A thank you to AnnaLucia for beta-ing. And thank you, my lovely readers, for your continued support! :)

Check out the notes below for a Youtube link to the music that inspired this chapter! Spotify playlist link: www. open. spotify. com (slash) playlist (slash) 0W6mUNumHki5OQ3qduG4P5

Isabela had looked forward to sailing with Hawke— leaving Kirkwall's chaos behind and 'running away to sea' had been a dream between them for years. Yet now that it had finally happened, she couldn't help but be disappointed by how the shortcomings felt compared to her expectations.

Hawke had never been one to sit long; she had a restless soul, a constant need to move and fill every minute of the day. And in Estmarch, there was little to do except play cards or visit gambling houses…and Hawke devoted herself fully to them. She quickly became a permanent fixture in the back room card games at the Shaven Crown. She'd go downstairs right after breakfast and play well into the night, earning more money than she could spend in three lifetimes.

…And then proceeded to squander it all on drinks, gambling, and the brothel.

Isabela could not stop her. She tried her very best, but Hawke refused to listen to reason. 'I wasted me best years on that shithole of a city,' she'd say, 'why can't I enjoy meself a bit? I deserve some fun.' But all the rum in the world couldn't drown the sorrow in her eyes, or gild the bitterness in her forced laughter. Isabela would know: in many ways, she looked upon Hawke and saw herself.

"I can't leave her like this," Isabela said into her cards one night, watching Hawke throw herself at a handsome captain. Her friend laughed too loudly at the man's lame joke, praising his 'brilliant wit' and 'manly charms'. When Hawke deliberately sloshed her rum on the man's lap just to 'dry' him off, Isabela couldn't hold her tongue.

"Let him be, Hawke," she whispered. "You're acting desperate."

Marian scoffed, "I ain't 'desperate,' just bein' polite."

"Will you 'politely' fall into bed with him later? Do you even know his name?"

Hawke's glass smile took on a hard, metallic edge as she tossed away a card. "Did ye ever know their names when ye fell into bed with 'em, Bela?"

Hawke launched into another retort, but Isabela was prepared. She quietly drew a card from up her sleeve, slapping it down instead of what she'd actually drawn from the deck. "Four Songs and a Serpent, messeres; I win. Pay up!" She announced, shooting Hawke a smirk. Just as she predicted, her friend swore into her drink, draining it in one go before emptying the rum bottle into her tankard.

That evening was a repeat of nearly every one prior to it. Hawke drank herself into oblivion, swearing profusely and flirting with any man that breathed. By midnight, she couldn't even sit up straight; she draped herself on a captain's shoulder, cards half-spilled onto the table.

"I like ye, hic!" Hawke hiccupped. "What's yer name again?"

"Come on, let's go upstairs," Isabela said, headache setting in, "time for bed."

"Ooh, Is he comin' with? Me bed's so big and cold and…hic! lonesome," Hawke waggled her brows at the man with a wicked grin. It was, perhaps, the worst proposition Isabela had heard in a very long time; even the captain stifled a laugh from its forwardness.

"Won't be so 'lonesome' with Ser Wash-Basin there for your upset stomach," Isabela said. "Come on, sweet thing, stand up. Heave ho!" Isabela hauled her protesting friend onto her feet, but alas. The movement was too sudden; without warning Hawke fell face first into the poor captain's lap, taking Isabela with him. He shouted in surprise, upsetting his drink and soup.

"What in the fecking Void?" He cried.

"Ye're supposed to untie yer hose, first, ye ninny," Marian slurred, playfully tapping his thigh. "Ye skipped a step—"

Isabela winced, pushing herself upright. "Shit! I'm so sorry, messere. Stand up, you!" She dragged her jelly-kneed friend to her feet.

Hawke merely waved her words away, "leave me be; everyone else has. No one wants me no more," she groaned. "Not even pretty Captain Andy."

"I'm Andre," the man replied, annoyed.

She scoffed. "Anders? Another one? Who would've thought." She leaned in and nearly took Isabela with her again, "do ye know how to make black powder, too? Maybe it's in the name."

