Garrett Hawke came into his abilities as a mage as most children did – by, at age seven, setting a barn on fire in an unexpected – and rather deadly – explosion.
It was long before they had been living in Lothering, back when they still worked as hired hands for a farmer outside of Amaranthine. At least, his parents were hired hands, while Garrett and the twins played, too young to lend any actual assistance to the day-to-day chores, and they learned in the evenings, too old to not be receiving their education. It was sunny that day, and he had been playing a rather intense game of hide-and-seek with Bethany and Carver – who complained every time it was his turn to seek because, 'Bethy is too good at hiding!' There was screaming and laughing and screaming laughter as they played, chasing each other around and tackling each other until someone wiggled free and it began anew. Garrett was the most recent dogpile escapee, and he quickly darted into the nearby barn, hiding behind the door to an empty stall. He barely suppressed a giggle as Bethany ran right by the door, making a lap around the inside of the barn, even daring to clamber up a couple rungs of the ladder that led into the loft before she lost her nerve and jumped down.
"Garrett!" she called out, frustration obvious in her voice. "I give! Where are you?" He, in childish stubbornness, did not answer, watching instead as she stumbled around the barn, not quite looking anymore; she was waiting for him to reveal himself, so that she wouldn't have to look any harder. He would reveal himself in a moment, he figured, as soon as she had passed his hiding spot once more and he could surprise tackle her.
It never quite came to that.
The farmer's wife was not quite heavyset, but she was of a wider girth, years and years of farm work having taken their toll. She was tall and imposing, and she looked very severe with her blonde hair tied into a tight braid that ran down her back. She was also very quick to anger and notoriously merciless. So when she stormed into the barn screaming about how Leandra needed to control her wild children, how she needed to keep them away from her purebred Ferelden Forders, how she had told the woman time and time again that they were forbidden from playing in the barn, Bethany froze, eyes wide and glistening with tears. Garrett was stuck in place behind the stall door, unable to bring himself out of hiding, into the main area, in front of the farmer's wife, and he let out a small gasp when she reached out and sunk long fingers into Bethany's hair, tugging her towards the entrance. Bethany's reaction was immediate; she began sobbing, clawing at her captor's hand, pale and desperate and scared, and it was the look on her face that finally brought him into reality. With a cry, he charged for the woman, momentarily forgetting his young age and small stature, and with two arms stretched out in front of him, he managed to shove the woman hard enough to startle her, make her stumble, make her loosen her grip just long enough for Bethany to tear away from her and scramble out of the barn without even a glance back at her brother.
The farmer's wife turned to face Garrett, fury lined in every feature of her face, and she lunged for him, catching his arm, digging her nails into his flesh, unrepentant and unrelenting. He cried out, in pain and in panic, immediately trying to pull himself free. Terror settled heavy in his stomach, and for a second he thought that he was going to throw up, but it quickly passed as his heart rate spiked, feeling as if it might burst through his chest at any moment. She raised her hand and brought it down just as quickly, a sharp backhand that was about to connect when everything stopped.
Or, at least, it felt like it had stopped. Garrett felt himself flinching away from the hit, but never felt the connection. What felt like cool water crashed over him, and as he inhaled he felt the water sink into his veins, spreading until he was sure he was going to burst. And then there was heat, warm, so warm, and then hot as it reached his fingertips and exploded.
When he came back into himself, he was being carried by his father, cradled to his chest, as if Garrett would float away, would dissolve, would simply disappear to never return.
"It's okay, Garrett," Malcom whispered as he noticed his son stirring. "It's going to be okay."
The moment that Garrett Hawke realized that it would not, actually, be okay happened when he was eleven. He was huddled in the corner of some dark and dank and disgusting merchant ship, his father's strong arm around him as he fended off wave after wave of nausea, willing his stomach to settle as the ship was tossed about on the water. He was still unsure of where they were headed – his father had never told him, kept it so hushed and secretive that he doubted even his mother knew where her husband and eldest son had spirited away to.
His magic never dulled, as it should have after that initial burst. Malcolm had begun training Garrett within the fortnight, teaching him proper staff techniques and how to channel his energy through the weapon. And he truly had a better grasp on it, could keep it under control for longer, but it was almost impossible to keep that control when nerves and fear began to set in. Garrett's energy very quickly went haywire, evidenced by the constant sting of electricity that slowly travelled up and down his arms. The energy kept him awake most nights, and even now, he silently begged the Fade to take him.
"Garrett," his father's voice was deep, hoarse with dehydration, and he looked up at him, listening. "You need to get yourself under control." Garrett nodded, closing his eyes and desperately willed the magic to retreat. It had little effect, but the subtle snap-crackle-pop of electricity quieted significantly. His father seemed to approve, arm tightening around his son, providing what little warmth he could. Snuggling, just the tiniest bit, into Malcolm's side, Garrett closed his eyes again. After several moments, he began to feel the pull of the Fade as it lulled him into sleep.
He was jerked out of his slumber only minutes later when an explosion sounded on the deck. Garrett moved to get up, to see what was happening, but Malcolm gently pushed him back down, put a finger up to his lips to keep Garrett hushed, and exited the room.
