Thank you all for reading! Posting is going to be a bit gappy over the summer - I hope to settle down to every two weeks come fall. I appreciate your patience!

Blackwall made his way through the trees up the hill toward his camp, thinking on what he had seen at the Crossroads. The troops from this new Inquisition fought well. A bit on the green side, but far better trained than his own little group of farmers' sons. He would have to step up his work there. And the small group of leaders had been interesting. He had overlooked the fancily dressed dwarf and the plain elven apostate; while he appreciated that the Inquisition appeared to have room for all, the women had clearly been in charge.

The one in armor walked like she owned the world; but she deferred to the smaller woman. Blackwall's eyes had been drawn to the glowing green mark on the small blonde woman's hand, the same green as the rift in the sky. So this was the woman they were calling 'the Herald of Andraste', a term he had heard for the first time while bartering for the supplies his new recruits needed.

It had been too easy to make the trades; folks were so desperate they'd give away anything they had for a little food or some warm clothes. Despite his best attempts at being a clumsy bargainer, he had still walked away from the trades feeling like he had taken more than he'd paid for.

This was what came of going out into the world, Blackwall thought sourly to himself. You started to pay attention to what other people needed, you started to feel as though perhaps their needs were your responsibility, you started to care about what happened to them. He felt a sudden fierce longing for his days alone in the woods, where only the occasional bear or spider disturbed his solitude.

It made him feel a little better that the Inquisition was out there trying to help, too, and with a better infrastructure than he could manage … but that Herald of Andraste person was such a little woman. Not short, but slender and pale and with an air of fragility that made him wonder what she had done before she got that mark on her hand. He'd have felt better if the other one, the one with the long strides and the attitude that everything that didn't get out of her way would be ground under her boot, had been more obviously in charge.

But for the moment, it didn't matter. He had his recruits, his 'Grey Wardens', and it was his job to train them up and send them home ready to defend their lands and their loved ones. And once that was over, maybe the Inquisition would have dealt with the Breach and he could go back to his lonely camps and his dark thoughts.

The 'conscripts' were coming along nicely; Blackwall was proud of how hard they had worked. And just in time—the world was starting to encroach on the little camp by the lake he had built. The mages and Templars, and the bandits that hung around the edges of the fighting, looting whatever they could, were working their way into the hills. And a camp of Inquisition soldiers had been built just below the falls. More and more of Blackwall's boys were being tempted by the shiny uniforms and the reputation the Inquisition was building for getting things done.

One morning, one of his boys who was turning into a pretty good scout came to him. "Warden Blackwall, I think there are some people approaching."

"What kind of people?"

"Looks like bandits."

"What makes you think so, lad?"

The boy counted on his fingers. "They're coming in separately; they're sneaking their way through the woods; they're heavily armed; they've got packs full of stuff; no uniforms, so they're not Inquisition."

Blackwall had to admit, it sounded suspicious. "Go get the others, tell them to be on alert."

"Yes, ser." The boy hurried off, Blackwall at his heels.

They gathered together their weaponry, such as it was, and Blackwall began to form them up. "As we've learned, men! Weapons at the ready, eyes open. Stay in the line, no gaps! Make sure you're far enough from the next man to avoid hitting them with your sword, but close enough you can support your comrade if he needs it. And remember how to carry your shields. You're holding them, not hiding behind them." There were murmurings from the line, the boys looking at something over his shoulder, and he snapped, "Keep focused."

"But ser!"

He turned to follow their looks, only to see a different threat coming toward him: the Inquisition. The dwarf and the elf were there, the dark-haired warrior who walked like she owned the world, and the little blonde woman with the green mark on her hand. She was prettier than he remembered, her skin fair and fine, her hair shining in the sun. And she was coming straight toward him. "Warden Blackwall?"

But there was no time—the bandits were closing in. "Lend a hand or step aside," he said brusquely, pushing past her. He looked over his shoulder at his men. "Here they come!"

Bridget motioned to her people to get ready for battle. She had been startled to recognize the Grey Warden they were looking for as the bearded man who had been watching her at the Crossroads. Up close, he no longer looked so much like Franko—this man was shorter and more powerfully built, and Franko would have died a thousand deaths rather than be seen with a beard as bushy and unkempt as the Grey Warden's. It suited him, somehow, though, as did the rather dirty coat and battered metal chestpiece he wore.

The bandits were coming, and Bridget readied herself, flexing her hand, ready to call down the lightning. She struck the first bandit, who staggered back, his coat smoking from the strike.

