She'd promised herself she'd never get in this deep again. Not with a man like Hawke. Not with a man who had responsibilities. Not with a man who had a life. Not with a man who could actually capture her heart. Never. She'd promised.
Isabela had always been good at keeping her promises to herself. She'd gotten out of her nightmarish marriage (albeit with some well-timed help from a certain dashing assassin). She'd bought her own boat, she'd found her own crew. She'd sailed from Denerim to Val Royeaux, from Qarinus to Kirkwall, and back again. Along the way she'd robbed, raided and slept her way through most of the known world. In just eleven years, she'd literally become the captain of her own life and she had vowed never to hand the keys to her life to anyone. They were too valuable.
And then she'd met Garrett Hawke. Tall, handsome as all Thedas, with a voice that could make her wetter than a nug on the Storm Coast. They fucked on the regular-the man had been ridiculously easy to seduce-and for all Hawke's diplomatic, calm, demeanor, the man was a beast between the sheets (in the best way-to be sure). He might have been one of the best she'd ever had.
He was also a very different man from anyone Isabela had bedded in the past. He was…kind, considerate. Not just in the bedroom and not just to her. He went out of his way to help others-street children, nobles, mages, Templars, elves and humans alike. He was devoted to his family-the ragtag group of misfits he'd brought together included-but especially to his mother and sisters. Isabela had never had a family-not really. Hawke had given her that. Leandra was forever mending her clothes and trying to force Isabela into something "a bit more covering". Marian, so lively and witty, was as good a friend as she'd had in all her years at sea. Bethany-now trapped in the Circle Tower-brought out every protective instinct Isabela had thought she didn't have. It was odd to find herself surrounded by people that cared for her.
She didn't know when it began changing from 'just sex' to 'sex and'. But it had. It had started in earnest when Isabela had returned (returned!) from the sea with the tome the Arishock had torn apart Kirkwall to find. When the Arishock had demanded her life, Hawke had stood by her, though she had done nothing to deserve his loyalty. It had solidified upon the death of his mother. Leandra had been dear to her, and Isabela did not have to fake either the horror or the sadness she felt when they discovered what had happened to Hawke's beloved mother. She had told him she loved him, that night in the Gallows, when their world was falling apart and he had promised never to leave her-to always come back.
She'd never thought that Hawke would be a man to break such a promise.
Varric's letter, carefully written, had arrived innocently enough at her and Hawke's cottage in Harper's Ford. There was no indication as she tore open the envelope that the world she and Garrett had maliciously constructed over the years was about to come crashing down.
Rivani, the letter began, and it only got worse-oh-so much worse from there.
Inquisition. Adamant. Grey Wardens. Fade. Left behind.
He was dead. Varric's letter didn't say it, and maybe, somewhere in the Fade, Hawke wasn't actually dead. But he had been left physically, in a world that he did not belong in. If the demons didn't kill him, he would starve or be mutilated by the ever-changing dreamscapes or go mad from the terrors he would no doubt encounter. And there was no way to get him back. There was no rescue to be had.
Every dream they had had was gone. Garrett had talked about having kids and, though she had laughed at the thought of her being a mother, she hadn't hated the idea. Now she would never get the chance. Now they would never get the chance. Garrett would never fix the leak in the roof, or help her mend the sails on her ship, or smile at her innuendos when she was trying to get him into bed. He would never kiss her lips, he neck, her breast, again. He would never again tickle her during sex, or snuggle into her side afterwards. She would never again feel his large hand encompassing hers. Never. Never. Never.
Isabela Hawke sat in her now too large cottage with a last name that belonged to a dead man and did not cry.
