"Think of it as a pleasure cruise," Isabela says, smiling. "Haven't you earned a vacation?"
Both of them are looking at her. She turns her head away, looks back at the smoking wreck that was their home for ten years.
I.
It was easier when they lived in separate houses. He'd leave his window open, or she'd sleep with an ear half cocked for a knock, for the scrape of his armor against her stairs, her heart thumping erratically at the sound. Back when they could afford to be careless, when they could still count on wine or trouble to bring them together.
Now they sleep side by side in the cabin of a rocking ship.
And yet he still finds ways to put distance between them.
The first night he came to her bed, back in Hightown so many years ago, before he left her, came back, left her again (or maybe it was she who left that time? The history of their courtship is long and contentious, blotted by wine stains, bloody rows, and imperious ultimatums that neither of them had the resolve to stick to), there was an incident that Hawke later attributes great significance to.
They had been intertwined, if not definitively in coitus, his hands tight in her hair, his lips hot on her neck, when he had gone suddenly and astonishingly intangible. One second her arms were around him and the next, just air.
He rematerialized a second later, his body slamming into hers, his heartbeat pressed into her chest. But Hawke still remembers the shock of it, the frightening sensation of there-and-gone.
And though he came back (and he always does come back) over the years she has come to understand that there are times when though he is physically with her, he is not there.
Back then, when she was young and so hopelessly stupid about everything that it makes her dizzy to think about it now, back then, she'd thought it was something she could fix. That if she only loved him enough, it would be enough to change him. He'd come round eventually, lose his preposterous hatred of magic, his silly prejudices. She was sure of it.
She'd been sure, right up until the night he left her.
Even in the messy aftermath of that night, and all the long years in between, she had nursed her hopes, let them grow in secret.
Not that she'd sat around pining the whole time. Well. There had been a degree of pining. But there were enough willing young men and women in Kirkwall to blunt the edge of her sorrows. And certainly enough demons, abominations, and slavers to bear the brunt of whatever inscrutable feelings Fenris harbored within his lyrium inscribed chest.
But then Danarius had come for him. And the loathsome gloating in his voice, the way his wet eyes lingered hungrily on Fenris' body, had left no question of what had been required of his former bondsman.
"Once upon a time you had affection for me. I remember it fondly"
All her hopes had died that night. (As had Danarius. Rather spectacularly.)
When the magister's corpse had been reduced to a pile of smoldering ashes, the remains of his heart a wet red stain on the sawdust covered floor of the Hanged Man, she'd turned away from the white, shocked faces of her companions. The sight of his blood mingled with her own on the ground made her feel sick. She had seen her sort of magic abused before. But this was the first time she'd felt tainted merely by association.
Fenris had already left, and she was glad, because it spared her having to face him.
He's free, she had thought, as she struggled to keep from retching. I'll never see him again, but he is free.
And of course she'd been heartbroken all over again, though it had been years since he walked out her door, but a part of her had also been relieved. For this was after Bethany, after Mother, and though Carver yet lived, the sight of him gone grey-faced and strange in the deep roads was one she would not easily forget. She'd begun to understand the darker aspects of love, the demon's bargain of caring for someone you had no power to protect.
If losing him meant that he lived, meant he was free and safe, drawing breath somewhere out in the world? That was a price she was more than willing to pay.
But then he had come back.
And this time he'd stayed.
She'd been so amazed and grateful. She resolved then and there that whatever Danarius had been, she would be the opposite.
II.
Hawke hit the water with a gasp that was cut off as her momentum carried her further under. Silently she flailed beneath the waves, pushing herself back up. Surfacing, she spat out a mouth full of salt water, and glared up at the figure who stood staring down at her from the ship's prow.
"BLOODY HELL, FENRIS!"
He watched impassively, rope in hand. Next to him, Isabela leaned in low over the railing.
"We've been over this, Hawke," she called down. "He'll toss you the rope once you've promised not to burn down the ship."
Hawke clenched her jaw, furiously treading water.
"Void take you both," she snarled, her teeth chattering.
"I don't hear you promising!" Isabela sang back.
"I swear to the Maker," Hawke shouted, "that I will not burn down the bloody ship!"
