She arrived in the War Room the next morning before anyone other than Leliana. The spymaster stood with her arms braced on the War Table, staring at the various pieces placed there.

"Are they talking to you?" Bridget asked.

"If only they would." Leliana frowned, straightening. "I have been speaking to Blackwall."

For some reason, Bridget expected the next words to have something to do with Blackwall and herself. She blushed.

Leliana went on without remarking on the blush, instead saying, "He appears to know nothing about the disappearance of the Grey Wardens, which is … disappointing."

"Ah. Yes, it is," Bridget agreed. Why had she blushed? She liked Blackwall, but there was nothing special between them. She put it aside as something to think about later—it was hardly a suitable line of thought for the War Room. "Still, it's good to have a Grey Warden with us."

"Yes." Leliana appeared to hesitate, or Bridget thought she did. "He seems to be a good man and his experience will be an asset to the Inquisition."

"I can continue searching for the other Wardens, if you like, once we've closed the Breach," Bridget offered. "I'm sure Blackwall would like to find out what happened to them, as well." Although, now that she came to consider it, he hadn't said anything to that effect, or really expressed any curiosity about the missing Wardens. Well, she hadn't told him everything about herself, either, Bridget reminded herself. Maybe his concerns went deeper than he liked to discuss.

The others came in, Josephine and Cassandra and Cullen, and Bridget tried to put the strange and yet oddly comforting Grey Warden out of her mind. When they were all standing around the War Table, Cullen began. "I have spoken with the mages; they are ready to approach the Breach when we have our plans made. I only pray this will be enough to close it."

"I pray we can keep the mages and the Templars from coming to blows first," Cassandra said.

"Would you both be more confident if I had brought back Templars instead?" Bridget snapped, glaring at them both.

"You have to admit that the mages cause problems the Templars would not have." Cassandra seemed unperturbed by Bridget's anger. "The mages have no leadership. Because so many of them have been immured in Circles all their lives, they have few practical skills and no ability to handle their own conflicts. Their demands are endless!"

"Yes, because the Templars would have asked for nothing," Leliana said, a small smile turning up the corner of her mouth. "They would not have required lyrium, they would not have caused problems for the mages that were already in camp, they would have managed everything by simply fighting everyone who got in their way …" Both Cassandra and Cullen were frowning at her, and the smile widened.

Josephine chimed in, "I agree with Leliana. The problems would have been the same no matter which group we were dealing with. At this point, the people do not trust Templars any more than they trust mages, may I remind you."

Bridget sighed. "I agree, the mages have a great deal to learn, and they were not helped by Fiona's mismanagement of their first taste of freedom. But better they learn here, where we can teach them—the way you have all taught me," she reminded them, "than running loose in the wild, where they were vulnerable to everything and everyone who had anything but their best interests at heart. They need to get used to what it means to be equal." She smiled. "A concept I am still struggling with."

Cassandra looked at Bridget, her face softening. "I do sound like I am blaming you, don't I? I don't disapprove, truly. I think you did well. You made the decision when it needed to be made, and you put the best interests of both the mages and the Inquisition at the forefront. There will need to be … adjustments made."

"Growth is always painful," Leliana agreed.

Cullen frowned at them. "All of you seem to forget that the Veil has thinned due to the Breach. The mages are uniquely vulnerable to that thinning—you may be concerned about their adjustment to the world outside the Circles, but I am more concerned with ensuring we don't lose them in a mass possession." He met Bridget's eyes squarely and openly. "I do beg your pardon, Bridget, but you are not immune, either."

"I know that," she told him. "Every mage's worst fear—after the Rite of Tranquility—is losing themself to a demon. My magic has been largely theoretical; I was a good student where books were concerned, but uninterested in casting spells, and discouraged from doing so until I got here. I have never heard so much as a whisper from a demon … but that does not mean I have forgotten my lessons in deflecting such a thing. And I am rarely far from someone with a sharp blade and the skill to take me out should I succumb."

"Your magic is hardly a threat," Cassandra said, and Bridget had to smile at the other woman's brutal honesty.

"True enough," she agreed.

