Author's Note: All right, let's do this!

My continued thanks to readers both new and old, with special gratitude to those of you who take the time to share your thoughts and reactions with me: jnybot, PrinceKeldar, hinatalover445, KalenCaelli, TheWickedTruth89, DeanneYunFarron, EliteSky, BrokenMimir, AD Lewis, PadawanMage & SuperGravyMan.

Special shout-out for "The Last Farewell", KalenCaelli's long overdue sequel to her fantastic story, "The Last Dance". If you haven't read the first one, I can't recommend it enough, and the followup looks like it's going to be one helluva ride.


The stew in the pot was bubbling merrily, releasing clouds of fragrant steam when the lid was lifted. Flemeth gave the concoction a few stirs, then lifted the spoon to her lips, tasting the broth with a critical expression. Her nose wrinkled thoughtfully, and she added a pinch of dried thyme leaves and a bit of rosemary. Not much of a stew this late in the winter; she'd used the last of her potatoes and carrots from the root bins, the onions that she had dried in the fall, and a scrawny rabbit that had proven too slow for her winged form, but it wasn't as though anyone would actually be eating this last meal, so it didn't really matter. It was the act of cooking that gave her pleasure: one of the only remnants of her mortal life that had remained with her over the centuries.

She replaced the lid and stood, her head cocked. Not long now. The Warden drew close with her chosen allies, her heart awash with the conflicting imperatives of dread and determination. A willful child, that one; almost as stubborn as Morrigan. It had not been difficult to urge the seeds of duty and obligation into growth, but the choice to come alone had been a surprising one, and could not be permitted. The fight must be won, the dread witch slain, but it must be a believable fight, and a lone fighter, regardless of skill, could not be expected to accomplish the deed, much less live.

One did have a reputation to maintain, after all.

Fate - or chance - had placed not one but two children of destiny in her path, and while each of them had things to accomplish that would resound throughout Thedas, she was quite willing to make use of the serendipity to further her own plans. Devon Hawke was nearly a year gone from these lands, but Flemeth could still feel the faint tug of the shard of herself imbued within the amulet, ready to be released when the time was right. This weaving of circumstance was a more entertaining pastime than cooking, though the potential consequences of a misstep were far more substantial than an unpalatable meal. What would happen if Hawke sought out the Dals earlier than planned, released that fragment of her being before the Warden had freed her from this vessel, she did not honestly know, but that simply added the spice of a challenge to a life that had long ago lost any real hint of daily flavor.

The risk of the unexpected was quickly passing, however. It had taken a bit of doing, some time in the Fade to arrange the 'vision' of the novice Chasind mage, a nudge or two at the pride of the young warrior who led the clan to put them on Talia Cousland's trail. A bit of an irritant after being something just shy of a god to the Wilders for so many generations, that any of them should be able to boast of slaying her, but there was a certain amusing irony to it, as well. Besides, she wasn't about to let her pride get in the way of practicality, something that her daughter had not yet learned.

The foolish girl had been ready to let the matter drop, rather than feel beholden to, dependent upon Talia. And the other Warden! The currents coursing between them almost begged to be manipulated, and Morrigan could have had the boy wrapped around her finger long since had she put her mind to it, making the task later infinitely easier, yet she stubbornly refused to claim that advantage. The lad was handsome enough, pleasing in form, and oh-so suggestible, given the proper enticements.

Perhaps she had not been ready, after all. Flemeth knew well enough that she was not infallible, though it was an admission she would make to none but herself. No help for it; the weaving of circumstance only went so far, and some events could not be altered, their outcomes not fully known. She had foreseen the Blight, so many years ago, but not how - or even if - it would end. Only possibilities, branching paths that split into still more branching paths, and most often, she could not anticipate until just before an event which path would be followed, which necessitated preparing for them all.

Hence, she had taken the unprecedented measure of sending her daughter with the Grey Wardens and away from her influence, in the hopes of killing an archdemon and snaring the soul of an Old God. But she had also taken the time to orchestrate her own murder in a manner that ensured that she would survive with Morrigan none the wiser...for now.

It was time.

She stepped from the hut, feeling the afternoon sun giving its first promise of the warmth that would melt even the snow in these southern wastes, given time. The seasons turned, as they had since she was a girl, mortal and foolish and not so very different from Morrigan. The seasons would go on turning long after even she had turned to dust, but she did not intend for that to happen for many more centuries yet...and it might still come to pass that she discovered the way to turn 'someday' into 'never'.

The breeze brought with it the distinct scent of dog, but it was still several more minutes before the burly head of the mabari pushed through the underbrush, his mistress only a few steps behind. The Warden approached cautiously, her dark eyes fixed on Flemeth's face. Gone was the child hovering on the edge of madness; the crucible had tried her, searing away her innocence and tempering her into a weapon to challenge an Old God made flesh, but impurities remained: sentiment, morality, honor. These could hamper her, cause her to shatter at a critical moment, but they were also vital to the success of Flemeth's own plan, the things that had brought here here, against all logic and with a divided heart.

The dog reached her first, showing neither hostility nor the cautious curiosity that he had displayed during his brief sojourn after Ostagar. His ears were pricked forward, his nostrils flaring, testing her scent as he had those first days, but this time she let him catch a hint of her true essence. His ears flattened against his head, and his hackles rose, but he displayed no other fear or aggression.

"And so you return." From the corner of her eye, she could see the Chasind emerging one by one, forming a loose semicircle around the front of the hut. "Lovely Morrigan has at last found someone willing to dance to her tune." She offered Talia a sly smile. "Such enchanting music she plays. Wouldn't you say?"

