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Their first night, Bridget and the others camped amidst some trees on a high hill. They were out of Crestwood and heading toward the mountains. It was chillier up here, but after all that rain, it was nice just to be dry and sitting by a crackling fire eating rabbit and onion stew.

So far, the food had occupied most of their attention—nothing like a long walk to sharpen the appetite. But now, as Varric set his plate down and leaned toward the fire, holding his hands out to warm them, he sighed. "Damn Corypheus."

"It's not your fault, Varric," Bridget reminded him.

"Yeah, you say that."

"You and Hawke were both certain that you killed him."

"We did! But … apparently not permanently? Shit, I don't know anymore. At the time, he seemed as dead as dead could be. I mean, there was a magical barrier keeping us from going back the way we came—set up by the Wardens long ago, I assume—so the only way out was through Corypheus, and he wasn't exactly in a good mood when we found him. And we weren't about to just leave the door to his prison open behind us and just hope he was dead. We made sure." He glanced at Dorian, who was still eating. "I'll spare you the gory details, but that body was not going to be usable again."

"But I saw him at Haven."

"I know you did, Sunflower. I wish I could explain it."

"If an Archdemon can rise again, so can an ancient Tevinter magister darkspawn, apparently," Blackwall said. Bridget studied him, her head cocked to the side. He had been very quiet this whole trip. She imagined it must be odd for him to be suddenly presented with another Warden after all this time, but she would have thought he would have been happier about it.

"Had you ever heard much about Corypheus?" she asked him.

He shook his head. "No. I always thought the old stories of magisters corrupting the Golden City were just that. But they don't tell the rank and file much. Stroud's a senior warden, and even he didn't know a lot, from what he said."

"Wardens are big on secrecy," Varric agreed.

Dorian leaned toward the dwarf eagerly. "What was that like, walking into that room and finding out that not only were the stories true, but one of those very magisters was still alive?"

"Scary," Varric replied succinctly.

"Do you think there are any more like him?" Bridget asked.

"Anything's possible. Maybe if you asked someone at Weisshaupt, but they're the kings of secrets." Blackwall hunched over his plate as if he didn't want to talk about this any longer. Bridget didn't blame him; but at the same time, Corypheus menaced all of Thedas. They had to think about him enough to be able to counter him.

"He's a figure from Tevinter history," Bridget pointed out. "Have you ever heard of him, Dorian?"

"It's all a bit of a blur—the Imperium was at its peak then, so many people had power. The Magisterium was united, its armies scooping up bits of Thedas like candy."

"You say that so cheerfully, Sparkler."

Dorian shrugged. "It's the truth … and ancient history, at that. The modern Imperium is nothing like that."

"But they'd like to be. Isn't that what Corypheus is all about?" Bridget asked.

"Well, they revere the tale of the magisters who entered the Black City; they represent how exceptional Tevinter had become, how exceptional it could be again. Corypheus seems steeped in that emotion. Of course, entering the City was hardly a benefit for anyone, which those of us with clear eyes can see … but so few in Tevinter have clear eyes."

"But who were those magisters?"

Dorian shrugged. "No one knows. I've been unable to find a record of any magister named 'Corypheus', and my sources in the Imperium have drawn a blank as well. Of course, this was all fourteen hundred years ago, before the Blight nearly wiped us out. What records there were of that time have largely disappeared."

"So the whole tale disappeared into myth," Varric said.

"Just as all this no doubt will someday," Dorian agreed, "our characters reduced to the scratches of a quill."

Varric grinned. "As long as it's mine."

"So now we know the story is real," Bridget continued, not wanting to get off-topic, "but we don't know who it is exactly that we're dealing with."

"Based on how confused he was when we first found him, it's good odds that even he doesn't remember. What I really don't understand how he's still alive. I mean, a thousand years?" Varric twisted his hands together. Bridget rarely saw him without either Bianca or a quill in his hand—that he was sitting here with neither made clear just how upsetting he found all this.

"He's a darkspawn now. They don't live normal human lifespans," Blackwall said shortly. "They're unnatural and sustained by …" He frowned, looking for the right word. "Evil."

