Oh my... I apologize for the delay. I will admit to having writer's block pretty bad on this. But here it is... half of what I planned for the final chapter. It was getting to be super long, so I thought I'd cut it into two chapters. No worries though, I will have part two up much quicker than part one!
Sincere. Sometimes, it was truly the most fitting word Isabela could think of to describe Aya Hawke. She was disarmingly guileless, in both her words and her actions. Being the insufferable romantic that she was, she had been known to deliver the most eloquent and passionate of proclamations to her pirate in all the most candid of moments. With little more than a few heady and heated whispers, she could disassemble every one of Isabela's reservations or restraining pretenses. On more than a few occasions, she'd even managed to elicit a tear from the usually snarky, roguish beauty. To a woman who had spent the entirety of her adult life despising such dramatic and seemingly contrived discourse, Aya's ingenuous words could be absolutely maddening. Admittedly though, not for the reasons the pirate would have initially thought.
The apostate's sweet nothings drove her crazy not because she felt them to be false or foolish – on the contrary, her words were always presented with a measure of unabashed honesty that made Isabela quiver. No, those tender proclamations drove her crazy because, against all odds, beyond all common sense, and outside of any reason, they had needled their way under her skin. Those delightfully poignant words had gripped her in a way that made her utterly long for them, emotionally, mentally, and physically. She could taste every loving syllable on her tongue like an agonizingly sweet honey, hear them resounding in every corner of her mind, feel them burning under her skin with inexorable desire.
As if her words were not enough, however, Aya also had the most terrific knack for weakening Isabela's knees with… well, barely even a smile, if truth be told. Over the years, Isabela had become attuned to the subtlest of Hawke's nuances, even coming to rely on them as emotional cues. The rogue in her knew how important the power of observation was; interestingly enough though, the lover in her understood the significance, as well. At any given time, it was exceedingly difficult for Aya to hide her emotions from the pirate (not that they were particularly well-concealed to begin with).
For instance, if ever Aya was particularly puzzled over something that had been said to her, but she was trying to hide it so as not to seem "stupid," her features would set into a believably serious, comprehending mien. She would narrow her eyes in a way that indicated she was contemplating the truth in the matter, when in reality, she was trying to deduce what exactly it meant. The corner of her mouth would dip slightly as she nibbled on the flesh, a tiny, unbidden pout gracing her lush lips, and her pupils would shrink just as they did whenever she felt she was being deceptive or sneaky. It was comical, yes, but wholly endearing in a way that warmed Isabela to the core.
She was sincere in the ease with which she had captivated and committed an intolerably noncommittal woman. With words, gestures, fleeting grazes of a hand or cheek. With secrets told and secrets she'd allowed Isabela to keep, so as not to push her beyond her means. As much as the pirate hated to admit such a terribly trite thought, there truly was something magical about Aya Hawke, something that extended well beyond her powers as a mage.
The Champion was, by no stretch of the imagination, perfect though. She was charming and sweet, of course, but she could also be a sincere pain in the ass. She was overly compassionate at times, stubborn as the day was long, and Isabela was well acquainted with the fact that she talked in her sleep, babbling on about the most ridiculously incoherent dreams (she'd once propositioned the pirate for sex, liquor, and a puppy, all in the same unconscious ramble).
One of her greatest faults, however, was that she almost never had a plan. No matter the level of danger in a conflict, she was winging it, nine out of ten times. Of course, you wouldn't know this just by watching her – she had the most remarkable talent for working off the cuff and under immense pressure – but to those who knew her best, it was at times painstakingly obvious. Their bloody flight to the docks was a terrific example of this shortcoming.
Hawke's destination was clear, as were her intentions. The overall objective was still a bit muddy, and the plan was loose at best. Her exact strategy had been nothing but a more verbose iteration of: "Head for the docks. Run fast. Stab and/or blow up anything that tries to stop us. Don't get yourself killed." There was a bit more care and concern to her version, but when stripped down to its simplest form, that was what she had said, with a stringent emphasis on the not getting killed part.
They had found there was plenty that would try to kill them though – templars, hysterically frightened circle mages turned maleficarum, and the abominations that sprung up in their wake. If it wasn't frightening or contrite, particularly to Hawke, who found herself grievously appalled by how many good mages had been pushed to the brink of wickedness by the templars' persecution, then it was simply exhausting. On any other occasion, it would only have taken them a brisk ten minutes to arrive at the docks, but Isabela was certain they'd already been fighting for over an hour.
After dispensing yet another batch of abominations in what was but a long line of blood-thirsty adversaries, the pirate heaved a sigh of relief, knowing their destination was near. She could hear the ocean's waves lapping agitatedly against Kirkwall's concrete shores, clouded in an unusually murky, gray haze that Isabela and her companions found just a bit too foreboding. Regardless, the sweet, stinging aroma of salt bit into her cheeks, filling her nostrils soothingly. No matter the situation, there was always comfort for the rogue to find in the relentless sea. Now, that comfort seemed particularly colder than usual, but she relished in it, nonetheless.
"We're… close," Hawke commented, rubbing her palm against a stitch in her side as she drew in short breaths. Every one of them, except for the ever-spry pirate and their brick wall of a Guard Captain, seemed to be just a little bit worse for the wear. The mages, specifically, were drained by the impetuous physical demands of the day. There had once been a time when Hawke had hurled herself into the fray during battle, but her recklessness had wilted with the heartache Isabela had quashed, and she now remained cautiously at a distance during their altercations, alongside Merrill. The templars were not comfortable with allowing two mages to fight along the fringes, however; they were insistently violent towards Aya and Merrill, drawing them from their comfort zone and forcing them into danger. It had tired the mages, to say the least.
"You seem a bit worn out, sweet thing. Guess you've been getting lazy recently, haven't you," she jibed lightly, an impish grin on her face. She wasn't sure if Hawke needed her humor right now; but Hawke did need her to be strong. And damnit, she was relying on her sarcasm for strength.
"I have, haven't I? Spending my days languishing about Hightown, sitting on my ass getting fat and drunk," she countered, her voice thickly laden with mock guilt before it became intoned with a wryness to rival the pirate's. "Oh, wait… but I've actually been saving the freaking city from-" The apostate was cut off when the sound of clashing steel erupted below them, in the exact direction they were supposed to be heading in. Aya immediately smacked her palm against her forehead and ground her teeth. "Great. I jinxed myself."
"Oh, you did, love," Isabela said, letting out an honest chuckle. She cupped Aya's cheek gently as she passed, smiling mischievously while she gripped the dagger she'd never had the chance to sheath. Much to her surprise, Hawke grinned back at her, the mischief mirroring itself in her emerald orbs as she eyed her pirate appreciatively. The mage was cracking, yes, but she was not yet broken. And with that fire still burning within her, Isabela hoped her fortitude would not waver either.
