Dragon Age Masquerade

_A/N: Hi, everyone! This is not my first fic, but it's definitely been a while since I've written anything like this. Please leave reviews and let me know if you have any ideas/suggestions/anything of the sort. I'd also love if people liked this enough to want to maybe co-author or beta or anything like that, but please don't just follow and not say hi- I wanna get to know my readers! This probably won't be the fluffiest fic ever, but I'll do my best not to make it overly depressing. Okay, I think that's enough said, so please enjoy!_

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A soft rustle could be heard not far off in the distance, and deep red hair swayed in the breeze as the young Hawke's head turned toward the sound. The smell was very faint, but the 16 year old had been hunting long enough to recognize it; the smell of a deer, male, at that. His eyes remained closed as he concentrated long and hard on the sound. _Slightly to the east,_ he told himself as he held his breath and took slow, steady, silent steps toward the delicate crunch of twigs breaking under hooves. He drew back the familiar string of the bow his father had given him and trained his golden brown eyes on the sight in front of him. A large buck, as he'd correctly guessed, was grazing with his back toward the young hunter. A silent prayer, then the quick _whoosh_ of an arrow came before a cry of pain from the animal. Before he had time to suffer, Garrett was upon the mighty beast and a knife was embedded in his heart before his sun kissed hands gave the strong antlers a gentle pet.  
'Thank you for all you will give us,' his hair fell over his eyes as he bowed his head, and his steady hand then brushed the fiery strands away before brushing his knife off to clean it. The easy part was over, and all that was left was for him to bring the trophy back to his home. His father, mother, and sister would all be proud; his brother too, although he wouldn't admit it. Even if he didn't receive any praise, however, he'd be happy that they'd be able to eat well for a few nights.

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It would be wrong to say the 24 year old woke feeling well rested that morning. In all honesty, he felt like he'd gotten no sleep at all, like he was more tired than he was when he'd first laid down in the poor excuse for a bed. He was in Kirkwall, Lowtown, more specifically, and staying in his uncle Gamlen's house with his mother and brother. The bed was hard as iron, without any cushion or give at all, and the bedroom smelled of old cheese, rat droppings, and a few other things the man dared not identify. When he finally brought himself to sit up, he bumped his head on the bottom of the bed above him; the pain forming in the top of his head was becoming familiar, considering he went through the same routine every morning. How was he supposed to remember that he and his brother ended up sharing bunk beds when he couldn't even see it? He heaved a soft sigh and rubbed his messy red mop of hair before standing and pulling on the tunic he left on the barrel near the bed he'd been using as a table. While he could no longer see them, he knew where each and every scar on his torso was and how and when he'd gotten it. Some of them were probably misshapen, as he'd lost muscle since he'd become a- as soon as it came, Garrett pushed the thought away. He didn't want to think of that then. It was too early in the morning and he had much to do. He'd finally finished his year of forced servitude under Meeran and the Red Iron, and not even a week into his freedom, had already promised Aveline he'd help her with a job of some kind. There were some smugglers or thieves or some idiots somewhere up in the Wounded Coast where they shouldn't have been and the guardswoman needed his help to get rid of them.

After twenty minutes, Hawke was ready, his robe was on, and he had his staff in hand. Should he bring his staff? He supposed it couldn't hurt, considering he'd only be with Aveline, Carver, and Varric and immediately after they were finished, he'd return to the shoddy hole of a home. No reason to fear the Templars any more than usual, and he wasn't sure he had enough arrows to deal with a whole caravan of troublemakers, even if he would have had two swords and Varric's own arrows for support. A quick mental note was taken to go shopping for more before too long, and then the mage strode over to the bed where his brother was still sleeping.

'Carver. Wake up, it's already past midday and you know we have things to do,' his brother gave a groan of protest, then likely rolled over as per usual whenever an attempt was made to wake him. _Lazy bastard…_ Garrett didn't even bother to ask again, he wasn't in the mood for talking. He was, however, in the mood to get going, so he sent a small spirit bolt in his brother's direction and the small shriek was assurance enough he was awake, so the mage left the room. He gave a curt goodbye to his mother and ignored his uncle as always, then left the putrid hole with his mabari and headed to Hightown without even waiting for his brother.

After listening, albeit unwillingly, to Varric and Aveline discuss their professions for what felt like an eternity, Carver finally joined the group in the barracks. He mumbled an apology or two, and the mage promptly left the three, an uncomfortably chatty group, to lag some paces behind. The trek to the Wounded Coast was fairly uneventful, with only a short stop to stock up on potions and pick up a few new fittings for their armour, and a small interruption by a beggar child. Garrett scoffed at the pest and pushed past him as if he was nothing more than a worm in the path of a hawk, not even worth being scooped up in his talons. When they finally reached their destination, Garrett held out a robed arm, signaling for everyone to stop. While the dwarf questioned the two on what was happening, the mage took in his surroundings, as he always did before entering into a battle. He could smell the sea, the sand, the pathetically scarce traces of greenery, and… charred wood. Someone had started up a fire, and probably not very far from where they were.