Blackwall didn't even flinch, closing with the bandit and taking advantage of his distraction to take him down.

The recruits were coming on, encouraged by Cassandra, who waved her sword in the air to rally them, although several skirted Bridget and Solas nervously, not wanting to come too closely into contact with the mages.

It was all over relatively quickly, the bandits dispatched with a minimum of harm to Blackwall's recruits.

When it was all over, Blackwall called his men together, for the moment ignoring the people from the Inquisition. Whatever they wanted, he would find out soon enough. He had a responsibility to these boys he had brought together, and he would see that through first.

"Good work, conscripts," he told them gruffly. "This—shouldn't have happened. Thieves … thieves are made, not born. But that's under the bridge now." He pointed at the bodies, now in a neat pile ready to be burnt. "Take back what they stole and go home to your families. You've saved yourselves."

"But … Warden Blackwall … we was to be Grey Wardens!"

"Yes, lad, but right now your families need you a damn sight more than the Wardens do. When the mage rebellion has been put down, the Templars set right again, the tear in the sky mended, you come find me." It wouldn't happen, he knew that, but the fiction was comforting for them and for him right at the moment.

The lads filed past him, offering muttered thanks and bewildered glances and not a few suspicious looks at the two mages from the Inquisition. Blackwall stood and watched, determined to be proud of what the boys had achieved rather than to be sad to see them go.

Only when they were gone did he turn back to the pretty little mage from the Inquisition. He had heard about the mark on her hand, but now that he saw it up close, saw the green fire emanating from her palm that matched what stretched across the sky, he found himself wondering if she really had been sent by Andraste. And if so, what an old sinner like him could possibly have to offer any organization that she led.

"Warden Blackwall," she said.

It struck a chill in him. Where had she heard of him, why had she heard of him? "Why do you know my name? Who are you?"

"My name is Bridget Trevelyan. I'm … an agent of the Inquisition. Have you heard of the Inquisition?"

"Have to be deaf and blind not to, these days. You've done good work amongst these people," he admitted rather grudgingly. "What is it you want with me?"

The dark-haired woman stepped forward. Her impatience would get her in trouble someday, if it hadn't already. "We are trying to find out why the Wardens disappeared and if it had anything to do with the Divine's murder."

Blackwall took a step back, staggered by the implications of what the woman had said. "Maker's balls. The Wardens and the Divine? That's …" He remembered the real Blackwall so clearly, the man's upright honesty and his sense of duty. Wardens involved with the Divine's death? Nonsense. He looked at the dark-haired woman more closely and breathed a sigh of relief. "No. You're asking, so you don't really know. But … you suspect something."

"We're … curious," the mage said. Bridget, she'd said her name was. It suited her somehow. His mother's name had been Bridget. And how long ago that was. This girl was young, so achingly young.

Blackwall collected his thoughts. "I didn't know the Wardens had gone missing." Too late, he realized he should have said 'the other Wardens'. Were they looking at him suspiciously now? "We do that, don't we?" he asked them, hoping he wasn't overcompensating by being too defensive. "The Blight's over, the job's done, the Wardens are the first thing forgotten. But one thing I'll tell you: No Warden killed the Divine. Our purpose isn't political."

The dark-haired woman didn't believe him, but the mage was more open-minded. The elven mage was largely uninterested, and the dwarf was … writing things down? He made Blackwall nervous.

Bridget took a step toward the Grey Warden, hoping to calm him. She hoped Cassandra hadn't offended him. "I'm not here to accuse. Not yet. All I want is information." She frowned. "Of all the Wardens in Ferelden and Orlais, our people can only find you. Where are the others?"

"They don't tell me," he said softly. There was a pain in his blue eyes that she couldn't quite identify. "I haven't seen any Wardens for months. I travel alone, recruiting," he explained, gesturing at the little camp behind him. He shrugged. "Not much interest since there's been no Blight, and no need to conscript, but the Wardens can't afford to fall into disarray. Never know when the next Blight will pop up."

"Oh, that's a cheery thought," Varric muttered.

"But you let your men go without making them Grey Wardens," Cassandra pointed out.

The Warden turned to her. "Have you seen what it's like out there?" He flushed. "Of course you have. These men needed to be able to stand against those who threatened their families. I taught them how. Next time, they won't need me. For now, they don't need the Wardens, either, but someday they might. Grey Wardens can inspire," he finished, his eyes far away, "make you better than you think you are."

