By late afternoon Anders had already decided to offer his apologies for letting the conversation of the morning get so badly out of hand. Seeing such a look on his lover's face had been terrible, and the mage had sat and ruminated on how he could have spoken better, without causing Hawke to have to storm off. There was a small voice nagging at the back of his head, that suggested Hawke was not entirely blameless, but he discounted that as some whisper of Justice, and elected to ignore it. It irritated him that Justice would not speak with himself directly anymore, just feed slow tickling notions and doubts into his stream of conscience.

The door opened, and Anders rose to his feet to greet Hawke. He could smell the tavern on the man, and the strong daylight behind him caused him to furrow his brow in concern. Hawke however, stumbled in, and closed the door behind him, shutting off the light.

"Anders... " He was not quite slurring as he spoke, but Hawke's head bobbed, displacing long dark hair as he observed the mage. It felt uncomfortable, to be stared at, *leered* at in such a manner, and Anders was shocked at Hawke's drunken state, so early in the day.

Hawke stumbled forwards, and narrowed missed falling into the firepit. Anders caught him, and the rouge wrapped arms around him to keep himself upright. Trapped in the tight embrace, Anders tried to keep Hawke's weight from dragging them both to the floor. Hawke righted himself, with a couple of clumsy steps, still clutching to Anders, and grinned.

"Anders..." He repeated, this time slurring the s. He dipped forwards in a wide-mouthed kiss, and Anders caught the scent of something strongly pungent on Hawke's breath.

He turned his head, deciding that in this sort of mood, Hawke was best put to bed with a jug of water. He was surprised when a hand closed round the back of his head, and held him as Hawke planted a wet kiss against his cheek.

"Want you... Now." it was a voice thick with lust, and Anders suddenly realized that Hawke was hard against him, a low growl reverberating with each breath.

"You are drunk." Anders stated, realising with a start quite how tight he was held in Hawke's arms.

"Still want you..."

The mage thought frantically, back to the many times he'd wriggled from grasping templars during his numerous escape attempts. There was no move that would free himself, that would not cause Hawke some injury to some extent. He could heal any damage, but that was hardly the point. Likewise, Anders could not fight against Hawke's raw strength, and any spell that would grant his freedom would have to be brutal, and aimed squarely against his lover. He couldn't do it, not even as Hawke, with an animalistic growl, dragged him down hard against the floor, clambering over him and pinning him down.

He started to shout, various pleas and attempts to get the man on top of him to halt, to stop and see that Anders did not want this. Not like this, when Hawke was besotted with alcohol, and having to hold down the mage. Not when Hawke was ripping his trousers from him.

With a savage furiousity, Hawke pressed down, letting Anders hear heartbeat, thundering and loud, and the heat radiating from the rogue. There was a high pitched whine, and Anders only realised it was his own as Hawke scowled at him.

"Stop that." he said, and Anders somehow managed to silence his protests, Hawke's fierce eyes and bared teeth scaring him. His eyes squeezed shut, as Hawke's clumsy attempts to push down his breeches finally succeeded. Rolls of fabric were bunched down around his knees, and he could feel the floor, hard and cold beneath him.

He writhed.

Hawke, seemed vaguely amused at the mage's struggles, and caught his mouth again into another wet, loose kiss. Anders clamped his mouth firmly shut, and used his chin to push back Hawke's adventuring tongue.

He jerked, as Hawke reached down, and tapped against his smalls. Too well conditioned at the feel of Hawke against him for his body to resist, he knew that Hawke would feel the beginnings of an erection under the cloth. Spurred on, Hawke rolled his hips against the mage, crushing him against the floor, licking his lips hungrily.

"You might say you don't want this, but look at you, hard as stone..."