"Then, bugger… I might as well try and enjoy it, hmm?" The sentiment was a tad forced – as evidence by the slightly bitter tinge to her voice – but there were hints of honesty in Hawke's words that couldn't be denied. There was no way Isabela was going to argue though, as they all charged towards their next battle together. They were exhausted and filthy – caked in blood and sweat and grime. They were all aching in their own ways, either physically or mentally. Some of their wounds were of the flesh, and others of the heart; but it almost didn't matter. Anders had betrayed them all, had willingly driven them to the brink of war. Nonetheless, they were still a team – they were friends, with or without Anders or the templars.
They descended the concrete steps with a seasoned combination of fervency and sensible trepidation. They had been fighting for so many years, either together or apart, that the adrenaline and caution of battle had slowly bled into a single nectar by which they could all partake. They thrived in each others' presences, slipping effortlessly into a formation they had all but perfected years prior.
Isabela and Aveline were at the helm of the attack, as always. Opposites they may be, but in the throes of battle, they could merge into a near unstoppable force. The pirate – deadly grace and skilled fluidity – wove in and out of bodies, lashing out her daggers with a precision that had reminded many an enemy of their apparent mortality. The warrior – blunt force and stalwart defense – an aggressive sentinel who protected with the ardency of a mama bear – guarded her cubs from harm. They'd managed to mesh their respective talents in battle, drawing enemies towards their vortex of power and keeping them busy while the ranged attackers decimated from afar.
They were weary, yes, but both mages still flourished with incredible power. Merrill commanded the primal and entropic magics with tremendous control, aptly disproving the image of incompetence most people saw her as. True, she was innocent, and plagued by unbreakable naivety, but she was keenly intelligent (in her own way), and ardently convicted by the use of her power. This finely honed skill coupled well with the raw and seemingly effortless force by which Hawke controlled the elements. She could summon torrid storms of flame or ice with little more than a flick of the wrist or blink of the eyes. After observing the woman for so many years, knowing the toll that was taken on her at the end of each day, Isabela was aware that within, Aya required far more magical exertion than she would ever show. This unbending composure was part of her display of power – swift, tempered, yet teeming with unbridled strength – and always delivered with a righteous hand. Together, Hawke and Merrill were truly a force to be reckoned with.
They wavered slightly now, thrown off kilter by the aggression with which the templars attacked them. The others did their best to distract the bitter warriors – Varric rained down arrows and Fenris skewered the templars as a vicious blur of lyrium, while Isabela and Aveline attempted to cut them down before they could ever reach the two mages. But in spite of their efforts, a few from the overwhelming ranks of the templars broke through their barrier, charging towards Hawke and Merrill with every intention of killing. There were abominations to be dealt with, as well, but the templars viewed the mages as much the same, grouping them in with the likes of demons.
Isabela fended off all of the opponents in her immediate vicinity, keeping close watch on Aya and Merrill. Of course, she thought bitterly, the two bloody people I care the most about are the ones whose heads the templars want on pikes. Marvelous. Were they facing bandits or thugs, the pirate was certain they could've taken down twice as many enemies without so much more than a few scratches; however, the templars were well-trained. In Isabela's opinion, they weren't quite as adept in combat as Aveline's city guards, yet they were worthy adversaries, nonetheless. And when they were out for blood, they were particularly deadly.
Feeling just a tad winded, the rogue groaned as another wave of templars came clambering down the stone stairway, almost immediately after they'd dispatched the first pack. She spared a glance in Hawke's direction, just in time to see her issue a severely frustrated snarl as the warriors descended. This time, there were more of them… considerably more.
"Shit… they really… don't want us to get down to the Gallows, do they," she inquired exasperatedly, inching her back against Aveline's and poising her daggers for attack. The two women took guard against one aperture while Varric and Fenris safeguarded the other. Two combatants at either stairwell – it wasn't much, but it was something. With their combined skill, both teams could take out several templars while Merrill and Hawke fought from a moderately safe distance. If a few were to break through, Isabela was confident the mages could handle themselves. However, it was her job to make sure no more than a few were allowed an advantage.
"Meredith doesn't want us… in the Gallows," Aveline growled, clashing her blade against a templar's, while hurling forward to bash his midsection with her shield. The pirate interspersed the many concise, lethal strokes of her daggers between different opponents, trying to occupy as many as she could at one time. Aveline wasn't much in the way of a multi-tasker – that wasn't the kind of combat she was versed in – but she was a tremendous defender. She could easily hold off two templars while Isabela hacked away from behind with grace. Though she couldn't hazard a glance in their direction, she assumed Fenris and Varric were handling themselves just as well.
When four or five templars broke through their small yet powerful blockade to charge towards Aya and Merrill, it was no fault of their own. There were just… too many adversaries, and not enough allies – plain and simple. Hawke responded immediately by igniting a small firestorm around the advancing templars. Merrill backed her up with a shock of chain lightning that hit every templar in turn, briefly stunning them. Both attacks were powerful, and under normal circumstances, could've taken out all of their opponents in one quick burst; but Isabela realized that their strength had been dulled. Without added lyrium, or a short bit of respite, Aya and Merrill's power would only continue to lessen with each attack.
The persistent templars, seared and blistered, charged forward with a collectively guttural cry. Feinting past one warrior and quickly slicing his throat, Isabela attempted to make a break from her current preoccupation, in an attempt to aid the mages directly; however, another templar stepped in from behind, catching her unawares. Had it not been for Aveline's rapid intercession, thrusting her sword into the flank of the templar's armor, Isabela would have been, at the very least, badly injured.
"Damnit…"
"Hold your position, Isabela! Trust Hawke and Merrill – your place is right here." Begrudgingly, Isabela complied, though not without casting several short, anxious glances towards the mages. Focus, she told herself, you won't be much good if you're distracted. Aveline is right, you just have to trust they can take care of themselves. Even as she told herself this, she couldn't help but notice the growing number of templars seeping through their human barrier towards the other two women. She tried not to linger on this fact, but that damnable sense of worry and concern that Aya had planted in her (Why did that trait have to rub off on me?) was getting the best of her.
She could at least hear the continued resonance of magic, echoing off the concrete and brick with a resounding hum. Regardless though, she needed to see that they were okay. After impaling the kidneys of one templar with her daggers, she turned quickly on her heel, just in time to see one of the warriors raise his blade behind Hawke's back. The apostate was distracted, facing in the opposite direction and preparing to cast a spell that left her momentarily vulnerable. Isabela's heart instantly leapt into her throat.