"What? I—"

Isabela grimaced. She had passed Hawke off as a civilian when they had first arrived in Estmarch, not as her true self; if people found out that she actually was the Champion of Kirkwall, running from the authorities… Isabela herded her friend out the door, clapping her hand over Hawke's mouth.

"Hold it in, sweet thing; don't retch here," she said. Whether or not her save was successful, she was uncertain; she dragged her friend away before the others could comment. Isabela adjusted her grip on Hawke's slipping wrist, frowning.

"Ugh, just stand up!" She muttered. "You're too big to be ornamental." Hawke was useless, feet trailing on the stone behind her; her leather boots would be all scuffed, come morning, Isabela was sure of it. Hawke mumbled something into Isabela's shoulder, too slurred and obscured by her thick Fereldan accent to make out clearly. Isabela heaved a sigh, gathering her strength before attempting the stairs.

One of the porters noted her struggle and assisted: navigating the landings herself would have been downright treacherous. By the time they had gotten Hawke back upstairs to her room, she had grown most uncooperative.

"Don't wanna go to bed," Hawke huffed, sprawled across the mattress. "Too many bad dreams."

Isabela unlaced her friend's boots and yanked them off. "You need to sleep this off—keep still, Hawke—for your health." She tossed the stubborn boot behind her, "you're making yourself ill."

Hawke laughed bitterly, "don't care. Don't care about nothin' no more." She threw her arm over her eyes, sniffling. "…I miss 'em, Bela," she said. "Me family, Anders, Fen, Varric: shite, I even miss old Aveline and that frown of hers. Why does everyone I love leave me?"

Isabela's heart grew heavy at those words. Here she was, holding Hawke's hair back while she retched in a basin each night, and yet Hawke claimed she was alone. Did…Hawke even care about her, or was Isabela yet another tool to an end, merely deluding herself into thinking there was friendship between them? A sorrowful chill settled in Isabela's chest at that.

"You've got me, Hawke," she said, forcing a smile, "you can't chase me away."

"Bah. Ye'll leave me, too, just like the rest; ye already did once," was the mournful reply. "Left me when the Qunari invaded, remember? Started a feckin' war just to save yer sorry arse."

Isabela stiffened, "I left because I feared for my life: the Qunari were hunting me, you know that—"

Hawke waved away her words, "because ye stole from 'em, Bela, and lied to me for years about it…And I was fool enough to believe ye." She scoffed, "Just like I believed Anders all those years, the bastard."

Isabela was quiet, unsure how to respond as her friend laughed at herself for her naïveté. The vitriol was painful to hear, its poison a pervasive and caustic acid that burned her heart and left it aching.

"Turns out I'm still just a farm girl from Ferelden," Hawke slurred. "Too stupid for me own good."

"No, you're not," Isabela replied, "you're not stupid…just stupid-drunk." She pulled the blanket up around her friend's shoulders. "Sleep it off, Hawke; everything will be better in the morning, you'll see."

Hawke flopped onto her stomach, mumbling into her pillow. Isabela heaved a sigh and changed for bed: she could drape herself in the finest silks and adorn herself in the richest jewels, but they couldn't conceal the consequences of her past selfishness and mercenary ways. She stood before the mirror in nothing but her shift, bare-faced and stripped of her customary heavy necklaces; tears filled her eyes as she beheld her reflection.

She looked upon the mirror and saw her mother gazing back…along with all the beguiling smiles, ill-gotten riches, and lies she had wrapped herself in, until even Isabela didn't know where the charlatan ended and her true self began. She had detested her mother for her undying greed and compulsive deceptions, parading as a fortune teller to trick people out of their coin. She had even sold Isabela into a loveless, nightmarish marriage to a stranger, solely for the bride price, abandoning her for better prospects.

'How different,' her inner critic asked, 'is your behavior to your mother's? Hawke's right: you're a parasite—'

"No," Isabela whispered. "I'm not her. Not anymore." She went to the dressing table mirror, leaning in, "I will never again give away my power to my past." She raised her right hand, "with this hand, I write my future…and hereby write you out of it." She took the mirror and placed it face down onto the table. "I've had my fill of poisonous words and deeds. No more; Hawke has shown me what I can become, if I let my hatred consume me..." She crawled into bed, tears in her eyes, but heart feeling much lighter than it had in years.

