Chapter Text
Leandra's favorite books told of Queen Rowan and Andraste, women to admire but not to emulate as men twisted their legacy for their own purposes. She wondered what would happen if women wrote history and declared the terms by which the future was built, instead of waiting for husbands to enact agendas in their stead. Even with Malcolm she knew that her life is not a story to tell for its own merit, that love was not revolutionary in how it brought people together, only in the accidental consequences for others close enough to be caught in the event horizon. This was not the stuff of romantic ballads, being pregnant and escaping Kirkwall with an apostate; being a lady was assuming a hollow title, with baggage that was shed all too quickly.
When she had daughters and sons of her own, she vowed to raise them on more than tales and talk of change and hope. It was her mission to never hold them back, even if they ran into trouble, to help them realize the magic that is being human.
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Home has never been a place to Bethany, given their never-ending tour on foot of Ferelden. Home was comprised of the memories that would always stay with her, should she be captured by templars. It's hard to feel at ease anywhere, knowing that being who she is puts other people at risk despite her best behavior and good intentions. Normalcy is change, and any settling down in a town feels like she's tempting fate. Malcolm raised her to not feel guilty for her magic, but even gifts can be unwittingly cursed. She can feel their freedom tearing at the edges during Carver's foul-mouthed rants about shunning attention and Marian's restless, verbal sparring with anyone daring enough to approach her. Malcolm, that extraordinary, improbably wonderful father that he is, has taught her how to stand out enough to subvert others' expectations to their advantage; it was better to impress and bewilder their neighbors with her siblings' idiosyncrasies before introducing herself as a calm contrast.
Watch and wait, he'd tell them - only time would reveal what would be remembered. It was ironic, traveling back to her homeland from Kirkwall, where her reputation was forged by proxy to her sister; there was a strange freedom to be enjoyed in the anonymity of an untouchable group. In the Wardens she was known by only her own first name, and yet she herself did not matter as a person but as a vanguard caught up in a far more dangerous game. Bethany never saw herself as joining the ranks of legendary heroes, not to be remembered as an individual but for the terrible power they wielded against the blight. When she thinks of Carver's broken corpse next to the ogre that she killed, she learns to find peace in sacrificing her life for a future where families need not suffer the same fate.