"Hawke!" She cried out to no avail, for by the time the blonde-haired mage was jolted from her spell-casting, the templar was already swinging his gleaming sword. However, at the last, most impossibly close moment, another templar intercepted the blow with the flat of his own sword, giving Aya just enough time to side-step out from their crosshairs.
The second templar, the one that had saved Hawke, was by far the more skilled of the two warriors. With just a few parries and swift flourishes of his great-sword, he had overwhelmed his comrade, hammering down with his blade and forcing the man to his knees. His movements were shaded with an unknown fury that briefly baffled Isabela, until the realization of who he was dawned on her. Carver? His face was obscured by a bulky helmet, and his body ambiguously armored with the templars' plate, yet he radiated a sense of utter protectiveness towards the elder Hawke that betrayed his identity.
Lacking the reprieve to contemplate Carver's timely intervention, the pirate turned her attention to the mob of templars still swarming them. Slowly but surely, their numbers were dwindling, and with Carver now aiding them, at least for this one fight, her confidence was bolstered. She may not be able to protect Aya right now – not totally – but she felt a great deal of relief knowing Carver would shoulder this duty, as only an over-bearing brother could. With that, her rapid and precise step was infused with renewed assurance, making every swipe from her blades cut right to the quick.
The numbers were against them, but when it came down to technical skill, Isabela, Aya, and their companions were simply the more practiced combatants. They were a cohesive unit, working together almost flawlessly; whereas the templars had grown sloppy in their gratuitous rage. For this reason, the remainder of the opposing warriors were dispatched within the next ten minutes. The fight did not come without its cuts and bruises, some deep and bloody, but it was above all else a victory – just what they needed to buoy their morale.
"Maker," Aya groaned, attempting to rub away a particularly fierce ache in her neck. Isabela joined the apostate at her side almost immediately, sheathing her crimson stained daggers and cupping the woman's chin in her hand, inspecting for injury. Hawke had been afflicted with no more than a few minor cuts – satisfied, the pirate shook her head and smiled.
"You know, if you keep this up, I might start thinking you actually enjoy near-death experiences," the rogue quipped.
"She alwayshas," Carver said with a grin, setting his helmet on the ground and running a hand over his sweat-soaked brow. His raven hair was longer now, pulled back in a short ponytail, and growing evenly over his shapely chin and jaw in a display of masculinity. He was no longer a boy – his face was chiseled, rugged; his eyes as blue as ever, and tempered with the depth of a skilled and educated man. To say Isabela was surprised would be an understatement; she still remembered him as the sniveling teen he'd been when she'd first met him. And who knew, perhaps he still was sniveling and petulant, perhaps his personality hadn't changed at all; but his appearance had matured unbelievably, a fact that was not lost on Aya.
"Yeah, I guess so," the apostate muttered, distracted by her own weary grin, eyes fixated on her brother.
"I'll never know who you inherited that inability to stay out of trouble from."
"You weren't much better, Carver. You just didn't have to worry about being hauled off to the circle tower. Impregnating farm girls, however..." He gave his big sister a cheeky grin, the visage of a younger, more pompous man splitting over his face as he puffed out his chest just slightly. Still the same Carver… Isabela thought, rolling her eyes. He was certainly pretty, as were all of the Hawkes, but she and him had never gotten along well. There was a time when he'd probably wanted to bed her, but she couldn't even tolerate him enough for that (of course, it didn't help that she was so much more entranced by his sister's assets).
"At least I could manage to weasel my way out of that. But you… you need to be more careful," he chided. The apostate smiled tiredly as she locked eyes with the younger Hawke. A moment of verbose silence passed between them – things said that Isabela could not imagine – and was concluded when Aya stepped forward to embrace her brother tightly. She, of average height, was able to rest her head just below his shoulder, but no further. He'd grown at least another four inches since he'd joined the templars, all those years ago, and now loomed over his big sister protectively.
"Guess it would sound foolish of me to refer to you as my 'baby' brother now, wouldn't it," she chuckled lightly, her voice laden with emotion.
"In your defense, I was a pretty big baby," he mumbled in a distractedly mirthful reply, his chin resting on top of Hawke's head. Isabela had known Carver for over a year before he left his family, directly following what he considered the great betrayal of the Deep Roads. The pirate had been there – she'd seen the look of furious disappointment in his eyes; but she'd also seen and heard Leandra's near tearful relief. In her opinion, Hawke had done the right thing, trying to protect her brother, though he'd ardently disagreed.
Carver was always far too judgmental towards Hawke though – envious of her abilities, resentful towards her apostate status, and quick to blindly mistake her protectiveness for spiteful constraint. In all the time Isabela had traveled with them, fought alongside them, or even simply drank with them at the Hanged Man, she'd never seen them hug. In fact, they'd hardly ever shown any indication of their relation outside of their kindred Hawke stubbornness, good looks, and constant bickering. To watch them now, openly embracing with such unforeseen fierceness, truly surprised her.
"'Pretty big' is something of an understatement. I'm surprised poor Bethy wasn't smothered in the womb." Laughing heartily, Carver flicked Aya in the ear.
"Still, I may have been a girthy child. Like a tree-trunk. But that was nothing compared to your overall ear-span."
"Hey!" She pulled away, feigning offense (though Isabela suspected the barb had hit closer to her insecurities than he realized), and swatted him playfully on the chest. They broke into another light fit of laughter, gazes fixed comfortably on each other until the rich, dulcet tones died away, and they were left with the overwhelming reality of their circumstances. "What are we doing, Carver? We could never seem to relax around each other before, yet here we are, in the midst of an utter catastrophe, laughing and teasing each other like we were back in Lothering." Sweeping over her surroundings, Aya sported a frown that clearly displayed how very far from Lothering she knew they were. Carver kept his eyes on his sister however, his lips finally pursed.
"I don't know, sister… one of our natural Hawke instincts, I suppose."
"You mean: making light of an impossible situation with an awful sense of humor?"
"Precisely." His brow knitted together suddenly and he cleared his throat. Aya paused, urging him to voice whatever troubling thought had crossed his mind. "Despite all the joking, I was rather frightened to hear it was my sister everybody was trying to impale."
"You're surprised?" She smiled weakly, in spite of the hollow pit that her stomach had become. "I'm quite popular, you know."
"Too popular," he sighed. "I was confident you could take care of yourself, you know. I wasn't trying to find you. And just by chance, I happen to stumble upon you, at the center of a templar horde. Not a moment too soon, either. Had it not been for me, you would be dead, Aya." Isabela could see him, prepping a scowl for the sarcastic reply that was almost certain to be issued from Hawke in response. Yet she merely stared at him soberly and nodded.
