I'm not a stranger
No, I am yours
With crippled anger
And tears that still drip sore

A fragile frame aged
With misery
And when our eyes meet
I know you see

"I shit you not, Rivaini, it was this big." Varric raises his arms to suggest some obscene length, grinning at the pirate woman as she chokes on her whiskey and stares at him.

"There's no way. Impossible! I've had hundreds of those in my hands, and they're never that size."

Anders raises an eyebrow at their innuendo-laden conversation as he sips at his own mug of sour ale, the same mug he has been nursing since they returned from Hightown, the dwarven storyteller hustling their new mage-hating elven companion into the Hanged Man for a drink to meet Isabela and Aveline, more members of Hawke's ragtag bunch of followers, dragging him along in their wake. Her younger brother somehow managed to disappear into the night, and the healer doesn't doubt the boy will end up in his clinic looking for a salve to treat an unwanted "gift" from one of the girls at the Blooming Rose someday soon. Speaking of Hawke…

Hunched over one of the tiny two-person tables beside the fire in the main room, she ignores the chatter of everyone around her, black hair half covering her face, an untouched glass of cider the focus of her empty gaze almost as if she is using it to scry for an answer to some question he can almost hear on the edge of his awareness. Suddenly, as if coming to a decision she jumps to her feet, draining the cider before tossing a coin on the table for Norah the serving girl, her eyes still looking into a world beyond the physical.

"Not leaving already, are you?" Isabela calls out from her seat, tossing a large nut from the bowl beside her elbow at the young mage so it bounces off the middle of her back. "The fun hasn't even started yet!"

"Things to do," the girl replies in a distracted voice, not bothering to look at anyone before heading towards the door and slipping out into the street.

A frown creases Varric's face, and he glances at the guardswoman, who nods and stands, starting to buckle her sword back on to her hip. "Going hawking then?" the pirate quips to Aveline, taking another deep draught of whiskey. "Don't you ever take a night off big girl?"

"If you went instead of sitting here, whore, I'd be able to."

Raising an eyebrow, Anders places a hand out to catch their attention. "Hawking?"

"Our little bird's got trouble after her, according to my contacts. Doesn't do any good warning her, because she never listens. Sometimes I don't think she cares if anything happens to her so long as nothing happens to anyone else. People like that make great heroes, but not if they're dead." Sighing, Varric snatches a handful of nuts, breaking the shells apart with quick stabs of his dagger. "So we take turns making sure that trouble doesn't get near enough to ruffle her feathers."

Something heavy and hard settles in his stomach, and he shifts his hand to stop the guard from finishing with her sword belt, instead clenching his staff tightly in his hand. "Take a night off, Aveline. I'm used to pulling birds from the cat's maw. Pounce always liked to try bringing me presents that weren't quite dead. Good healing practice though; broken wings are buggers to set right."

If my father were still alive, I don't know what he'd think. Part of my problem since we came to Kirkwall, besides the blatantly obvious facts that I'm an apostate in the only city with as many templars as Val Royeaux and trying to live with the responsibility of keeping Mother and Carver alive when I've already failed to do the same for the rest of our family, has been wondering what Papa would think of me, my decisions, my actions, the way my life is changing. I've been so careful, so terribly, terribly careful the last four years, but now, it one night, in one moment,I feel like all my control is gone. In Lothering it was easier; even if he wasn't there I could still feel my father around me, his emotions, his essence soaked into the house and land he loved and worked so hard for. The home three rogue mages were never supposed to have, let alone keep for ten years.

Now I have no home - no empty fields still ringing with Papa's laughter, or shaded stream bank hidden from the road by towering rocks still echoing with hints of songs hummed under his breath while he taught me to channel the raging tempest always threatening to explode from me.

So this is where I come, to a desolate cove on the Wounded Coast, accessible only by a narrow path down a steep cliff hidden from sight by a large bush that I manage to get under by benefit of being so small. Golden light from the full harvest moon bleaches the sand bone white, the early autumn wind just slightly chilly as it blows across my skin. Stabbing the blade of my staff into the soft ground, I pile driftwood into the low stone circle I built for occasions like this, making a neat cone of sticks interspersed with dried seaweed and scrub grass for tinder.

Closing my eyes, I hear the rage from the demons in the circle of blood magic, taste it as the emotion broke through walls constructed over years and decades to separate that part of myself. Large, strong, and white-hot, a fireball forms between my hands; I hold it there, driving all the emotions I can into it, purging myself with the flames before I throw the ball into the prepared pit, igniting the cone of wood on contact. It's still not enough, and I curl my legs beneath me, feeling the cold sand on my skin through the thin cloth of my pants as I kneel down, hands fumbling at the small of my back for the dagger I carry there, grasping the handle tightly in my right hand as I draw up the sleeve of my left arm with my teeth. It has been years since I've needed to do this, needed to focus myself this way, but after tonight, I have no choice. There must be no chance of slippage again.

