Author's Note: So I have some time to kill, and after the resolution in "Fumbling", I decided I was really curious about just how Theo's backstory shaped him and just what his thoughts were throughout, as well as those of his family. Also, since Dorian has a backstory in "The Magician", I thought it only fair to give Theo one as well!

Chapter 1: The Least of his Children

It wasn't customary for the man of the house to be present at a birth. But Cordelia had been struggling for more than a day, and she was nearing the age at which most women were unable to bear children; and those that tried often died in childbirth. Bann Alick Trevelyan insisted on being at her side, even when the midwives tried, as respectfully as possible, to shoo him away.

It had been five years since the birth of their youngest daughter, Thisbe, and it would have seemed that Cordelia's childbearing had passed. When she discovered last winter that she was with child a sixth time, the news was met with both joy and trepidation. Both Cordelia and her husband had heard stories of older mothers attempting to birth children, especially after a long span between pregnancies.

Another contraction passed and still Cordelia had not yet pushed. She was pale and sweaty. Alick dipped a cloth into a basin of cool water and wiped her face. She tried to smile as she shifted in the bed. "I hope it's another girl," she said. "Nothing will ever replace Maranda though."

He stroked her forehead. "Maranda isn't gone, love. She's happy in the Circle. Though I'd at least hope we don't have another mage," he said. Even though he smiled, he felt his gut twist when he thought about having to give up another child to tradition. Even though he knew his oldest daughter was safe in the Circle, learning to use her powers in a way she could never learn at home, it had been difficult the day he'd called the templars to take her. Maranda smiled bravely and said she understood. And her position as a Trevelyan daughter afforded her privileges most mages never received. They were allowed to visit her and she sent regular letters informing them of her progress.

But her bedroom had never been changed, and Gwyneth and Thisbe still shared a room in the manor even with their eldest sister gone this last year and a half. "You can't expect the other girls to share a room with a third sister, you know," he teased gently.

"I know. I'm trying. I just didn't expect another so soon after she left…or at all…" Her voice trailed off and her eyes widened. "Brecca!" she called. Her hands balled up the sheets and her knuckles were white. "I need to push!"

Brecca the midwife appeared from almost out of nowhere, and with mere glances and gestures her assistants were stoking the fire higher and bringing more hot water and rags. She pulled back the clammy sheet and looked. "The baby's crowning, my lady," she said with an encouraging smile.

Alick held out his hand and Cordelia gripped it tightly. He'd spent time in his youth arm wrestling in taverns, but no grip was as strong as that of his wife in labor. Still, he welcomed her grasp. As she groaned and pushed, eyes squeezed shut and breath coming in hitching gasps, he felt that solid grip as proof that she was still alive. That childbirth was not going to take her from him.

Matthias, his oldest, was twelve and a serious boy, eager to please; the Circle would care for Maranda. But Gwyneth was seven, Gavriel six, Thisbe five. And then there would be an infant. Yes, as the ruling family of Ostwick they had plenty of servants, wet nurses, and tutors. But the children needed their mother. Even with the many staff members of the house Cordelia was warm and involved with rearing her children.

Maker, preserve my wife, he prayed. Please bring her through this unscathed, and the child as well. He wanted to pray that it would not be another mage; but he knew better than to ask too much. One must always approach the Maker with reverence and humility. A non-mage daughter was his hope, and even though the Maker knew his heart, Alick knew that he himself had to be open to the Maker's will.

Cordelia pushed again. And again. There was bleeding, but Brecca assured him it was normal. And then Cordelia pushed one last time and the slippery pink infant slipped from her and into Brecca's waiting hands. The midwife turned it over and gently slapped its bottom, and the child gasped and began crying. Assistants brought warm water to bathe the baby; Cordelia shuddered again and delivered the afterbirth, which an assistant quickly scooped up to dispose of.

Brecca tied off the babe's cord and sliced through it with a small knife before swaddling and handing the child to Cordelia. She'd delivered the Trevelyans' other five children, and while she'd always been efficient and professional, she was rarely this silent. "Is there something wrong?" Alick asked, heart thumping. Surely there was no way of knowing she was a mage this young; Maranda hadn't manifested her power until she was nine years of age. Was it possible to sense the magic this young?