"You're right." She tried to keep her voice casual, but it came out just a little bit too stiff. Carver was clearly surprised by her admission – it was an unnatural deviation from their typical rapport, as sardonic and petty as it may be. But this… it was earnest and adult, perhaps too much so for the twenty five year old templar. He may act like he hated their unconditionally barbed relationship; however, Isabela suspected it was much easier for him to swallow than something honest and emotional – something like this. He'd prefer they continue to act like a couple of snide, competitive teens for the rest of their lives. "I was being careful. It's just… my mortality is in popular demand right now, like I said," she gave a small, hollow chuckle. "I'll be extra careful from here on out. For now though… I'm just happy to have my brother here to save my ass." She grinned, and the pirate recognized hints of genuine happiness mired in her frustrations.
Carver, on the other hand, frowned, turning his steely blue gaze to the bloody cobblestones under his feet. Something much like guilt stabbed briefly through his features before Aya pressed her filthy palm delicately against his cheek. Isabela noted that for one short moment, the mage looked and sounded remarkably like Leandra as she gently demanded, in a quiet, lulling voice, "Tell me why you can't seem to share in my joy, brother. What's the matter?" He gave his head a subtle shake and sighed, a sad smile ghosting over his lips.
"Ahh, and this is the part where you pry my shame from me as only a Hawke woman can, hmm?" Her laughter was natural this time, backed by a firm hand, still cupping his cheek comfortingly. When he finally met her gaze, there was love in his eyes. "Sister… I'm a templar," he said quietly.
"Is that so? Here I thought you've merely been dressing as one for the past six years to intimidate me." The joke was light, meant only to ease the tension between them.
"I'm sworn to the order. And these men and women I've just helped you kill… they're my brothers and sisters." Aya smiled at that, pride burning slightly within the depths of her green eyes.
"I'm sorry for that, Carver. Though it is nice to know that out of all your brothers and sisters, I'm apparently your favorite." He too chuckled at this comment, both disregarding the blatant truth of it.
"I don't want you getting the wrong idea – I've just known you the longest, that's all. Plus I kept imagining how badly mother would've scolded me if I'd ever let someone flay you." They both took pause as the thought of Leandra entered into their consciousness.
"No matter your reasons," she said, shaking off traces of solemnity. "You did save me, and you went against the order to do so. That's admirable. Thank you, Carver." Staggered by the complete truth of Aya's words, the young man fumbled for a suitable reply. In the process, a deep blush rose to his fair cheeks, in a manner very similar to that his sister displayed on a near daily basis. It must've been a definitive Hawke trait, or so Isabela thought. The way Aya had described Bethany – sweet, innocent, shy – she could imagine that she was entirely the blushing type, too.
Finally, he muttered with a modicum of embarrassment, "Don't, uhm, mention it." She chuckled once again, amused that she had caught her brother off guard.
"No, I should. Heroism fits you." She paused for a moment, willing her voice not to crack. Maybe she was tired – in fact, she was – too tired; but she could feel her chest tighten slightly as the emotions welled within. She and Carver had always fought, like cats and dogs, or worse, tigers and mabari. She had wasted a great deal of their relationship protecting him, or disciplining him, or simply attempting to combat his resentment towards her. She often came off callous when interacting with him, as she had when she'd denied his accompaniment during the Deep Roads expedition. But in truth, she was only cold to him as a means of coping with his apparent dislike for her, because that… that had always hurt her, deeply at times. And now, as they stood together as adults, mutually respecting each other's strength and valor, she saw that she had gone about him all wrong. Had she been gentler with him from the get-go, more mature and accepting, they could've been closer. Maybe not as close as she and Bethany had been, but close, nonetheless.
The regret was something she could not dwell on, however. "It seems you've truly found your niche with the templars." They smiled proudly at each other for a long moment before Aya asked, "Do you believe what Meredith believes, Carver?" He paused, clearly troubled by this question. It seemed he'd spent a lot of time contemplating just that.
"I believe in what the templars stand for. Not Meredith. Not anybody else really. Just me, and the doctrine as I perceive it. Magic…" he sighed – this was clearly most difficult for him to discuss with his apostate sister. "I've heard stories of the horrors mages can inflict. I've seen some of that havoc with my own eyes. Maker, what happened with mother, it was… unnatural, Aya!" He drew in a shaky breath, calming himself before he became overwhelmed by his frustrations. "But I also grew up with three apostates – three of the most caring and compassionate people I've ever known. So I also realize that with such… incredible gifts, a vast measure of good can be done, as well." To hear him say this truly made Hawke proud. He'd spent most of his life claiming to have despised magic, after all. "I admit, I joined the templars to spite you, sister. And for that, I am ashamed. But after fighting alongside them for so many years, I have come to hold firm beliefs regarding their duties."
He placed a hand on Hawke's shoulder before he continued, meeting her emerald gaze directly. "Under Meredith's rule, we pushed the mages far beyond the bounds of their self-restraint. Yet I continue to stand with them, because I believe we are capable of cleansing your kind of unnecessary evils. We can end those who misuse your abilities, who harm innocent people and treat them as a means to an end. In doing see, we protect virtuous mages from their influence and misdeeds. I don't want to lock you away, Aya, I never have. I just want… I want to help encourage the good you are capable of. I believe in you."
"Do you… you really mean that?" The inquiry was choked from her quietly, hints of trepidation and silent hope lacing her voice childishly. For a moment, amongst the chaos and gore that surrounded them, they were both children – naïve. Aya, reluctantly begging answers that seemed too good to be true; and Carver, cheeks flushed crimson as he kicked the toe of his boot into the street, embarrassed to admit a truth he'd spent his entire life petulantly denying. It became suddenly apparent to all who watched just how much these two siblings actually loved each other, and just how badly they'd always tried to hide it.
"Well… yeah. I mean, no one else has to know that though." With a laugh, she nodded, wrapping him up in another tight hug. Embarrassment still coursed through him, but he returned her affection without shame. "Duty or not, I didn't want to be a part of this."
"Neither did I… and I don't even have a damn title. I'm just some Ferelden apostate who ended up in all the wrong places at all the right times. Yet somehow, I still feel like I belong here, like this is my fight."
"It is. You're the hero of the family, Aya. I always liked to pretend that I was, but I could never do what you've done." His voice was somber, though not bitter, as one might expect. "I mean, look at me: in the middle of a… a bloody war, toeing the line between both sides. I don't even know who I should be fighting for. I don't know… well, I'm not sure what's right, sister."