Try as he might, he could not stop the slow sensation of Hawke rubbing *there*, and Anders flushed to think of himself put in such a position. It did not help that this, beneath the haze of alcohol and reminiscent traces of anger from the morning's argument, was Hawke. Warm Hawke, brave Hawke, protecting and sure. His heart could not deny the man, and his body was certainly reacting to the way Hawke was holding him, thrusting against him. He wanted to resist, but he also wanted to give in. Desperately, he reached for Justice's guiding voice, knowing that the spirit would give him the strength to refuse Hawke's drunken advances. There was only silence in his mind, followed by another soft whimper, as Hawke stretched his underclothes to the side. A finger, dry, calloused and clumsy, was pressing underneath against his backside, and he arched from it. A reedy thin noise of pain, as flesh gave way, and Hawke's hand curled around his skin as his normally dextrous digit failed to seek out Anders's knot of nerves. Rough, much too rough, too fast, and painful as fingernails dug in to try and give the probing digit purchase. Hawke seemed blind to the suffering he was causing Anders, swaying atop him, pushing his finger in deep.

Anders whimpered in pain, as his entrance burned.

"I said to stop making that noise..." Hawke growled.

Emptiness, and the burning stopped as Hawke pulled back suddenly, and then there was a crack. Pain, shocking after so many days without the scuffles that had become almost habitual.

Hawke regarded his own fist, curling his other hand over where knuckle had connected with lip. Anders stared, then lifted his own hand to his face, and felt the heat emanating from the tender flesh. His lip swelled, and he looked to Hawke for explanation, aghast that the man would have ever hit out at him.

The blow broke the spell. With a grunt of effort, Anders shoved against Hawke's chest, tipping the man to the side. Sluggish to react, Hawke landed heavily, his hands too slow to catch himself. Anders scrabbled to his feet, and grabbed a pair of shoes and his cloak, not even stopping to put them on. He was too intent on getting out of there, away from *him*.

"You need time to cool down Hawke. Cool down and sober up." his voice was quickened by his fear, and he closed the door before Hawke could order him to stop.

It was evening, and chilly. He braced himself against a nearby wall to pull his shoes on, and then fastened his cloak more securely round his neck. He took a longing look behind him, then decided to make himself scarce in case Hawke came storming out to find him.

Hawke was a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield, cutting down countless thousands with his daggers. He'd watch him stand, bloodied and grinning, then leap into yet another fight. The former champion of Kirkwall had taunted a high dragon, and gloated an Arishok into charging, sometimes giving the appearance of a man who'd lost his mind. Yet, Anders had never had cause to fear the man.

Hawke was a master at controlling himself. Even when furious, he could conduct himself with a civil tongue and get the job done, no matter what sleazy lowlife he had to deal with. He had morals too, and when a line was crossed, would not hesitate to cut down those who traded in slaves, or dabbled in blood magic. His moral quams did seem to fluctuate depending on the coin offered... but he could be forgiven for that when he mostly would do the right thing, no matter what cave of spiders or dragons stood in the way. Generally, Hawke could be counted to keep a clear head and steady temper. This side of Hawke, this angry and violent creature, was unexpected and unnerving.

Now that the initial rush of having to escape had eased, he could feel the tell-tale prickling of Justice, the spirit unintelligible save for the emotion he could sense rattling within his head. Justice was furious, but something was preventing him from acting, from taking full possession of the body he shared. Anders was briefly aware that should Justice actually gain control, the fade spirit would be keen to have Hawke answer for his actions, and could just tell that would not go well.

"Calm." he said, quietly to himself, "Hawke was not responsible. He'd had too much to drink, blame the alcohol..."

Justice was not to be appeased by such an explanation, and a fresh wave of rage, and helplessness, and then anger at not being able to act followed. Anders, taking deep, Justice-controlling breaths, wondered if his knowledge that Justice would likely end up attempting to attack Hawke, should he achieve any form of command, was allowing him to keep Justice in check. Hawke was fast, and could dodge most assaults, but in his current state, a lightening bolt would rip through his unarmored body.

Justice, already fading to a dull nagging sensation, applauded the thought of using magic against the rogue. Anders stamped his foot angrily at the spirit's desire to harm his lover, no matter how much of a brute he'd been in the last hour.

"That is not justice! We'll do no such thing." he snapped angrily, his voice raising above his usual self-muttering.

"Mister... You all right?"

Anders turned, and met eyes with the boy with the off-set arm. The boy, mouth agape, forced a scream from the lips. Heads of the few locals finishing up their business in the town before nightfall, turned. One of the faces, rather than focusing on Anders, who was now backing away carefully, looked to the boy and tutted loudly.

"Pipe down Damule, what you yelling at? Sorry Serrah, the boy's a trouble maker. Likes to go about causing a fuss..."