Isabela winked at her. "That's better." She turned to Fenris. "If you would be so kind."
He crossed his arms, looking down at Hawke.
"Are you certain this is the best course of action, Admiral?" he said loudly. "Perhaps she would benefit from further counsel with the fish. It may be that they are better suited than we to convince her of the foolishness of this plan."
"You might be on to something there," Isabela purred at him. "But haul her up all the same. We'll never hear the end of it if she catches cold."
With a sigh, Fenris wound one end of the rope around his arm, tossing the other out to Hawke. She snatched it with both hands, and he proceeded to hoist her back up the side of the ship. When she reached the deck he pulled her dripping and shivering up into his arms.
"You will pay for that, Fenris," she hissed at him through chattering teeth. He returned her glare, his arms tightening around her.
"I fail to see how you intend to exact retribution from me, given that your current plan will most assuredly lead to your own capture and execution."
Isabela clutched a hand to her heaving bosom, spinning into an exaggerated swoon. "Steamy," she sighed, fanning herself. "Now take her to your cabin and ravish her immediately."
Both of them turned to glare at her.
She shrugged. "Or, if you prefer, we can continue this tiresome argument." She arched one imperious eyebrow at Hawke. "But no fireworks this time, or so help me you are going right back in." She pointed out to the sea.
Hawke sighed. "No fireworks," she agreed, letting her head fall back against Fenris' shoulder. She allowed herself to be carried back into their cabin, where Fenris deposited her on the bed, and the insufferable pirate wrapped her up in a blanket.
"I should never have given you control of this ship," she groused, as Isabela rubbed the water out of her hair. "You've clearly gone mad with power."
"Nonsense!" Isabela said firmly. " I let you name it, didn't I?"
Indeed, Hawke herself had been responsible for the christening of The Queasy Crow, a duty she had dispatched with great pomp and circumstance. It had required the sacrifice of several bottles of Fenris' best wine, and twice again as many of The Hanged Man's worst whiskey. Varric had even made a particularly rousing speech.
The memory brought back the sting of the latest news, and her face fell.
"She wants to wear the hat," Fenris said, pulling off her soaked boots.
Isabela sniffed. "It doesn't suit her." Hawke gave her an outraged look. "I'm sorry, Sweetness, but it's true. It makes your hair go all flat on top."
Hawke glowered. "Fenris gets to wear the hat," she said sullenly.
"Fenris helps the crew, instead of sitting around moping all day. Which, frankly, was a something of a surprise," she said, turning to flash him a curious look.
"I have worked on a ship before," he said, looking away, "admittedly, under vastly different circumstances."
Isabela shrugged. "You make yourself useful. I appreciate it." Her face darkened, and she turned back to Hawke. "And most importantly, unlike some others I could name, Fenris has never attempted to set the ship on fire."
The early days of their voyage had been plagued by certain highly-combustible complications. The result of these regrettable but ultimately harmless incidents (as Hawke preferred to think of them), was that Isabela had issued standing orders for her to be doused in buckets of cold water at the first sign of smoke, an edict which the crew had taken to enforcing a bit too enthusiastically for Hawke's taste. Still, it had had the desired effect.
At least, until word had arrived of Varric's capture. In the ensuing dispute over appropriate measures of retaliation, things had... escalated.
She sulked. "It was only a few times."
"Any time is too many times, sweet thing." Isabela pulled back, checking her handiwork. "There. We'll see what we can do about getting your clothes dry in the morning. Now, about Varric-"
"We have to rescue him," Hawke demanded angrily, her hair sticking up in wet clumps.
Isabela sighed.
"Alright. Lets get a few things straight," she said. "Firstly, this letter you've had is two weeks old. Add in the time it took to reach Aveline, and you can bet they've had him for a month." She frowned abstractedly. "Probably longer,"
Hawke swore.
"- but we'll be conservative and say that's at least a month he's spent under interrogation. So," she said spreading her hands. "Where are the Seekers? We've docked at three different cities. They've had ample time to find us. But we haven't seen so much as hide nor hair of them. What does that tell you?"
