Give Your Heart a Break, a dragon age fanfic

Story title: Give Your Heart a Break

Author's note: So, I have written a similar story over some of the events in this using my other version of Hawke, Claire, and Merrill. I liked that one-shot, but at that point and time I had not played through the part where Leandra dies. After playing through it last night, I was inspired to write this using my current in-game Hawke, Ivy, with her current romance, Isabela. I hope I captured the feelings well; that was my entire goal with this story. I hope you all enjoy, and have an amazing day. Hold your loved ones dear; they may not always be there to hold you back.

Disclaimer: Dragon Age 2 and the characters are not my property; I have no claims to them, or do I intend to make any money off of this. This is purely for entertainment and to get out my feelings over this certain quest, All That Remains. The song "Give Your Heart a Break" belongs to the wondrous Demi Lovato, and "Iridescent" belongs to Linkin Park, although this particular version is the one sung by Gavin Mikhail. I implore you to listen to his cover while reading; it really lends to the story. Almost all of the italicized quotations are taken from the actual game; of course Bioware owns them as well.

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"The day I, first met you, you told me you'd never fall in love."

"Wanna give your heart a break…"

My little girl has grown so strong…

But you'll be here alone…

You've always made me proud…

I love you.

Ivy Hawke sat slumped in the oversized arm chair in the foyer of her estate…no, the Amell estate. She had not bothered to remove her armor; instead, as soon as she had thrown the door open with a bang and stormed inside, that chair had become her anchor. Without it…she would surely crumble. The fireplace had been stoked, and the flames eagerly devoured the fresh wood inside its maw, the incense it provided giving the room the normally comforting smell of oak. Instead though, the heady aroma did nothing to ease the ache that had surrounded Ivy's heart in a vice.

Her icy blue eyes, normally vibrant and mischievous, was now a dull cobalt color. Her white hair hung limply into her eyes, caked with the remnants of dried blood. Her prized armor was in the same state, but she was unable to bring herself to stand and clean it off. Mother…Her heart squeezed tightly, burning as if encased in the very flames she was so desperately trying to lose herself in. Except the only thing that had overtaken her mind was the memories…memories she wished to forget.

"I found her eyes, her skin, her delicate fingers... and at last, her face. Oh, this beautiful face…Do you know what the strongest force in the universe is? Love…Leandra was so sure you would come for her…I have done the impossible; I have touched the face of the Maker…and lived."

Quentin's words assault her sense, broken and distorted by her memory. She sees the demented mage standing tall over a still form in the corner, what appeared to be a woman dressed in…white? Her attention had been ripped from the puzzling scene back to the mage. His silver eyes were pale and shining with the light prevalent in the insane. His graying hair was messy, tousled, as if he had not slept a wink in days. But the thing that truly chilled her to the bone was the full smile spread across his aging face, a smile that bespoke a heaping of tragedy and horror. If she had only known the white lilies killer was him…if she had asked her mother about her mysterious suitor…maybe none of this would never have happened. I wasn't quick enough…Mother…forgive me.

But there would be no forgiveness now, nor ever. The form, slumped over in that solitary chair beside Quentin…it…it was her mom….Quentin had that self-satisfied smile firmly in place as Ivy, in full-on panic mode, questioned him on Leandra Amell's whereabouts. He told her she had been waiting for her…for her eldest daughter to come save her. I was not quick enough…I failed her just like I failed Carver…like I failed Bethany…what would father think of me now? Even though Ivy had rushed to find her mother after walking into the estate and hearing that she was missing, she had not made it in time. She remembered questioning the young urchin boy hanging about in Lowtown, hearing the young boy saying he recognized a woman by her description, if only he had a few coins to grease his palms. Gamlen, unsurprisingly, looked about ready to exact his own brand of justice on the boy. Hawke, however, gladly thrust a handful of silver coins at the urchin, almost begging for the information.

