A/N: The final chapter, ladies and gents.

Warning: Sexy angst. So much of it.

The first time she goes out again, he is filled to the brim with fear. It is not a big job and they do not have need of his skills, so he stays behind to busy himself at the clinic, patching wounds and coaxing the chokedamp rot from the lungs of children.

She comes back to him after dark, and it begins again. She is bloody and bruised, and he bloodies and bruises her.

She leaves for longer next time and he is beside himself, unable to do simple things as her voice haunts his every step. He finds himself waiting, and waiting, and she only comes back to him when he is certain that she will not. It begins again, this time with the poison of his bitterness between them.

She does not understand how she robs him of himself, how he is a mess, useless without her. He is rough with her of his own accord, and sometimes now she looks through him, as though she no longer recognizes his face.

He resents her, wants her, hates her, needs her. She buys her mother a house in Hightown but does not invite him there. She claims she would rather be with him here, away from the prying eyes of servants and her mother, but he does not believe her. Still, she comes back, she stays, and it makes him feel ashamed. All he can offer her is himself: his unreliable magic, his fracturing mind, his obsessive love, his small clinic in the very worst part of a dangerous city. He is nothing that she needs, and yet he cannot be without her.

Justice is quiet in her absence and he feels as if he is going mad with all of the silence in his head.

When she is there the spirit rumbles, is angry, grinding against his control like a rasp against the bars of a prison cell. It is not safe for her to be here, but he keeps her anyway, seeks to bind her to his side, to force her to stay.

The next time she comes back, she is wounded again and it is more than just bruises. A nasty gash ribbons her arm from shoulder to elbow, and her thigh bleeds freely.

"When you get shot with arrows, you're not supposed to just rip them out." He hears the heavy disapproval in his voice and he can't seem to force himself to smile.

She laughs, like she usually does when he scolds her, and lifts her uninjured shoulder in a semblance of a helpless shrug. "Now you tell me."

He doesn't find it funny and he scowls as he works, closing the wounds with what scant power he has left to him after a long day. Justice natters in the back of his mind and irritably he shoves the spirit away, forcing himself to concentrate. Silence descends and it is only when he is finished that he realizes her jokes and her laughter have died on her lips and she's watching him with a brow furrowed with concern.

He looks away hastily and starts to get up, but she stops him, her hand gentle on his sleeve. "Anders."

His name comes out like a question and he can feel himself getting red, heat rising along his throat all the way up to his ears, but he can't bear to meet her eyes.

"What's wrong?"

"The arrow-"

"No, not the arrow. What's really wrong, Anders?" She guides his chin upward with her fingertips and looks into his face, but he looks down, pulls away. She catches his shoulders again, pulls him back. Frustration sweeps him, feeling himself quake, his stomach clutching at the nearness of her.

"Why can't you let me be gentle with you?" Everything that has built up bursts out of him now and he rises up onto his knees to put them level where she sits, his eyes meeting hers with their inherent accusation. His hands close around her shoulders and despite his words, he gives her a little shake, not realizing that his grasp has undone some of his work and her skin is wet and red beneath his palm.

She looks taken aback at the anger evident on his face, brow furrowing in confusion. His words and his hands are telling her different things, and for a moment she doesn't understand. "What do you- You mean… when we make love?"

She has never called it that before, never put a name to what they do here, tumbling around each other in the dark. He nods in answer, feeling the shame tugging at him again, held back only with the small tendril of hope that slips into his heart with her response.

She is silent for another long moment, her eyes on him searching, the expression in them something measuring, something more than confusion. "You want to be more gentle?" She asks finally, and her tone is careful, the words slow.

He sighs. "Yes. Yes, that's what I want."

"Then you might want to move your hand, that wound you just closed is leaking."

He might have laughed at her wry tone, empty of accusation as it was, but he couldn't, too full of something like horror as his hand came away wet with her blood. Idiot, Justice comments drolly.

Anders ignores him, closing the wound again with a gentle brush of thumb and forefinger. She is still looking at him, watching him with those piercing blue eyes, and now he just feels foolish. When she speaks again, it's all he can do not to swallow his tongue.

"You need to go."

"I- What? Are you… You're kicking me out?"

She's trying not to smile, or something else, something he can't quite put a finger on. Her hand lifts to run through her hair in that age-old movement that is so her. "Just for a few minutes. Let me have some time to wash up and get my thoughts in order, and then we'll do this right. I promise."

