Imprints in Stone [AU]

[Varric]

"Is there- are there any reputable studies on how and why people develop that particular symptom?" Varric asks promptly.

[Helene Dakesh]

"This one does not know." They flush a bit deeper blue, their hand finally lowering, though the rocking remains.

[Varric]

"Hmmm. If I keep your name out of it, would you be okay with me doing some researching on this?" Varric asks thoughtfully. "I'll share anything I find, of course."

[Helene Dakesh]

They swallow back the whimper that threatens to rise in their throat. "This one would-- this one would prefer not," they whisper. 

[Varric]

"That I not research or that I not tell you? And can you explain why?" Varric asks gently.

[Helene Dakesh]

"There are-- there are things said in books about people like me that-- Greater understanding often leads to rejection." 'This one' isn't enough distance, not after that accidental 'me'; there can be no subject at all, only oblique, passive statements of fact.

[Varric]

"I know you- I trust my own observations far, far more than things I've read in a book. But would you feel better if you told me these things, instead of me reading them? So you can control the narrative?" Varric, having noticed their avoidance of eye contact, studies his whisky before taking a sip.

[Helene Dakesh]

"Being this way is wrong," they whisper. "This is a defect, a brokenness, only to be indulged when it cannot be stamped out. This one must try harder or no-one will listen to this one's prophecies. And this one's prophecies are the single most important thing this one has to offer this world. This one's reason for existing, this one's higher calling, the purpose for which Alydra suffers this one's existence is prophecy. This one cannot lose words. This one must, must, be understood."

[Varric]

"You can come to me," Varric says instantly. "If people start ignoring you, if you can't talk to others, then come to me. I'll be your speaker. There's more to you than your visions, but I can understand having something being your... primary focus."

[Helene Dakesh]

It happens, finally -- they reach for the next sentence, ready to tell him about the pond, about being a child -- and the words fail. They swallow, breathing speeding up a little as they fight it, trying to figure out how the words go, rocking, silent. Ashamed. 

[Varric]

Varric waits a few seconds, sipping his whisky. 'Cannot lose words.' "It's alright, Helene," he says gently. "Take your time. Find your center. I have a fine glass of whisky and plenty of paperwork. I can read your thesis on Carver or do some accounting until you're ready to resume. Take your time." Hopefully that's the right move (should I try to calm them down?)... 

[Helene Dakesh]

Helene gives a small nod, at least hearing and understanding him if not able to respond. As he reads their notes (careful, methodical, and complete, as always), they slowly stop rocking, breathing smoothing out. 

After a time, they open their sketchbook, getting down on the floor to draw in it. When they are finished, they tear out the page, folding it in half, and bow, handing him the folded page before turning to leave. 

[Varric]

He quickly glances at the note, wanting to read it before they can leave.

[Helene Dakesh]

It isn't a note at all -- it's a drawing, beautifully rendered. He doesn't recognize the place, but it's clearly a place they had made a long study of, to have rendered the details so accurately from memory. There is a pond, with reeds and algae; a small duck pond, probably, in a rural area almost certainly. 

Floating on the pond is a girl's dress: simple, plain, with a bow. 

There is a small mound in the lower left corner, easily overlooked: a grassy mound, with a small, unmarked stone at the head of it. Once his eyes fall on it, take it in, it's unmistakable: a grave. 

The pond is still, peaceful. There's no strife, no warring for focus, just the easy, gentle lines of the curve of the pond, the grass bending under a gentle breeze, the light open and bright despite being in black-and-white pencil. 

[Varric]

"Helene!" Varric snaps, the name an order. "You don't have to talk. Just nod. Are you- are you okay to be alone right now? If you want, you can sit in my room if you need privacy. Or in the chair over there," he adds, flicking a hand at the chair in the corner, near his workbench. "But..." He taps the picture. "I'm worried about you."