It lead to a trail of blood, bright red, viscous fluid that was dropped in copious amounts around key points in Lowtown. It led to the Foundry, the same place that, years before, Ivy had found a burlap sack filled with bones…human bones. On the last remaining fingerbone, a ring was firmly lodged. Ninette's ring, one of the missing women she had promised to find. The discovery had led to a dead end, however, and Ser Emeric was viewed with scorn at his consistent searching for what the templars deemed "fruitless." It was not so fruitless when Emeric was found dead later, after a huge lead led to a re-opening of the case…well, by Hawke and her gang at least. So many dead by one man's deeds…and she could have prevented it all, had she truly tried. But she hadn't, had she? These women were of no consequence, right? She did not know them, did not find any other leads than that bag of bones; it was not even her jurisdiction, right oh 'mighty one'? No, she had readily abandoned the search and threw herself into making the Amell/Hawke name renowned and well-known again, returning it to its former glory.

Where is the former glory now, Ivy? It died in your arms in that blasted foundry, the essence of life escaping as easily as you let the investigation of the missing women go. And, for what? Ivy did not have the answer to that question, not anymore. She was sick, sick to her stomach. She lifted her gauntlet-covered hands. Her hands…covered in the vestiges of blood that had come from Quentin. Blood that had been smeared on her mother's butchered corpse as she clutched her to her chest, heart shattering in her chest like Quentin's head as Ivy, in a rage, ordered Anders to "make sure that bastard is dead…and won't come back." She had stabbed him repeatedly, losing herself to the rage that had been steadily building inside her over the years, starting with the loss of her father. She always looked like him; sometimes it made it that much harder to forget, when his features stared back at her every time she looked in the mirror. Bethany and Carver…they had the noble Amell features; prominent nose, the high cheekbones that symbolized those of a higher breeding. She had Malcolm's face; the only thing of her mother's she had left were her blue eyes.

Her mother had looked at her, forgiveness shining in her eyes as she weakly gasped for air. The only thing that kept her alive was the very man that had stolen her life. A large, sutchered line ran across her neck, a dark purple around the edges. Her eyes…they looked like Bethany and Ser Wesley's after they had been tainted. The look of death, staring her in the face…Her mother spoke of joining Ivy's father and brother again, and a brief look of happiness glowed in her glassy eyes. Leandra told her misty-eyed daughter that she had always been proud of her accomplishments, and knew she would excel in life, become a hero. She told her…she was sorry she had blamed Carver's death and Bethany's forced entry into the Grey Warden's upon Ivy's then less-broad shoulders. Ivy had thought she had grown into her skin after these years, only to find that they had not grown an inch. If they had, I would have been able to bear my mother, instead of her falling to the wolves…to the very thing my father loved as much as his children. Oh, the irony…

Leandra died in her arms right after, the light leaving her eyes after she had reached out with a sunken arm, crying out for her son and husband. Hawke dearly hoped her deceased family members had escorted her mother to the Maker; otherwise Ivy would not be able to handle it. Right now it was that thought and that one only that kept her sanity from tearing into shreds. She had explained to Gamlen, in a dead voice, that her mother was gone. He started to blame her before, eyes burning with fury, told him in no uncertain terms to get the fuck out. Anders, Aveline and Isabela had traveled to the foundry with her, had seen the older Amell lying in her daughter's arms. They had been oddly silent, not wanting to antagonize the grief-stricken woman further. Ivy had refused to let tears fall; she sucked them up and stared ahead with a dead look in her blue orbs. The light…had been extinguished, just like her mom's. Even in death, their eyes were the same…

Ivy's fingernails dug into the velvet of the chair underneath her, trying to ground herself against the plush cushion. She felt like sobbing her heart out, or ripping it from her chest while it bled. Nothing could be worse than this…not even death. Bodahn and Sandal had vanished from the room, heading to what she assumed was their own bedrooms. Poor Sandal had been distraught and her own anger had not helped the situation. Bodahn had been full of sadness and pity. Orana, the former slave of Hadriana who also happened to be the pupil of Fenris's former master, was also beside herself. The shy little servant had run up to her quarters as soon as the news passed Hawke's lips. Leandra had been kind to the girl, especially since Ivy was always away on business. Ivy supposed it also reminded Orana of her own papa's death; she really ought to go comfort her. Then again…she was really in no state to comfort anybody. Hell, she could not even control her own haywire emotions. Sighing that once again she let those closest to her down, she stood up on shaky legs, wincing at the pins and needles that assaulted her as the circulation started flowing. She slowly, painstakingly walked towards the steps leading to her room. One foot in front of the other…that was the key.