He paces outside in the alley for what seems like hours, impatient and yet afraid that he won't give her the time she needs, that he'll somehow ruin this.

She knows he's there, and the laughter is apparent in her voice when she calls his name. Feeling stupid, he pushes back through the door to find her waiting for him. The clinic is dark; she's doused every light but a single candle she's set near the bed they so often share, and it stands out like a beacon. She is silhouetted by its glow, and he realizes as he draws near that she's wearing his shirt again and nothing else; the worn and threadbare garment does little to obscure the lines of her body beneath it, all but transparent with the light behind.

She looks embarrassed, hands smoothing the fabric down from hip to thigh. "Had I known, I would have brought something more appropriate. Well, bought something more appropriate. I hope this is alright."

She's nervous, and it makes his heart swell to bursting. He shushes her with a smile, but does not touch her, merely allowing his eyes to drink their fill. She can't know what she does to him, her lithe body wrapped in his clothing, all long legs and bare feet. It spoke of comfort, of something simple and uncomplicated. "You have never looked more beautiful than you do right now."

She falls silent and he can't tell in the dark if she's blushing, but her skin is warm when his hands finally find their way to her. This time he is gentle, skimming the curve of her ribcage with his fingertips, tracing paths down to her narrow waist, to the subtle flare of her hips. This time they go slow, and her mouth is soft beneath his, yielding and uncertain. She lets him lead her, but this time it is different. There is no urgency, no fierce, quick passion. When she would have clawed at him before, when he would have shoved her down onto the bed or onto the floor, now he lifts her in his arms like the very first night she had come to him, and lays her down with such gentleness, such infinite patience.

He knows her body but he explores it again, drawing new maps with his fingers, with his lips. She is soft and yet hard, and where before she would have pulled him to her, flipped him onto his back with her agile strength, she remains pliant beneath him, limbs trembling with the effort to remain still except for where her hand comes up to loosen his hair from its tie, playing it through her fingers.

When he looks into her face she seems nervous, guarded, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. His hand comes up to cup her cheek, the pad of his thumb sliding over her mouth as though memorizing every part of her features, painting her with his touch.

This is what he wants. She is what he wants. He divests them of their clothing and lies against her; she is warm and willing, and his arms come around her, lifting her into his chest as he slides inside her. It lasts and lasts and lasts, spun out between them like a fragile gossamer thread, and for a moment near the end he is back in the dream. He is standing at the bank of a river, and the air is golden in a way it can only be in the height of spring when sunlight comes through fresh green leaves. His feet are bare in the grass and it is soft under him, the sounds of water a constant murmur, holding the memories of snow. Her hair is wet and its long tendrils tangle in his fingers.

This fragile thing between them ends almost as it is beginning.

He feels her crest beneath him, his name on her lips, and he spills himself inside her, his face buried in her hair. But the name he speaks does not belong to her.

The moment those syllables pass his lips he knows he has erred grievously, and this mistake will be his damnation.

Hawke has gone still beneath him and utterly silent. The quiet rises up to dig its icy fingers into him, and for a long moment he doesn't dare move, doesn't dare meet her eyes. When he does, finally, he cannot be sure of what he sees there, only knowing with a sinking surety that with a single word he has shattered utterly the trust between them. The thought is fit to sunder what is left of his soul.

Of course.

It makes sense to her in this moment, and she wonders how she could not have seen it before. Bethany and Anders… They had both been mages, had their magic in common, and that alone in her estimation would have been enough. But Bethany had been so sweet, so kind, so full of life and love. It spilled over into everything she did, every movement she made. Who could keep from loving her? Who could help themselves?

And this thing between them, this fragile, brittle thing… against her sister's name on the lips of her lover as they coil together in the darkness, it means very little.

Of course, she thinks. Of course.

"Hawke…"

Hawke, she thinks bitterly. Not Marian. Still just the mask she wears for them, the one that proclaims her leader and worthy of their loyalty. The one she can never let slip lest they find out she is human, afraid and unsure as any of them. Of course.

It might have been different if he'd called her by her name, but he had not. She can wear any mask he likes, lover, protector, fierce leader or loyal friend. But she cannot wear a mask of her little sister's face.

She is out from underneath him before he can say another word, her hands reaching automatically for her armor and weapons the way one would reach for a blanket when cold. He can only watch her, the quick, deft movements of leather sliding into place, straps being buckled, laces being tied. Panic rises in him, its screams deafening his ears and making his mouth so dry it is a long moment before he can choke out words.