Cullen sighed heavily. "I will not endanger the alliance, but I can't forget the perils we court with so many mages running loose in the camp. I promise that any precautions taken will be to ensure the safety of both our people and the mages. Nothing more."

Bridget studied his face, which was almost too open. He looked sincere, but there was something there, a shadow behind his eyes, that made her wonder. Of course, he had been in Kirkwall for the decisive battle between the mages and the Templars, when Knight-Commander Meredith went mad. Perhaps that was all it was.

"Are we ready to go against the Breach?" Josephine asked. Practical as always—she had a knack for cutting through the arguments and getting everyone back on track. No doubt that was one of the skills that made her a good Ambassador.

"Yes," Cullen said, nodding at Josephine to acknowledge that he had been getting a bit far afield of the topic at hand. "The army is ready, and I have spoken with some representatives from the mages to discuss their role. Thank you for helping them organize themselves," he said to Josephine. "They told me it was your suggestion to choose a representative from each of the different Circles who have mages here and one from the apostates—er, former apostates—as well."

"From the Herald's report, it seemed that their first attempt at organizing themselves went poorly. I wanted to help the second attempt go better, for their sakes and for the Inquisition in general."

"Thank you," Bridget said, smiling warmly at the Antivan.

"My pleasure."

"So all that remains is for Bridget to choose which of her companions will accompany her, and we should be ready to begin tomorrow morning. With any luck, by this time two days from now, the Breach will be closed."

They all looked at one another. Bridget wasn't sure what the rest of them were thinking, but she was wondering what she would do with herself when the Breach was closed. Would the Inquisition still exist? Would it be her job to take the mages and teach them how to live in the world? She barely knew herself. Would the green mark remain on her hand, or would it disappear with the Breach?

Deep inside her was the worry that the mark would take her with it, that somehow it was her life that powered it, and thus would be removed by the power of the Breach. Could she even close the Breach, did she have that kind of strength? Was tomorrow destined to be her last day? Would tomorrow night see her at the Maker's side?

"Are we … Is that all we need to discuss?" she asked, her voice shaky, and she saw them all glance at each other and knew they must have some of the same questions she did.

"It is," Cassandra told her kindly. "Get some rest."

"Thank you." Not that she was sure she could, but she would have to try. And in the meantime, if this was the last night she had, she wanted to enjoy it.

She found herself in the tavern, negotiating with Flissa behind the bar for a glass of the finest wine—in Flissa's far more experienced opinion—available. Bridget took a table by the fire, enjoying the crackle of the flame and the scent of the woodsmoke and the warmth surrounding her, and sipped the wine, a deep rich red that rolled smoothly over the tongue.

Dorian came in, smiling when he saw her, and crossed the room to take the chair next to her. "Wine? I had no idea they served something so civilized. May I?" Without waiting for her response, he put his nose near her glass and sniffed delicately. "Agreggio Pavalli? My dear, you have no idea what nectar you are holding. I must have one. Pardon me." He got up again, and after an intense conversation with Flissa, returned with the bottle. "Well, things are looking up." He poured himself a glass and topped off Bridget's and settled back with a sigh. "One could almost imagine oneself at home."

"Do you miss it?"

"Yes and no. It does not miss me, however, and I think at this juncture that is the most important thing." He tilted his head, studying her. "And you, do you miss your Circle? Being locked away like a criminal?"

"It never felt like that to me. I know it did to many of my fellow mages, but my Circle was … like a school, really. It never occurred to most of us to want to leave, and our Templars were kind. Whether they were there for our protection or not, that was what it felt like to us."

"Indeed. Not the popularly held notion."

"No, I know it isn't. And I'm not sure I miss it, not anymore. It was a … safe life, but there was nothing of value in it. Nothing I did was ever going to make a difference in the world. Had I been killed as a child when my magic surfaced, rather than being taken to a Circle, it would have been the same to the rest of the world. Well," she amended, thinking of Declan, "almost the same."

"Have you noticed how calmly everyone seems to take the idea of a mage leading the Inquisition?" Dorian asked her. "Most surprising. One would have expected more outrage, more panic. Even your Templar seems to accept you as a human being. Not at all what the popular stories would believe."