Her hand brushed against the railing, tracing the path her mother always did when descending the stairs. She could almost feel those fingers underneath hers, hear that voice she would know anywhere. But that would never again take place. My fault. Ivy took in the place as if with new eyes; all the familiar sights were hypersensitive to her frayed nerves, like a painful rash that just will not go away. Even the lewd depictions Isabela had carved at the upmost top did not spark a smile to ignite over her dashing face. Hawke took a step towards her room, instinctively looking over at the door that lead to her…to her…suddenly, Ivy was overcome with the urge to open the door to Leandra's inner sanctuary. Ivy had not set foot into the room since procuring the Amell estate. She had never wanted to intrude, but now…now she desperately needed to go inside. Determination steeling her gaze for a brief moment, Hawke strode to the plain door, turning the small ornate brass knob before she lost her nerve.

Darkness covered the inner sanctum like a veil, shielding the contents of the room from Hawke's greedy eyes. Impatiently and with shaking fingers, she turned on the light to the room. A white explosion burst forth, revealing all like a wave of revelation. There was her mother's bed; it was a rather modest size, considering her own mattress. The canopy above it was a royal blue, and the bed sheets were a creamy tan color. It was neatly made, as if nobody ever laid out on the pristine, crisp sheets. There was a small wooden shelf beside the bed, bare but for a few knick-knacks. To the left of the bed stood an old, antique bookshelf filled to the brim with old tomes. Normally dust would be prevalent on such old writings, but Leandra apparently took great care to not let that happen. The spines were like new. Everywhere she looked, she saw her mother's handiwork. Her clothes were hanging up in the spacious closet, fresh and ready to be worn, although that was a duty that would remain unfulfilled. Hawke was feeling overwhelmed by it all; she turned to leave the room when she spotted it, laying on the little writing desk Leandra had asked by placed in her own room. Hawke moved to investigate.

T was a painting; a rather good one in fact. The frame was a gilded gold, swirling with designs. But it was not the quality of the painting itself nor the heaviness that told her it was incredibly expensive. No, it was the picture that did her in. It was a portrait of the Hawke family, all standing outside their farmstead, the home left behind in Lothering. They were wearing the clothes they usually wore; no armor was present. There was her father, tall and proud, a smile tweaking the corners of his lips. His rapidly greying dark hair curled about his temples, giving his handsome face an almost boyish impression. He had a light sprinkling of whiskers floating around his tanned cheeks; his rugged good looks turned many a head. An arm was slung around her mother's waist. Leandra Amell looked ten years younger, silver eyes a more pale sapphire. A large smile graced her pale face; the first one Hawke had seen in a long time. Carver stood tall, muscles bulging from his arms as he crossed them over his chest. His face was open and unguarded, different from his last moments. His hair curled like their father's, and his deep brown eyes resembled his own as well. Bethany was much the same way as Carver, though her sweet disposition was dead-on to the old Bethany.

