Blood from Stone [AU]

[Varric]

Wait... that's not a memory... well... internal thoughts could be remembered so...hmmm. Why would it even... "Keep your distance from the circle. Six inches at the absolute minimum at all times. Keep moulding the clay around the diamonds." His tone is absent, the words almost subconsciously spoken, as the vast majority of his attention is focused on the... well, the voices in his head. Frowning slightly, he tries to push the thought of 'identify self, who is this?' outward.

[Carver Amell]

Varric, that's sentences! Carver nods, moulding the clay as best he can.

[GamesMaster]

Don't know. His mother's voice is mournful, distant. Varric? Is this Varric?

Of course it is. Who else would come here reeking of pain and failure like that? replies the imp with his voice. 

[Varric]

"..." Varric rolls his eyes a little. Of course. Steel and purple both. Hmmm. What if... Taking a deep breath, he considers his options, then nods. {Protective love. Guidance to the young. Care and desire to give.accept belonging.}

[GamesMaster]

I will... protect... those that serve me.. and harm those who oppose me.. with soft silent paws... and fulfill temptation...

It's no use; even as he gets the meanings of what's clearly not words, exactly, and definitely not Common, each bit slips away, seafoam on the wind, no weight or substance to it. 

[Varric]

Damn. Not the reaction I was hoping for (interesting though). Hmmm. Maybe... Rifling through his mind, he starts pulling up memories to push outwards.

"You give back my siblings right now or I'll put a hex on you like you wouldn't believe," snarls the tiny child, jabbing her finger against his chest without any doubt or hesitation. Utterly fearless in the defence of her family. 

"You were leading him to a foregone conclusion via a series of seemingly-innocent questions." Again with the finger., the gesture at odds with the very apt (and entirely surprising) explanation of a somewhat obscure bit of trivia.

A glimmer, just a faint hint of hope, stirs in her gaze as she considers the offer "My-- wait, you're going to finish my education? Not just teach me a job, but really teach me?" The hunger and yearning in that word, in the idea of being taught for real, by someone whose intelligence and knowledge she respects, if not the character.

[GamesMaster]

There's an echo back to him, something stirring, barely present, like a butterfly's wings beating against the back of his arm. 

Protect the young/weak/innocent, agrees the voice that is sounding less like his mother all the time. 

Destroy enemies, agrees the voice that sounds less and less like himself. Serve those stronger.

But that butterfly keeps beating against the glass. 

[Varric]

"Neat guys, but can Liz come out and talk?" Varric murmurs very softly. Alright... need more. Need stronger. How about...

"Where do you keep the ladder?" One hand on her hip, the other shading her eyes as she studies the gutters. Filling out, just a little, with the extra food of late. Clothes are still frayed on the cuffs, shoes still just a shade too small.

"...is that a short joke?" Wasn't of course, doesn't realize I have work-arounds for that. Ladders are stupid.

"Of course. As is my people's tradition since time immemorial." Not bad. Slight delay, mostly covered by the preamble. Tone's perfect. Learning well.

So tired, so weary. She's got no faith in good things anymore. She wants to but... All she has is the hope that hope can come. "Look if you're not.... if you're not trying to blackmail me, so much the better. But don't you tell me I'm not Astean when I'll give up everything -- everything -- for my family. My future, my education, my... even the only friend I have left." All three of them the same, each in their own way. Carver, throwing himself between his family and danger. Marian, grinding herself down, sliver by sliver, to pave their way. And Beth, swallowing down her needs and dreams, all to keep the peace, keep them together.

They deserve more.

There it is again. "Empirical observations." Despite our argument, she looks so... thrilled. Damn place hates anything that doesn't fit easy, anything that stands out. Because the Gods know how terrible it would be if a young kid could show their brilliance without getting slapped down for it. Kids shouldn't look like they're getting forbidden candy for using a word with more than two syllables or one that isn't needed for describing farm animals, crops, the weather or what passes for religion around here.

