Mother

A/N: We have no idea how the world will be shaped after the events of the next game, but let us assume for story purposes that the status of the Fade and the waking world is the same as we are used to.

Presumably, the Inquisitor has accepted the gift extended by Varric in Trespasser, and has settled down in Kirkwall, where the gangs from the latest two games all hang out together and raise their kids.

***

Mother... My dearest mother.

I was your firstborn, the oldest of three - and even though it was actually by no more than a few minutes, I could never have been more proud. For as long as I can remember, I have tried my utmost to be like you - in everything.

Even though my hair is blonde like Father's, I have always worn it short like you do. I have faithfully copied your gait, your gestures - I have even learned to make exactly the same little grunts of disgust (and you know my sisters give me plenty of reasons to do so, Deshanna especially). And there was nothing I enjoyed more than your swordplay lessons, for which you always set aside some time, no matter how busy you were with the affairs of the Order - and which we both looked forward to with equal girlish excitement. You were a strict teacher, and almost never gave me praise - at least, not out loud. But I could see the glow of pride light up your eyes every time I managed to make the big, unwieldy weapon obey my clumsy childish hands - and this made my heart soar.

But then - then came the dreams. Odd dreams: more detailed, more lucid than those of either of my sisters. I had read enough books and had heard enough stories to guess what it had to mean. I was coming into my magic. And it made me feel afraid. Afraid of what you might think of me.

I was aware that you had fallen in love with Father despite him being a mage - but at the same time, I was also aware that I was named Antonia after your brother, the uncle that I never knew... the uncle that had been killed by the.. the likes of me. And I got it into my head that by being a mage, I was somehow insulting his memory - and hurting you. Not to mention that now I had to give up my dream of becoming a sword fighter, a Seeker... of becoming like you.

For many nights, I was afraid of falling asleep. Whenever I found myself in the Fade, I curled up into a tight little ball behind a rock, praying for the night to be over soon. Once or twice, I thought I saw Father passing by, wisps circling around him like fireflies - and I held my breath and imagined that I was a teeny, tiny, quiet mouse that he wouldn't notice... Because if he did, he would tell everyone, and my secret would be revealed.

In the waking world, too, I forced myself to appear calm and cheerful, as if nothing was amiss - while my innards seemed to be twisting into tight knots, as I fearfully anticipated the moment when I would randomly set something on fire. And eventually, that moment came - in a manner of speaking.

My twin Dorothea and I were walking down the street when we came across a beggar - a poor, maimed wretch with only one arm. Of course, being the soft, kind soul that she is, little Dollie decided to give the man alms - and was spotted by some air-brained boys, whose sorry chicken heads were too small for holding the thought that, if it was not for our father, they would probably not even have been born. These cheeky urchins began pointing fingers at poor Dollie, crying out a mocking, hurtful chant about how she gave money to the beggar because he looked just like her knife-eared cripple of a father.

Oh Maker, I was so enraged - I could have hit them with something! And before I knew it - I actually did, without moving an inch. All I did was twitch my fingers slightly, and a large board that was lying abandoned on the sidewalk soared suddenly into the air and smacked the urchins across their rear ends! As they ran off, squealing like the piglets that they were, I looked around to check how Dollie was doing - and then saw you, watching us from the street corner.

And as I did, my limbs grew numb with a wave of cold - and I watched dumbly as Dollie scuttled off to give us some space, and as you approached, and began talking to me... It took me a while to realize what you were saying - and you were saying that... that I needed to control my temper, and that you had the same problem when you were my age, and that the two of us were so much alike...

Alike. That was the word that made me snap out of my stupor. Alike. Even though I had turned out to be a mage, I could still be like you - I could still make you proud.

And I am doing just that. I am studying to become a Knight Enchanter, and wield a spectral blade as you wield one of steel. And with every successful exercise, with every new spell learned, I look back to that day when you learned about my magic, and instead of pushing me away, embraced me even more than before, showing that you and I are still one.

Thank you.

Thank you, Mother.

I love you so much.

***

Mother... My dearest mother.

I remember how I used to worry that you cared for me less than for my sisters - Antonia, who is like a miniature copy of your own self, and your greatest, most avid admirer; and Deshanna, who has taken after Father, with the same cheeky self-confidence that you seem to find so endearing. Me, on the other hand... I am something in between. The middle of the three triplets. Neither fish nor fowl, as it were.

I have always stayed in the shadow: a quiet, appreciative audience for Antonia's antics with swords and spells, and a faithful sidekick for Deshanna's pranks. This does not sound like something someone like you might appreciate... And yet, you have always found a way to put my fears at rest, to reassure me that I had a place in your heart just as my sisters - even though it was only by giving me a smile... But then, we all know that your smiles are a rare gift, as cherished and beautiful as the sight of a rainbow in the sky, against the leaden storm clouds.

However, there was one particular day when I felt absolutely reassured that I was special to you. The day you shared your secret.

I was barely into my teens, and I had just had my head spun by a first crush. Right now, I do not quite remember who it was - some pretty boy I spotted in the crowded marketplace, perhaps... It does not even matter, really. What matters is, I was so stunned by his good looks that I began to write poetry.

Those were silly, awkward scribbles, of course where 'swoon' rhymed with 'moon' and 'I'll see you soon' - but I kept them tucked under my pillow and guarded them with the ferocity of a nesting dragoness. Even Deshanna, who I usually confided in, was not allowed to see them. I had a feeling that if she, or anyone else, knew about my poems, they would laugh at me - and still, I continued scribbling them... They were becoming an addiction - a guilty pleasure that absorbed me more and more, until one moment, I allowed myself to let my guard down.

