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One morning when Hawke woke up, she knew today was the day. She didn't know why; she just knew that something was drawing her toward the chest where she kept the amulet Flemeth had given her.

Bethany woke as Hawke was opening the little chest, all the few things they had been able to save in their escape from the Blight. "What is it, sister?"

"We're going to Sundermount."

"Today?"

"No time to waste."

"How do you know?"

Hawke shrugged uncomfortably. "I wish I could tell you."

Varric was a tougher sell. "Aw, Hawke, what are you trying to do, ruin my boots?"

"Until you decided to make me into a hero of legend, you hadn't left the Hanged Man in years. Your boots can stand it—or you need new ones."

"Not years, Hawke. Not quite years."

She smiled down at him. "If you say so."

"Fine. I'll go. But I have questions."

"After we've been there, I bet you'll have more."

Aveline joined them as they were heading for the gates. "Something told me you were going today."

"You feel it, too?"

"Feel what? You two are not supposed to be the mysterious ones," Varric complained.

"You know how they say truth is stranger than fiction?"

"I could write some fiction that would prove otherwise."

Hawke and Aveline exchanged glances. "I bet you couldn't."

The Dalish at Sundermount were initially suspicious, but their Keeper, a slender old woman named Marethari who looked tough as nails despite the delicacy of her frame, waved a hand and the gatekeepers melted away into the woods.

"I wish I could do that," Hawke muttered.

"You do."

"Yes, but with a sword. Her way is much more efficient."

"And easier to clean up," Aveline put in.

Hawke braced herself for an awkward explanation, but it turned out that Marethari already knew all about Asha'Bellanar and her amulet. A guide awaited to take them farther up the mountain.

As they started past her, Marethari grasped Hawke's wrist, her grip firm. Inescapable. "There is a light in your heart, human. Don't let it go out. You will need it."

Hawke frowned. "Sure. I'll keep that in mind."

Marethari looked at her sorrowfully, as if to say 'no, you won't', but she let go of Hawke's wrist.

"What was that about?" Bethany whispered.

"Some nonsense about the light in my heart."

"I didn't know you had one."

"No." Hawke put her arm affectionately around her sister's shoulders. "You're the one with the light."

They were met on the way up the mountain by another elf, this one a blood mage. She and Bethany disliked each other on sight, and on principle, although the elf, Merrill, seemed sweet enough to Hawke, and just a bit scatter-brained.

Merrill led them to an ancient graveyard, where an altar stood on the edge of the mountain, overlooking the valley. She intoned some words in elvish over the amulet, and suddenly Asha'Bellanar, just as she had been in Lothering, stood in front of them.

Hawke found herself not surprised. "Well, that was much more efficient than flying."

Flemeth laughed. "It took longer, though."

Varric was looking between the two of them, eager for the story. "What exactly has just happened here?"

"I could explain, but where would be the fun in that?" Flemeth's eyes twinkled as she looked down at him. Then she sobered, transferring her gaze to Hawke. "Know only that you may have saved my life, just as I once saved yours. An even trade, I think. And now destiny awaits us both, dear girl. We have much to do."

"Do we? I thought my work here was done."

"Our paths may not cross again—or they may. But both of us, all of us, stand upon the precipice of change." Flemeth turned to look out over the valley. "The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment." She glanced over her shoulder at Hawke. "And when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly."

"That's cheap advice from a dragon," Hawke said dryly.

Flemeth smiled. "We all have our challenges."

"What's mine?"

Asha'Bellanar came closer, her voice more serious than Hawke had heard it yet. "That sharp tongue—there's a dark place within you that gives that bite to your wit. Take care not to cling to it, to let it poison your soul. And when the time comes for your regrets, remember me."

She turned away from Hawke, walking toward the edge of the mountain, and stepped off into nothingness. They watched as she fell and then as the dragon soared away.

"You make very strange friends, Hawke," Aveline remarked.

Varric stuck close to Hawke on the way back to Sundermount. The little elf, Merrill, had been sent back to Kirkwall along with them, banished by her clan, and Varric looked forward to worming her secrets from her at a later date. For the moment, Aveline was running interference between the human apostate and the Dalish apostate, and he wished her good luck.

He was more interested in the old woman who had started out as an amulet and ended as a dragon, and the unusual introspective silence she had created in Hawke. "You want to tell me about it?"

"No."

"But you will anyway, because you don't want me to die of curiosity."

"That seems likely to be your eventual demise, Varric. Why not today?"

"We don't have fifty sovereigns yet?"

Hawke gave a small smile. "Good point. Seriously, would even you have believed me if I said we were flown to Gwaren by a dragon?"

"Not a chance."

"So what's the chance you'll believe anything else?"

"After what I just saw? Higher than average."

Hawke raked her hair back off her face impatiently. "There's really not much else to tell. You know my brother Carver was killed by an ogre, right? I was … I was so angry. It seemed such a foolish waste. We had both survived Ostagar, run like frightened rabbits, only for him to be smashed to the ground as an afterthought by that bloody darkspawn. So I killed it. On my own."

"You took out an ogre single-handed?"

"Mm-hm. Don't ask me how. I don't even remember doing it. I suppose I was wondering what you would even feed something that large. But Asha'Bellanar saw the dead ogre, and it piqued her curiosity. She saved us from the horde, and in exchange for carrying the amulet here, she flew us to Gwaren, to safety."

"You know you're in the company of a very small number of people who have seen the Witch of the Wilds and lived."

"So I understand. What can I say, she seemed to like me."

"Who doesn't?" It was true—Hawke was funny, and charming when she wanted to be, and always happy to lend a hand or a sword. Everyone did like her. But the connection between her and the dragon-lady had been something more. They had understood each other on a level that Varric had never seen Hawke share with anyone. It discomfited him.

What discomfited him even more was the realization that he was jealous. Of Flemeth. Over Hawke. Which was all kinds of wrong, because Varric had no room for emotional entanglements beyond the mess he was already in with Bianca—and no tolerance for them. They only went badly. He and Hawke were partners. Friendly partners. But true friends? More than friends? He didn't need them.

Or so he told himself.