Thank you to all my readers, particularly those of you who take the time to review. I love to hear what you're thinking! Particular thanks to WellspringCD for her sharp betaing and constant support.

Jennie leaned against a tree, listening to the sounds of the forest. It was so peaceful here, so far from all the squabbling and the games-playing. She could almost forget that her sister was out there somewhere, possibly willing to kill her.

A bird squawked in the tree above her, rustling about, and an animal of some sort trilled not far away. Jennie held still, wondering if it would come closer if she didn't make a sound. She wanted to see what sorts of creatures wandered this hidden, unknown forest.

Instead, she heard the unmistakable sounds of all-too-human footsteps crunching the debris that littered the ground.

Jennie sighed in disappointment; she wasn't ready to give up the silence and solitude she had just found.

The footsteps stopped not far from her, and Jennie turned her head to look. Part of her was relieved that it was Fergus, but part of her wasn't ready to contemplate the feelings he stirred in her and wished that it had been anyone else.

"Are you all right?"

"What do you mean?" She wasn't playing coy; there were so many layers to the question, she didn't know which one he wanted the answer to.

"About your sister."

"Oh. No."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She shrugged. "Bethany ... she's enjoying her power. She's never been able to use it before; she probably blames my parents for that, and, by proxy, me. Can't blame her."

"She tried to kill you, Jennie. How can you not be angry with her?" Fergus moved closer.

"No, she didn't. Not really." Jennie offered a small smile. "Bethany's a powerful mage. If she'd wanted me dead, bing, zap, I'd be dead. She wanted me out of the fight."

"Hm." He seemed to digest that for a moment. "So what will you do if you have to face her again?"

"Return the favor, if I can. I think most of the group will stand back and let me face her, and I'll do what I can to incapacitate rather than kill. What do you think your brother's going to do about Leliana?"

"I don't know. She's coming after his family. After what he went through in the attack on Highever Castle, I can't imagine him countering such an attack with less than deadly force. Morrigan certainly would have no qualms about doing whatever was necessary."

"Very true." There was a heavy silence between them, as Fergus hovered there clearly not sure what to say. "Is there anything else?" Jennie asked eventually.

"I ... wanted to talk to you about what happened. Before."

She could still feel his lips on hers if she concentrated. Part of her wanted to feel that again; part of her was terrified of letting herself go. "What did you want to say?" Her voice sounded strange to her, breathy and soft.

"I'm sorry for it. I didn't mean to frighten you."

"And?"

"And I'd like to do it again, in a way that wouldn't frighten you." He took a step closer to her, his eyes burning on hers. "I feel—things for you that I have not felt in a long time. I think you reciprocate those feelings, but you keep running from me and I don't know why. Is it me? Have I done something?"

Words were running through Jennie's mind, disconnected from each other. She wanted to tell him that it wasn't him, to explain how she felt ... but when she wasn't entirely sure what she was feeling, how could she possibly explain it to him? "Fergus, I just don't know," she said at last, helpless in the face of her own confusion. She pressed back against the tree as if she was trying to become it, be part of the forest with her role and her life already laid out for her.

"What don't you know? How you feel about me?"

"I don't know how I feel in general," she said helplessly. "My last remaining family member hates me; I'm out here far from anywhere without any very clear idea of what I'm doing, other than preparing to defend a family against the woman who saved my life; and then ... there's you. And I don't know what you want or why you would be interested in me. Would you ever have looked at me twice if I wasn't the only available woman in hundreds of miles?" Jennie looked at Fergus sharply. "I'm not the kind of woman someone like you usually admires."

"How do you know?"

"I'm a peasant, the daughter of an apostate. I'm no one."

"You're an Amell of Kirkwall!"

Her back stiffened. "I'm a Hawke, of noplace in particular. A fact my mother was more than willing to forget the minute my father's body was set on fire, despite a lifetime of protestations about their great love and how it was worth every freezing cold day with no wood for the fire, and every night that we went to bed with nothing to eat."

"I see. I mean, I think I understand."

"Then you know why this can't go anywhere," she said. "Back in the real world, I'm not ... not an appropriate choice for someone like you."

"Here, or there, you are appropriate in every way that matters," Fergus said, fiercely. "If that's all you're worried about, you need to stop. Now."

Jennie turned her face away from his blazing eyes. "You say that now, but what about ... down the road? What if you—lose interest and don't want—" The words stuck in her throat and she waved her arms around to indicate the end of the sentence.

"I don't know. Do I need to be certain immediately? Couldn't we ... find out? Together?"

She turned back to look at him, her breath catching in her throat. Did he think she was good for a dalliance? He seemed too smart and too observant to have gotten that impression of her, but she didn't know men well enough to be sure.

Fergus seemed to see in her face what she couldn't put into words. He groaned, raking a hand through his dark hair. "I just can't make you promises, Jennie. Not straight away. This isn't easy for me, either, you know. You're the first woman since Orana who hasn't felt ... wrong. I think I want to be with you. No, I know I do. But I can't stand here and propose right now; I need more time than that, to be sure."

