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The next morning, Bridget found herself in Solas's atrium. It was one of the calmest places in Skyhold, always soothing to visit.

He looked up from the table in the center of the room, on which he had spread a large number of pieces of parchment and several curios he had picked up in his travels. "Bridget," he said with a smile. "What brings you to see me today?"

"I was looking for a bit of peace and quiet."

"I am glad you think of me as a refuge." He waved her toward the sofa that sat along the wall, and Bridget sank into it with a sigh. Solas regarded her with curiosity. "Why do you need peace and quiet today?"

"Judgments. Ser Erimond and a Grey Warden they've brought in and the mayor of Crestwood. I hate judging people. I mean … everyone makes mistakes. Do they really need to pay for them for the rest of their lives?"

"But when those mistakes ruin the lives of others, should the people responsible not pay for what they've done?"

Bridget nodded. "A good point. It's why I agree to do them … but I don't like it. Tell me, Solas, what would you do to the Wardens?"

"You will not like it."

"Be that as it may, I'm asking."

"The idea of seeking out the Old Gods deliberately in some bizarre attempt to preempt the Blights—it was foolish. And short-sighted."

"Their minds were being played with by a being far beyond their understanding," Bridget reminded him.

"Ah, but is he? They held Corypheus in their power for hundreds of years. How is it they never learned what he was capable of? They should have known." His tone was surprisingly bitter.

"They care for nothing but stopping the darkspawn. That is their reason for existence. By holding him, no doubt they imagined they were stopping him."

"A facile response. Their actions were the same as those of a fair maiden who chases a butterfly with such total focus that she falls off a cliff in the pursuit. Except that if you had not stopped them, the whole world would have been drawn into their fall. Responsibility is not expertise," he said hotly. "Action is not inherently superior to inaction." He caught himself, smiling at her. "Forgive me. I know where your affections, your sympathies, must lie."

"They lie with a man, not with the entirety of the Grey Wardens."

"Can you separate the two? He seems—devoted to the idea of them."

It was an interesting thought, that Blackwall loved the idea of the Wardens more than he did the Wardens themselves. It made many of his responses at Adamant and since make more sense, not to mention explaining the years he had spent alone in the Fereldan wilderness far from his fellow Wardens. "Solas?" she said abruptly.

"Yes?"

"You must have dreamt at Ostagar. What was it like?"

He nodded, confirming her assumption. "Battlefields are rich places to dream. Spirits press so tightly on the Veil that you can slip across with but a thought. At Ostagar I witnessed the brutality of the darkspawn and the valor of the Fereldan warriors. I saw Alistair and the Hero of Ferelden light the signal fire … and Loghain's infamous betrayal of Cailan's forces."

"And? After all the stories, what is it that really happened?"

Solas shook his head at her. "It isn't like that. In the Fade, what I see are reflections created by spirits who react to the emotions of the warriors. So in one moment, the story of the battle is that of heroic Wardens lighting the fire and a power-mad villain sneering as he lets his king fall … and in the next, the story is that of an army overwhelmed and a veteran commander refusing to let more soldiers die in a lost cause. Each is true, depending on who is telling the story."

"What do you know of Corypheus, then? What will he do next?"

"You shamed him when you destroyed Haven and spoiled his glorious victory, and now you have taken from him his demon army. But he cannot allow himself to acknowledge that you have ruined his grand plans. He must continue on his course or show weakness—and men who attempt to become gods cannot afford to be weak, neither in the eyes of their followers or of their enemies. He will turn with more fervor than ever to his plans to throw Orlais into chaos and conquer it in the name of Tevinter—but truly for himself. The Venatori are nothing but his pawns." He frowned, his eyes dark and flat with anger. "No real god ever need prove himself. Anyone who tries is either mad or lying. Corypheus fails to understand this. His deception will undo him, as such deceptions have undone countless fools before him."

"You told me before that the orb Corypheus carried, the one that created the Anchor, is elven."

"Yes. I appreciate that you have not shared that information. My people do not deserve that additional burden."

"No, they don't," Bridget agreed. "How did you know it was elven?"

"I have seen such things in the Fade," he explained, although Bridget thought he hesitated before beginning the explanation. "They are foci, used to channel ancient magicks. It is very old magic, so old that Corypheus may believe it is of Tevinter. His empire's magic was built on the bones of my people." He looked at her closely. "Tell me, what were you like before the Anchor?"

It seemed such an odd question that Bridget was momentarily uncertain how to answer.

Solas went on, "I wish to know if you feel it has affected you in any way, changed you. Your mind, your morals … your spirit?"

"Oh. I don't believe so. I am … stronger, less fearful, more decisive, but I believe that is the effect of becoming the Inquisitor. Indirectly caused by the Anchor, certainly, but I think that the circumstances the Anchor has led me to have changed me more than the Anchor itself. Why do you ask?"

"You show a certain … wisdom that I have not seen since … my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade. I had hoped to find—some remnant of my people's lost spirit, perhaps?"

"In that case, I'm sorry I can't claim to have been more altered." She wasn't; she didn't like the idea of the Anchor changing her being. But she saw the sadness in Solas and wished to be polite.

He nodded, acknowledging her words and the thought behind them. "Many people in your position would use the Inquisition as a blunt instrument in their rise to power."

"I can barely handle the power I already have. I don't know what I would do with more."

"Yes, I see that. And I respect you for it."

"Thank you."

Just then Josephine poked her head in the door. "Ah, there you are, Inquisitor. We have been looking for you."

"You're ready to begin?"

"Yes, if you are."

"Ready as I'll ever be." Bridget got to her feet. "Thank you for the talk, Solas."

"Anytime."

She had the sense that he was watching her as she left the room, and not for the first time she wondered where exactly he had come from.