"Leading the Inquisition?" Bridget asked, surprised. "Hardly. I'm a figurehead. An embodiment of this," she said, raising the hand with the mark on it.

"My dear, surely you are joking. Yours is the name on everyone's lips, yours the face everyone sees when they think of the Inquisition. And a lovely face it is," he added, tipping his head in her direction gallantly before taking a long, luxurious swallow of the wine.

"That wasn't what it was meant to be. What I was meant to be," Bridget protested.

"And yet, that is what is. You must get used to that." He smiled. "Or, perhaps, the calm is merely so much window dressing, and the Antivan Crows are swimming in gold from all the contracts on your life."

"Not as comforting an idea as you might think." Bridget drank from her wine, savoring the flavor. "Tell me, Dorian, what was your life like, if you grew up outside a Circle?"

"Skeletons in the closet so soon." He smiled, but there was little humor in it. "Dorian, scion of House Pavus. Product of generations of careful breeding for the strongest, smartest, most magically talented little Pavusling possible. Repository of my House's hopes and dreams." There was more warmth in the smile now. "Naturally, I despised it all: the lies, the scheming, the illusions of supremacy."

"And so you left?"

"Not quite so simple as that, as you might imagine. My family was not entirely happy with some of my … choices, and they made it clear that I was to—unchoose them, if you will. I opted for flight and new surroundings instead."

"So you can't go home?"

"Oh, no, I certainly could. But not on my terms, and that … is not acceptable." He put his empty glass down on the table. "If you'll excuse me, my dear. I find I'm rather tired."

"Of course." Left alone, Bridget emptied her own glass. There was still quite a bit left in the bottle, though, and she didn't want to drink it alone—and there was no one in the tavern she wanted to drink it with. She picked up the bottle and made her way through the crowd. Outside, the freezing wind bit right through her leather coat, and she pulled it more tightly around her, shivering. She declined an invitation to share Varric's fire and smiled her way through the Chargers, in the midst of their nightly party, before arriving at the little room next to the blacksmith's that she knew Blackwall had claimed. She hadn't consciously thought to seek him out, but her steps had brought her here as if led by a beacon, and Bridget had to admit to herself, standing here in the cold with a half full bottle of wine in her hand, her other hand raised to knock, that she was attracted to this quiet, strong, supportive man. She could do a lot worse, if this was her last night, than find out if he was attracted to her in return.

She knocked.

Blackwall had just been getting ready to go to bed when he heard the knock at the door, and at first his heart stilled, thinking it must be someone coming to tell him he'd been found out, someone coming, at last, looking for Thom Rainier. Then it started beating again as he wondered if anyone out there would truly know Thom Rainier if they saw him; did even he know Thom Rainier anymore? He wasn't certain he did.

"Yes?" he asked, waiting by the door, wondering who it was looking for him at this time of night.

"Blackwall?" Bridget's voice, clear and beautiful, came to him through the wood, and his heart thudded heavily.

He opened the door, frowning. She stood there in the cold holding a bottle of wine, a hesitant expression in her blue eyes. "Bridget? What—" There was nothing he could ask that didn't sound wrong, so he left it at that.

"I thought you could use some company. I mean … I could use some company." She lifted the bottle. "Dorian says this is the best wine Tevinter makes, and I—I don't want to be alone tonight. Can I come in?"

He shouldn't allow this, he thought. She was too innocent and too young and too special for him to take advantage of the underlying request she really seemed to be making, and it had been such a long time since he had been with a woman—he had no business letting her in. But even as he thought it, he was stepping aside so she could enter.

Suddenly it occurred to him what had brought her here tonight. "Worried about tomorrow?"

"Yes. I—if I can't close the Breach, or if—" She lifted the marked hand, frowning at it. "This could be it, Blackwall."

"No."

"You can say that if you like, but it could be. And I—" She turned to look at him, her blue eyes wide and soft. Then she tilted her head to the side, a little smile playing across her lovely mouth. "You're oddly charming for a man I found wandering the forest, do you know that?"

