I do not own Dragon Age, and the title of this piece stemmed from the song "The Beauty Underneath" from the musical Love Never Dies.

i. ripples

The first time you see it you leap back with an exclamation, or at least that is what your mother tells you. You are terrified yet more than a little intrigued. How could you be in the rippling thing that is cool and damp on your palm? You still have your face, your eyes your nose your mouth your ears - you check each one, your fingers grasping at each feature for reassurance that they have not been lost to the expanses of the jade colored waves.

Nothing seems to be missing, but yet the little person looks just like you in the...in the...what did your mother call it? In the water. Water, yes, that is what it was called. She has the same eyes as you and the same nose and the same clothes and the same confused expression. Only, she is constantly moving, imitating you like your shadow. And she is warped, constantly altered by each little ripple you accidentally spread through the water each time you attempt to touch her - your? - face.

Eventually you stop trying and sit at the bank of the water, waiting for it to calm. When it does you stand and peer down into it. Without the ripples you see her - you see you, it is you yet her this time, with no distortion but the little minnow swimming around beneath her.

Your mother calls her a reflection, and says if you stare at her too much you will become ugly and vain. You do not know what those words mean, but they do not sound good so you stop looking at the girl in the still waters who claims to be you for a time.

ii. shines

It is so, so pretty.

The sunlight hits it with honey-amber glaze and the silver glass oval shines brightly like a diamond against the rough crimson of the carriage seat. The golden edged thing winks at you seductively, beckoning you closer, whispering words of beauty and finery and splendor.

You have to have it.

Before you know it, it is in your hands - how you managed to snatch it off of the seat of the momentarily vacant carriage, you cannot recall. All you know now is, you have something that shines in the sun, and it is all yours and your very own and no longer belonging to someone else, and that nobody can take it from you because nobody knows where it has vanished to. The handle is cold and heavy and strangely ridged against the palm of your little hand, but you clutch the thing to your chest tightly and with each of your breaths as you dash through the woods, you can feel your excitement building.

When you cannot see the dirt red path between the twisted trees anymore, you know it is safe to stop running. You loosen your embrace on the golden sparkling thing and finally, with wide eyes, peer down at it.

A girl of ten years looks back at you, a fair figure with faintly freckled, flushed cheeks and dark matted hair knotted messily out of her face. In the pristine reflection of the glass you can see every scrape, every bruise, every fleck of dirt on the dips and slopes of your face, and this both enraptures you and terrifies you. You do not look like...that, do you? Your mother has always lectured you about brushing your hair and being more careful not to get hurt, but you never really thought it mattered - who was there to see you?

Now as you peer into the glass thing, and it shines with heavenly light as it reflects such an ugly little girl back at you, the thought crosses your mind that maybeyou are there to see you and judge your appearance.

You hold it by the handle as you start to wipe away the dirt on your cheeks. Such a beautiful, shining golden thing surely did not deserve to reflect such ugliness, but you would fix it. You would fix it.

iii. shatters

You should have known.

You should have expected this, that your mother would never let you have it. But no, you were stupid and foolish and all the other words she called you ring completely true. And now you are alone, with a red hand-shaped welt on your already mottled face and with hands bleeding from picking up shattered glass and shattered hope.

Now you will never be beautiful, and this is the first time that such thoughts have haunted you.

The shining golden mirror - for that is what she referred to it as before she demolished it, a mirror - is now twisted and scuffed and only has a faint sheen in the last weak rays of the sun. It lays cast off to the side, its silvery glass fractured into a thousand tiny pieces across the entire floor of the shack you are told to call home. You try not to cry, you try - your mother tells you it is a thing only infants and cubs do, and that it makes you weak and ugly - but you cannot make the water stop running down your cheeks nor can you halt the gasps that pull air through your lips with a terrible wracking sound, and you think that you are most likely a wild disappointment to your mother.

But why is everything you do so wrong? Why is it so hard for her to look at you without disdain? Why...what have you done to make it impossible to love you?

You pick up a shard of glass and for a whirlwind moment you wonder what would happen if you were to gash your hand with its pointed edge and whisper those ugly words over the screaming flesh like you have seen your mother do. Maybe...you have no idea what would happen, but maybe things would be better. Maybe you could make things better.

Then you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror shard. It is not much of a reflection at all, actually – the glass is too scratched and dirtied - just a little blur of birdlike yellow eyes, rimmed with swollen pink and streaks of earth and the blood of your own hands from when you wipe at your eyes.

The blurred face in the mirror looks pitiful and weak. You do not want people to look at you and see this anymore. You cannot stand the sight of yourself looking so terrified and scrawny and injured, even if all of those descriptions are true. She is naive and soft and easily trusting and all of a sudden you find that abhorrent, because yes, you meant well, but look at what well meant did - it only brought scorn and distaste from the only person in your life.

You throw the shard out of your sight. You cannot look at yourself anymore.

Not until you make things better.

iv. shimmers

It matches perfectly, a twin to the one you stole. Well, perhaps not exactly a twin, there are some differences that you notice – that one had flowers etched into the back, this one has woodland creatures instead. They are undoubtedly of the same creator, though, a sister to the one from before. You can tell by the way the moonlight gleams off of its golden rim – it, a beautiful mirror, just like the bauble you had once upon a time. You have no idea as to the feeling that bubbles in your chest as your friend – your friend! – gives you the looking glass and walks away, but you think it is a good feeling. No, you know it is a good feeling.

You think, as you peer down into the pure glass that shimmers like a frozen lake surrounded by yellow autumn trees, that since last you looked, you have greatly improved. After all, the last time you looked was when you were a little bramble of a rose and your hair always tangled and your skin was smudged with scars and tears. Now, however, you look into the glass and see the full blossom that you are – no longer a sprout, you are worthy of the mirror's beauty this time. For just a moment that you allow, your heart, which has embraced ice, thaws slightly with the mirror's sunshine.

And then you remember the words you yourself had come to pass on to others – words that speak of beauty and love having no real meaning, words that say they are pointless. You feel slightly hypocritical then as your own voice plays on a continuous loop through your mind, as you stand there clutching a pretty little looking glass and staring at it with the need for validation you thought you had long since forgone.

Your mother always told you that, and in time you had come to believe it, had you not? That love and beauty was a waste of time? Sometimes indeed it was, but in your short time venturing through the world that was not swathed in trees and bathed in twilight, you think you have learned more about love and beauty than your mother could ever teach you, more about family and strength than she ever bothered mentioning.

You look over at your companions; the silly bard who sang ridiculous songs about flirtations and masquerades and grew somber when nobody pays attention, the soldier who cracked inane jokes but who cried out for the support of people long since slain in his sleep, the brusque little elf who orders the three of you around like peasants but who could be caught sobbing names of the dead into her pillow.

You think these imbeciles, the bard and the soldier and the elf that gave you a golden mirror, have taught you that love might not have to be forsaken completely. You can be pretty, too. This time there is no mother to tell you otherwise, and only people to tell you that yes, you can.

You look into the mirror, at the strong individual with neatened hair and tear-free eyes, and when nobody is looking you smile, the first in a long, long time.