"Do you think he has actually corrupted the Wardens? This Warden Clarel stooping to blood magic …" Varric shook his head. "Hard to imagine."

"Yes," Blackwall snapped. "It is."

"And yet, there seems little doubt that she's doing it. A last resort, perhaps? Fear can do terrible things," Dorian said.

Blackwall sighed. "That it can. And the Wardens have always believed in doing whatever was necessary against the Blights, even if that meant going against certain laws and prohibitions."

"Corypheus could be influencing her mind, though, too. I think we can't judge her too harshly until we see what's going on. Hopefully we'll be in time to stop the ritual and calm her down a bit," Bridget said. She looked over at Blackwall, wanting to ask about his state of mind, but he seemed so prickly she was hesitant to prod at him any further.

Fortunately, Dorian felt no such scruples. "And you, my friend? Any voices in your head?"

"If I start hearing things beyond the incessant yammering of my companions, you'll be the first to know."

"Pardon me for showing my concern."

Blackwall looked at Dorian, the mage clearly affronted, and sighed. "No, pardon me. I'm … not myself at the moment."

"Are you hearing the Calling?" Bridget asked, too concerned for his welfare to heed the signal that he wanted to stop talking about it.

He looked at her, his face unreadable. "I know what Corypheus is. He holds no sway over me." Putting down his plate, he got to his feet. "Excuse me." He left the campfire, seeking the quiet of the trees.

Bridget sat frozen in her seat, wanting to go after him but not sure she had any right to ask what was bothering him. They had a certain friendship, a certain attraction, but there was so much she had never told him. And she knew nothing about being a Grey Warden, what that was like, or why Blackwall had chosen to go—or had been sent—so far from the rest of his order. What Stroud had said must be burning in him, the corruption, the fear. Was he hearing the Calling? He said not, but that could be what lay behind his quietness.

Eventually she decided to go after him. Well, not so much decided as yielded to the inevitable, and to Dorian's raised eyebrows and Varric's manful refusal to ask why she wasn't.

Blackwall was leaning against a tree staring off into the distance, wrestling with his better and worse natures, when he heard her coming. He had known she would; truth be told, he had waited here for her, unable to do anything else.

He turned and watched her come toward him, so serious as she picked her way through the trees, and his heart lifted.

Maker's blood, Blackwall thought. He was in love with her. He didn't know how it hadn't occurred to him yet that he'd gotten in this deep, but he most certainly had. And he couldn't even regret it. He couldn't remember ever having met a woman more worthy of being loved; he only wished he could offer her more than lies and shame and a man too damaged to know who he was anymore.

She came toward him, her eyes wide with concern for him. "Are you all right?"

"I … No. Not really." That much had clearly been obvious to her; there was little point in lying.

"Because of what Stroud said."

"Yes."

Bridget was studying him now, her eyes seeming to reach inside him. "But something more, too."

He nodded, looking for the words. "There are things I … want to tell you, but— It's late. And … I hate to ask you to backtrack when you were so looking forward to going home …" It wasn't that far, not from here. And maybe if he found the spot, maybe if he was standing in the place where it had happened, where Thom Rainier had been sacrificed in the name of a better man, then he could speak.

"You can ask me anything, you know that."

She meant it, he could see, and he swallowed against his sudden desperate need to kiss her. "Then—will you come with me to the Storm Coast? There's something I want to look for there."

"Of course."

"The others won't be happy."

Bridget nodded. "I'm sure I'll owe them both a favor. It'll be worth it."

"You put too much faith in me, my lady," he said, his voice rasping over the lump in his throat.

"Not possible." She gave him a faint parting smile and returned to the campfire.

What she had told Varric and Dorian, Blackwall didn't know, but the next morning they were both fairly cheerful about the need to head north instead of south.

Walking behind her, watching her confident stride, so different from the way she had moved in the wilderness when he first met her, Blackwall was able to lose himself, however briefly, in admiration of her, without entirely realizing it drifting into a hazy fantasy in which he could allow himself to love her.