'Carver,' that one word was a command in and of itself. They may not have always agreed on everything, but the brothers always put their differences aside when they were on the battlefield; when it was life and death, they knew they could depend on each other. The younger, yet larger brother moved forward louder than the older would have liked, but he supposed it would do. Another set of footsteps followed behind, and he knew they were Aveline's based on how far apart each rustle of sand was from the next; Varric's strides were much shorter than hers for obvious reasons. As soon as he heard the first sound of metal scrape against metal, the unofficial leader jumped into the fray. A spirit bolt flew toward the nearest unfamiliar aura before his staff went flying; twirling this way and that as he sent out fireball after fireball. Surprised cries and frazzled shouts filled the air as well as the pungent scent of blood and sweat; and Garrett felt more at home in Kirkwall than he had in a long while. He was killing, and he was surrounded by nature, and that was all he wanted in life. Ever since…

Bright red heat surrounded his body in his moment of panic, and before any serious harm could be done, he regained his composure and sent the flames toward the last opposing life force he sensed. A shrill scream left her, but it slowly died out as the sound of her pulse did. They had won, but Garrett had lost himself in his past, something he hadn't done in years. Something he'd sworn he'd never let happen again, but seemed to be happening on a regular basis lately. Were his powers too strong for him to control? He'd have to work on that. Fire was his enemy, the curse that he'd never be able to escape, so he decided to use it as his weapon, deadly as it was. He could channel his hatred through the uncontrollable flames, and use his rage to share his pain with his enemies. Fire had taken everything from him, and it would continue to do so until the day it took his very life. That was the truth he'd resigned himself to.

'…Tt… Rett? Garrett!' He was quickly drawn out of his thoughts when he felt the blunt butt of a sword's handle hit the top of his head where he'd bumped it just that morning.

'What is it?' He snapped at his brother before he heard the jingle of coins.

'This is your share,' the mage took the coin purse into his somewhat shaking hand and stuffed it into one of his robe's pockets, 'let's get going. It'll be dark soon and I really don't want to listen to mother nag us over being out late.'

'Go on ahead. I'll join you later,' much as his brother was right, Garrett had no desire to go back to that pit of filth. Not in his mood. He heard footsteps leaving him and when the only sounds filling his hypersensitive ears were the soothing crashes of water against land, only then did he let out a sigh. He was tired, exhausted even, and weak as the thought was, he longed for Lothering. For Ferelden. For the sound of the howls of mabari to fill the air as opposed to wretched gossip and bribes. He longed for his sister, Bethany… the innocent young girl never did finish growing up. He longed for his father, his strong reassurances that they'd all be safe and well taken care of. For his old home, and mostly, for his eyesight. For the time before he knew he was a mage. Back when his life was more normal, when he didn't have to hide from the world, and when he could actually see what it was he needed to hide from. His golden eyes had shone, like little suns sparkling for anyone who saw them, but they faded. Dulled, to a lifeless greyish white. Everything about him had darkened and become tainted except his eyes; his sight, his personality, his outlook on life… and he'd sworn to never permit light in again.

After he allowed himself an hour or so to wallow in his thoughts, the blind mage found himself back inside of Kirkwall, wandering until he'd come to that tavern Varric stayed at; The Hanged Man. He sat down at his usual table in the corner, but he supposed his guard must have been down because after settling into his seat, ears hidden behind messy shoulder length hair picked up on the sound of throat being cleared. Nearby.

'This table's taken,' a deep, gravelly voice slurred, obviously its owner was piss drunk.

'Well, I don't see any names written on it,' it was a pathetic joke, and one that wasn't thought out at all. It sort of just… came out. And besides, he was the only one who would have found it funny anyway.

'Huh…' he listened less than half-heartedly as the voice's owner rustled about, 'I guess you're right, my name's not on it. But still, I'm really not in the mood for company.' _That makes two of us._

'Misery loves company, or so they say,' he stood up, then sighed. Even his bad mood was ruined, and he hated that he couldn't see who the culprit was. Couldn't even begin to fathom what he might look like, 'but apparently the same can't be said for drunks,' Garrett took his leave of the drunken man who'd further ruined his night, and decided it was about time to return to his… home… for the night. He could tell by the chill in the air that it was late, and could only pray that everyone at the house would be asleep. The Maker must have heard him at least that much because the rotting interior was just as repulsive smelling as ever, but it was full of snores.

He removed the coin purse from his pocket and set it under his pillow, where he kept all his earnings, then set his staff on the wall. After, he carefully removed his robe and neatly folded it up, laying it on the table-barrel before he laid down on his bed. Carver's snoring was louder than normal, by the _Maker_ was he loud that night. The mage didn't get a single wink of sleep, and that obnoxious snoring mixed with his thoughts kept the cogs of his brain turning throughout the night. _At least I have a free day tomorrow…_

**Or so he thought.**


End file.