The bright winter sun streaming through the wavy glass of the leaded window woke her sometime near midday. Isabela stretched, luxuriating in the warm quilts and blankets. She hadn't felt this rested in months; Hawke would start moaning and complaining the moment she opened her eyes in the morning. How fortunate that she slept in…

Isabela's eyes flew open. Hawke never slept in, even hungover: she was too used to life on her family's farm. Either she was already downstairs drinking her breakfast, or… Isabela threw back the covers and rushed across the room to Hawke's quarters.

"Hawke," she called, throwing open the door. "Hawke, are you alright—" she paused at the threshold. The room was eerily quiet, her friend impossibly still on the bed. Isabela's breath hitched as she forced one foot in front of the other across the room.

"…Hawke?" Her voice hushed from trepidation when she shook Hawke's shoulder and elicited no response. She placed a hand on her friend's forehead and gasped. Not only was Hawke burning up, but her skin had a sickly yellow cast to it.

"Shit," she cursed, grabbing the nearest housecoat off the chair and throwing it about her shoulders. She didn't even bother to tie it closed as she clattered downstairs.

"Help!" She called from the landing. "Call a physician; my friend's ill."

The proprietor craned his neck around the reception desk. "Ill, ye say? Fetch the healer," he said to one of the porters. He sent a serving girl upstairs with water and cold compresses, not daring to check in in-person. Isabela understood: if what Hawke had was catching, the less people in contact with her, the better.

The Chantry bells had announced the hour by the time the porter returned, healer in tow. The middle aged man entered with a handkerchief tied around his face, in case of 'bad air,' as he called it.

"What ails her?" he asked Isabela while preparing his instruments. "Her throat? The croup is often catching, this time of year."

Isabela shook her head, "she's burning up, and won't wake—" even under his mask, the man's expression went solemn.

"Bilious fever," he sighed, "not a good sign. Is she fond of drink, mistress?"

Isabela nodded. "Can't stomach much food, these days."

"How long has this gone on?"

"Two, three months. Ever since her…man left her." It was the closest to the truth she could come to, without betraying Hawke's identity. The healer bowed his head, untying his handkerchief.

"As I feared. Yer friend's liver is ailing, mistress," he said. "And if she stays much longer in Estmarch, it will fail her completely."

Isabela stared at him. "Y-You mean she'd…"

"Any more alcohol, and she'll drink herself into an early grave."

Isabela fell back against the bedpost. She had known that Hawke had overindulged, but to hear this...

"For yer friend's health, she can't stay here," the healer was saying. "Have ye any friends on the mainland, back in Ostwick?"

Ostwick. It was an option, but with Fenris and Rana there, it would only aggravate Hawke's condition. Isabela shook her head, "the closest is in Kirkwall, but…"

"Take her there. She needs her family."

"But the sea's treacherous this time of year—"

"There's only so much a healer can do for a broken heart, mistress. I can give ye tonics and herbs for her liver, but she'll undo all I've done if she stays. I suggest ye either buy passage to Kirkwall…or buy her a coffin, for she'll not make it to spring."

He returned to his medical kit and measured portions of herbs into a parcel, promising to send along more once he returned to his clinic. Isabela thanked him, voice ringing hollow as she meted out the appropriate number of silvers. Her gaze fell to feverish Hawke on the bed, choppy black hair stuck to her perspired, jaundiced forehead. Her eyes ricocheted under her lids, never resting.

"I told you you can't find solace in the bottom of a bottle," Isabela said once they were alone, voice thick. "Shit, Hawke, Anders isn't worth dying over: none of it is." She swallowed hard, raking her hand through her hair, "how will I get you back home like this? We have nowhere to go."

Only an awful silence answered her, frozen rain clinking against the leaded glass window as it rode the winter wind. Isabela brewed the medicine on the hearth as per the healer's prescription, administering it before donning her cloak and departing for the docks. Down the cobblestone street she hurried, skirting puddles and icy patches until she reached the Siren's Call moored to its pier.