"I'm hardly the one to answer. I'm fighting on behalf of a cause incited by an abomination. It feels right, but it doesn't appear so. And you…" She stepped back, grasping Carver by the shoulders and looking at him sternly. "I know what you're thinking. You feel you have an obligation to fight by my side, regardless of what you believe in, just because the same blood flows through our veins. But that is most definitely not the right thing to do. Likewise, you should not fight for the templars just because you pledged a few vows. Your duty, above all else, is to fight on behalf of the cause that you believe in. Forget about templars; forget about your apostate family. Deep down, without bias, there is an opinion that speaks to you. And that is what you will fight for.
"I admit, I would love to have you join us. But I would be much happier knowing that you're acting of your own volition, defending what you believe in. You're… your own man now, Carver, and for that, I'm proud. You've no need to worry about my shadow, or treading paths that I have blazed. Just do what needs to be done for you."
"I…" He was stunned, obviously, to have his own choices, to know that no matter what he decided or what he chose to believe in, Aya would not hold it against him. "I don't think I trust Orsino," he resolutely concluded.
"Understandable," Aya added with a nervous laugh.
"Meredith is rash, but she has strong convictions. And I don't think she's capable of as much destruction." He sighed loudly, shaking his head, his brow furrowing in frustration. "No one can be trusted, Aya." Suddenly, he lifted his gaze to meet hers, a smile quirking at the corner of his mouth. "Except for you. And our… friends." He looked around at all of them, not entirely sure if they had actually forgiven him for betraying his sister all those years ago. Aveline was firm with him, and he aggravated her endlessly, but she would accept him; Varric had always enjoyed drinking with him, and would be pleased to have him back; Merrill certainly wasn't the type to hold a grudge, and Carver had always been especially kind to her; he and Fenris had never been on friendly terms, yet the elf was loyal to his sister, and would be civil; and Isabela… she'd always ribbed him, always fought with him, but he was Aya's little brother, and she would do anything for her.
"So, are you saying…"
"This… it's not about blood, Aya. I trust that you will do the right thing. And I want to help you." The apostate tried to restrain herself, but her face split into a broad, luminous grin, nonetheless. She looked more lively and confident than she had since their entire ordeal began, or so Isabela thought. However, in fear of embarrassing her brother, she did hold herself back from wrapping him tightly in another bear hug.
"Fantastic," she exclaimed, mischief shining in her features. "Then what do you say we go save a city?"
They were horribly cramped as they sailed to the Gallows, attempting to squeeze an excess of grimy, blood-stained bodies into a boat with too small of a capacity. This, indeed, was simply a boat, as opposed to a ship. Isabela could remember trying to explain the difference to several of her companions in the past. She had gone through great pains in particular to get Hawke to stop referring to the Siren's Call II as a "boat". If she had any intentions of leaving Kirkwall with the pirate and living on the vessel (and she most certainly did), Isabela demanded she acknowledge it for what it was – a ship – grand, ornate, with an air of seafaring regality that made the rogue beam with pride and excitement. The idea that such a vessel belonged properly to her thrilled Isabela to no end. All thanks to Hawke, of course. And oh, they had done such lecherous things below deck in preparation of their coming journey together.
The thought curled a wicked smirk around her lips as she sat aboard the small boat that was their transport to the Gallows. In comparison to the Siren's Call, it was absolutely puny. Regardless, it allowed her to indulge in the gentle sway of the water as she relaxed against the mast, watching Hawke from a distance. She stood at the bow, steady on her feet as she trained her eyes on their destination. Isabela knew the woman's mind was plagued with thoughts of coming battle, bloodshed; and perhaps she could've allowed these treacherous thoughts to consume her mind, as well. But the pirate was a master of distraction, in all forms. She had proven this fact to Aya on many, many occasions; however, it also served to distract her own mind when necessary.
She didn't want to dwell on their current dilemma, and so found other things to occupy her mind. The harsh bite of salt whipping against her cheeks in a gentle gale; the rain that pelted her skin lightly, breaking through the dwindling evening sun in a refreshing shower; Hawke's inherent sea-legs, and how they would come in handy when she was learning the ropes aboard Isabela's ship. She was a quick learner as it was – intelligent and good at taking direction (something that had proved very beneficial in more intimate aspects of their relationship) – and would become a fantastic sailor in no time. She was still a bit too morally upstanding to fall completely into the role of pirate, but under Isabela's influence, she would eventually acquire an appropriate amount of depravity.
As they neared the Gallows, Aya turned back to face them, her face serious, but not yet downtrodden. Her jaw had loosened under her skin, allowing the soft curves of her cheeks to show themselves prominently on her pale face. Her eyes were bright – smoldering even – with determination and passion borne entirely of her dedication to their cause. She did not smile, but her full lips had relaxed into their natural disposition, corners perpetually quirked in subtle optimism, implying a kind smile that was never too far from her features.
"Everyone ready?" All of the Champion's companions nodded, and Isabela grinned at her. It was the kind of grin she only adorned in Aya's presence, and for Aya. Noticing this, Hawke returned the gesture with her own delicate smile. It wasn't nearly as impish as Isabela's – it was ingenuous – it made the pirate feel unconditionally safe. "Good. I wish I could tell you what will be waiting for us, but I really have no idea," she shrugged.
"Meredith will be there, for sure," Carver added, a hint of nerves coloring his voice.
"Of course. Orsino, too, unless they've managed to kill each other… no matter though, we'll take care of it. Don't worry about the Knight-Commander, brother." He nodded, putting on a brave face, as did the rest of Hawke's companions. Their worry was natural, expected even; but after years of fighting, and several instances of near-certain death, they'd learned that the best way to contest one's own anxiety is to play brave, to pretend.
And that's just what they did. When they hit the loading ramp at the Gallows' makeshift docks, clattering against the dirt with dull, thudding feet, not one of them appeared frightened of what they were about to face. Granted, none of them had any idea what would be up head – what may lie just beyond the large, granite stairwell they were to ascend, cloaked beneath an ambiguous pall of shadows. For most, the uncertainty would've unsettled them further; but they'd lived in the City of Chains for a long time. They knew nothing in Kirkwall was ever certain, leastwise in more feared regions such as Darktown or the Gallows, and over the years, the constant insecurity had become something of an old friend.
When they crossed through the large aperture, the first thing that hit them was the aroma – an acrid blend of blood and flames. Bodies littered the concrete, embellished with both the insignia and gleaming plate of the templars, as well as the robes common among circle mages. It was a mixture of men and women, humans and elves, all of indiscriminate sizes, colors, and ages. It was vaguely ironic to Aya, who realized that both sides had died fighting each other, for a different cause. Yet now, as they lay cold and motionless, they had all joined the same ranks – the ranks of the dead.