His honesty warmed Jennie's heart, and the evidence of the pain he still struggled with wrung it. But she was still afraid. "So, how would this work, then?"

Hope brightened Fergus's eyes, and he moved closer. Their bodies were almost touching, and Jennie could feel the heat of him warming her all through. "We take a few steps," he said, his voice gone husky. "Then we see where we are, and look where we're going."

"Big steps?" Jennie's voice was breathless; Fergus's body so close to hers seemed like all the vastness of the surrounding forest, and stirred a wildness inside her that was as exciting as it was frightening.

"Very small steps."

And then his mouth was on hers, warm and sweet, and she let her eyes close as her head slowly fell back against the tree trunk. There was a little voice in the back of her head trying to reassert her usual good sense and cool detachment, and to quiet it, Jennie put her arms around his neck, pulling herself closer against him.

Fergus moaned quietly in the back of his throat. His arms wrapped around her waist, and when Jennie gasped at the contact between their bodies his tongue slid inside her mouth, touching hers.

Her heart pounded with excitement. The kiss seemed to go on and on forever, their bodies melting together.

And then Fergus's hands moved. They settled at her hips, just below her ribcage, but Jennie froze with the movement, and then so did Fergus, in response.

"What's wrong?" he asked. His eyes were sleepy and warm and concerned, his face reddened.

She struggled with the impulse to push his hands away, wriggling out of his grasp instead. "It's just ..."

"Too much," he finished.

"Very small steps, remember?"

"I'll do my best." They smiled at each other, then, and Jennie felt a fluttering in her heart that might have been fear, and might have been something else altogether.

"Until next time, then." She took his hand to lead him back to the camp.

Zevran was surprised at how quietly and almost invisibly the big Driazi moved through the forest. Of course, this was the tribe's native home, they knew nowhere else. They were designed, by the Maker, he supposed, to blend in here. Or perhaps a power preceding the Maker, he amended.

Jitzal stopped, holding up a hand. He was staring up into a tree, and after a moment, he reached up, his hand moving almost too quickly to see. When it reappeared from the foliage, he was holding a giant snake, as big around as the Driazi's massive upper arm. The two stared into each other's eyes. Jitzal murmured to the snake, who to all appearances seemed to understand what he was saying. After the brief monologue concluded, the snake's forked tongue flickered in and out in a rapid series of movements. Jitzal nodded, letting the snake drop, and it wound its way sinuously across the dirt, disappearing in the underbrush. Jitzal turned to Zev, grinning, and nodded his head. He moved his hand like a snake and then patted Zev's arm and shook his head.

"Are you trying to say that the snakes will leave us alone?" Zev asked. He crooked his fingers like a snake's fangs, mimed puncturing his own throat, and shook his head, smiling. He looked inquiringly at the Driazi, who nodded again. "Thank you," Zev said, bowing to convey the emotion in a way Jitzal would understand.

They walked on companionably. Jitzal didn't seem perturbed that Zev's head was approximately at his nipples. For a moment, Zev gazed at the warrior's proud, scaled chest appreciatively. Possibilities, he thought. But for the moment, he would concentrate on setting the traps Morrigan had recommended. He knelt on the ground, carefully laying out the supplies needed to embed a pressure plate in the ground. Jitzal hunkered down next to him, his eyes glued to Zev's hands. Zev got the impression the big man was filing every movement away in his mind for later consideration, and he wondered at the existence an entire race without mages or, apparently, without those skilled in trap-making. Although the pressure plate was a fairly sophisticated trap, if Zev had to say so himself ... perhaps there was a difference between simple traps set to catch the creatures of the forest and complex traps set to catch more wily prey.

Jitzal suddenly drew in his breath in a faint, sharp hiss, clamping one hand around Zev's arm as his head reared up. He appeared to be sniffing the air, and it was clear he didn't like what he smelled. Zev held himself still, also, listening carefully. There was a faint sound, as of cloth rubbing together, and Zev turned his head to look at his companion, to warn him.

But too late. A horrible pressure seized Zev, as though he were being squeezed between two stucco walls. Crushing prison; Hawke's sister, he surmised. There was little he could do but hold still and attempt to breathe.

The Driazi gave a grunting cry of dismay, clearly recognizing something was wrong with Zev, and tried shaking Zev out of his predicament. Such a thing was, of course, impossible, and the shaking broke Zev's concentration, letting precious air be squeezed from his lungs. He wanted to discourage Jitzal from the motion, and warn him, but there was nothing he could do. A noose descended from the tree, wrapping itself around the Driazi's neck. He cried out as it tightened around his throat, his eyes bugging out and a narrow tongue darting from his mouth, twitching agitatedly. His big hands clutched at the noose.