The boy, Damule, ran up to the man berating him, and pointed urgently.

"That's the mage! I wasn't lying, that's him there! His hands were aglow, and he was going to summon a demon into me, I swear!"

The townsfolk, who had started to gather to the commotion, jerked away as if pushed. Accusing eyes narrowed on Anders, who held up his hands peacefully.

"I... I am a healer. I was going to fix his arm..."

"You're a mage!" the man, now standing between Anders and the boy protectively, pointed a finger.

Too late it occurred that he could have lied, but that sort of instinct came more naturally to Hawke than himself. Besides, he hated to think what Justice's opinion of a mage who denied his abilities would be.

"Yes..." He said slowly, watching as the crowd widened further at the confession, "But a healer. I use magic to help heal people... "

"Magic is a sign of the accursed, of those who brought the blight to the lands." one of the crowd muttered, only to be nudged from the similarly aged woman at her side.

"Yourself has been healed before. Back when the water got so deep into your lungs you could hardly breath. Mayhap a healer ain't such cursed."

Anders allowed himself to take a small, nervous breath of relief as the townpeople considered this, muttered to each other about the travelling healer elf who had come two summers ago and cured much of the afflictions brought to her. She took coin, it seemed, but was not unreasonable in what she had charged.

Then, like the fall of a sword, someone said "The monster-mage who murdered the high cleric Elthina was a healer..."

It was not a direct accusation, but it was enough to make the people rethink about how harmless a healer mage might be. The man standing over Damule, set his jaw.

"Winnie, go and fetch through Ser Aggie. Wake her up if you have to. Now you, mage, you just stay put till the templar gets here. She'll know what to make of you."

Anders thought of the girl they had hanged, and that Ser Aggie had not prevented such an occurrence. He could stay, peacefully, and try to convince the townsfolk of his good intentions, but the idea of being made to dangle in a noose stuck a chord of fear through him. He had listened to Hawke's sorry tale of mages and death, and believed every word, and could not know that Ser Aggie would likely turn a blind eye, in interests of keeping the peace in her hometown.

The apostate shook his head, and started to step backwards.

"Hey now! Stay yourself!" Even as Anders made to run, the villages did not move to grab him, obviously too afraid of the powers a mage might weld against them.

One or two made to give chase, but Anders raised one hand, summoning a fireball, and they quickly retreated. The fire flickered and died as Anders fled the scene, back to Hawke.

Still on the floor, dribbling into the crux of an arm, Hawke stirred groggy as Anders rushed in, speaking an urgent, insistent noise. Words started to form, and Hawke forced himself to listen.

"Hawke! They know."

Hawke's eyes snapped open. Anders continued to speak, a frantic flurry of words, " The boy, he recognised me... Pointed me out. Others, they know Hawke. I had to run, came right back here, but they'll soon follow. I... I am sorry..."

Hawke felt a chill creep down his spine, and he narrowed his eyes at the mage, who was hovering at the door, unsure if it was safe to approach.

"Blast it Anders! How could you have been such a fool?" Hawke then blinked, sluggish, and rubbed at his head, which was already started to suffer under the effects of the home brewed spirit.

"Just the boy saw you...?"

"No, there were others, six or seven... They were going to get the templar." Anders was miserable, and frightened. He could see Hawke's usual mask of calm fracture, and a slow dread fill his eyes. He gave a soft groan, whether from the alcohol or despair at the situation, it wasn't clear.

"Heal me. I need to think."

"It'll not...work... I cannot cure drunkenness, nor the nip of a hangover, you know that."

"I don't sodding care, heal me, so that I can try to save our skins!"

Anders cast at Hawke, and watched as Hawke's body rejected the alcoholic poison that remained in his gut. Wiping the flecks of vomit from his mouth, Hawke took a deep breath, and got to his feet. He still felt like his skull might cave in at any point, but at least now he could stand without the room spinning.

"Right... Right. The packs, go fetch them out from under the bed, and put on as many tunics and trousers as you can. We'll be travelling through the night and it'll get cold. We'll have to leave, as quick as possible before word gets around."

