A/N: This one-shot is a tribute to Fenzev's story, Dearest Father. I wrote it in honor of Father's Day, with her permission of course :)

Here is the summary of Dearest Father:

Hawke struggles to discover herself, her strength, and her place in Kirkwall through letters she writes to her father Malcolm. Conflicted with being a mage while believing in the Maker, she finds comfort in the company of Sebastian, a brother of the Chantry with his own inner turmoil. A playthrough story of DA2 with some AU elements.

The scene is set when Hawke dreams of the time she first found out she was a Mage.

Happy Father's Day to all you dads out there! And a huge thanks to Fenzev for allowing me to play in her story! I hope you enjoy it!

Dearest Father,

I've been writing these letters to you for so very long now, Father. It's helped to keep you with me, alive in my mind and heart, even though you are gone from our lives. Sometimes it's been all that kept me together, believing you are listening to me, and maybe somehow guiding me still.

Which is why I am writing to you this morning. Last night, I dreamt of you. Of us. It was like an exact replay, an intact memory, of the day I first found out I had magic. I was so afraid, Father. As young as I was, I knew even then how dangerous life was for a mage. How often we moved from place to place, always trying to fit in and stay away from the Templars.

Even though I'd been so scared, it was wonderful, my dream. It felt like I had really spent that time with you, all over again. And yet, it made me miss you even more. What I wouldn't give to hear your laugh or feel your arms around me. I'm lucky now, I have good friends, people who care about me, especially Sebastian. But no one will ever replace you, Father, and although I hope it is many years in the future, it gives me some peace to think that we will see each other again someday.

Marian ran through the meadow chasing butterflies, her eventual destination the stream at the bottom of the long slope of grass. It was a hot summer day, and the babbling brook was as good a place as any to cool off.

She liked Lothering. Since they'd moved to the small hamlet, she'd had much more freedom to play and explore. Father told her as long as she could see the house, she was safe. The thought made her turn her head and glanced back up the hill. There sat the tiny cottage, smoke rising from the chimney where Mother was baking bread, even in this sweltering heat. Fancifully, she thought she could smell the aroma wafting down toward her.

The stream was as far as she could travel without losing sight of the house. She loved to go there and sit on the fallen tree, her feet dangling in the cooling water. She kicked off her shoes and waded in, the relief almost immediate. If she closed her eyes, she could nearly imagine the winter snow, and pretend she was cold instead of hot.

When she reached the tree, she saw a butterfly sitting in a patch of sunlight, slowly fanning its wings, as if to create a tiny breeze. It was beautiful, with its spotted blue and yellow patterns, and very carefully she reached out a finger to it. She was delighted when it began to crawl towards her on its spindly legs. Marian held her breath, afraid that if she moved even a little bit, it would scare the small creature away.

Finally, the butterfly reached her finger and began to crawl onto her skin. A wide smile crossed her pretty features. Just wait until she told Father about this!

Then something happened. Something very bad. Marian watched in horror as the butterfly stopped moving, ice forming over its wings. Within seconds, it was completely frozen.

"No," she whispered. "No, no, no, no." And then she began to cry.

Over the next few days, the same thing happened in various ways. She'd pick up a stick to throw, and it would turn into an icicle. She'd touch a doorknob, and it instantly became encased in a film of frozen water. Marian took to keeping her hands in the pockets of her smock, afraid someone might see it happen and, even worse, know what it meant.

She knew what it meant. She had magic, just like Father. And, if anyone found out, they'd take her away and lock her up forever.

Her parents noticed her somber mood, of course. Father asked her more than once what was wrong.

"Why the sad face, little girl?" he'd asked.

To which she would reply, "I skinned my knee." Or. "My tooth hurts." Both of which were lies, and made her very uncomfortable to say.

Father would lead her off to her small bedroom and apply a bit of healing magic, but she could tell by the look on his face that he didn't really believe her. Still, as was his way, he never pushed her.

Mother hardly noticed, busy with the twins as she was. Bethany and Carver were never still, it seemed, and it took all of her attention just to keep up with them.

It wasn't until the day Father found her in the old barn, crying over a dead mouse that the truth came out. This time, she hadn't even touched it. She'd just been watching the grey fur ball scurry through the straw, searching for bits of grain. The poor thing had started to move more and more slowly, until at last it froze in place, tiny icicles forming on its round ears.

"Marian," said her father when he found her sobbing into her hands. "Come here." He held out his arms to her.

"No, don't touch me!" she shouted, and scooted back away from him. "I'll kill you, too!"

Malcolm noticed the frozen little mouse then, and carefully scooped it up and removed it from sight. He sat down on the straw, still a few feet away from her, and said, "It seems my darling girl is a mage."

Her face crumpled, and fat tears streamed down her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Father. I didn't mean to, I promise. But it just happens all the time now."

"Now, now," he said. making no move to touch her. "It takes all of us by surprise when the magic comes." His face was serious, but there was no trace of anger in his voice.

"What will I do?" she asked, her sobs making the words catch in her throat. "I don't want to leave you. I couldn't stand it!"

"Marian," he said gently but firmly. " You must listen to me, and listen well. Can you do that?"

She nodded. This was Father, after all. He'd never lied to her, had always listened to her and explained away all her fears. There was no one she trusted more in all the world.

"The Chantry says magic is to serve man, not to rule him. Do you know what that means?"

She shook her head. They didn't often go to the Chantry, but she could sometimes hear the sisters singing the chant on the evening breeze.

"It means that magic is a responsibility. That we should never use it to control or hurt people, but only to help and protect them."

"But how?" she cried. "It just does what it wants without my permission!"

Malcolm smiled. "Then aren't you lucky you have a father who can teach you to control it?"

Marian hiccupped, the last of the sobs subsiding. She thought for a moment, and realized of course that was true. Father didn't go around setting the house on fire or freezing the dinner stew by accident. Although, she had seen him zap a fat spider once when Mother found it in the pantry and screamed.

"You'll teach me?" she asked. "How to not kill things by accident?"

"Of course I will." He held out his arms to her again. "And we can begin right now."

Slowly, she rose and took a step toward him. "I won't hurt you?"

"No," he said decisively. "I not only know how to use magic, but to protect myself from it, as well." As she snuggled into his lap, she listened to his calming voice tell her, "Magic must serve what is best in you, not what is most base."

Once she was held tightly in her father's arms, Marian finally began to relax. He would make everything alright. He always did.

I remember, Father, over the weeks and months that followed, how patient you were with me in my first fumbling attempts to control my magic. How you taught me the focused concentration that allowed me to harness my power. That it wasn't long before I was no longer afraid, even with the new danger my magic had brought upon our family.

In all the years before you left us, you taught me so much. I haven't always been able to protect those I cared for most, but I've always tried as best I could. You made me strong, Father. I've never been tempted by blood magic, and I've always tried to use my magic to help people. To do good, just like you told me all those years ago.

I hope I've made you proud, despite all my faults. And if I have succeeded at all, it is because of you.

I miss you, Father. I love you.