"Hawke, I… I didn't mean…"

Hawke, again. Do you even know who I am?

"It's alright, Anders." When she turns to face him, her expression is smooth, unreadable. Just another mask, then. With you, like all the rest. "I understand. You miss her." She smiles, but the twist of her mouth is forced; hideous, terrible, necessary. She has not paused in yanking the laces of her gauntlet tight. "I miss her too. She was the very, very best of us."

His hands ache and when he looks down he finds them twisted into the bedcovers, fists clenched so tight his bones hurt. He wants touch her, to reach out and pull her back down to him, to kiss her and love her until she believes in him again. Until he's driven out the doubt and made her to understand that what he'd said was just a mistake born of unbidden dreams. He wants to throw himself naked and pathetic at her feet, and beg her not to go with as many words as it will take to prove himself. A hundred. A thousand. As many as could fill a lifetime, to make this one thing right.

Foolish mage, Justice whispers in the back of his mind. How did you really expect this to play out?

In the end he says nothing, not even as his body trembles and his eyes blur with tears and desperation. Justice is right. This is no more than he deserves. Quite a bit less, in fact. If she were to kill him now, to take one of those bright blades of hers and slice it cleanly across his throat, it would be every bit of a fate he's earned.

Then, her laces are tied, her buckles tightened, daggers slid home within their sheathes, and there is no more reason to stay.

When she turns, he finally finds his voice. It is strained and frayed and it makes her eyes squeeze shut with the hurt of it. "But your wound…?"

"Leave it, if you will. I'd like to keep it a while longer."

She flees in the silence that follows, as slowly and calmly as she can manage.

When she finally drags herself back to the estate, she finds her mother reading before the fireplace in the foyer, Hawke's loyal mabari dozing at her feet.

"Marian?"

The word, the sound, the shape of her name; it is just a cruel mockery.

"Mother. I didn't see light in the windows, I thought you would have gone to bed."

Leandra watches the profile of her daughter's face as Hawke turns to face the hearth, leaning over it with hands braced against the mantle. "I couldn't sleep. I wasn't expecting you home, though. I thought you'd be with Anders."

His name is a question, one she isn't sure if she trusts herself to answer. She does not often speak plainly of her personal life to her mother, especially not where love is concerned and all the things that come with it. Still, she has been few places but at Anders' side these past weeks, and her mother is not an unperceptive woman. She even hints approval now and again. She'd admitted that Anders reminded her of Hawke's father often enough, she could not very well be displeased.

But she didn't know the darkness within him. Justice was not a thing they spoke of, and while it was hardly unknown among those who fought at her side, she would protect this secret from her mother. He was a good man, still a good man, and she would not rob him of her mother's goodwill as she had robbed him of her sister. Not when he had so little left.

"We ended it tonight, mother." Her voice is smooth and plain, like a river stone polished away to nothing. "I ended it." She does not dare look into her mother's face, lest she see the disappointment there.

"Do you want to talk about it?" The words are long in coming and carefully chosen, book put aside on the armrest of her chair. They are not the words of a mother comforting the hurts of her daughter, but then, Marian so rarely seems to want comfort or find it welcome.

When Hawke looks over, straightening finally, the mask she wears is light and smiling. "No, thank you though. It's a small thing anyhow, and it's late. I'm going to bed." She leaned over to lay a soft kiss against the top of her mother's head. "Don't stay up too late. I worry about you."

Leandra turns to watch her daughter go, watches the way her shoulders slump when she thinks no one is looking, watches the tired way she runs her hand through her hair, and knows that she has lied. Whatever has happened late this night is no small thing. It has taken something out of her girl, broken something that she doesn't know how to fix.

"I love you, Marian," she says quietly to the air.

But it is only Bethany's name that follows Hawke up the stairs.

A/N: Reading through this again as I've posted it, I realized there are a lot more ways of interpreting the events in this story than - more than just what exists in my own head cannon. Does Anders really love Bethany? Did Hawke ever really love Anders? Did Justice have anything to do with Anders' dream? So many possibilities! Tell me what you think, and thanks for reading.

A further note: This was actually meant to be the final chapter of this story, which I realize leaves a lot of things unresolved. Thanks to all who commented and reviewed and read, I may have to start thinking of a sequel...