He became vaguely aware of a voice at his elbow, a voice rising in stridency—and then he was pitching forward headlong into a puddle. Blackwall got to his knees, brushing water off his face and out of his beard, tossing his head to get his hair back out of his face.

"I tried to tell you," Varric said. The dwarf wasn't laughing aloud, but his eyes were dancing with the unvoiced mirth.

"Thank you."

"Don't waste your sarcasm on me, Broody. If you hadn't been lost in inappropriate thoughts about the Inquisitor …"

"I was not!" Blackwall couldn't maintain the lie in the face of Varric's knowing smirk. "All right, maybe I was."

"Look, this is none of my business …"

"Too right, it isn't."

"But the beauty of me is that I make everything my business." Varric grinned, then sobered, reaching out a hand to help Blackwall up and lowering his voice in the process. "She needs to be something other than the Inquisitor for a change, and you're the one she wants. We all know it. Whatever's holding you back, you're hurting her as much as you're saving her from whatever you don't want to tell her."

"Those … are a lot of words," Blackwall said, startled at the dwarf's insight. Of course, he shouldn't be—watching other people and understanding them was Varric's bread and butter.

"You going to listen to them?"

"I—maybe." He waved at Bridget, who had stopped up ahead and turned around to see if he was all right.

"Blackwall?"

He looked down, surprised to hear Varric use his real name, raising his eyebrows in question.

"Don't hurt her."

"Which is it?"

"Both."

"What if both isn't possible? What if it's already too late?"

"Then … be careful."

It was probably too late to be careful, as well, if Blackwall was being honest with himself. But he would try. He nodded at Varric and moved on, quickly enough to catch up with Bridget and Dorian but not so fast as to outpace the dwarf too badly.

The Storm Coast was rainy, as well, but at least there were Inquisition camps in readiness, and the Blades of Hessarian had relatively comfortable buildings that they readily welcomed the Inquisitor and her team into. And the fine cool drizzle was nothing like the downpour at Crestwood, which was a relief to all of them.

They set out in the morning, Blackwall leading the way. He knew it, too, almost without looking, his steps moving toward the spot as if drawn there by a magnet.

"Do you know, Blackwall, Stroud rather reminded me of you," Dorian said. The mage glanced up at the grey sky with unhappiness and folded his hands inside his robe.

"Oh?"

"Well, you have a far finer mustache, of course, but you seem to share a similar reserve. Is that a common trait among Wardens?"

Blackwall glanced over at his companion, raising his eyebrows. "You find me reserved?"

Dorian laughed. "At times."

"Hm. That's a shame. I was aiming for aloof."

"Keep trying. I'm certain you'll get there."

Blackwall chuckled. It had been a long time since he felt comfortable enough in any place, or among other people, to exercise his naturally dry sense of humor. He had missed it more than he knew. He felt a pang at the idea that once he revealed his true self to Bridget, all this was likely to be over. She couldn't have a criminal on the run as one of her companions, and she would despise him for the liar and the fake that he was.

And what would happen to her without him? Cassandra would step up, or the Iron Bull … but the Bull had the Chargers and Cassandra her search for the missing Seekers. Neither of them had the time to spare for Bridget that was needed to truly keep her safe.

Before he could investigate that line of thought further, his feet stopped of their own accord, and he looked up at the bluff in front of him. Here, he thought. This is where it happened, just up there. What would he find there? Not Blackwall—he had burnt the body, sent the Warden off to the Maker himself. But the marks of the burning might still be there, and whatever he might have missed when he scavenged the campsite.

It was too late now to turn back. He began climbing the bluff, his feet finding the toeholds while his hands reached forward and his memory filled in the heart-pounding terror of the climb all those years ago: the screams of the darkspawn and the clash of steel, his stomach still churning from the experience of facing down and killing a darkspawn himself. And then to come to the camp and find Blackwall slowly being forced back by the creatures, overpowered and overwhelmed, drawing his own blade in the defense of the man who had saved him in so many ways, but not quite fast enough.

