My mother thinks she knows everything. Admittedly, she is very powerful and I envy that power. I have to sigh at the thought, but there are things I keep hidden deeply within me that she knows nothing of. I stir the pot of porridge with my old wooden spoon, one of the few things that I actually value in this squalid hut. I chuck in a few raisins and then a few more and churn the bubbly goo that simmers over a warm fire. Mother asked where I had gotten this favorite recipe of hers and I told her that a soldier in a passing caravan gave told me of this grand delicacy. T'is a truthful statement on its face.

I lift up a spoonful of the porridge and wave a finger over it, gathering a chill in the air to cool the mouthful for a taste. I have to chuckle at the seemingly inconsequential use of magic. Such a simple act t'would be branded as heresy by the mindless Chantry fools and the Circle stooges who think that they control every spell and incantation. They know nothing of true magic. If they had any inkling that I had used my foul apostate skills to avoid burning my tongue, there would be a horde of Templars knocking at the door of my hovel…if they could even find it past mother's glyphs.

I indulge myself in imagining the helmeted goons banging on the door and shouting, "Evil apostate witchy woman, we are the big strong Templar knights! Come out and face the Chantry's justice!"

I would go and open the way in and bat my eyelashes at them and gesture the brutes inside. "Oh dear, I, evil apostate witchy woman, have been caught cooling my porridge! You are surely doing the revered Maker's work and spending the Chantry's tithe sovereigns wisely. Can I interest you in also ransacking our shack? We have a moldy wolf pelt that no longer has any fur and a leaky wash tub. And…where was it now…my recipe booklet…ah, t'is here. I'm missing page two of my amazing stew, but just throw in a carrot and some parsley and you'll do fine."

Oh, I do so amuse myself. These flights of fancy do keep me sane. I sometimes catch myself talking to the wolf pelt as I feel that I should be talking to someone. "T'is not such a bad thing, is it?" I say to the scraggly, hairless skin lying on the floor. I imagine myself a player in one of those Lothering productions, crowds laughing at my witty repartee. I bow to applause.

With a snort, I roll my eyes and release the image back into the Fade. Mother would have my head if she knew I was doing anything other than catering to her and studying her lessons. I taste the blob of goo at the end of the spoon and I have to smile. It brings back a memory that I escape to from time to time. Ever since mother taught me to shape shift I have found myself further afield, wandering the woods and hills, learning of the animals and watching the people. I suspect that mother knows I have done this, but I have been careful about other things. I like to think that I am quite daring in this.

I think about how I learned this recipe not so long ago. I had just mastered shifting into the shape of a bear and was watching the slow progress of a caravan heading to Lothering. At first, I was too cautious to approach very closely, the memory of mother's rebuke at the bauble I acquired still fairly fresh in my mind. But curiosity got the better of me and I turned myself into a cat, sneaking along on silent paws behind the ox carts and mounted guards. They talked about being afraid of the Chasind or the Dalish. T'is always about fear with these people. I suppose that if you oppress or torment a people like the elves for long enough you should be afraid of them. I twitched my whiskers at how none of these folk would ever know any sense of freedom.

I vividly recall one man among the caravan, who did not seem afraid and that intrigued me. I'd seen far too many skittish men who really should have been deer or squirrels if their inner selves were manifested in their outer form. But this one was different. I had to find out why. They passed another caravan and I saw my chance. New people mixed in with old and, with a thought, I grew back into a woman, standing on two feet. I emerged from behind a wagon and strode in as if I belonged there. A smile and a wink earned me the ability to walk around without any suspicion. Then, there he was, the captain of the guard, sitting in front of a pot of porridge on his fire, honing his sword. Without looking up, he asked if I was lost and I told him no. For the first time since my mother destroyed the pretty golden mirror I felt my skin flush and my heart skip a beat. I wasn't sure what that meant, but I sensed that it was beneficial this time. It was good that the man knew what I wanted without all of the awkward conversation. Perhaps I still had too much of the cat within me. I did get the recipe for the porridge too.

I lean back in my chair and sigh at the memory. I am certain that mother knows nothing of those moments for surely I would incur her wrath if she did. It brings me a strange sense of power to know that I have kept something hidden from her, no matter how inconsequential. I notice that the porridge is now of the perfect, runny consistency that mother loves. I wave my hand and the fire dies.