Then…there was herself. She looked younger and less…battle-hardened. Her countenance was one of faith and youth and she did not have the glint one received after they had been through hell and back. A simple tunic was all she wore, combined with a pair of dusty comfortable boots. Content and love shined in her oceanic eyes, burning into Hawke. The girl in the picture, that smiling, happy girl…she was no more. Anger surged through her body, electrifying her into action. She darted forward, snatching the painting from the table and holding it aloft over her face. She raised a fist, intent on smashing the portrait…but she was not able to. This was her last connection to her family. A reminder of happier times before the Blight descended and spiraled her into chaos and tragedy. Slowly her hand lowered and she dropped the artwork onto the bed, bowing her head in agony. The pain…it was too…much…with a howl torn from her very soul she departed the room, closing the door with a bang. Ivy ran to her own bedroom, the only place left to her to grieve. She closed and locked the door behind her, flopping onto her bed. She saw them, staring at her, begging her, as if to say it was her to blame. Malcolm, laying on the bed he shared with her mother, sickly and frail as a couch seized his body and spiraling him into wheezes and spitting up blood. Carver, who wanted so much to make father proud and step out of his elder sister's encompassing shadow, only to get crushed by an ogre before he could make a name for himself. Bethany…forced to join the grey Wardens, a task she never would have wanted had she a choice, and left to be hauled around by a band of strange men, all of whom would have let her die if not as a favor of Anders. And Leandra, who hoped and hoped for her daughter to rescue her from Quentin only to realize she was all alone. She was all alone… was not there, was not there for her…she sought comfort only to be stabbed in the back and then abandoned by her flesh and blood. The faces of her dead family haunted her and, with a final cry, Ivy dropped her head into her hands, wracking sobs taking over her body.

"When you were standing in the wake of devastation"

"Do you feel cold and lost in desperation?"

Isabela lay on her dingy little cot in the Hanged Man, not a stitch of clothing on her body. Her dark, flawless skin was on display, flashing herself to her room. She stretched out her arms, her head resting up them. The former pirate captain's toned abdominal muscles quivered and clenched as she moved, the muscles seamlessly flowing with her. For the tenth time that night she tried to get comfortable in order to fall asleep; however, sleep was fleeting and did not bother knocking on her door. Normally if she had trouble sleeping she would get a pint (or several) of swill from Corff the bartender, but Isabela knew that mere alcohol would not erase the horrific memories that had etched themselves into her mind. Anytime she closed her eyes, she saw Hawke looking down at her mother's lifeless body cradled in her strong arms. The look on Ivy's face as her remaining family took that last breath of life…it would be with her for some time. Isabela remembered accompanying Ivy to the foundry for the first time years ago, fighting all manner of shade and demon, only to find one measly sack full of bones wearing a ring with a rather dismal stone set in the middle. The smuggler had felt pity for Ninette when her pig of a husband Ghyslain first enlisted them to help find the missing woman. Every fiber of her being told her to tell him to fuck off, but Ivy had, despite the warning bells dinging in her head, agreed to look for Ninette. Indeed Isabela had been most furious with the warrior for undertaking the mission for such a boorish lump, until Ivy told her the truth. She had not agreed to help for Ghyslain, but for Ninette herself. In fact, the bastard could rot for all she cared. Isabela felt a fluttering in her loins at the incense in those blue pools; she knew then she just had to have Hawke.

And, years later, she finally got what she desired. Hawke had opened her arms and bed to her, and despite the vast amount of partners she had been with, the virgin warrior had been her best sex. Although inexperienced and at times slightly unsure, most of the time she was confident in her ability. Seeing the strong woman like that, holding her against her body as blue orbs rolled back in her head and shockwaves consumed them. The inferno they created together…it was beautiful. They were beautiful. And therein laid the ex-pirate's dilemma. Feelings were starting to arise deep within her chest, feelings she thought, hoped, she would never feel ever again. Anatomy…that was what she as good at. Nurturing, caregiving…it just was not her. Isabela rolled onto her back, burrowing her face in the flat pillow, trying her damndest to just fall asleep already. Liquid cinnamon eyes closed, desperately using the last good fuck she had to try and relax her. Of course, seeing as how that person was Hawke…did not really have the desired effect. Everytime she closed her eyes, or tried to think of nothing, the image of a broken Hawke cradling her mother's body to her chest kept appearing. The look in her eyes…people say that they are the gateway to a person's soul. If that is the case, Ivy Hawke's soul was in absolute shreds. Hawke had carried the body all the way outside, dull and devoid of any emotion. Gamlen had alerted the templars and Cullen had headed a short platoon of men towards the foundry. Of course, they had made their way right to the entrance of the foundry when we came walking out.