By the time the darkspawn were all dead, so was the Warden. Rainier, as he had been then, had carefully laid him out, lit the pyre, and wept over the loss.

Only then, watching the sparks fade into the distance, had it occurred to Rainier that no one but him knew what had happened since they'd left that seedy barroom. From there, it hadn't been too many steps to his ultimate decision, a decision he had tried to live up to over the years but still felt conflicted about.

"Blackwall?"

He jumped at the sound of Bridget's voice; he hadn't been aware that he had reached the top of the bluff, much less that she was behind him. "It's so quiet now," he said, his voice hoarse. "I remember when it wasn't."

"You've been here before."

"Yes. I came here with another Warden. We were—we were ambushed." How much should he tell her? He had brought her here to tell her everything, but now … Turning, he looked down into her blue eyes, so open and trusting. Could he shatter that trust, cost himself—everything? "I tried to save him, but he died."

Bridget put a hand on his arm. "That must have been very hard."

"Wardens are used to death, but this was different." He closed his eyes, adding softly, "Life-changing."

She was silent as he communed with his conscience, knowing what the right thing to do was and yet knowing equally as surely that he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"Come on." He moved ahead toward the remnants of that old camp. Dorian and Varric had chosen not to make the climb, and while he knew that neither of them enjoyed the outdoors, he also appreciated their sensitivity.

There were still bones strewn around the campsite. The burn marks looked like a campfire, thanks to the encroachment of grass and weeds, and no longer so much like a pyre.

Blackwall swallowed, wondering what he had thought he would find here. The ghost of himself? The ghost of Blackwall? Some long-vanished courage that he wasn't entirely sure he'd ever had in the first place? Whatever he had expected, there was nothing here, nothing but grass and dirt.

"Look at this!" She knelt and dislodged some piece of metal from a tangle of weeds, holding it up for his inspection.

He took it, turning it over in his hands. Blackwall's badge. It should have cemented him in his intention to tell her the truth she deserved to hear, but instead it felt … like a sign. Like Warden Blackwall was reaching out of the Fade and giving his approval.

Maker, what a hokey piece of crap that idea was, he thought, but he couldn't help himself. He loved her. He wanted her. He needed her. And what was more, he thought she needed him, too.

"What is it?" she asked.

"The Warden-Constable's badge."

"You mean yours, right?"

He looked at it again. It had been Blackwall's; all that had been Blackwall's was now his. "Yes," he said slowly, "I suppose it must be. After all … I did earn it. I shouldn't have let it go so easily. I … didn't know I'd lost it." He moved to stand in the middle of the ruined campsite. "This was my life before I met you. Crumbling ruins. Endless battles. Death."

Bridget came to him, looking up into his eyes. Raindrops fell into her face, but she ignored them. "I see my share of ruins and death, too—you don't have to face them alone. And neither do I." She gave him a little smile, her eyes lighting with humor. "Maybe that means we're perfect for each other."

"You tease, but … you don't know …"

"I do know. I know what I see in your eyes, in your heart. I know what I want, Blackwall."

He wanted that, too, everything she wanted, everything she offered, but he had no right. No right at all. "Nothing frightens you, does it?" he asked.

She nodded, still holding his gaze. "A great many things frighten me—and you protect me from most of them. What frightens me most is the idea that someday you may not be there."

"I … want to be there."

Whatever she might have said in response was lost as she rose on her toes and he lowered his head and their mouths met for the first time. Her mouth was soft and warm and yielding beneath his, and she fit as perfectly into his arms as he had always imagined she might. He could have stood here all day, feeling her mouth and body against his, but—all this was so far from what his intention had been when he asked her to come here. He had intended to tell her everything, and instead here he was allowing things to go even further, risking her heart when he knew it was wrong to do so.

Gently he disentangled himself from her, refusing to dwell on how starry and bright her eyes were or on how much he wanted to kiss her again. "I … need to think. Can we—we can talk back at Skyhold."

"Take your time. But, Blackwall?"

He looked at her, seeing laughter in her eyes, a light that warmed him all through, even though he tried not to feel it.

"Don't take too long."

"I'll try not to, my lady."