Cassandra asked, "Do you know where the other Wardens could have gone?"

Blackwall shook his head. He hadn't seen or heard of another Warden, beyond the ones on the throne of Ferelden, since the Blight. "Maybe they've gone to our stronghold at Weisshaupt?" he guessed. "That's far north of here, in the Anderfels."

The dark-haired woman frowned. "I would think we would have heard, if they had gone there."

"Leliana can look into it when we get back," Bridget said to her.

"I wish I knew," Blackwall offered. "Can't imagine why they'd all disappear at once, let alone where they'd disappear to."

The elven mage spoke up for the first time, his eyes uncomfortably keen as they studied Blackwall's face. "And they wouldn't have told you?"

He shrugged, trying hard to look unconcerned. "They probably wouldn't have known where to find me. I send the recruits to them, that's how this works. Maybe there's a new directive, but the runner got lost or something. Hard to say."

Bridget nodded, disappointed that the mission had been so fruitless. She tried to think of more questions, but this Blackwall seemed to know even less about his fellow Wardens than Leliana had. But it wasn't hs fault. He had tried his best to answer all their questions. She smiled at him. "Thank you, Warden Blackwall. We'll leave you be, in that case."

Blackwall watched as they started to move away, and he knew he couldn't let it end this way, even as he cursed himself for a fool. What business did he have allying himself with anyone? Or worrying about the Wardens? The last thing he wanted was to run into an actual Warden—worst thing he could do, really, second to going to Orlais. But … he'd watched the little mage fight. She was trying hard, but she didn't really know how, and she had no guard at all. One blow while the dark-haired woman was distracted, and that would be the end of the Herald of Andraste and any hope of closing that rip in the sky. He went after her, every step taken against his better judgment. "Inquisition … Bridget, did you say? Hold a moment."

She turned, her blue eyes fixed on his. "Yes?"

He swallowed. This was the stupidest thing he'd done in well over a decade, but he couldn't seem to stop himself from doing it. "The Divine is dead, and the sky is torn. Events like these, thinking the Wardens are absent is almost as bad as thinking we're involved. And the Inquisition is doing good work. I would … I would like to help." Blackwall took a deep breath. "If you're trying to put things right, maybe you need a Warden at your side to do it. Maybe you need me."

The mage smiled at him again and damned if he wasn't hard pressed not to smile back. "Warden Blackwall," she said, "welcome to the Inquisition."

They helped him pack up his small amount of belongings and his worn tent and carry them down to the Inquisition camp at the falls just below.

The Inquisition people had business at the Crossroads, so Blackwall went along with them. He hung back with the dwarf, Varric, who was some kind of famous author and clearly nonplussed when Blackwall had never heard of him, and with Bridget, who walked slowly, her eyes on the ground at all times.

"Not used to the outdoors?" he asked her, the third time she had ducked, panicked, when an insect flew too close to her head.

"Not at all. I spent most of my life in the Circle; we had a little greenhouse for herbs to make into potions, but that was as close to the outdoors as we ever got."

"Seems a shame to raise children that way."

She glanced at him. "It probably is."

"You seem surprised."

"Most people believe placing mages in the Circles is the right way to go."

Blackwall chuckled. "I'm not most people. And Wardens fight alongside mages just like anyone else."

"So you won't mind fighting at my side?"

He looked at her, and without his meaning to, a teasing smile curved his lips. "I saw you fight before; had to wonder if I was going to need to comb lightning out of my beard."

Bridget flushed. "I know, I'm not so good at combat magic. I'm getting better, though. Solas has been teaching me, and Vivienne promised to show me some things as well. She's just joined us; she's back at camp."

"I'm sorry. I was only joking. I … it's been a long time since I spent much time around other people. I've probably forgotten how."

"No, I'm the one who should apologize. I overreacted. I'm … very touchy about all the things I don't know."

"You're still young. No need to apologize for being inexperienced."

Her brow furrowed. "How old do you think I am?"

"Twenty-two?" he guessed.

Bridget snorted a laugh. It was typical; but it made her wonder why anyone in their right mind looked to her to make decisions for the Inquisition. They wouldn't without Cassandra backing her, she was certain. "Try adding a decade."

Blackwall stared at her, his blue eyes studying her intently until Bridget flushed and looked away.

"Now you know why my incompetence bothers me so much," she muttered.

"Then fix it."

"Easier said than done."

"I can't imagine there's much you couldn't accomplish if you set your mind to it."

