A/N:

Summary: The stories we tell ourselves are often the most compelling. Sylvanna has a secret.

Things you should know for this part: This chronologically occurs between 'Purpose' and 'Competence' from the Beauty Ascending prologue. (Yes, I know this retcons 'Competence' to some extent; in my defence, I wrote the prologue as a oneshot, thinking that no one would be interested in the angsty tales of an enthralled warden. 100K words later, I'm vaguely bemused [but very pleased] that people are still reading. Anyway, I've since edited 'Competence' slightly to fit in with this.)

The title is from a song by Vienna Teng, whom I adore. With thanks to juri for the beta.

Now Three

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9:32 Dragon

There is a word that Sylvanna keeps locked away in her heart. Three words, really. One for herself, one for Morrigan, and one for the child.

She dares not whisper them, not even in the darkest of nights when she is sure that the other two are sleeping and that she will disturb no one with her voice. Not even when Morrigan is arcing beneath her, cries so loud that they would surely drown out whatever small sound Sylvanna might make at the back of her throat.

This is Sylvanna's secret, and she intends to keep it that way.

The child is perhaps two seasons, she hazards at a guess. She knows that the birth was in spring, and now it is late Harvestmere. The trees are filled with red and gold, and beneath the falling leaves, the child chortles and grasps searchingly at her hair, eyes wide with pleasure as Sylvanna teaches her of the changing of the seasons and warns of the bitter frost that is yet to come.

Sylvanna's heart burns with love, so brightly that sometimes she feels as though she could die from a single dimpled smile.

The child sleeps soundly, strapped against her back as Sylvanna strings up herbs in the kitchen. Her warm weight is a comfort, as Sylvanna feels her shifting sleepily or hears a small, drowsy sound escaping from her lips. She sings for her then, when they are alone and no one can blame Sylvanna for putting nonsense into the child's head: songs her mother taught her, about the falling rain and the passing of the years, of the legend of Arlathan and the rise of men.

Morrigan leaves them from time to time, but never for long: a few days, or a week at most. When she returns, she always brings things they need - seeds and tools for their extensive garden, wool and linen to make new clothes when their own become ragged and worn. They both watch for her arrival, but it is the child who never fails to sense it first, becoming excitable and impossible to soothe whenever Morrigan draws near. The witch always greets their fussing with grumbles and dry wit, but she too is glad to be home. Sylvanna can tell by the way she lifts the child in her arms, and sighs with resignation at how much she has grown - as though it were a crime for a baby to feed.

Watching Morrigan leave is a different story. The witch warns them now of her intended sojourns, ever since the first time when she left without a word and Sylvanna fretted and cried until she and the child both became ragged with exhaustion. When Morrigan returned, she seemed utterly perplexed by the chaotic state of the house and the child's uncharacteristic melancholy.

The child always watches her mother going quietly, her eyes wide as if to take in every last detail of her before Morrigan steps away. They have a ritual: Morrigan holds the child, kissing her; Sylvanna observes the two of them with an indulgent smile. Then she claims her own kiss, trying to resist the urge to make it last unduly long, and receives the child from Morrigan's arms. They both watch her depart, often in the guise of a she-wolf, her clothes held tightly in a bundle in her mouth, or as a hawk, reaching up into the sky on strong, steady wings.

Two pairs of eyes track Morrigan as she departs, and they share the same thoughts: that one day, Morrigan will be theirs completely and she will not need to leave them. She will not be able to leave them; they will bind her with chains of love so tightly that the witch will have to strain for breath.

But that is not today, and so they return to the house and their songs and each other's company.

These are the words that Sylvanna tells no one, that she dares not speak aloud for fear of them somehow escaping or becoming corrupted the instant they leave her lips. One for herself, one for the child, and one for the dark-haired witch between them. There are only two words, really. They may be considered trite, she fears, even heretical - and yet they are so very right, and she knows this by the way her heart squirms in pleasure whenever she thinks of them.

The first word is for the child, and it is daughter.

It suits her perfectly, Sylvanna thinks, the way that chubby-fisted bundle of fingers and toes and delightful smiles has wormed into her heart. She knows it is selfish, and still she claims it - she has as much a right to the word as Morrigan, she reasons; her hands have bathed and clothed the child, and soothed her in the middle of the night. Her hands have killed for her, and would kill again. Darkspawn or templar, man or mage, she is able, and more than willing.

The second word is for Morrigan, and for herself, though she secretly thrills at the insubordination of it all, and it is wife.

Morrigan would never understand, and so she locks this last word inside her heart, tighter than she can almost bear, but there it remains - pure and unsullied, to be carefully admired and brought into the open from time to time, dusted off and then lovingly put back into place.

One day she is careless, and dares to think of the words in the presence of the child. The infant merely looks at her, brilliant eyes opening in simple glee, and smiles, revealing a toothless grin. Warm waves of approval wash over Sylvanna, and she trembles in the wake of her daughter's vast and deeply unchildlike satisfaction.