As Hawke and her companions strode purposefully over the cobblestones, tense amongst the conflict swarming all around them, a bright light shot out ahead. It wasn't a flame of any sort, but a controlled beam, accompanied by a sharp snap-hiss definitive of magic. The next moment, a shining metal blur was cast through the air, completely indiscernible until it hit the ground in the exact spot where Aya was about to plant her foot. The templar collided with the concrete with a sickening crunch – the neck and spine probably cracked, judging from the position in which the unfortunate warrior had landed. The sound alone caused Hawke to wince as she strained her vision over another set of stone steps, just up ahead.
"First Enchanter," she called out, spotting Orsino on the staircase with a few other circle mages. He stopped mid-step, ready to run in the opposite direction before he halted and turned with wide eyes.
"Champion! You've survived – thank the Maker! We must-" The First Enchanter was cut off by a shrill, livid voice, marching through the entryway behind Hawke and her companions.
"And here you are!" She acknowledged the Champion with a scowl, beckoning her templar underlings to follow her like a pack of loyal mabari. Her gait was marked with an air of over-confidence that Aya thought seemed somewhat uncharacteristic. Meredith was commanding and assured in her convictions, but she was not pompous. Her current bearing exuded something far beyond conviction, however… she seemed possessed.
"Let us speak, Meredith," Orsino demanded, firm yet calm. "Before this battle destroys the city you claim to protect." The Knight-Commander merely scoffed, sauntering forward with a small, arrogant smile carved into her features.
"I will entertain a surrender, and nothing more." As she passed Hawke, the apostate was gripped with a quick shudder, noting the pulsing, red glow emanating from Meredith's massive blade. This shudder was not of fear, however. It was physically involuntary, causing the hairs on the back of her neck to rise. Her eyes narrowed in a quizzical expression, fixed upon the Knight-Commander's extraordinary weapon as she stood before Orsino. Preparing for a likely confrontation, the elf motioned for his accompanying mages to assemble beside him.
Mildly angered by this further show of defiance, Meredith coolly insisted, "Speak, if you have something to say."
"Revoke the right of annulment, Meredith. Before this goes too far." As if it hasn't already… Isabela thought wryly to herself, quickly tiring of Orsino's and Meredith's belligerence. In a way, she had to wonder if they had predetermined their own conflict – their own fate. Whenever they met, it was always under the thinnest pretense of civility, neither putting forth much effort to hide a scowl or bite back a cutting remark. Perhaps, inadvertently, they had presupposed this battle a long time ago. "Imprison us if you must, search the tower – I will even help you. But do not kill us all for an act we did not commit!" His offer was amenable, but they all knew it was hopeless.
"The Grand Cleric is dead, killed by a mage," Meredith replied simply, as if that, in itself, was an answer. More like a death sentence. "The people will demand retribution, and I will give it to them. Your offer is commendable, Orsino, but it comes too late."
"No," Aya stepped between the two, shaking her head stanchly. "Many have already died, yes, but that does not mean that we all must die. As long as the two of you still stand, this can be stopped. As long as you allow it," she added carefully. "If not, the city will be torn apart." Neither of them spared more than a glance in Hawke's direction as she spoke. Clearly, their minds were already made up.
"You heard her," Orsino said bitterly, "she's wanted this all along." Meredith merely shrugged, ignoring the First Enchanter's comment and turning to face Aya.
"You are naïve, Champion, though I would expect no less from you. And for that, you will share the circle's fate." Carver's lip curled into a snarl as he observed the way in which Meredith addressed his sister – callously condemning her. She was his superior, of course, but if they were to come to blows, and he felt certain they would, he wouldn't mind seeing Aya put her down.
"So… what will it be, Meredith? Do we fight here?" Orsino spoke quietly, like a man broken. Hawke eyed him in distaste – he had every right to be saddened, but not defeated. He was supposed to be a leader, and his weakness would not bode well for the rest of the circle mages.
"Go. Prepare your people," was Meredith's steadfast reply. She was composed, yet her blue eyes shimmered wildly, and an intimation of blood-lust echoed far off in her voice. "The rest of the order is already crossing the harbor."
"This isn't over," Orsino said, sudden fury hard within his voice. It was unbridled, but at least better than dejection, or so Hawke thought. With one last scathing look, he turned sharply on his heel and trotted up the stone steps, the circle mages following grimly in his wake. Hawke gazed in Meredith's direction, curious to see if the Knight-Commander would say anything more to her. However, Aya wasn't even granted a fleeting glance.
Shaking her head, she looked to her companions and said, "Come on. Let's go." They could only hope that they would cross back this way again.
They'd caught up to Orsino on their way into the Gallows, Hawke jogging up beside the First Enchanter. Isabela, of course, was close behind their de facto leader, ears perked to pick up on the hushed conversation between the two mages.
"How much time did it take you to cross the harbor, Champion," he asked quietly, his tone calculating.
"An hour, maybe a little more."
"And they were already crossing as we were speaking with Meredith…" He cursed silently, the gears turning in his head while he attempted to work out how much time they actually had before the templars' arrival. "It won't be long then. I'd say half an hour, to be safe." Aya nodded stoically – she was already aware of this. "We'll maintain a blockade of mages out front, to safeguard the entrance. I'll have them alert us when the templars arrive, at which point, you and I will hand out orders to our respective parties." His voice was particularly grim as he spoke, until dipping into a near indiscernible quiet that the rogue strained to hear. "In the meantime, you should speak to your companions. If there is anything left unsaid-" Hawke silenced him with a diplomatic hand.
"I understand, First Enchanter. You need not say anything more."
"Right… I'll let you know when it is time." Hawke gave him a final nod, parting from Orsino as they stood silently in the main hall of the Gallows. A few torches were lit dimly along the walls, casting a faint, flickering light over the concrete. The structure of the building was entirely gray, conveying a sense bleakness that did not bode well for the already nerve-wracked mages that stood with them. They were trained and capable fighters, of course, with the ability to wield their magic just as well as Aya or Merrill. Regardless, they weren't used to this kind of conflict – being locked away in that dingy, Maker forsaken tower had softened them to such war.
They would hold though, or so Isabela thought. They were naturally more powerful than the templars, even if they weren't as prepared. Together, they had a fighting chance. And with Hawke on their side… well, the pirate liked to think that with Hawke, all things were possible. Even winning a near-impossible battle.
Isabela sat down on the cold floor beside Merrill, stretching out her long legs while she waited for Aya to join her. Orsino had been right – at this point there was no turning back, and Hawke couldn't afford to leave anything unsaid between her and her friends. Or her lover, for that matter, but there wasn't much that needed to be said between them. Their love – deep, tender, fervent – had been proclaimed by both women with an ardency appropriately fitting of their turbulent lives. Their loyalty and devotion was made obvious by the fact that even now, at this mortally dangerous juncture, they had stuck together.