She gave a faint smile. "That's kind of you to say."

At his side, the dwarf rolled his eyes. "Maker's breath. It's Hawke and Fenris all over again." And he put on a burst of speed to catch up with Cassandra and Solas ahead, just as Cassandra turned around.

"Rift ahead," she called.

"I know it," Bridget said. Her mark had been sizzling hot in her hand for a few minutes now.

"Rift?" Blackwall asked.

"A tear in the Veil, like the Breach, only smaller." He still looked confused. "The Veil is the barrier between reality and the Fade; when the Veil is thin, or torn, demons can get through more easily."

"What do you do about it?"

"Watch."

They hurried to catch up to the others, who were already engaged with several demons. Bridget walked up to the glowing green rip in the sky, holding her hand out to it, palm forward. She closed her hand and opened it, closed and opened it, and something burst, the demons at hand staggering as though stunned. Blackwall came to himself and turned to attack the nearest demon, a fiery being with only a vaguely human shape.

He had fought the occasional demon in the past ten years, but this was a concentration far beyond anything he had seen before. He lost track of Bridget entirely as he dealt with the fiery demon and then a series of inky black ones. At last, the demons seemed to all be down, and he wiped the back of a gauntlet across his forehead, getting the sweaty hair out of his face.

Bridget still stood in front of the rip, but it was smaller now, and as he watched she seemed to pull it closed, the way a needle pulled a thread. And it was gone. She turned to him, smiling triumphantly.

"A pretty trick," he said.

"It didn't work on the Breach, though."

"It worked better than we had thought it might," Solas told her, "and it will again, with the addition of help from the mages."

"Or the Templars," Cassandra said pointedly.

"Perhaps."

Bridget looked at both of them and didn't offer an opinion. She turned back toward the Crossroads, making her way up a hillock with small steps, as though her feet hurt.

Blackwall kept pace with her. "I take it you would prefer to work with the mages."

"Yes. But I need to keep my options open … and I don't know why they're letting me make the decision anyway."

"You have the mark on your hand," he pointed out. "If you don't feel comfortable working with the Templars, perhaps you can't use the mark as effectively."

She looked at him thoughtfully. "I hadn't thought of it that way before. Maybe that is why they're leaving this up to me." She sighed. "I should think more about working with the Templars—but I'm afraid if I do that, we'll lose the mages' cooperation entirely, and … I don't want to fight the mages."

"Naturally."

"Is it? Natural? I mean, they're just people, like those bandits we fought back there. Maybe magic shouldn't make such a difference."

"But it does. Nearly everyone has an opinion."

"Do you?"

He smiled. "Never met a mage I didn't like." That he had spent time with few mages in his life was something he didn't bother to add.

Bridget didn't return the smile. "Then you must not have gotten to know many, then. Mages are like everyone else—not all of us are nice, or generous, or thoughtful … or competent," she added with a sigh.

"Don't be so hard on yourself. You're doing fine."

"Let's see if you say that after you've been with us for more than a few hours."

Blackwall followed her, and the others, through the small Crossroads settlement, and in the process discovered that she was, indeed, doing fine. Small children flocked to follow the Inquisition people, although they shied away when Bridget tried to pat them on the head, staring at the glowing mark on her hand in fascination and a little fear.

They stopped in a set of shoddy, patched tents and gave a potion to a weary elf. Bridget insisted on staying to watch as the elf gave the potion to his wife, and wouldn't leave until she could hear for herself that the woman's harsh, troubled breathing had eased and become more natural. She left them the recipe for the potion to brew for themselves if needed.

From there, they spoke to an Inquisition soldier about finding caches of supplies he could use to keep the refugees warm and clothed, and gave a hunter a pack full of meat from rams they had slaughtered. Blackwall idly wondered who had butchered the rams—he imagined it had to be Cassandra. The idea of Bridget or Varric butchering a ram was one that had his mustache twitching as he tried to hold back a smile.

The hunter expressed what many had been saying these last weeks—the Inquisition had come from nowhere, but they were the only ones out here trying to help. And that, Blackwall imagined, was where Bridget seemed to come in. It was she who approached the people asking what they needed and how they were. Watching Cassandra watch Bridget, and seeing the approval in the Seeker's face, convinced Blackwall that the leadership had been chosen far more carefully than Bridget seemed to be giving it credit for.

"Stay here," Bridget said softly to the others. She took a vial from her pocket as she approached the corner where Enchanter Ellandra huddled by her fire.