Talia did not return the smile. "I know your secret, Flemeth."

Ah, so earnest. Flemeth allowed herself a laugh. "Which one, I wonder? What has Morrigan told you? What little plan has she hatched this time?"

"I'm here to kill you," the Warden replied, her voice calm and level, "before you can kill her."

She gave the girl a knowing smile. "There are many, many reasons to kill Flemeth. More than you will ever know." She turned her head, regarding the remnants of the Otter Clan. "No doubt, they have given you a few of their own, but if I had to guess, I would say that Morrigan has discovered something. Something shocking, that requires her defense, yes?" She did not need the faint flicker of recognition in Talia's eyes to know that she was right. "Ah, but it is an old, old story, and one that Flemeth has heard before...and even told." Giving the Warden no time to ponder the remark, she went on. "Let us skip right to the ending, shall we?" She allowed her eyes to narrow shrewdly. "Do you slay the old wretch, rescuing Morrigan from her clutches and freeing the Wilds from her malevolent dominion, or does the tale take a different turn?"

"Different?" Talia said the word slowly, as though testing its feel on her tongue, her doubts plain. She could not reconcile the danger that Morrigan had undoubtedly described in melodramatic detail (a youthful habit that Flemeth had been unsuccessful in discouraging) with the mysterious mage who had snatched her away from certain death and nursed her back to health. If Flemeth were truly intent upon resistance, that hesitation would have already cost the young Warden her life. "What do you mean?"

"I offer you a choice," Flemeth replied, putting just the right note of forced indifference into her voice. "There is power in choices, as there is in lies. Morrigan wishes me dead?" She gestured to the door of the hut. "My grimoire lies within. Take it to her; tell her I am slain." The grimoire should be proof enough; the girl was still young enough to believe that all power worth having lay in such tomes. That Flemeth might have long since moved beyond the need for such crutches was something she had never let her daughter guess.

Talia shook her head. "I won't lie to her."

"And if I were to swear to go away, leave these lands, and never return to Ferelden?" Not that she had any intent of making such an oath, but the game must be played out properly, the illusion of freewill maintained.

The Chasind leader stepped forward, bristling with a hostility that almost concealed the superstitious fear that rolled off of him – off all of the Wilders – in waves. She had invested much time in cultivating the legend of the Witch of the Wilds. Would her plan be undone by her own thoroughness?

The amusingly ironic possibility was forestalled by his words. "Your words cannot be trusted, Mongkenai! Too long have you stolen our maidens, lured away our warriors. You took my father!"

She cocked her head, regarding him with bemused interest. Young and strong, and most assuredly to her liking. A pity she had so little time. "Temulun, is it not?" she inquired carelessly, amused by the shudder that he could not quite repress when she used his name, and the uneasy murmur that ran through his clan-mates. "You are wrong, Temulun of the Otter Clan. I took your father and your grandfather." Chasind males made energetic - if not particularly skilled or considerate – lovers, but it had mainly been a matter of making use of what was close at hand. All things considered, she'd always preferred Nevarrans. There was a delicious irony in bedding a dragon hunter.

Her taunt had the desired effect. Temulun's face flushed dark beneath his paint, his knuckles white as he clenched his sword. "You will hunt these lands no longer, crone!"

A faint twinge of satisfaction as she saw Talia's hesitancy dissolving in the face of the Chasind determination. It was the 'right' thing to do, after all. It would still be a small matter to stay her hand: a reminder that poor, old Flemeth had saved her life, along with that of her fellow Warden. A bit of tending to the seeds of doubt that she had already sown to make her wonder just how truthful Morrigan had been. Once the Warden's resolve had faltered, reasserting her primacy over the Wilders could be accomplished with a few suitably ostentatious spells.

But the time for choices had come, and her instincts had already selected her path. Even now, Devon Hawke moved in search of the Dalish, and though Flemeth could create shades of herself that were quite convincing, she could not truly exist in two places at once. If that shard of her being was released from the amulet while this body still breathed, it would most likely either be drawn back to her as surely as an iron filing to a lodestone or dissipate into the void, wasting her careful preparation either way. Once her tenancy in this body was ended, however...

"As you will," she said, stepping away from Talia, feeling the Warden's confusion at her demeanor, at the fact that she wielded no weapon. Such an innocent. "It is a dance poor old Flemeth knows well. Let us see if she remembers the steps. Come."

All eyes followed her as she moved to the top of a small rise, drawing her power in as easily as her breath. "She will earn what she takes. I'd have it no other way." She released the power, letting it fill her, blurring what was real with what her mind willed. As her form shifted, grew, she watched the wary apprehension on the faces of her executioners give way to a quickly dawning alarm as she threw back her head and gave voice to a ground-shaking bellow, her wings casting them all in shadow.

If she was going to be killed, even in pretense, she would make certain the fight was a memorable one.


A.N. - I had a blast writing this chapter, with Kate Mulgrew's voice in my head the whole time. Flemeth is one of those characters that seem to me to be beyond the simple concepts of good and evil. She just is, and she's damn fun when she's driving.

And yes, she orchestrated the whole thing: nudging at Talia's sense of duty, and then, when the Warden surprised her by deciding to make the attempt alone, drawing in the Chasind with Chagatai's vision. A bit of a deus ex machina, but one that fits with bits and pieces dropped in DAO & DA2.

For those of you who missed the announcement the first time around, this story and 'Two of A Kind' are in the same universe, and the stories will cross...eventually. Right now, Devon & company are about six years past the end of the Blight, so we'll have to catch up at some point...but for now, I've got the last repost chapter to put up in that story next!