With short, quick movements, I reopen old wounds, freshen old scars. Copper and salt fill my nose as blood drips onto the sand but I ignore the smell, savoring the sensation as I lean back against the cliff face, closing my eyes as I focus only on the pain, my pain, something I know comes from no one but me. No whispers, no screams, no laughter, no hummed songs, just me and the silence of my own mind, the agony that tells me exactly where the boundaries must remain.

"Foul sorceress! You will die for this atrocity!" With a jerk, I am pulled from the ground by a strong hand around my throat, closing into a fist as it tries to choke the life from me. My eyes fly open, and for a moment I am blinded by a blue light, unable to recognize the person strangling me, but then I understand: Anders, or rather Justice, must have seen me with the knife and jumped to the logical conclusion - blood magic. I open my mouth, trying to speak, but I can't manage to make a noise past the constriction on my windpipe. "What demon do you bargain with? Tell me its name!"

"I… it's…" the words tear my throat, but I force them out anyway. I don't know why I'm arguing; wouldn't it be better for him just to kill me and get it over with? No more struggles, no more trying to stay in control. No more worrying about when I might slip. "Not… blood magic…" Stars burst in my vision, lights exploding into darkness, and I reach up to touch the hand ending my life, curling my fingers around the wrist as I feel my body go limp. I just didn't want to hurt anyone else… Out of the darkness covering me over, I hear a thump as I drop back to the sand, the writhing of someone close by seeking to gain control over the monster inside; oh, how well I know that sensation.

The last thing that enters my mind before I just give in is the feeling of much gentler arms cradling me against something soft and warm. "Hawke! Oh, Maker, what have I done?"

"I… it's… not… blood magic…" Lies! roars the demon of Vengeance they have become, squeezing their hand even tighter around the small neck. It is maleficarum like her, those that play with demons as if they are harmless toys, that make the templars so afraid of every mage. She is the sort that causes the needless suffering of innocents! The rage is uncontrollable; she'd almost had them convinced she was different, that she shared their desire to help all mages be free. Weakly, one hand curls around their wrist as she struggles down another breath, her flesh cold against their hot skin. I just didn't want to hurt anyone else…

No! Innocent! Inside his own head, Anders is screaming, pushing the spirit back as he retakes control of his body, collapsing on the beach as he struggles to regain use of his limbs and mind, thrashing in agony until he is in command of himself. With a surge of fear, he crawls to where the girl lays limp beside the fire, blood from the wounds in her arm soaking into the sand. Even as the mage gathers her against his chest he can feel the life ebbing from her body, slipping towards the Fade and the realm beyond even that. "Hawke! Oh, Maker, what have I done?" Blue lips, no rise and fall of her chest, eyes glazed over like a corpse, the black bruises standing out like corruptions on the white column of her neck. Black bruises from his hand… But he can still sense the barest flicker of her soul struggling to stay within the dying body, and he refuses to just let go. Placing one hand on the swollen throat and the other dead center on her chest, he focuses with all his might, pushing both his magic and Justice's strength into the inanimate figure. "Dammit Hawke, not yet!" he snarls when she doesn't respond, pushing even harder, willing to push every bit of his own life into her if he has to. "Not yet!"

The gasp that tears from her as the magic finally allows her to breath again makes her whole body shake, and then she is sobbing for breath through her aching throat, but at least she is alive. Pulling a lyrium potion from his pouch, he drinks it down before turning back to Hawke, pulling off his coat to bunch under her head to ease the flow of air into her lungs. Wet brushes against his fingers as he adjusts the makeshift pillow, and he remembers the wounds on her arm. But when he lifts the pliant limb to examine the injury, he is not expecting to see words carved into her skin. I just didn't want to hurt anyone else… Broken wings are good healing practice, didn't he tell Varric? Well, looks like he's about to get more than he bargained for.

When I wake, the colors of dawn stain the sky as the wind whips across my face, but while I should be shivering from sleeping on the beach with only my small fire for warmth, I'm not cold at all, and said fire, which should have burned its self out by now, is crackling merrily nearby, freshly fed with more driftwood by the looks of it. My throat feels raw, and suddenly I remember the night before, the cry in the darkness after Justice stopped trying to strangle me. Hand shooting to my neck I jerk upright, only to be held tight by a restraining band around my waist, and I blush to realize that I have been sleeping with my head pillowed on Anders' chest, wrapped in his tattered but undoubtedly warm blue quilted coat. "Easy," he tells me, keeping one arm around my waist to hold me in place while he digs through a pack with the other. "You've been unconscious for hours. Let's take it slow, shall we? Drink this, it will help with the soreness and swelling."

My hands are shaking, oddly numb, but I manage to wrap them both around the bottle of elfroot potion, taking slow sips that do ease the ache. When I can finally speak, I turn my head slightly to look at him, my vision blurry and slightly gritty from ending up face-first in the sand a few too many times last night. "Are you alright?"

"Maker, girl, am I alright? I almost killed you last night and you're worried about me!" He shakes his head, giving me a wide brown-eyed stare.