With a strangled bellow, Jitzal's muscular thighs tensed and he pulled hard against the rope. A dark-clad figure tumbled from the tree at their feet, and Jitzal stomped on it, as hard as he could, and with no hesitation. There was a cracking sound as the broad, strong foot crushed the person's ribs and everything that lay beneath them. Zev couldn't turn his head to look, but he assumed this was one of Leliana's Chantry minions. She would not have put herself in such a position. He was impressed by Jitzal's lack of hesitation; the Driazi crushed his enemy with less thought than the highest-trained Crow.

The prison was easing slightly, the spell wearing off. Zev knew from experience that he would be little help to his companion for several minutes after the spell ended—his muscles would be weak, the blood rushing painfully back into his extremities.

As he stood there, helpless, another rope flew from the surrounding greenery, wrapping itself around Jitzal's waist, following quickly by one more that wrapped around the Driazi's upper arms. Muscles bulging, the big man struggled against the ropes, powerful thighs straining as he pulled away from his captors. The ropes creaked, but they held. Zev could feel his breathing growing easier as the spell continued to fade, and he tried to wiggle his way toward the other man, wanting to help Jitzal as much as he could.

But Jitzal didn't appear to need any assistance. A cunning look crossed his face as he moved backward, the tension on the ropes that held him slackening as he reduced the distance between himself and his unseen captors. With room to maneuver, the Driazi gave a great cry and charged to the side. The change in momentum yanked another Chantry minion out of hiding, although this one quickly let go of the rope and scrambled back into the brush; clearly he had seen what had happened to his compatriot.

Zev fell to the ground, his muscles burning with the return of circulation to his arms and legs. He pulled himself slowly, painfully toward the still-struggling Driazi. But Jitzal looked up at him, his eyes wide. He was shouting something in his own tongue. Zev didn't recognize the word, but the expression told him all he needed to know—the Driazi was telling him to run.

It would have been second nature to do so, once, when his honor, such as it was, weighed less on him than his life; when he trusted no one and no one could trust him. At a later point, it would have been unthinkable to run, when the survival of himself and his companions meant they all had to work together. Today, he thought he understood what Jitzal was trying to tell him—that if Zev could get away, Jitzal could keep the attackers busy enough to cover him, and Zev could find either his people or Jitzal's tribesmen and get help.

He got to his feet and limped off into the jungle, willing the feeling back into his feet so he could run faster. Bolts of white light shot above his head, raining a shower of leaves down upon him, but none of them connected, and soon he was in the underbrush, blending in expertly.

"What do you mean you let Zevran get away?" Leliana screeched, so loudly Bethany was certain the other woman could be heard in far-away Orlais. "I told you to take anyone you found!"

"We tried, Sister," one of the faceless Chantryites whined. "But this one was too much for us."

"I do not even know what this is," Leliana said, standing over the bound and gagged man at her feet. "He appears to be less a man than a ... lizard."

Privately, Bethany thought that was the Chantry's limited worldview talking. No doubt this man was of a tribe native to this forgotten forest. Not that she felt any need to voice that surmise; Leliana could talk to herself all she liked. Bethany was having trouble keeping her eyes from the muscular form lying on the ground. The green scales shone and she wanted to reach out and touch them, to run her hands over them and see if they were as smooth as they looked.

"You!" Leliana said to their captive. "What's your name?"

He said something, but it was clear to all of them that it wasn't his name. Even lying there trussed up, Bethany could see his dignity. He made Leliana look like a petulant child.

"This is a waste of time," said Thrand, turning away. "He can't speak our language, so there's no point in questioning him. We shouldn't have wasted time capturing him in the first place. Now we have alerted the others that we are closing in on them, gained nothing, and saddled ourselves with a captive we can't speak to. Let us rid ourselves of him; he's already wounded, he wouldn't last long without healing anyway."

Bethany was used to Thrand's cut-and-dried view of the world, and the suggestion to kill the strange man in front of them didn't surprise her. What did surprise her was the reluctance she felt to do it. Her eyes met the dark, pain-filled eyes of the scaled man. His held no hint of pleading, no submission at all. He seemed willing to die in front of them, and Bethany respected that inner certainty.

"He might be able to lead us to the others, if properly motivated," she said.

"I do not deal in blood magic," Leliana said dismissively.

"I didn't mean blood magic," Bethany snapped. "I meant if we heal him he might be grateful." Thrand snorted, and quickly she changed tactics. "Or, if we heal him and let him go, and then follow him, he might lead us to the others. Think about it," she said when both the others turned to look at her. "He likely doesn't know how humans move—we could track him without him knowing. It would be child's play for two such skilled trackers as you are."

Leliana narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms, looking down at the bound captive with consideration. Thrand's eyes were on Bethany, and she schooled her features into the blandest of all the innocent faces she'd used growing up.

"Warden Hawke makes a good point," Thrand said at last.

"I agree." Leliana nodded. She turned to Bethany. "Heal him, and then we shall see how best to use him."

They both left the area, leaving Bethany alone with the captive.