Blackwall took up a spot at the back of the room, towards the side, where he had a good view of the seat on the dais where his lady sat. She looked tired, and while he would have liked to claim credit for that, he knew it had more to do with these judgments and how much she hated having to hold someone's life in her hands. It was a terrible responsibility for anyone—but he knew that he wasn't alone in feeling that if anyone had to do it, she was among the better choices.

Josephine, standing near the seat, lifted her clipboard. "First, I present to you Gregory Dedrick, former mayor of Crestwood, charged with betraying his own constituents."

This man. The one who had drowned his own people along with the refugees from the Blight, out of fear of Blight sickness. Blackwall hated what he had done … but Blight sickness was awful, and contagious, and little understood. Had Dedrick not taken the actions he had, would anyone in Crestwood still be alive? It was hard to say.

Bridget leaned forward. "If you have anything to say in your own defense, speak up now."

The former mayor lifted his head wearily. "There's no cure for the Blight. But you can't tell that to someone watching their child, or their husband, suffer, and praying for a miracle."

"So you herded the infected into one place and flooded Old Crestwood?" Josephine demanded indignantly. "Tell me, can you be certain no innocents were caught in the waters?"

"Nearly everyone in the village had the Blight! How was I to separate them without further contaminating those few who were well? And then, how could I tell the survivors that I had drowned their families in order to save them? Have mercy."

Bridget studied him for a long time. At last she said, "Your crimes were committed on Fereldan soil. I'm sending you to Denerim, to stand in front of the king and queen and tell them your story. They can decide your punishment."

"Life in prison? Maker. I should have drowned with the others," Dedrick moaned as he was being led away.

Blackwall wasn't so certain. Ferelden's monarchs were both Grey Wardens. No doubt they had seen their fair share of Blight sickness in all its stages. They might well have more mercy on Dedrick than he imagined.

The next set of guards stepped forward, pulling along a woman in Grey Warden armor.

"Another of the lingering pains of Adamant, Your Worship," Josephine said.

Blackwall saw Bridget wince. She hated being addressed that way, and had prevailed on Josephine a number of times to stop, ineffectually, it appeared.

"Ser Ruth is a senior Warden of the Order. She was one of the many who slit the throat of another to bind a demon. She admits to her crime freely. In fact, she surrendered to us. She requests no mercy. She wishes to face the public justice of the headman's axe."

On the throne, Bridget glanced around the spectators—looking for him, Blackwall imagined. He made sure to stay out of her line of sight, not wanting to influence her decisions in any way, or give her any reason to be accused of favoritism on his account.

Then Bridget waited, quietly, until Ser Ruth looked up and met her eyes. "Is more death truly the answer?" she asked gently.

"There is no excuse for my actions," Ser Ruth said. "I murdered another of the Order. That blood marks me more than the Blight ever could."

"Many treaties allow Wardens any extreme, if it opposes the Blight," Josephine pointed out.

"No! I can't do it. I can't use the greater good to justify my crimes, as if that would create any future that I could be a part of. It is wrong that this broke me. I deserve death, public and painful and final. I can do nothing except be an example of the cost."

There was no hesitation in Bridget as she responded. "You would throw your life away, but a Warden's life is too valuable to be lost in such a manner. You feel your life is over? There is a place for such Wardens, so I understand. Ser Ruth, you will go to the Deep Roads. Your death there may be as quick as you choose, but you will end your life performing the duties you agreed to take on when you became a Warden."

There were mutters around him, but Blackwall ignored them. She understood. What it meant to be a Warden, what they promised. Perhaps when inevitably she found out about him, he could ask for the same sentence.

Ser Ruth was shaking her head, confused and unhappy. "But … that sends no message. It is just … an end."

"An end is more than many people receive," Bridget told her. "Take yours and make it count for something."

The whole room rustled a bit after that, because they all knew who was next. Josephine's tones were darker when she introduced him than they had been for the first two. "I submit Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium, who remains loyal to Corypheus. We found him alive, offering extreme resistance. Likely because the Order will ask for his head. For a start. To say nothing of what justice you might personally require for what was suffered in the Fade," she added.

Blackwall vividly remembered the feeling of falling through the air thinking his life was over—thinking her life was over. He could wring the man's neck with his bare hands for that, over and above what he had done to the Grey Wardens.

"Countless better men and women than you are dead. Why should you meet with any different fate?" Bridget asked, her voice hard.

"I recognize none of this proceeding," Erimond said defiantly. "You have no authority to judge me."

"On the contrary," Josephine told him, "many officials have communicated that they will be happy to defer to the Inquisitor on this matter."

"Yes," sneered Erimond, "because they fear. Not just Corypheus, but Tevinter, rightful ruler of every piece of ground you've trod on in your pathetic life."

Behind him, Blackwall heard a snort, and turned to see Dorian glaring at his fellow Tevinter, his grey eyes icy shards.

"I served a living god! Bring down your blades and free me from the physical if you will. Glory awaits me on the other side."

Bridget raised her eyebrows at the man's grandiose claims. "Any protection you thought you had has apparently been withdrawn. No one has come for you, no one has asked for you. No one cares what happens to you, it seems." She hesitated only a moment. "You will die, by my hand. Today."

There were startled murmurs throughout the room.

Erimond, to his credit, didn't flinch, not even as he was being led out to the courtyard. And to her credit, neither did Bridget. She raised the sword and brought it down in a single clean stroke, and she descended the stairs with her back firm and straight.

But she caught Blackwall's eye, and he could see in her face the turmoil and the unhappiness the action had caused her. Discreetly, he followed her progress and joined her upstairs in her quarters, where she threw herself into his arms and wept at the enormity of what she had done.