I am sixteen years old, and Mother wants me to leave.

I do not understand. I watch as she opens her chests and folds blankets and clothing, speaking aloud as she tries to decide what will fit in the bag she has found for me. All of our dried and preserved food is on the table, sorted by type, and most of that too will go in the bag. She has found boots—apparently they are meant to go on my feet, though I find the idea of putting leather over my toes strange. It is better to be confused by that than it is to be confused about why Mother wants me to leave, but that is the question weighing on my mind, and it is one she refuses to answer.

Mother wants me to leave. Leave where? I know there are other places in the world, cities and countries and Ferelden and Orlais, but these have no more meaning than their description. The only places I know are our house and our forest; that is world enough for me. I have spent my life trying to understand everything that happens in our forest, trying to observe every possible event. It is my life's work, and I have barely begun to know all the possible events, let alone see all of them. I have a—a need to be here. I want to be here. I do not want to leave.

"Morrin," Mother says, "you leave in the morning, and unless you want to starve before you're halfway to Val Foret, I suggest you look at the food and decide what you want."

"I don't want to leave," I say. "Why do I have to leave?"

"Does it matter?" she asks. We have had a lot of these fights lately. I know that Mother is right—she has always been right, and she has not changed. I am the one who is taller and whose voice is deeper and whose feelings seem to change without warning. Her question makes me angry. I would be glad to leave, if only to leave her questions—but I do not want to leave. I am angry that she makes me want to leave when I do not want to leave.

My own thoughts tire me. "I don't want to leave," I say again, and I move as slowly as possible towards the table. I pick up a few strips of dried meet and set them down. Vegetables, too, I take and replace, never actually holding onto anything long enough to make a decision. I think I could eat everything on the table at once, if I tried. I am always hungry.

"I am sorry you feel that way," Mother says, but I do not think she is sorry at all.

"Do you want me to leave?" I ask, shoving aside the vegetables and sitting on the table. My toes nearly brush the floor, and the table creaks under my weight.

Mother turns from the chest and sees me sitting on the table, but she does not choose to comment on it. Instead she opens her mouth to speak—and then closes it, and looks at me. I frown and cross my arms, drawing in on myself, avoiding her gaze. She does not have to speak—I know she does not want me to leave. But if that is the case, then why is she insisting on it? I do not appreciate being looked at as if I am her precious child. If I were only her son, she would not send me away.

I am her son. It has always been enough.

"Morrin," Mother says, "sometimes we are asked to do things we do not understand, but which are for the best." I glance at her and she looks as though she cannot believe the words coming out of her mouth.

"Mother," I say, "we always have a choice."

"Not always," she says, and for a moment is as if a cloud has passed before the sun and dimmed the strength of her determination. "You are young to be robbed of choice, and for that I am sorry. 'Tis entirely my fault. Blame me, if you wish, but know that that does not change the reality. You must leave."

"I don't want to leave!" I shout, banging my fist on the table. The vegetables jump. My fist hurts.

"Neither did I," Mother says, so quietly I can almost pretend I did not hear her. But she knows I did, and she knows that now I am curious, and I know that I will have to do as she says before she answers my questions. I look at the vegetables scattered around me and grab two handfuls.

"Put these in the bag," I say, holding them out. As she comes to take them from me, I ask, "When?"

She raises her eyebrow and places a rough sackcloth next to me. "Wrap them in this first," she says, and so I begin loading food onto the square. "When I left home."

"When?" I ask again.

"Many years ago," she says. Her voice is teasing me. "Before you were born."

"Where did you go?" I ask, watching as she returns to the clothes.

She snorts. "Everywhere, it seemed. My mother sent me to accompany a pair of Grey Wardens as they sought to end the Fifth Blight. Their journey was..." She pauses, and I can tell her eyes no longer see what is before them. "Arduous."

"Did they succeed?"

"Oh yes." She resumes her activity. "Yes, they did, and with relatively little cost, it seemed. Certainly most Blights are not turned before the year is out."

"What's a Blight?"

"Do you care for this shirt?" she asks, shaking a black garment out in front of her. It is large in front of her, but I am growing wide and tall. "I think 'twill fit, if I tuck it—"

"Where did it come from?" I ask, hopping off the table and taking it from her, holding it in front of me.

She frowns, stretching the shirt across me. It will not need to be tucked. "Denerim, I think," she says. "Or perhaps one of the soldiers at Redcliffe. 'Tis unimportant. It will serve its purpose."