I still remember it, clear as day: I was curled up with a huge history tome (one of my favourite pastimes... that is, before the poetry fever came over me), when you came in to check on me and ask me about my progress... And I did not have enough time to hide the sliver of paper that I had spread over the open pages, jotting down rhyming phrases instead of focusing on what Emperor Reville was up to.

All you had to do was peer over my shoulder - and read. And as you did, I shut my eyes really tight and clenched my fists, thinking to myself that it would be awfully nice of the Maker to turn me to ash with a well-aimed lightning bolt, thank you very much.

But instead of scoffing like I expected you to, you helped me close the bulky volume and lead me off to your room, where you delved into the mysterious murk underneath your desk, and fished out a battered old box, like a drawer that has been taken out... filled with slips of paper not unlike mine.

These, too, had poems scribbled on them, in your handwriting. They were just as naive and clumsy as mine, if not more so; and accompanying them, were the doodles of the same profile, traced over and over again on the margins - with an exaggerated nose curve that strongly resembled Father's.

And together, we sat on the floor and ruffled through the drawer, and read the poems out loud, laughing at the particularly cheesy bits. And I had this warm feeling nestle inside my chest like a drowsy kitten - a realization that my softness was mirrored within your own heart, and that you trusted me enough to share that softness.

So when you asked me if I could keep this a secret (especially from Uncle Varric), the only reply I was capable of giving you was a tight hug - because I could not speak, overwhelmed with happiness and gratitude.

Thank you.

Thank you, Mother.

I love you so much.

***

Mother... My dearest mother.

I know you yourself can't testify to this, because you barely remember your own parents - but I have heard that almost every single teenager comes through this period in life when all the grown-ups in the family seem to be part of some kind of conspiracy, with only one purpose: ruining the teenager's life. This was certainly true for me.

I can recall a time when everything you did, you did to spite me - or so I thought. Ruining the fun for me; forbidding me to do what I wanted (even if it was something completely harmless like roof-running with Aunt Sera and the Jennies); pestering me with lectures about how irresponsible I was, a bad influence on Dorothea... There even were days when it looked like you had given birth to me last on purpose!

And it did not get any better when Varric came into the picture. Not Uncle Varric, of course - he has been around longer than either of us can remember, amusing myself, my sister Dollie, and Father, by making you feel embarrassed with his jokes and stories about the Inquisition. I mean the other Varric - the one we nicknamed Little Varric (a bit ironically) to tell him apart from the dwarf he was named after. Varric Hawke - the son of the Champion and Aunt Isabela.

You never approved of my friendship with him - how could you, when the 'little imp' more than lived up to the sly dwarf's name? The Champion has always been known to grin in the face of everything, even the gravest danger; and Isabela - well... And their son, the 'happy accident' as they sometimes referred to him, was like a firework of mischief that burst into my life and lit up my heart.

The closer I became to Little Varric, the more the disapproving line deepened between your eyes, the sterner you scolded me - and the ruder I snapped back at you. Until there came a day when I decided that I would have no more of it, and set my mind on running off with my swarthy, pearl-toothed little pirate, so that I could sail the seas on his mother's ship, and never return to my own mother, who did nothing but pull me down when I wanted to fly.

The plan sounded so perfect, and with Dorothea as my faithful confidante, I put all the preparations together without a hitch. But I was fourteen years old, and the nighttime streets were a dark, confusing labyrinth - and after I sneaked out of the house, it only took me a couple of minutes to realize that I was hopelessly lost, and that I would never, ever get to the docks, where Little Varric was waiting for me.

So I froze, in the middle of some deserted plaza, my heart contracting in desperation - an easy target for those infamous raiders that seem to fall out of the sky as soon as the sun sets. It did not take long for them to appear that night, either; showering down on me in a dark torrent that bristled with bared swords an axes, they would have surely swept me off, disoriented and unarmed as I was, leaving naught behind but a bold, glistening stroke of red against the cold stone... But they never did.

For one by one, they were cut down by an overwhelming, unstoppable force - a deadly gust of wind that cleared the plaza before it dawned on me what was going on. And when the dust settled, I saw you - standing in the middle of the ravaged battlefield, panting heavily, your glare burning into my face. As soon as our eyes met, you began yelling at me - with more ferocious anger than I ever remembered hearing in your voice, even during your indignant chases after Uncle Varric around the Viscount's Keep. But when I peered closer into your pale, enraged face - I realized... I realized that your eyes were filled with tears.

I was puzzled at first, since I had never seen you cry before - but after a few moments of bewildered silence, I, at long last, saw the truth in those words that Father tried to ram into my stubborn head when I began complaining about how impossibly difficult you were.

You care.

You care - about me.

All these overbearing attempts at holding me back, at teaching me how to live - you did it all because you care.

And you still keep doing it, and it still drives me insane - but now I see the reasons behind this.

There is no conspiracy, no plotting against me, no vile plan to make me miserable; there is just a mother who rushed to her little girl's defense, weeping out of fear that she would get hurt.

And there is a little girl, who thought she was so clever and grown-up, and had forgotten what a wonderful, devoted friend she had in her mother, right until that night at the plaza - the night for which I shall be forever grateful, and not just because you saved my sorry little 'hind.

Thank you.

Thank you, Mother.

I love you so much.