So what was this abnormal weight that contracted within Isabela's chest, tying her stomach into knots? If all had been said before, why did she feel like it needed to be said again? She wanted Hawke to sit down beside her and thread her alabaster fingers through her own. She wanted the apostate to smile at her in a way that was meant only for her pirate, eyes burning with a soft entreaty that would part her full lips and beg for passion. She wanted to tell Aya that she loved her – truly, desperately – and she wanted to say it a thousand times over. Why? That wasn't her. Hawke was the bleeding romantic, not Isabela.
But this need wasn't about romance: it was about fear. Because Isabela was aware of the very real possibility that one, or both of them, could die here today. And in that case, it seemed even a thousand times would be an inaccurate measure of what she felt for her lover. She wasn't good at saying these things anyway; it was much easier for the pirate to show Hawke how she felt. And she was definitely tempted by the idea, despite their surroundings – it would be a great morale boost for those watching, at the very least.
She was fooling herself though, trying to placate her meandering anxieties with thoughts of sex. Normally, the distraction would be welcome; however, she was smart enough to know that the present dilemma was worthy of her full attention. Trying to shake off the worry, and ease the tension in her stomach, she turned to see Merrill, hugging her knees to her chest as she picked at a crack in the floor. The little elf was nervous – quite so, Isabela would venture to say – but she was determined, as well. This may not be the cause of her people, of the Dalish, but it was a cause of mages, nonetheless. It was a cause that affected those she cared for, as well as herself. That was enough to gain Merrill's unflinching devotion.
Isabela smiled – she certainly had to admire her dear friend. Most people simply took her for some naïve fool of an elf. Her fixation on brightly colored flowers and complete inability to resist climbing things did nothing to negate these illusions. Nevertheless, that is what the pirate knew them to be: illusions, all part of a well-cultivated façade. Because Merrill wanted to be unassuming – she didn't want people to know how powerful she truly was. She may be a blood mage, but she was no abomination, not like most people would think. The elf was inconspicuous as a means of self-preservation, developed over years of being harassed by others in her clan for her "foul" work and misdeeds.
Isabela saw Merrill for what she was though: compassionate, clever, and more powerful than anyone would imagine. Aside from Hawke, that sweet elf was the truest friend the pirate had ever had.
"Are you nervous, Bela," Merrill asked, shaking Isabela from her musing.
"What's that, Kitten?" The elf turned to her, her wide, mossy eyes soft and full of curiosity.
"Are you nervous?" Isabela merely shrugged. Normally, she would make some overtly confident or otherwise sarcastic remark. But the moment had not warranted such falsehood, and she knew Merrill would see through it anyhow.
"Yes." The short, honest reply seemed to take the elf off guard, her eyes widening slightly before she smiled.
"I'm surprised… I bet you would be less nervous if Hawke were here beside you." The astuteness of this observation elicited a smile from Isabela. Merrill knew her too well.
"She has a lot of people to talk to first."
"She's saving you for last, isn't she?" Isabela nodded, sighing.
"Of course. She has to save the best for last, doesn't she?" Merrill giggled.
"I suppose so, yes." After a pause, the elf dropped her head once more to resume picking at the floor tiles. Anxiety slowly crept back into her face, blanching her features in the pale torchlight. Noticing this, Isabela bumped her shoulder playfully against Merrill's, linking their arms.
"I'm glad you're here too, Kitten." The elf blushed, smiling lightly. Isabela wasn't sure what it was – a combination of their overwhelming anxiety, as well as the abounding disaster, perhaps – but she found herself thinking about just how much she would miss Merrill when this was all over. Over the years, the kind little blood mage had become something of… a sister to her. Someone she loved innately, in an entirely platonic and very protective manner. In truth, she'd thought of kidnapping the woman and taking her away with them when she and Hawke left Kirkwall. She wasn't sure if an elf would fare well on the open water, but right now, she felt as though she needed to ask. "You know Hawke and I are leaving when this is all over, don't you, Merrill?" The elf's ears perked up just a little bit – Isabela only referred to her by her proper name when she wanted to discuss something particularly serious (it wasn't very often).
"Yes, of course. You've been talking about it often. I know you're very excited, Isabela. Hawke, too, I'm sure."
"What will you do after we're gone," the pirate inquired softly, acknowledging the way in which Merrill's ears reddened. This always happened when she was particularly upset, or just embarrassed about something.
"Oh… I don't know. I don't have a clan to return to anymore. I suppose there's other Dalish around, but… it wouldn't be the same. I was thinking perhaps I would travel to Sundermount, and make my own camp outside of the city. It might be lonely, but I would be away from the Alienage, at least. That would be nice." It wouldn't be very nice, and Isabela knew that. If it were, Merrill would sound far more enthusiastic about it.
"Well, I had a thought, as to what you might do…" Isabela smiled brightly, piquing Merrill's attention as she turned to face her friend.
"Really? What?"
"It's just an idea I had recently. I'm not sure if it would be preferable to living alone in the forest – I do know how you love to climb trees, Kitten, especially dangerously tall ones. But I was thinking, maybe… you could join my crew aboard the Siren's Call? With all the gruff sailor types I've managed to employ so far, I am in dire need of someone insufferably cute to balance them out. You, of course, fit the bill perfectly." Merrill was obviously taken aback by the offer – speechless, as her mouth rounded and gaped wordlessly. Her eyes were big and bright, reminding Isabela of just one of the reasons she'd chosen the elf's longstanding nickname. Then, something in those earthy green hues sparked, and Merrill grinned widely.
"You mean it?"
"Absolutely. I'd say Hawke could fill the position, but she's already been appointed as my first mate. And the only other person I could think of for the job was you." Merrill immediately lunged on Isabela, wrapping her up in a hug so tight that the pirate couldn't help but laugh. She had been skeptical about how the elf might react; but she now knew she had done the right thing in asking.
"Yes, of course! Ma serannas, Lethallan!"
"Wonderful," Isabela said, still chuckling as she returned Merrill's excited embrace. They held onto each other a moment longer, until they were interrupted by the sound of Hawke, plopping down on the floor in front of them in her prized Champion's armor. Isabela turned with a smile on her face, nerves buzzing slightly in her belly when she met Aya's gaze – cool, composed, yet tempered with worry and exhaustion. Nonetheless, Hawke gave her a pleasant smile.
"What did I miss?"