"Oh, it's you," Ellandra said.

"Yes. I … have news." She held out the vial. "I believe this is your phylactery."

Ellandra reached out to take it, closing her hand over the smooth glass. She turned it over in her hand. "Mattrin is dead."

"Yes. I'm sorry."

They were silent for a moment before Ellandra sighed heavily. "I thought he must have died when he never arrived or sent word."

"What will you do now?"

"I don't know."

"The Inquisition can use your skills."

Ellandra shook her head. "I have no desire to kill others."

"Then don't. Come join us and make potions; train others. Heal them, feed them. Whatever you can choose to put your hand to, that is what needs done." Bridget looked at the other woman. "From one mage to another—we are all needed."

Rolling the phylactery between her fingers, Ellandra considered for a minute. Then she nodded. "Yes. I will come to Haven, and I will do what I can. Thank you."

"Thank you," Bridget replied. "And … I am sorry about Mattrin."

"Yes. So am I."

She left Ellandra still looking at the fire, but there was an air of hope about her that hadn't been there before.

"What was that about?" Cassandra asked.

"She's going to join us."

"That is good to know."

Bridget sighed wearily. The day had been long, and the shadows of evening were stretching across the Crossroads. "Let's go back to camp and get some sleep."

"As you say."

The soldiers were making a stew in the Inquisition camp. It smelled heavenly to Blackwall, better than his own cooking, which is all he'd had for a very long time. It was nice to share a meal with others, too. Even when he'd been training the recruits, he had eaten separately, wanting them to have a break from the old man at the end of a long day of being shouted at.

Tonight, he was just one of the Inquisition's people, handed a bowl like anyone else, sopping up the gravy with a piece of bread, drinking from the jug that was passed around.

Bridget ate with them, too, but then she excused herself, slipping off in the direction of the falls, with Cassandra following a few minutes later.

"Bridget?"

"I'm here." Bridget paused in the act of disrobing behind a concealing rock. "I couldn't help it; I saw the falls and, well …" She touched the heavy coil of her hair.

Cassandra chuckled. "I had the same idea. And so did Harding. She told me that if anyone moves in this direction, they'll have an arrow in a very inconvenient place."

Bridget left her breastband and smallclothes on, as did Cassandra, but both let their hair fall, and neither made a comment to the other about the impracticality of such long hair in their current line of work. Instead, they chatted idly about soaps and ways to keep the braid tidy and other matters of feminine practicality, and when they were both dry and sitting on a rock near the pool rebraiding their still-damp hair, they felt relaxed as Bridget certainly hadn't been since well before the Conclave.

Cassandra climbed down from the rock. "I am going to turn in, I think."

"I'll come in a bit." Bridget looked out across the landscape. "I'm enjoying the sunset. Green-tinged though it might be," she added softly. "I'll try not to wake you when I come to bed."

"You needn't worry," Cassandra assured her.

Bridget sat in the peaceful gathering dark as the sun set fully, enjoying the moment.

That was where Blackwall found her as he wandered to the stream to rinse out his beard and mustache. One thing that he had managed to retain from his former life was a certain fastidiousness; even in the midst of the wilderness when he hadn't seen another living soul for weeks, he had combed his hair and cared for his teeth.

She sat silent while he splashed water on his face and combed it through his beard, making room for him on her rock when he was finished.

In the dim light of the rising moon reflected off the water, she looked younger than ever, and surprisingly beautiful.

Blackwall reminded himself that while she wasn't as young as she looked, she was still too young for him, and his past was too dark and stained for any woman, much less one as good and generous as this one. In the open collar of the shirt she wore, something glinted gold. A locket. No doubt she wore it to remember a lover, he told himself. Another reason to keep his mind off any possible futures where he might have a use for the reams of Orlesian love poetry he could still recite from memory.

"It's a lovely night, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"A person could almost forget what lay ahead of them." She opened her left hand, looking at the green mark that glowed in the palm. "Almost."

"You'll manage."

"People keep telling me that. If I only had the power of the mages behind me, if I only this, if I only that." She shrugged. "Most of the time I tell myself they know better than I do. Other times … it's harder to believe."

"You look to me like the kind of person that things tend to go right for."

She turned to look at him, a strange expression on her face. Her marked hand lifted to clutch the locket. "Do I? Looks can be deceiving." She climbed down from the rock. "Good-night, Blackwall."

"Good-night," he muttered to the empty air.