The men took in our dirty, tousled appearances, especially the frail corpse lying in the arms of the budding warrior that had pulled them out of many a difficult place. Wordlessly, Hawke had the empty shell over to Cullen. The man awkwardly grabbed the body, glancing down once before paling. Before he could utter a word, Hawke pointed to the foundry. We got the bastard. You're welcome. Ivy's words were as cold as the steel she consistently drove through her enemies. She pushed passed the shocked templars, the rest of us rushing to catch up. Anders had varied between looking nervous and angry at the templars' arrival, but they paid him no heed. Aveline looked like she wanted to console Hawke, but she kept her mouth closed. She had a pained look on her face; helplessly, she looked to Isabela for guidance. It was common knowledge that she and Ivy had been "involved" for a time. But she had remained silent, staring worriedly at the snowy-haired warrior's armored backside. At a certain point, Aveline and Anders had quietly left, as Hawke had not turned or spoke a word since fleeing the foundry. She was headed to the estate; as the two silent women neared The Hanged Man, Isabela made up her mind. Without a word of goodbye, she silently slipped through the dirty door, leaving the misery and bloodshed behind her in exchange for the rough and rowdy inebriated establishment she currently resided in. It seemed like the best idea at the time; the most logical, yes? But now that she was comfortable and settled for bed she just could not sleep without being plagued by her choices. All she saw, all she knew, was Hawke's face. So, with a resigned sigh, she made up her mind. Isabela lifted herself up using toned arms and glided over to the outfit she had unceremoniously dumped on the poor excuse for a table (was not more than a toothpick, really) and started pulling on the sweat, dirt and blood-stained garments. As she slid on her trusty Antivan leather boots, she glanced over to the table. There lay her newest addition to her uniform; a red arm-band. The memory of how it came to be in her arsenal flew to mind.

"Oh! 'Bela! I…er-I got you something; a gift." A dark eyebrow rose in question, flicking towards the nervous woman she had grown to respect and, dare she say it, like. "Another gift? You already gave me that wonderful ship in a bottle; must you give me another?" Ivy scratched her head, blue eyes skirting around and refusing eye contact. A rosy blush dusted her lightly tanned cheeks. "Well, it is just a little trinket I happened upon in the markets today. I-I hope you like it." Without further ado, a piece of cloth was presented to the curious smuggler's eyes. It was a vivid scarlet color, as if the Maker himself had shed his blood for it. Reaching out, Isabela felt the smooth satin underneath calloused fingertips. It was good cloth; very good. "I-red looks good on you…as soon as I saw it, I knew you would look good with it." Molten brown eyes scorched the eldest Hawke, taking in the abnormal nervousness that shrouded her in a fog. "It is a wonderful gift, Ivy. Thank you." She wore the arm-band always, getting many a snicker from fellow companions and small blushes and smiles from the unofficial leader.

A tender smile blossomed on her dark cheeks before she caught herself. Scowling, she hurriedly belted on her dual daggers and headed for the door. Before her foot left the threshold however, she hesitated. Eyeing the offending scarlet cloth, she engaged in a mental battle of wills with herself. Aveline would have been so proud. Making up her mind, she yanked the cloth over her right bicep, cinching it into place. The door closed behind her, the small sound of the door catching sounded final, even to her own ears.

"But now that, I get you,"

"I know fear is what it really was"

The busty pirate wench now found herself prowling the streets of Hightown, ignoring the whores advertising their merchandise and the templars perusing them, heading towards the Amell estate. Once in front of the door, however, she clammed up. Since when is that old door intimidating? Since your friend/team leader/bumping-uglies buddy lost her mum in a tragic accident. Ahhh shit. Facing the varterral was easy compared to this. Isabela gathered up what little courage she possessed in the current moment and withdrew a lockpick from her pouch. What? Like she was going to stand outside and knock on the door, when Ivy was in shock and the servants were probably asleep? Yeah, not gonna happen. Besides, old habits die hard. Expertly she twirled and twisted the tiny steel mechanism, satisfied when she heard that tell-tale click. The door was silently pushed open and the resourceful rogue slid into the large abode. Once firmly inside and with the horrid brass knocker facing away from her, she took in her surroundings with a keen interest, ears perking for the sound of even the slightest movement. Nothing…She took note of the roaring fireplace and the absence of light from the surrounding rooms. That meant the servants were asleep. Or otherwise occupied, she did not really care which option was correct. She took stock of the writing desk and the little niche dedicated to the assortment of odd potions and poisons Hawke dabbled in to give the team advantages over any foe that dare cross them.

