, but then they run into Silence and they know this is it, this is the day.

Hawke is coming home.

But then they reach the basement of the temple of Mileen, and they see the writing on the wall. They see Hawke's too-pale face, the sallow tone to her skin, the huge ugly scar that looks like it came right out of a manual on field dressing kills. They hear the stammer, the apologies. They receive the volume they were looking for, and they see how Hawke cannot meet their eyes, and everything is wrong again. Terribly, terribly wrong.

That night, their dreams are full of nightmares, not prophecies. The future remains clouded, obscured. There is no comfort coming, and they can't help but wonder if that means there is no comfort to be had. That Hawke is damaged forever, that things will never be okay again.

When they wake, they don't greet Patchwork verbally. They instead curl up with their sketchbook and try to shut out the world.

[Avato (Patchwork Bloke)]

The canid doesn't really notice for half the day, accustomed to being ignored, especially in favor of studies or research. But when he sees that Helene's lunch joins their breakfast in being untouched, he begins to wonder. Not worry, not yet. That comes shortly...  At first, he sits in front of them, just to the side and patiently waits. Wouldn't want to disrupt their thoughts. I can wait until they return. Humming softly, he waits.

Realizing the sun has set at some point, Patchwork Bloke shakes himself and looks around in alarm. "Seeker? Is there something amiss?" He tries several times and even after a dozen attempts, the last rather loud and urgently spoken, gets a mere furtive glance before the samsaran seemingly dismisses him entirely. Ah. I... see. I suppose I should have realized they would grow... Unnerved by me eventually. Hopefully they will relent, that this is temporary as it was with Dakesh. Slinking away, he settles in for a long wait. Best to give space but stay close. I'll just watch quietly.

And so for the next two days, the Unfettered watches. Quietly, patiently and just out of sight. Well, as best as he's capable anyway, as he's not exactly a spy or scout of any kind. Eventually, however, he starts to notice things that are even more worrying than the silence. Rocking in place, terrible nightmares, jerking, twitching hands... at one point, he thinks he almost caught them hitting their heads in the side of their chair.

I do not know what to do... Perhaps I should seek out help. I do not wish to be a bother or upset Helene by bringing their business to others but I think I have little choice. Hopefully they will forgive me. And be well until I return. When he does return, he's not alone. "They are just this way, I hope, provided they have not moved since I left, which is not likely based on observed data these last few days," Patchwork is explaining to someone as he enters the basement of Voice.

[Tethras Clan]

"I see. Thank you Patchwork, I think I know what to do," Zevran says gently. At least, I think I might. Slipping into the room, he kneels a few feet front in front of Helene. "Good afternoon, Helene. You have been... cooped up in here for a few days now. Might I help with something?"

[Helene Dakesh]

Seeing Patchwork go sends Helene spiraling once more. There is a place somewhere in their mind that has words, that makes sense, that involves communication, that--

The smell of Zevran's skin, the feel of his hand on their skin, the gentle tone of his voice.

Shame wells up in them, shame and guilt, and they close their eyes, tears leaking from them. They wrap their arms around themself, rocking back and forth, unable to find the words to express the feelings, the images, in their heart. Sensing the wall at their back, then rock backwards harder than forward, knocking the back of their head against the wall -- not to block out the stimulus, as they once often did, but to punish themself for being unable to find their way back to words.