Hawke scowled at her. "He hasn't talked. But-"
"Wrong." Isabela said firmly. She grinned. "Varric? Not talk? They'd have to torture him to get him to stop talking."
Fenris coughed. "Isabela," he said, nodding towards Hawke's suddenly bloodless face. "This is not… helping."
"Oh for- they aren't actually torturing him," Isabela snapped. "Don't you see? He's obviously sold them some utter nonsense. And they've believed it!"
"He could be in danger-" Hawke insisted.
"Maker's bloody balls he is," Isabela retorted. "Seeker Pentaghast may not be keeping him in the style and comfort to which he's grown accustomed, but the worst she can do is restrict his ale privileges." She shook her head. "If this was the Templars, or even the mages, we'd be in real trouble. But this is the Chantry. They follow rules, Hawke."
Hawke's eyes narrowed. "Sister Petrice didn't follow rules."
"And look where that got her," Isabela snorted. "Tits up on the chantry floor with an arrow for a hat. I'm telling you, they can't touch him. Even if every crooked old biddy in the Grand Cathedral had it out for him, he's still got enough pull with the Dwarven Guilds to ensure they have to play nice. That is, unless they fancy a pack of Carta assassins jumping up their backsides." She smirked, clearly savoring that image.
Hawke shook her head. "It's not safe," she insisted stubbornly.
"Varric is sitting pretty in the middle of a regiment of chantry soldiers. He's safer than we are!" Isabela's eyes flashed. "So long as they don't think he's lying to them." She paused, staring at Hawke. "But then, they have no reason to suspect that, do they? Unless you suddenly show up all fire and bloody brimstone at their camp. "
"I was going to employ stealth-"
"You are rubbish at stealth, Hawke." Isabela fixed her with a steady look. "So I am asking you," she continued, all trace of good humor suddenly gone, "not as your friend, but as Varric's. Please. Lie low. Don't blow whatever cover story he's told. Wait for him to contact us."
Both of them stared at her. Hawke stared back, incensed. She opened her mouth to respond.
"Venhedis! You are wasting your breath Isabela," Fenris said, disgusted. "Your words are clearly far too sensible for her to comprehend." He turned away from her. "By all means Hawke, leave. Get yourself killed, and Varric with you."
Hawke let her mouth close with a snap.
Despite her best efforts at blocking it out, she was starting to recognize a certain inevitable degree of truth in what they were saying. She bit her lip.
How dare they use logic against her at a time like this, she thought angrily. This was Varric they were talking about.
She would never forgive herself if anything happened to him. But it was increasingly easy to see how she could end up letting her momentum carry her forward into another disaster. It had happened so many times before.
She snuck a glance up to her right, and winced.
It was hard to asses the wisdom of her plan with Fenris making that face at her.
Then again, 'plan' wasn't exactly the right word, was it?
When it came down to it, she didn't make plans. She reacted. Over and over she'd made a snap decision faced with events that anyone with a lick of sense ought to have seen coming a mile away. And what had been the result?
Ruin and despair. The death of countless innocents.
Suddenly she thought she could detect the faint, cloying scent of burning flesh again. Her heartbeat accelerated, and she felt her mouth flood reflexively with the taste of soot and ash. Quickly she swallowed, forcing it back down.
How many cities will burn. How many loved ones must she lose.
She sagged back into the bed.
Kirkwall had made a coward of her, she reflected bitterly, digging her nails deep into her palms.
"What can we do?" she asked, in a voice gone dull and hollow.
Both Fenris and Isabela's faces cleared, the former muttering something relieved sounding in Tevinter.
"We keep sailing," Isabela said steadily. "We put word out at the ports we reach. Write to Aveline, Merril, Carver and -." There was another name she almost said, but she caught herself just in time. "And Bohdan."
"The Chantry can't hunt you forever," she continued. "Not with the Templars and the Mages going at it like a couple of Lowtown tricks scrapping over a john. Sooner or later they'll have to turn their attention to that sorry mess."
Hawke nodded, her eyes dropping down to her clenched hands.
"Then we wait," she said, her mouth twisting over the word, "for word to come."
...
(And word had come. Of something so monstrous that it left all of them stunned)