Another explosion rocked the ship this time, closer than before, and Garrett could hear his father shouting something. The sound of metal-on-metal rang out, and he curled up tighter in the corner. There was fighting right outside the door. His father was fighting right outside the door, and unbidden warmth filled his arms, seeping into his veins. Garrett knew what was about to happen and he didn't want it, didn't want anyone to know where he was, didn't want his father to be angry at him. But when he heard his father cry out in pain, when he heard the dull thud of a body hitting the floor, he knew that it was over. The door flew open and without a second thought, Garrett released his energy. The explosion was wicked, blasting a hole in the doorframe and sending splinters flying through the air, like shrapnel. Two giants stood in the doorway and the smell of burning flesh filled the air. Garrett let loose another explosion, bigger than the last. One of the giants screamed, a harsh, feral noise that had Garrett covering his ears against.
"You don't want me!" he screamed, voice shrill even to himself. "You don't want me, you don't want me, you don't want me!" It became a mantra, one he repeated over and over again until he was hoarse and breathless and exhausted, scorch marks decorating the floors and walls. Only one of the giants approached him – and somewhere in the back of his mind, Garrett realized that he must have killed the other giant. This one held a huge sword in his hand, easily half the size of the giant itself, and Garrett screamed again.
Then the giant was gone.
At least, he was gone from Garrett's immediate presence. A presence that quickly forced him to his knees as he retched up the bread he had eaten for supper, then the bile that was in his stomach. It burned, a familiar burn, an unwelcome burn. Both giants were dead. With shaking legs, he stepped over their bodies, eyes darting around the corridor outside the room, stopping on his father's fallen, unmoving form.
"Father!" he screamed, or tried to, as it came out closer to a breathy gasp. Malcolm did not stir. As reality crashed down around him, as blackness consumed his vision, as heavy footsteps drew closer to his body, he realized that no, it really, really was not going to be okay.
Garrett Hawke was soaked in sweat, he was hungry, and he was tired. The blisters on his feet ached, his sore muscles throbbed in pain. And yet Caladrius kept him marching on. Whenever he stumbled, whenever he felt like his legs would give out and his heart would simply stop, he felt the sharp sting of the whip upon his back, and it drove him forward.
They'd been walking for two days, him and the other captives from the merchant's ship. They'd been walking and sweating for two days, almost without rest or food, chained behind an opulent carriage of grey and gold that seemed unwilling to stop until they reached their destination.
"The needs of your master precede the needs of your own!" Every couple minutes one of the drivers would shout out instructions, outlining the rules of their new lives. Garrett had never known the life of a slave, nor had he known a life of labor, but he knew it would not be long until either of those changed. There was no escaping his bonds, with a slim collar around his neck and heavy manacles on his wrists and ankles.
"You will absolutely not speak without being addressed!" Garrett stumbled again, gasping as the whip cut into his back, fast and sharp, but he did not speak. He refused to, out of fear, out of anger, out of unshed stubbornness.
Thus the journey continued onwards. Two days turned into three, which turned into four, before they finally arrived in Perivantium. And Maker, it sprawled across hills, building after building after building that seemed to go on into infinity. Garrett had never seen anything like it.
It was breathtaking, and he hated it.
He hated the noise and the bustle as they were dragged through the streets, hated the cramped spacing and the heat of the small cell they were all shoved inside, hated the way tears pricked at his eyes and his stomach rolled in constant nausea. He especially hated the magebane, and oh, there was so much magebane. It was in the manacles, in the collar, in the water he was forced to drink and the bread he was forced to eat. It suppressed his connection to the Fade. He could barely feel his magic; weeks ago, he would have thought it freeing, but now he only felt empty.
Garrett Hawke was a young man filled with hatred for a great many things as he was marched upon a slightly raised dais. It sat heavy in his stomach, his hatred and his fear, and he was certain that the look on his face expressed this.
The man who had been leading them, Caladrius, bald headed with a dash of facial hair upon his chin, he took the stage and began speaking. His voice was loud and it carried over the marketplace that they were in, drawing patrons from other stalls forward. Each one was elaborately dressed, layers upon layers of silks and velvets and cottons. Several were flanked by slaves of their own; elven men and women with their heads down and hands clasped in front of them, dressed in naught but thin tunics and threadbare trousers.
Caladrius spoke in Tevene, a language that Garrett had previously not had too much exposure to; it sounded so choppy to him, with too many syllables.
He stumbled as he was pushed forward, still too exhausted from the trip to retain his sense of balance. He didn't completely understand what was being said, but suddenly, all eyes were on him. His heart sank as what sounded like numbers were called out, and he could recognize words similar to the common tongue being said, such as magus. He scanned the crowd, unsure, curious, wondering who was going to be his master. Hands went up, words were called, and then, finally, Caladrius seemed to settle on a man towards the back.
Garrett was pushed forward, again, off the dais, into the crowd. The man, his master, secured a thick chain around the collar and tugged, pulling him closer.
"You will address me as dominus, and only as dominus. Is this understood, servus?" the man's voice was strong but quiet, and Garrett, so filled with rage and hatred, could only nod.
"Yes, dominus." he whispered, voice soft with disuse. A small smile crept onto the man's face, and Garrett's anger abated, giving way only to fear.
At age eleven, Garrett Hawke was stripped of his name, his heritage, and his dignity. At age eleven, Garrett Hawke became servus, a slave, and learned what a dominus was.
At age eleven, Garrett Hawke was stripped of his humanity.