There. More Marian, as things progressed.

[GamesMaster]

Astea. There's a clamoring at that word, one that nearly upsets his recollection -- a hunger mixed with loathing, like an addict falling off the wagon. There's fierce protectiveness that borders on covetousness, and there's disgust that disguises envy. The voices are mingling now, starting to find shape: protective, self-sacrificing, ruthless, deadly. A child who would burn bodies for Coalies to keep their family safe and fed, a child who would die for family without hesitation, without looking back. Dangerous and martyring and wicked and bright, all at once.

Which is, as he says, 'neat', but not what he's looking for. It's closer, though. As if the soul-stuff wants to grant his wish, wants to bring her back, but can't quite make it happen. 

But that butterfly is stronger now. Nonverbal -- or perhaps subverbal? -- it reminds him a little of Helene, in one of nir spells. Frightened and lost, alone. He gets an image back, one he's not sure is being sent to him so much as evoked from his memory by the feelings he's getting: 

The walls are padded here, too, but the small window is covered in red paper; there are shackles, but they're not in use at the moment. Instead, Marian's wearing a garment with sleeves that cover her hands, preventing her from scratching at herself; there's cloth dangling from them that can be tied to hooks in the back if need be, to restrain her without the shackles. A bit -- a gag -- like the one Cindy had hangs from a bedpost, ready to be used, but she doesn't have it in at the moment. Her hair is disheveled, but she's clean, at least, and there's a chamber pot for her use, implying she doesn't spend a lot of time chained to the bed. She looks up at them, eyes wide in terror, her tattoos fully visible on her face, along with the holes where her piercings would be if she weren't in a facility.

She moans, again, looking away, rocking back and forth on the bed, her arms wrapped around herself.

[Varric]

Well. Contrary to what the Glalian Nurse part of you thinks, I don't mind reusing ploys or following proven (keyword) methods when they suit. So how did... ah. Here we go.

Focusing entirely on the young woman in his arms, Varric tries desperately to reach his daughter. "Are you happy? With how you are now, are you happy? Are you happy being scared all the time? Not being able to speak with your siblings? To hold them? Are you okay with life like this, always running, always falling apart? Or do you want more?"

Come back to us. Wherever you are, come back.

"Her surviving is not shameful, it's fucking fantastic. I wish she hadn't had to suffer as she did to survive but I will not be sad she's still here." You always suffer more than your share, desperately hopeful to take all the pain you can onto yourself and spare your family. Pisses me off just as much (less) as it makes me proud.

"Yes, sometimes I curse. Get over it." Brat.

[Marian Hawke]

Her voice finally reaches him, small and frail and so fragile he almost wonders if he imagined it, straining too hard to listen: Papa?

It's a hair off the Elven word for 'daddy', the accent a little off -- the accent of someone who learned Elven later in life, wasn't raised immersed in it. Not the formal père for 'father', but something a little girl might say, speaking of her beloved father. Like most native Common speakers -- most humans -- she's put the accent on the first syllable rather than the second, as an elf might. That's really what convinces him he heard it at all: he'd know better, and she doesn't. She's never used it before; it's not a memory, can't be, as her father would have corrected her pronunciation. 

It's just... her. 

[Varric]

"Hey there," Varric murmurs softly, verbal and... however one should describe this form of communication. "It's me, child mine. Worried about you. Shouldn't be taking naps in the middle of a ritual. Twins are waiting for you, along with Helene and everyone else. Merrill's cooked up a storm and I bet you're hungry."

[Marian Hawke]

Naps, she says, her voice a little stronger, though still faint. Am I... dead? I think I might be dead.

[Varric]

{Well... I'm not dead and we're talking so clearly, you're at least partly alive, which is close enough for me to take it as something I can fix. And you seem to be perking up a bit so...}

[Marian Hawke]

I can't feel my... anything.

The voice is slightly fainter now, but not weaker, more like it's pulling away, focusing elsewhere. 

...who am I?