I take another sip of the potion, staring right back at him, tilting my own head to the side to get a better look at his face. Somehow, I doubt Anders got any sleep last night; the dark circles under his eyes suggest that, beyond trying to heal my injuries and keeping the fire going, he's been flogging himself over what happened. "I don't think that would have been an over reaction had I been using blood magic. And this is nothing worse than anything I've been through before - I was very clumsy as a child - so, yes, I'm worried about you. You did what was right to defend yourself and others from dangerous magic, but seem to think you did something terrible."

Sharply, he stands, roughly pushing me off his chest and onto the sand as he strides several lengths away. "I did do something terrible, I lost control of myself and almost murdered you! For no reason! How is that hard to understand? Andraste's knickers, you can't be this stupid!"

I feel my fists clenching at my side, and I push off his coat, forcing myself to my feet to stare him in the face. "There were plenty of reasons; if you'd see the truth, you'd know better. Until then, don't judge what you don't understand." Do not get angry, I tell myself. You're still too close. I turn around to grab my staff out of the sand, but his hand grips my arm.

A hiss escapes my lips as his palm closes over the scars I reopened the night before; Anders spins me around, looking deep into my eyes as he pushes up my sleeve, then traces his fingers over the words carved in the skin. Never again. Never again. Never again. Three times the words repeat, mirroring the ancient superstition that wishes whispered thrice under a full moon have special magic, and will always be granted. "What is this?" he asks me, forcing me to keep our gazes connected, not letting me look away, to confabulate some answer that will sound less horrible than the truth. "Why did you do this to yourself?"

"You know how I told you I hear emotions? That I'm Lamentari? Well, blood magic and I don't get along," I finally tell him, hugging myself with my free arm. "Do you ever think about how much pain goes into blood magic? Especially Tevinter blood magic, where the victims are killed? It's… deafening; I don't hear anything else, not the people around me, not the Fade, not even my own thoughts or feelings. Times like that I have to stay… focused." Anders opens his mouth to say something, but this is my confession, and I push my finger hard into his chest to stop him. "When you tried to heal me in that mansion, you broke my focus while blood magic was working on me. I lost control, I could have killed everyone in that room, not just the demons. Done it before; I was born a monster."

I turn away, moving back to gather my things from beside the fire, but his voice catches me, freezing me from moving forward. "Who did you kill?"

"My father; I was sixteen. You can't deafen Lamentari without making them Tranquil; our emotions are too bound up with those around us. My mother wouldn't let me go to the Circle, so I did the only thing I could think of. I marked myself to remember what happens when I'm not strong enough. Up till yesterday, it worked." A sigh escapes me, and I sit down beside the fire, looking up at the other mage for a moment. "Look, I'm sorry things always end up so weighty between us. The fact is, the few times we've been around each other that hasn't involved us talking about killing people we love, I've enjoyed. I just want you to know, whatever you want to talk about, I won't judge. You can tell me anything."

Half a smile quirks his lips as he sits beside me, picking his coat up from the sand and brushing it off before settling it back over his shoulders. "Anything? Be careful what you offer." Anders' smile vanishes as he pokes at the fire with a sick, and I finish the elfroot potion as I wait for him to collect his thoughts. "With Justice and me… I didn't know what would happen. I figured a willing host, a friend… it had to be better than playing the demon and haunting some corpse."

Tentatively, I reach out my hand, resting it on his arm nearest me. "It must have been hard for him, being trapped outside the Fade. In a place where no one's like him. I bet he appreciated having a friend. And, well, he can't complain about his looks with you." Maker, Ebony, what's wrong with you? You've never said anything like that before in your life, to anyone!

For a moment, he just sits there frozen, my hand on his arm, then he gently reaches up and pushes it off, turning to look at me with so much sadness echoing between us that it takes my breath away. "No. Don't go there. That's not going to end well. I don't want to hurt you again."

"You won't, I can feel it. We're too much alike; we learn from our weaknesses." Catching his eyes, I lock my gaze with his. "You won't ever let Justice touch me again. I trust you."

"We are the same; the man in the Chantry who killed all those templars, the monster that almost murdered you last night, that's who I am."

Sand flies out of my hair as I shake my head. "Anders…"

Holding up a hand, he stops me before turning his eyes to stare out at the ocean. "Don't. A year ago, maybe we could have had something. But I'm not that man anymore; I'm not a man any woman should be near. I'll break your heart. And that might kill me as surely as the templars."

"You don't know me very well," I tell him as I stand up for the last time, brushing the sand from my clothes before I retrieve my staff. "All I've ever had is a broken heart."

I may seem crazy
Or painfully shy
And these scars wouldn't be so hidden
If you would just look me in the eye
I feel alone here and cold here
Though I don't want to die
But the only anesthetic that makes me feel anything kills inside

I do not want to be afraid
I do not want to die inside just to breathe in
I'm tired of feeling so numb
Relief exists I find it when
I am cut

A/n: Lyrics from "Cut" by Plumb. Many thanks to my first reader / sounding board / beta AmandaKitswell, who gets to put up with the spelling mistakes that come with the fact that I now have two partially paralyzed hands instead of one (including the fact I called Anders a willing hose instead of a willing host), and who also sends me amazing music to listen to while I write.