"Captain?" One of the crew greeted her. "Is everything alright?"

"Fetch me Cavendish, Remi," she replied. "There's been a…development." The crewman's eyes widened as he hurried below; he soon returned, Isabela's First Mate in tow.

"There you are. I have a matter to discuss in my cabin," she said. Cavendish raised his eyebrow, following her.

"A matter-matter, captain, or a 'matter' to be resolved in one of your 'meetings?'" he asked on the way. "…Does this involve manacles and feathers, like that 'matter' we handled in Antiva over the summer?"

She shook her head fondly at his joke, "as enjoyable as a romp in bed sounds, Thom, we have an actual problem at hand; we'll have to set sail again…" she relayed the physician's findings and recommendations; Cavendish's expression went solemn.

"It's risky business to sail now, Captain," he said. "The seas around Kirkwall and Ostwick are infamous in the winter."

"I know, but —" she hesitated. "I can't stand by and watch; she's done so much for me."

"Is one life worth sixty, including your own?" he rounded the desk to her, taking her hands into his. "Captain. I know you feel obligated to help her, but you can't save everyone."

Isabela stared. There was so much concern and…softness, in his gaze; such gentleness was foreign to her, unnerving. No man had ever looked upon her without objectifying her; for years, she used her body as a shield, hiding her heart so it would never be hurt again. But none of those usual emotions and tells were present before her. The only thing she could see in her First Mate's eyes was…love.

'Love.' Even the word terrified her, with all it held.

Memories of her late husband's cruelty seeped in, bitter and black like poison. He had also 'loved' her, all those years ago; she still bore scars from where he had beaten her 'for her own good,' because he had 'loved her too much.' A familiar fear surged within her.

She suppressed her discomfort, "I-I must try to save her."

Save who, Hawke? Or, perhaps, was it herself? Phantom hands closed around her neck; the cabin behind Thom melted into her old bedroom, back in her late husband's manor. Isabela's stomach flipped.

Thom only grasped her hands tighter, "Captain, I—"

Her breath shallowed; she struggled against Thom's grip. "I can't leave her again—"

"Isabela!" It startled her enough to break the memories' hold. They relented with a hiss, retreating into the darkness from whence they came. She was once again back in her cabin on the Siren's Call, with loyal Thom still before her, concern deepening in his eyes. Her heart still raced from her fright.

"…Here," her First Mate said softly. He reached over to the desk and poured her a tankard of water. "Take deep breaths; you'll make yourself dizzy, otherwise."

She furrowed her brow, accepting the mug. "Thank you," she replied, sitting down when he pulled out the desk chair for her.

He offered a gentle, knowing smile, "some of the crew served in the Imperial Navy, fought the Qunari up North before we hired them; they panic like that sometimes when they hear thunder. Reminds them of cannonfire, you see." He hesitated before patting her shoulder. "…I'm here for you, Captain: an ear to listen, a shoulder to cry on. You're not alone."

She returned his smile, "you're a good man."

"And an even better navigator, so I'm told," he joked. His gaze once again turned tender as he leaned in, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "…I know how much Lady Hawke means to you. I'll make the necessary arrangements to cross the channel; you won't leave your friend behind, Captain, I promise."

A peace Isabela had rarely known settled in her chest at his words. "Thanks, Thom," she murmured, reaching up and giving his hand a squeeze, "for… everything."

His gaze could have melted her. "I'd do anything for you, Captain."

And she knew, by the look in his eyes, that he meant it. "Bela," she said. "Call me 'Bela.'"

His smile widened to a grin as he nodded. "I'll get you to the mainland, Bela: they don't call me 'The Navigator' for nothing."

She chuckled, "mm, that's why I hired you: you're very good with your 'rudder…'on the sea and in my bed." He laughed heartily at that, shaking his head fondly before departing.

"Remi, Pilcher: secure that cargo and follow me; we're off to the purveyor," he called, voice retreating down the corridor. Isabela couldn't help but smile at his devotion.