As if on cue, I hear the thrum of giant wings flapping in the night. I rush to the door and open it just as mother lands, her form still shifted into that of an enormous bird, much larger than our hovel. She hovers for a moment, gently setting down a man and a woman from her talons. I then see a Mabari hound, its jaw firmly attached to mother's tail feathers. I have to chuckle at this comical sight as the hound lets go and mother settles her claws onto the ground.

The man thrashes about and jumps to his feet as mother shrinks back into human form, feathers absorbing back into her skin. She rubs her behind and cackles at the dog. "Strong grip you have there, my friend."

The man removes his helmet and I recognize him – the fool from the forest. He is afraid and powerless like all the rest…I can see it in his face, that terrified look that a mouse gets when a cat strikes. He staggers back and falls on his behind, raising his hands as if to ward off a blow from mother. How pathetic. Only the dog shows any nerve.

Instead of rending the man's bowels as she should, mother kneels over the woman, whom I also recognize from the forest. The woman, a Grey Warden, was the only one who didn't squeal like a frightened pig when I confronted them near that chest. Now, the Warden lies still, a black shafted arrow buried into her chest up to the fletchings. Mother presses her palm onto the woman's chest and a green light glows at her touch. The Warden gasps.

"Morrigan, don't just stand there," mother says in a chastising tone. "Snap off the arrowhead so I can pull the shaft out. Be quick about it."

The man, who I believe is named Armister or Ballister or something, merely sits there, gawking, while his leader lies bleeding. I should have expected no more from him. I grasp the wood just behind the arrowhead and break it sharply. Mother heaves with both hands and the stub disappears back into the woman's leather armor. The girl bucks her hips upward, gurgling up blood and tries to grasp my tunic with red stained fingers. Mother and I settle her back down and mother's hands glow green once again. The hound whimpers, worried for his mistress' life no doubt.

"Help me get her inside," I am told and we lift the Warden up in our arms. Only then does Armblister deign to help us. We rush into the shack and set the woman down…on my bed. I sigh. T'would be best if I make the floor comfortable by the fire for now. Mother doesn't need to tell me what to do – I immediately point to the smoldering embers of the stove and a fire blazes anew. I fill a pot with water and set it next to the cooling porridge. I pull out a roll of cloth and begin cutting bandages.

Mother and I work together like two wolves on the hunt, perfectly in synch. Hands moving in a coordinated flurry, we pull her leather breastplate off, tear her tunic, and spread a plaster over the girl's wound just as bandages are wrapped around her. Mother's hands glow orange now and she presses them down on the woman's chest, easing her breathing into a deep slumber. "The worst has passed. She will live and, thanks to my power, won't even have a scar."

Mother glances at me and grins. For a brief moment, I feel this thing others have called…closeness. I am speechless.

"Will she be alright?" the man asks. Didn't mother just answer that question? My opinion of Alkeester doesn't improve. Mother nods and he sinks to the floor, putting a hand over his eyes. He begins to shake and I see water running down his face. I got the back of mother's hand when that happened to me…years ago and it was the last time. The people, they call those…tears…a sign of weakness.

"What is the matter?" I ask. "Beyond a few scratches, you aren't even wounded. If anything, the dog should be more distressed than you and look at him, sitting attentively at his mistress' bed, ever alert."

Alistair…yes, that's his name…Alistair chokes and wipes snot from his nose. His face is red and puffy. "I am not wounded. Our army was destroyed, we were betrayed and our king was slain. Is that not enough for you?"

"Oh, well, t'is in the past now. Perhaps you would like some porridge? I prefer it more globby, but mother likes it runny-"

He slams his fist into the wall. "Porridge? I don't want any porridge! My…I…Duncan…."

I shake my head. The man is not making any sense. Hot porridge would be a welcome meal on this cold night. I try to appeal to his sense of reason. "It has raisins. Mmmm…raisins," I say slowly as if to a slow child.

"You just don't get it do you? You just don't know! My mentor, the man who taught me…befriended me…is dead, slaughtered by the Darkspawn and betrayed by the very people who swore to fight by our side."

I step back and snort. So, this is gratitude for saving them? Perhaps it is better that I don't know. Perhaps, ignorance is indeed bliss.