He walked, unsteadily, to the kitchen, and started to gather food stuffs that they could take. Anders, seeing Hawke put everything behind him in order to cope with the current crisis, followed suit, and dragged the pair of packs out from under the bed. Old weapons and armour, and the last of their possessions from Kirkwall, stored in two large canvas backpacks for such an event. Hawke had been devastated to lose all that he that earned when forced to flee, and had made preparations in case of a repeat. Anders was at once glad of Hawke's prudence, and shamed that he had caused the former champion of Kirkwall to had to run like a lowly criminal or runaway apostate yet again.

He pulled his staff out, and regarded it. They'd cut the decorative gems from the top, and tried to make it look like a simple walking stick, rubbing ash into the runes to hide the magical glow. He laid it out, and started to tie it to the backpack, which would leave his hands free when moving. Hawke, moving to place the food, and of all things, Anders's tealeaves, on the bed frowned.

"You'll need your weapon to hand Anders..." He said, his words a criticism rather than statement. He pulled his own daggers out, oiled and glinting in the dimming light, and fastened them to his belt.

That Hawke seemed ready to fight his way out, against unorganised townfolks who were of hardly any real threat, made Anders painfully aware of the gravity of the situation. He took his staff, and then started to pull a set of tunics over his head.

Hawke was quick under pressure, and it did not take long before he was casting his eye round the small set of rooms, looking for anything of value they might have missed. He gave a small, grave nod to Anders.

"Let's go."

They headed out into the streets, busy even in the night, and Hawke ushered Anders to walk calmly beside him. They took a series of backroads and alleyways, leading out of town.

Shouts from behind, and Hawke turned, hands on both daggers but not yet drawing them.

"Hold! We have a mage loose. Hold and be seen." the barkeep approached, and Hawke felt his heart sink. He lowered his own hood, and raised one hand in greeting. One remained on the hilt of the dagger, tensing around the wrapped metal.

"'lo barkeep." softly, not to arouse further interest.

"Mars? Mars, you surely can pick your moments to go out for a walk. Its dangerous out. There is a mage..." Then, noting how Anders was keeping to the shadows and not showing his face. He caught glimpse of the staff, and pointed. "Whose your friend?"

"Cousin of mine, pay no mind. He is a bit simple..." The last words were stark, and Anders felt the bite behind the lie.

"Ahh... Get him to lower his hood, and I'll let you get on back home. The streets ain't for wandering tonight, I can tell you."

Anders, looking to Hawke, dutifully lowered his hood, and the barkeep stopped and stared.

"Mars! Blonde, and bearded... That's the mage we're all out seeking!" he was hissing, angry but not yet drawing attention to them.

"Its a mistake, the man is harmless, I give you my word. He's no mage, but he does fall under my care."

The barkeep looked at Anders, and then back at Hawke.

"Marsellion, I want to believe you... But... Old Orain, he says he saw flames shoot from the mage's fingertips..."

Hawke's eyes hardened, and he drew his blade, holding it out so that the barkeeper could see the weapon. He shifted into a fighting stance.

"Let us leave... We'll go quite-like, out of town and you'll not see us again."

The barkeep hesitated, confused at Hawke's sudden unspoken threat, and then turned to Anders. His face scrunched into an angry mask.

"Mage! Release him from your thrall. Marsellion is a good man, and would not bring blade against his neighbour."

Hawke saw the barkeep's mistake first, and could not think how to convince him that he was not being manipulated by Anders. Anders, shocked at being called a blood mage, automatically lifted his hands to cover his eyes, in case Justice broke through and compounded the situation. With his hands, he lifted his staff, and the barkeep leapt back.

"Here! The mage is here, and he's got Marsellion!"

Hawke turned, and started to sprint down the street, away from the barkeep and the sound of gathering feet. The people he'd spend evenings with sharing a beer, and working the fields or hay bales, were running to save him from the mage. With a grimace, he called back to Anders.

"Firestorm, now! Block off the street!"

Anders did as he was bid, and conjuring a rain of fire down from the sky, causing the villagers to scream and fall back. The barkeep, caught in the middle, tried to find cover, but one of the falling fireballs landed by his feet, and he yelled out in pain as the flames caught onto his breeches.

The shouts, screams and general chaos covered the sound of their thundering feet, as Hawke and Anders fled the scene.