faderift | this world of ours is not as it seems

WHO: River and OPEN
WHAT: Spooky little girl wandering around Skyhold.
WHEN: Late Wintermarch.
WHERE: Various locations around Skyhold.
NOTES: n/a

River has good days, and she has bad days. At times it feels like the swing of a pendulum, whose motions she can never truly calculate.

The good days have gotten progressively better. There are points of focus, people to talk to, to connect with. The Fade remains a presence, near-engulfing even when she's awake, but there's an opportunity to see past it, or perhaps more accurately to watch it layer against the people on this side of the Veil. Cole's compassion. Nerva's protectiveness. Zevran's cleverness. She thrives in their contact, stretching out without fear of it harming either Simon or herself, and simply allowed to be. It's a novel concept. She flits about the keep, often barefoot and the edges of her dress a little dirtier than they ought to be, her dark hair streaming behind her.

It's odd to think she has friends, yet it seems so. She feels their overlap and it feels like comfort, like warmth, and she doesn't want to untangle herself just yet.

But there are bad days.

She's more like a feral cat on those days, slinking just out of sight, out of reach. Either the noise has grown too loud inside her own head, or Simon's attempts to negate the worst of it leave her sluggish and more than a little bitter. Stumbling around like a child, slowed and lethargic. Those days she's not much good for anyone, though she tries to find those warm touchstones again. She lingers in the kitchens, in the hall, in the library or tavern, trying in vain to feel the vividness of those familiar voices again, blossoming bright like colors in her mind's eye.

She's little more than a shadow then. Huddled, hair in her face, staring outward blankly and through most passersby.

There are more good days than bad, thankfully. But every time she sinks brings doubt, creeping and gnawing. If she can't prevent herself from slipping, what happens if she falls?

Or is simply it a matter of when?

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"Broken." It's a fear, echoing deep. But River shakes her head.

"No. You function. Point and fire." Which is a frightening thought all on its own. Minutes ago she hadn't known what a gun is, but she sees the deadly potential. Pressure gearing to pop, projectile, pushing too far.

She needs to take her finger off the trigger before someone gets hurt. Her bare feet shuffle as she takes a step back.

"You're a weapon, too."

She's scared, and part of him doesn't mind that, because she's being scary and creepy and needs to back off. Another part realizes he's a dick. A dick for good reason! But...

His hands do not unclench, but his shoulders sag some. "I'm not gonna hit a little girl, okay?" It still comes out as a grumble, a grouse, but with less fire than his barking. Embers still there, though. He'd also be hard pressed to hit a grown woman, but to be fair, most of the grown women he knows can and will hand his physical ass to him on a platter. And force him to eat it.

"I'm not. gonna hit you. So I'm not a- look. Do you see any weapons on me? No, you don't so. I'm not one. I'm just a" ghost "guy. And you're being fucking unsettling. Okay?"

Not precisely something she could help, given the fragmented state of her own mind. Things not forgotten, no. She remembers too much.

But she hovers there, ample distance away from him now, those dark eyes pinned unflinchingly on him as he speaks. "It sounds wrong when I try to say it. They don't come in order sometimes, just what I hear."

Her brow knits together. "The pieces didn't go back together the right way. Not broken, but not right. And you didn't get all of yours. Not broken but something missing."

Maybe then he'd understand what she was trying to say.

What she's saying isn't necessarily wrong, and that's what freaks him out. But he's making an effort, right now, not to lash out about it. Anger is the first thing he reaches for, but this time he has to try and dredge up something else. Change into--curiosity. Confusion. His fists finally flatten out, if only to rub his palms along his pants. Something to do, something physical to ground himself.

"Okay." Just breathe that out first. And look around. To see if anyone is around that might be overhearing. He is, apparently, a loud person, and normally he doesn't care, but--Adelaide had made her stance on the things said about him very clear. Things could get stabby if the wrong person gets the wrong idea.

"Okay. So. Let's, uh, back up for a second and...I dunno, try to work this out, or something, y'know, like reasonable...people." He wants to say 'adults' but she's probably all of, what, 14? Or something? "Whatever it is that I--that you think I am. You keep it between us, right?"

Is that being said through grit teeth? Maybe. But it's not yelling.

"And second: what the fuck are you? Which, I mean, I will totally keep between us, too. Snitches get stitches. But you're...yeah. You're you. Doing a thing. A spooky thing. I'm not really a fan of the spooky brain thing you're doing."

"It doesn't do what it's supposed to."

Finally her eyes drift away, finding some point in the distant mist of the mountains. Church isn't going to hurt her, he just wants to know. He thinks knowing means understanding, and understanding means comprehending. He'll be disappointed.

But she can pluck those strings for him, see if he knows the tune.

"They wanted me to slip in, to be the knife in the dark, in dreams, extending their reach to find their foes. But things in the Fade don't keep form for a reason. It flows downstream. Things come in, instead, and I can't keep them out." Her fingers roll into fists in her skirts, thin shoulders shifting uncomfortably.

"Cole hears them suffering. I...hear too much. But it's easier to hear when they don't hurt as much. So I try to help, like he does."

His eyes squint, trying to make sense of what she's saying versus what relatively little he understands of the world. Actually makes a point of thinking for half a second or more before speaking. "So someone wanted you to be an assassin, but it backfired and now you're kind of...weird? And like...your brain's connected to the Fade?"

And something something makes her semi-telepathic or whatever. "And when you brain-read someone's head, their pain is painful to you, so you want to help so it'll shut up. Is that...kind of right?"

"Kind of."

But close enough that there's a palpable look of relief. Alright, that had worked out better than she'd hoped. It was difficult getting the wording right at times.

And it mattered that Church wanted to understand, rather than simply being afraid or chasing her away.

"Okay." There's some relief from him, too, because she IS weird, and this place IS weird, and he's only barely grasping a few of the very basic concepts around him. Who knew that space travel would be easier? Hell, give him time travel. He almost worked that one out.

Not that he's not afraid or angry yet, but he's at least attempting to keep himself in check. Because if people knew his story, they'd think he was a weird freak of nature and affront to God, or the Maker, or Andraste? or whoever. Whatever.

"Dude, child assassins are not okay in any timeline or universe. How old are you, anyway, like...like fifteen maybe? Fourteen? Higher lower?"

Her lower lip tenses between her teeth. "Eighteen."

Which shouldn't be a child, but she doesn't feel very adult. They took her young enough that she feels like those years haven't really passed yet, or maybe she's skipped them. The normal progression has been disrupted and there are...

Well. Pieces missing.

But the important thing is Church still looks very weirded out by her, but not as afraid. Or angry.

"Oh. Um. Well you look young for your age? And that'll be even more awesome when you get older. At least, that's what I hear. Not that it makes what happened any better. Cuz it doesn't."

"He's trying to make it better," she replies, her gaze slipping away from Church, falling towards the tents that the healers have taken up to work their craft. "It's hard for him. Some of the parts that were don't come back, or don't fit the same. He wants it to be like it was, walking and talking and feet on the ground, but..."

Her brow furrows tightly as she shakes her head, hair flying about her face.

"I'm not. It won't ever be. Can't unbecome what you are."

this world of ours is not as it seems

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