"Oh, Hawke!" Merrill bounced onto her knees enthusiastically, her hands moving in large, animated gestures as she spoke. "Isabela asked me to join the two of you aboard her ship!" Aya grinned crookedly, a dimple carving itself into her cheek as she gave Isabela a sidelong glance, her eyes glinting knowingly. She had suspected this would happen all along.
"That's great, Merrill, really. It'll be nice to have another friend on board." She squeezed the elf's arm gently as the woman nodded. "I'll make sure to get us there in one piece, too." Merrill's expression sobered remarkably fast. She nodded once again, the gesture now more determined and dedicated that it was bubbly and excited.
"I know you will, Hawke. You're probably the only one who can." The blonde apostate chuckled lightly, shaking her head.
"You give me too much credit…" Her eyes flickered for a moment, and she glanced once more in Isabela's direction. This time, the pirate's eyes were watching, waiting for them to connect. The moment they did, those niggling nerves that were coiled within her stomach jerked, and she felt goosebumps briefly rising over her arms.
Perhaps sensing this subtle change in demeanor, Aya turned back to Merrill and kindly asked, "Could Isabela and I have a moment alone together? I'd like to talk to her before… well, you know."
"Oh, right. Of course, Lethallan. Just let me know when it is time."
"Thank you, Merrill," Hawke nodded graciously, keeping her gaze fixed upon Isabela. As soon as the elf left them, Aya inched closer to her pirate, unconsciously reaching for her hands as though it were the most basic of instincts. It certainly felt as though it were. Sometimes, a smile shared between them, a soft squeeze of the hands or arms, or a graze of the lips, felt like the most congenital of actions. As Isabela liked to remind herself often, she was no romantic; nonetheless, romance came so naturally to her in the apostate's presence, it was completely baffling.
With a sigh, Isabela expelled the majority of tension from her body, relaxing into the feeling of Aya's fingers woven through her own. Hawke closed her eyes and leaned forward, resting her forehead against her lover's. The goosebumps that had started to dissipate reformed on the pirate's arms as she felt the mage's warm breath exhaled against her skin, tickling every miniscule piece of flesh that it touched. All too aware of how close Hawke's subtly parted lips were to her own, she inclined her head to capture them in a short, tender kiss.
"I'm so glad you're here, Bela," the mage whispered against her lover's mouth, eyes closed and filled with visions of a life after Kirkwall. "I'm sure this isn't where you wanted to end up-" Nipping Hawke's lip, Isabela silenced her before she could finish voicing her doubt.
"I wanted to end up with you. I never really had the whole templars versus mages war in mind, but I know it's what needs to happen." Aya shook her head a little, still not entirely convinced.
"It doesn't seem right, that you should have to be here, risking your life."
"No, I don't have to do anything, Hawke. None of us do. We're here to support you and your cause. It's the least we could do, after everything you've done for us."
"But-"
"I love you, but you need to shut up, alright?" She cupped the apostate's chin in her hand, forcing her to listen with blazing eyes. "I'm here because I want to be Hawke. Because I can think of no greater future than to be sailing across Thedas on my ship with my mage. I knew getting there wasn't going to be easy, but I also knew I would stick to it, no matter what. So if you insist on fighting for some principle or other, I'm going to be right beside you." Suddenly, Isabela shook her head, her brow knitting together with a sense of indignant irony. "It figures, doesn't it? I finally find someone I want to be with, and the templars decide to go crazy and kill everyone." Hawke knew the pirate was being caustic, making a joke she herself probably wasn't even enjoying, and in spite of that, she had to chuckle. She was hoping that if she remained lighthearted, she'd be able to quell the uncharacteristic worry shadowed in Isabela's features.
"C'mon, Bela. It'd be so boring for us to simply… sail off into the sunset without a chantry getting blown up or something beforehand." Her humor was lost on the rogue though, as she pulled back from Aya and grabbed her face between her hands.
"Shit, Hawke. I've never been a part of something like this before. It's… scary."
"It is," Aya said quietly, removing one of those dusky hands from her cheek, and pressing it softly against her lips.
"Just tell me I'm not going to lose you." Isabela's amber eyes stared back at Hawke with a potent and plaintive mixture of fear and cold determination – a look of unabashed vulnerability that appeared foreign to the Rivaini's features. That alone was enough to make Aya forget about her own fears, if only for a few moments, so that she may comfort her lover.
"If you think a couple of angry templars are going to be enough to take me away from you, you're sadly mistaken." She leaned forward, grasping the back of Isabela's neck gently with one hand, and kissed her forehead. The pirate could feel heat blazing in the exact spot where Hawke's lips connected with her skin, an unspoken promise made apparent to her, even when it had been mired in subtle humor. Hawke would never leave her, and she knew that. But that didn't mean that Hawke couldn't be taken away from her. The apostate wouldn't let that happen though – she wouldn't leave her love alone. "You're stuck with me, Isabela. For as long as you'll have me, and well beyond that. I promise."
With an earnest smile finally curling over her lips, Isabela replied, "I'm going to hold you to that, Hawke."
"Go ahead. I'm not going to let you down." Hawke leaned forward, enveloping Isabela's lips with a fierce passion. It almost felt like the kind of kiss you would share with someone before a great sacrifice. Desperate, hungry – attempting to glean every last detail of the other through their lips: the natural rhythm of their breathing; the taste of their saliva; the way their heart felt, encased beneath pulsing flesh, beating so wildly the other could feel it as poignantly as their own. It felt like a last kiss. No. This won't be the last time. Isabela pulled away suddenly, leaving the apostate confused and obviously dissatisfied.
"We shouldn't kiss like this, Hawke."
"What do you mean?" The pirate shook her head, frowning slightly while Aya appeared quizzical.
"There's too much finality in it. That's not right. This… it isn't the last time." Hawke furrowed her brow, understanding dawning on her.
"Then how should we be kissing?" After a brief pause, Isabela smiled impishly, inclining her head slowly, and engaging her Champion in a slow, sensual tangle of heated lips and massaging tongues. She prolonged the action until she knew Hawke was as thoroughly desirous and aroused as she was.
"Like that – like we have something to look forward to after this is over. Because we do." She spoke directly into Hawke's ear, eliciting a shiver from the mage.
"Oh… incentive."
"Mhm," Isabela purred, threading her fingers through Aya's blonde tresses and burying her face in her neck. She could feel her pulse-point thrumming beneath that pale skin, and smiled. For a moment or two, they had truly forgotten where they were, and what they were about to do. They were surprised when the First Enchanter called out for Hawke, caution and anger plain in his voice.
"Champion… there's something you need to see."
As always, I want to thank everyone for the reviews/alerts/favorites/etc. I truly think you guys are awesome, and I appreciate it tons. Please keep them coming : )