Cordelia gazed down at the baby's face. "We need to name her," she said with a smile. Her eyes held the quality of one just woken from a lovely dream and still clinging to it as reality.

Alick glanced at Brecca. "It is a girl, yes?" he asked. It only made sense; he had his heir. And should anything happen to Matthias, Gavriel was there to take up the mantle of succession.

Brecca licked her lips and rinsed her hands off in a basin of clean water before pushing her hair off her sweaty forehead. The room suddenly felt too hot. "It is a boy, my lord," she said after a moment.

The third Trevelyan son had latched onto his mother's breast. Cordelia, so accustomed to nursing, suddenly looked stiff and uncomfortable. "A third son?" she whispered. She blinked rapidly. "Alick, what do we…"

Alick looked between his wife's stunned face and the clueless, milk-drunk face of his son. "The Trevelyans have always served the Chantry loyally," he said at last with an effort to smile. "I prayed for the Maker's will to be done. You've survived childbirth against the odds, and we have a son. We have little choice but to continue our service to the Maker." Tears welled up in Cordelia's eyes. No doubt she was tired and emotional from the birth; that's what he told himself, anyway. "Things won't happen for some time yet," he said gently. "Nurse the baby. Enjoy him."

"Do you… do you wish to hold him?" she asked as she prepared to switch to her other breast.

"The other children will wish to know," Alick said, forcing a smile before kissing her on the cheek and leaving the room.

He did not look back. He couldn't watch. He did not ask a servant to round up his other children. Instead he headed to the small family chapel off the main gardens. It was a lovely early autumn day, hardly a cloud in the blue sky, and still fairly warm. A breeze blew off the ocean and the air smelled sweet and salty.

At this time of day the chapel was empty, for which he was grateful. He stopped to light a stick of incense before the small marble effigy of Andraste, an heirloom that had been in the Trevelyan family for generations. Alick knelt before Andraste, Bride of the Maker. So often she had interceded for him. After Maranda went away he'd prayed that his other children would not be mages. So far neither of the boys, nor the girls, had shown signs.

It wouldn't matter if this sixth child manifested magic or not. He was the third son. In the Free Marches the Chantry dictated more than just the fate of mages. It was an age-old custom that the third son, and any subsequent sons after that, was sent to the Chantry for service. Two of Alick's younger brothers served as templars. But it was also Marcher politics. It was a way of avoiding succession issues, while providing the Chantry with her templars and brothers. Often the youngest daughters were also sent to become lay sisters when suitable marriages could not be arranged. He knew only too well what the Chantry demanded, and how she functioned as the unspoken partner in politics.

But the Maker's will had to be done. Magic must not rule over man, but serve him; and to accomplish that, the Chantry needed devoted templars, brothers, and sisters. The Ostwick Circle functioned as well as it did because of the current customs.

Alick looked up at Andraste's serene marble face, cool and immutable, meant to be peaceful. "I've done my duty. I've given my daughter to you so she might learn to serve mankind," he said. "Why a third son? Why torment me?" He folded his arms on the altar before closing his eyes and resting his head. With Maranda it was different; she could write home, they could visit on occasion. But once a child became a Chantry initiate or a templar recruit, that was it. They belonged to the Chantry, and the Chantry did not easily relinquish what she'd claimed as hers.

For a moment he actually hoped this son would be a mage. He'd thought he would hate the pain of another mage child. But the thought of giving up a healthy, non-magic little boy, only because tradition dictated it, hurt.

But the Trevelyans were servants of the Maker, devoted to his will and accepting the Chantry's role in it.

It would be some years yet before his third son and youngest, likely last child would be sent to the Chantry. Years of watching the boy grow and learn and play with his siblings and discover Ostwick's treasures and secrets: only to be sent to either train as a templar or be educated as a brother, where that childhood would be erased as frivolous and meaningless in light of the supposed joy found in service to the Maker.

"I want to serve the Maker's will," he murmured. "Please, Andraste. Please, Maker. Give me strength. I need it more than ever."