Stairs…they led to Hawke's room. Swallowing the lump that clogged her throat, she shook her head crossly. Get a hold of yourself, dammit! Gaining her confident swagger back, she turned her boots in the direction of the stairway…only to stop and stare hard at the cushioned chair a hairsbreadth away from her. Gouges…as if made by fingernails. Ivy…there was that lump again…Sighing heavily, Isabela focused on her original destination. As she made her way up the steps, her hand played a little pattern against the railing. When she saw the crude words she herself had carved not too long before, she could not resist a small smirk. The reaction soon changed as she ground to a halt on the first step, looking at the door to Leandra Amell's former private quarters. Such a good woman…the creak of a floorboard behind her sent the rogue into a crouch, whirling around with a sharp blade in between her fingers. A small squeak eked out, and Isabela saw thin arms rise above the admittedly poor stalker. "Missus, don't attack! Tis only me!" "Orana! Don't ever sneak up on me; you were just lucky I did not throw my blade at your head!" The young elf sheepishly nodded her head, moss green irises reflecting the dim light from the fire below. Isabela could make out tear tracks on the pale face, a few of them recent.

"Why are you crying, Orana?" The head bowed, a sniff escaping the small mouth. "Lady Amell was always real nice and sweet to me. She made me feel welcome and valued when Messere Hawke was away on jobs. The Lady never treated me like a servant or a mere elf; she treated me as a person. I will miss her dearly. Though not as much as…" The words died in her throat as both women heard a loud crash from the farthest room on the back wall. Apparently Hawke was not quite done mourning. Isabela made a move towards the room when a tiny hand stopped her. She swiveled back to the elf. "Mistress Isabela…please, help Messere Hawke. She is in a good deal of pain right now, and I hate to see such a good person hurt like that. She did right by me and although I cannot provide the comfort she seeks, I know you can. I-I have seen how she looks at you, Mistress. You are good for her. Please, I beg you…help her." Isabela nodded solemnly, gently squeezing the hand on her shoulder for the briefest of moments before taking a step back. "I will," she swore. She was surprised by how much she meant it. Spurred on, she briskly strode towards the designated room, almost dreading what she would witness.

"And with the cataclysm raining down,"

"Your insides crying, Save me now!"

Glass shards littered the floorspace, warding off any unclothed feet from passing over. Isabela took careful note of this as she slowly shut the door behind her. She took in the crumpled figure sitting on the edge of the bed; Ivy was sitting hunched over with her face buried in her hands. They were the only part of her not covered in armor. The bedsheets were stained with the blood obtained with the night's unsavory activities, and Isabela could not contain a wince. This was a bad sign, for Hawke was notably a neat freak. She liked order and cleanliness, at least when it came to her personal life. In battle, messier ways were appealing. Carefully tip-toeing the sharp pieces on the ground, Isabela came to rest on the vulnerable fighter's side. Ivy had not once looked up or acknowledged her presence. Tentatively, hesitantly, a gloved hand reached out for a broad shoulder, drawing back quickly. Frustrated in herself, Isabela ran the same hand through her wavy dark tresses. Clearing her throat, internally wincing at the weak noise, her dulcet voice broke the stifling quiet. "Hey, Hawke," the Rivaini woman exclaimed, berating herself again for how inconsiderate her words sounded to her own ears. She received nothing but silence. A pink tongue wet dry lips. "Look, Ivy, I know you are hurting right now…and you and I both know comfort is not my forte… but, anything you need, I am here."