"What purpose is that?" I ask as she takes it from my grasp and folds it and puts it in the bag.

"To make you presentable for human company," she says. "I never bothered with such niceties, but for you 'twill be better if you blend in. I am sending you to town, Morrin," she says, looking straight in my eyes, "and you must be prepared."

"And what am I to do?" I ask. I realize that I do not know what I ought to do, let alone what I must do. I know nothing about towns. My ignorance revives my panic. My pride masks it as anger. "Why must I do anything? Why must I leave?"

"Morrin—"

I pick up the bag and throw it into the empty fireplace. Immediately I know I will be punished. I cross my arms and draw into myself, this time masking fear. "I don't want to leave," I say, although that much is obvious. I do not know the hidden things I want to say—I cannot make sense of my feelings. I look at the floor.

The silence after my words lasts a long time. It is a warm day and my cheeks are warm with anger and the room is hot, and Mother lets me stand and bake in the fire of my making. When I cannot stand still any longer, I go to the fireplace and retrieve the bag. Some of the clothes have fallen out of it and are sooty. I do not bother to be neat about replacing them.

"A Blight," Mother says behind, her voice soft like the footfall of a fox before it strikes, "is a surge of darkspawn brought about by the awakening of an Old God and its subsequent transformation into an archdemon."

I drop the bag and turn to look at her. "You said I was an Old God."

"Aye," she says, and her lips turn in a smile but her eyes are serious, studying my reaction. "Did you never wonder what that meant?"

I have not. Mother has not called me an Old God since I was young. It has always been understood in our house—Mother is a witch and I am an Old God—but it has never had meaning. I do not know what a god is, let alone an old one. I am Morrin. I am Mother's son.

It is not enough.

"The Old Gods," she says, still watching me, "were imprisoned long ago, deep underground, and the darkspawn they created constantly search for them. When they are found, the darkspawn taint corrupts them, and they embark on a path of destruction and—"

"What's a darkspawn?"

Mother shrugs. "Ask any member of the Chantry, and they will tell you they are the offspring of fallen Tevinter mages. I know only that they are bred deep below the surface, and that they aim for nothing more than utter destruction." My face must reflect my panic, for her voice becomes gentler. "You need not fear them, Morrin. They have already come for you once. They will not come again."

"How can you be sure?" I ask, stepping away from her, stumbling on the hearth and sitting down, hard, on the stone. "Are they coming here? Is that why you are sending me away?"

"No," she says, and again her face is cloudy. "I am sending you away because where I must go you may not follow. Not immediately. You will make for Val Foret, and when I am ready I will send for you."

"But where are you going?" I ask. And then, though it hurts to say, I look at the floor and say, "Can't I come with you?"

"Morrin," Mother says, but when I look up her face is clear of the emotions that filled her voice. She comes and sits next to me, and I lean against her shoulder as I have not done in seasons. She strokes my hair and says, "You were born for a purpose, and I have been...unsuccessful in realizing your potential. There is knowledge in the world which I lack." She is quiet, but I am content, and I refuse to let any of my other wants or questions disturb my rest. "And so you must go away until I send for you."

"I don't want to go," I say, but my protest is weak.

"Perhaps it will not be for long," she says, her voice lighter. "Perhaps you will find the answers on your own. You may have no need of me after all."

"Mother," I say, and she shushes me. I do not have to say that I need her. She knows.

"'Tis a grand adventure," she says, and kisses my head. She has not done this in years. "Now come, let us finish packing."

"But where is Val Foret? How will I get there?" Suddenly I am full of questions. "What did your mother give you, when you left? Who will I meet? What should I say?"

"Gracious, aren't you practical," she says, her voice still light. She releases me and stands, reaching out a hand to help me as well. "Finish packing, and I will answer your questions as best as I am able. I am not," she smiles, "an expert in these matters."

She has told me there are things she does not know, but I am not sure I believe her. We spend our last day together packing, and when that is finished, we eat. When that too is done, Mother walks me through the forest, and I tell her about the trees, and she tells me about cities and buildings and clothing, and manners, and weapons. Sometimes she tells me about people, humans and elves and dwarves; once she mentions my father, but only to say that battles are won through intelligence, not brute strength. I show her my life's work. She tells me of hers, not with so many details, and the tale is unfinished.

It continues with me, as I take my first steps outside the house, heading towards the rising sun with a bag over my shoulder and the memory of Mother's smile in my mind.