He chuckled despite himself. "I've always thought myself more odd than charming, but I'll take a compliment from a lady. They're hard to come by."

She smiled wider. "Compliments, or ladies?"

Blackwall laughed, the tension easing. He really did enjoy spending time with her. "Both."

Bridget took a swallow of wine straight from the bottle and handed it to him. With only a slight hesitation, he lifted it to his lips, drinking deeply. "Agreggio Pavalli? Here in Haven? The Maker has an odd sense of humor."

She looked at him oddly. "Now where does a Grey Warden find fine Tevinter wine in the wilderness?"

He could have kicked himself for the slip. Thom Rainier had been a connoisseur of fine wine, but Blackwall liked ale and cider and more earthy delicacies. "I wasn't always a Grey Warden, and I didn't always live in the wilderness," he said, hoping she wouldn't ask for more details. He didn't know what he would tell her.

"You're very modest," she said. "I'm sure there are many things you know about that you've kept to yourself."

Suddenly suspicious, he asked, "What do you mean?"

"Oh!" Her cheeks turned pink. "Nothing, just that—there's something so … intelligent about you, so sure of yourself. I think if I … if I had the chance to know you better I would find all sorts of, um, skills and talents."

He could feel his own cheeks flushing, and he hadn't had near enough wine for it to be that. "And the praise keeps coming." Blackwall cleared his throat. "Are you sure there isn't something large and heavy you need moved?"

Bridget stepped closer to him, reaching for the bottle. Their fingers brushed in the handoff, and Blackwall could feel the tingle of it all the way down to his toes. Without looking away from him, she lifted the bottle to her lips, drinking deeply, and then licking her lips when a droplet of wine threatened to spill down her chin. Watching her pink tongue move over the softness of her lower lip, Blackwall nearly groaned aloud. The room seemed very small, suddenly, very intimate, and very warm. He was aware of the thin undershirt he wore, and the heat of Bridget's body close to his.

"I think moving heavy objects would be a waste of those skills and talents, don't you?" she said softly.

He shouldn't be doing this, he told himself, but it appeared that he wasn't listening, because he moved even closer, their bodies nearly brushing. "Oh, really? You have a better idea, do you?"

"Many." Her head tilted up, her lips shaping themselves for a kiss, her hand resting in the middle of his chest.

Maker, how he wanted her. A beautiful woman, a smart, brave, determined woman, a woman like none he had ever met before. How she made the noblewomen of Orlais pale in his memory.

"Blackwall," she whispered. Her eyes were half-closed. It would be so easy to put his arms around her, to pull her against him and kiss that willing mouth, to bring her to the cot in the corner and touch and taste and kiss—but he couldn't. He was living a lie. He wasn't who he claimed to be, and the reality underneath the pretense was sullied beyond cleansing. He had no right to touch any decent woman, much less the one standing before him.

He put his hand over hers, and with an effort of will lifted it away from his chest. Raising it to his mouth, he kissed the tips of her fingers, because he couldn't help himself. "It's a tempting offer, my lady."

"But you're saying no." She was watching him, confused. "There's something you haven't told me, isn't there?"

He saw the gleam of gold, the chain around her neck that held the locket. "Have you told me everything?"

Her eyes blinked and fell. "I understand."

When she would have pulled her hand away, he held it in his, holding her there in front of him, waiting until she lifted those blue eyes to him again. "You're unlike any woman I've ever met. I am … flattered that you would choose to spend tonight with me. I hope … I hope you'll stay a while, and … talk. I—I enjoy your company."

"I enjoy yours, too. And—I think I'll take you up on that offer, if you don't mind. I really don't want to be alone tonight, and … I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be."

"Stay right there," he told her. Hastily, he arranged some empty crates in front of the fire, with his blanket spread over them, and he led her to the seat. They sat like that, sipping from the wine bottle, talking a little about completely inconsequential things, until she fell asleep with her head on his shoulder, his arm around her holding her up. Blackwall sat like that long into the night, occasionally resting his cheek against her head, wishing he deserved any of this.