This time, her words garnered a response. "I am fine, Isabela. You are free to go back to the tavern." Isabela fumbled with her hands for a moment before regaining the usual bravado she exuded. "I came from there for a reason. I felt-felt that I needed to be here…for you." Ivy laughed bitterly, the sound harsh from her usually cheerful lips. "You don't have to. I know you are not one for emotional confrontations; it was a sweet gesture but you didn't have to subject yourself to this. I would not be good company anyway." This time a full-out frown disfigured the deeply tanned face, lips pulling tight at the corners. She moved closer to the woman, passing the imaginary boundary Hawke foolishly thought she was erecting around herself. Fat chance of that; did the woman not know who she was? Her hand shot out, cupping the chin that perfect chin between careful fingers. She lifted Hawke's head until their eyes met. Her own burned with an emotion she did not often show, or even feel. She dearly hoped Ivy understood the ramifications of what she was about to say. "You listen to me, Hawke. No, I am not one for confiding personal feelings or even helping others. I-I am not very good at it, anyway. But…I came here for you, to comfort you, because you needed it. When I saw you in the foundry, holding your mother…something stirred inside me. No, not just pity either, though I certainly felt sorry for you. Seeing you so heart-broken over her death…you are just too good, Ivy. You are far greater than this, than Kirkwall. You are kind, and just, and everything a woman is supposed to be but never turn out that way. When I first met you in The Hanged Man, I did not think very much of you besides that fact you were attractive. But, then I got to know you, and travel with you. Ivy, you have helped me so many times, saving my ass when it truthfully did not deserve it. You defended me to others when no respect was shown; you have proven to be my guardian, Hawke."

Blue eyes gained back some of the previous light that had been snuffed out, seemingly for good. She watched the pirate in keen interest, knowing how difficult this all was for Isabela. Her heart warmed at the words, feeling loved. A warm hand cupped Isabela's cheek, smoothing the heated skin with a gentle thumb. Wonder shined from her face as she looked at the woman who had slowly stolen her heart through the years. Everybody cautioned her; they all (mostly) liked Isabela but they worried the infamous heart-breaker would crush the budding champion's heart. There were times even she had been worried about her attachment. But, now…now she knew she had nothing to fear. "Bela…" The whisper was so low Isabela had to strain her ears to hear it. Ivy's face neared her own and soft lips gently captured her own pair. The kiss was not meant to arouse, only to provide a sense of gratitude and comfort. It remained close-mouthed and yet…it was far better than the intense, passionate couplings the two had gotten up to before all this had happened. Ivy caressed her pirate's face and hair, unable to part her hands or lips from the woman's body. Finally they parted, Ivy looking at Isabela with so much emotion glaring through. She practically glowed, despite her previous sadness.

A thumb traced the Rivaini goddess's lower lip, making said woman shiver at the feelings that coursed through her body at the simple touch. "Thank you, Bela…you-you helped me more than you realize. You beautiful, perfect woman you…" Isabela flushed at the compliment, averting her eyes. Sex she was used to, but this level of intimacy…it was frightening. She had not felt this way in so long, it was almost too much to bear. The rogue was gearing up to make her escape when Hawke moved forward, nestling her head against the generous bosom her lover was blessed with. Arms encircled the toned waist, the stomach muscles contracting as a hand splayed across the tight flesh. Hawke pressed a chaste kiss directly over where Isabela's heart lay, making the organ jump faster at the touch. "For a woman who is not comfortable with feelings, you are pretty adept at it." Slowly, the skittish pirate wrapped her own limbs around the strong body pressed against her. "Just…don't go expecting that anytime something bad happens. You will be sorely disappointed next time."

