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[lingeringhope]

[Hope's voice is clear and clipped.]

If you would like to leave a message, you may do so here. I can't promise to respond. I have many demands on my time, and this sort of thing is far down the list. Still, if you would like to, you may.

Comments

[lingeringhope]

I could return it to you, yes. Or rather, make a new one identical to the old one. Not for free, however - in exchange, tell me of the moment in your life in which you were most hopeful. And please be detailed.

[closerift]

[ There's an almost hesitant pause. These things are... very person, and she isn't really one for sharing sentiment. The Inquisitor sighs, then, knowing better than to turn up this opportunity out of pride or discomfort.

Of course, it's also difficult to name something so substantial at the drop of a hat, so there's another stretch in which she considers it, picking through memories and experiences, searching for that notion of hope that he's asked for. ]

All right. [ Better to try. ] ... Though it's actually two times, I think, and you might not understand some of what I say.

[ He isn't from her world or her life, after all, and the instances are from Thedas. ]

One was... A lot of people thought I was some messenger of-... a prophet, a revered figure from our home, because I survived a disaster that took the lives of all the others there. I didn't want to be thought of as holy, or what-have-you; the idea made me vastly uncomfortable, but I couldn't remember the details of the explosion well enough to deny it with any evidence. Later, then, we found out that the only aid I had been given was one of a spirit, not the figure - Andraste. It was circumstantial, just bad luck on my part.

[ Another pause. There's a hesitant smile that he can't see. ]

That doesn't sound hopeful, does it? But it was. It meant that people, just normal humans, could... do something good. Could help others without it always being divine influence or some kind of calling. I wasn't able to help the Inquisition because of Andraste; it was my own efforts. Knowing that someone... like me could change so much without that divine hand...

[ That's the first bit. The memory of that realization is clear and strong in her voice. ]

The other time was after they'd started calling me 'Inquisitor.' It's sort of similar; we went to the Hinterlands, where there were - are - a lot of refugees. People without food or homes, stuck in the middle of a near-civil war. It doesn't sound extraordinary when I say it out loud, but seeing the work that the people of the Inquisition could do for the refugees... being able to make a difference in their lives made me think that, maybe, things weren't all that bad, after all.

[ Cecily lapses again, a little more awkward-sounding in her next question: ]

Is that suitable?

[lingeringhope]

It is. You did very well.

[And speaking of those memories, reliving them, gives him a nice rush of power.]

While you sleep tonight, I will restore your hand. When you awaken, it'll be as if you never lost it.

[closerift]

Thank you. [ Easy enough, right? She sighs, relieved. ] Cheers.