A small smile twitched at Ivy's mouth before she kissed the rogue again on the lips. "I know you do not usually stay the entire night, and we are always a little…pre-occupied, but will you-will you stay the night, with me? It-it would mean a great deal." Isabela warred with herself, debating the pros and cons, the ramifications, of staying the night with Hawke. She never stayed the full night, at least not if cuddling was involved. She steered clear of that at all costs, no matter how much that (tiny) voice in the back of her mind craved it. Their relationship was to be kept strictly sexual; no feelings attached. If she stayed, what would happen with her reputation? With Hawke? Deep in her heart she knew that none of those answers were the true reason for her shying away from Ivy but she dare not dwell on that. Then again, if she did not stay, Hawke would be devastated. She needed a rock, a shoulder, in this trying time. Nobody else had even bothered to come check on the noble warrior; somebody had to care for her, right? Cinnamon locked with glacial blue; they were both unable to look away. The desperate hope in those blue orbs broke Isabela's resolve. "Yes, Ivy, I will stay the night with you. But just this once." A smile of inhuman brightness beamed her way; Isabela was hopelessly ensnared by that one simple gesture. It was shocking how just one facial expression could melt her defenses until she was a puddle of Mabari goo…wait…bad analogy.

Isabela helped Ivy take off her armor, setting it in the normal spot, saving the unpleasant job of cleaning the foul mess until tomorrow. Isabela, meanwhile, unbuckled her belt, placing it with her daggers beside the armor. She bent down to unlace her boots but Ivy quickly dropped to one knee. "Please, let me take them off." Isabela was stunned mute as hands that were so skilled in the art of combat ever so smoothly undid the laces on her boots. Ivy took hold of a leg, placing tender kisses along the sensitive skin. No tongue came out to play like their usual teasing ritual, and the actions did not ignite a fire inside her belly that traveled southbound. No, instead, it relaxed her muscles and that accursed warm fuzziness inside her chest cavity. Maybe she should pay a visit to Anders and see what the hell was wrong with her. Ivy finally moved her magical lips away from the skin, leaving a tingling behind as the only evidence. Dexterous hands now slipped up to the tight corset around her chest. Deftly Hawke undid all the complicated laces and the corset fell to the ground in a heap. Ivy picked it up and flung it over to the mini table across the room; it landed perfectly. Her kissing resumed, gliding easily over the stark abdominals Isabela had earned from hard years at sea. Bless the Maker for sailors and pirates. The hot mouth went up, up, past her chest to her mouth, dipping in for a quick kiss. Ivy then regained her foothold, standing straight. She pulled her crimson tunic over her head, revealing a firm musculature and a glorious expanse of skin.

Instead of jumping her like she normally would, Isabela kept her hands to herself. She watched almost curiously as Ivy neared her side of the bed, slipping underneath the expensive covers and pressing up against Isabela's side. An arm wrapped around her midsection and her chest was soon eclipsed by white strands. Hawke sighed against the skin, taking comfort in the shared warmth. Isabela loosely held the woman, the intense feeling boiling over until she felt like she was a live-wire, sensitized and bared for the world to see. For once, she let her heart speak. She brushed a kiss on the forehead lying on her chest, straightening her body and getting comfortable. Before sleep overtook the pirate, she heard another soft "Thank you, Bela, for being here for me. I-I lo….." the sentence faded into obscurity as the woman in question finally fell into a much needed sleep, after the horrific tragedy she had been dealt. Those words, so strategically cut off, drained away sleep from Isabela's mind. Although fear seized her mind, her heart gave a twinge as she thought of this amazing woman actually loving her. Maybe it had been long enough of her disregarding love. Maybe it was time for her to let herself feel, and she knew that Ivy Hawke was just the woman to do it. Isabela fell asleep with a small smile on her face, dreaming of a time when she would not be scared of love anymore.

"Wanna give your heart a break/maybe I can ease the ache"

"Remember all the sadness and frustration and let it go, let it go…"

Note: Hope everybody enjoyed the story; whew was it a doozy! "Give Your Heart A Break" was picked to describe Isabela's turmoil and "Iridescent" picked because of Hawke's feelings of failure regarding her deceased family members. The two songs are interchangeable between the two, connecting them together. The central theme of the entire one-shot is love/learning to move on from the past. Just thought I would clear that up to avoid any confusion.