They left with the tide, Isabela's trepidation only mounting once they left the harbor and were out on the open water. The Ostwick Strait was notorious for its violent tempests, especially in winter. 'The Strait of Storms,' it was known as, 'Death Alley;' Isabela wanted nothing to do with the place, but to save Hawke…

"Oh, the things I do for love," she muttered into her maps and charts.

"If all goes well, we'll reach the mainland in a week," Cavendish said.

"Mm, that's good. The Teyrn's men were patrolling the strait this summer. We don't want any trouble—"

"Ostwicker colors on the starboard bow!" A voice shouted on deck. A commotion followed; Isabela and Cavendish exchanged looks.

"Captain! First Mate Cavendish! Ostwickers spotted on starboard bow," a sailor clattered into Isabela's cabin. "It's an Imperial design; I've never seen it this far south: low to the waves and fast."

"Shit," Isabela cursed. She had heard from Varric that the Ostwicker navy had been overhauled over the summer, to protect their sea trade. But she had paid him no heed: she wasn't planning on sailing anymore that year, and certainly not near Ostwick. Now she paid the price for her folly, for there was only one place where the Ostwickers would have gotten such a specialized, deadly vessel design outside of Tevinter:

Fenris.

She rounded the desk and followed the sailor on deck. "Half the crew man the oars, the rest take up arms," she ordered, "change course for Kirkwall."

Cavendish's eyes went wide. "Kirkwall!? But Captain, they're looking for you—"

"Well, we're not welcome here in Ostwick, are we?!" She replied, taking the helm. The choppy seas made the giant wheel difficult to turn; she put all her weight into steering. "Tell 'em to row at battle speed; I can't chance that ship getting near us. It'll likely have Vint Fire onboard, knowing Fenris."

"Who?" A flaming arrow lodged itself into the wooden railing.

"Go!" She shouted. Isabela threw a glance over her shoulder, ice settling in her stomach. A steel battering ram gleamed through the waves at the prow of the Ostwicker ship, cutting a path towards them.

"Please let us turn before they get here," she prayed, "that's a deadly ram…"

In a naval battle, it was imperative never to face the enemy on a perpendicular angle: it gave them too many opportunities to harm. While ramming took much precision and just the right angle, shearing off Isabela's oars to immobilize the Siren's Call was all too easy, especially for a fast ship like their pursuant. It was a risk to turn left now, and Isabela knew it: it exposed the Siren's Call's vulnerable points, but it couldn't be helped. Either they changed course now, or risked a ramming in the rear and damaging the rudder; neither were ideal…

The muffled boom of the rowing drum rang out from below deck, sonorous and deep; its tempo quickened as the ship lurched forward on its oars. The rest of the crew took up bows and javelins, positioning themselves for battle.

"Lead the men," Cavendish said beside her, "I'll steer, Bela."

She startled at his words, "w-what? But—"

"My weapon of choice is a rudder, yours are daggers." He nudged her with a smile, "go stab a few Ostwickers for me, hm? I'll get us out of here."

He was right, she knew: her strength was better suited for combat, not navigation, especially against the violent waves. She nodded thanks, retrieving her blades.

The worst part of naval battles, in Isabela's opinion, was the waiting. The trepidation and anticipation gnawed at her as she and the crew watched the Ostwickers approach.

"Prepare the ballistae," she ordered, "wait for my signal." Her men primed the giant crossbows, loading lances into the weapons. Timing the shot was imperative: too early, and valuable ammunition would fall into the sea. Too late would waste the opportunity…

"Loose!" She cried, taking up a bow to join in. A volley of fire arrows clouded the sun, setting the Ostwicker's sails aflame. Well-placed javelins lanced their opponents before they had a chance to retaliate. The ballistae launched their stout lances, pinning enemies to masts with great force. But Isabela knew better than to celebrate prematurely.

"Shields!" She cried, ducking behind a shield. The scrambling Ostwickers returned fire with flaming arrows; some of Isabela's crew broke away to douse the flames. But that wasn't what worried her: it was the small catapult onboard the Ostwicker ship, loaded with Tevinter fire jars…aimed right at them.

"Thom?!" she shouted.

"I see them," he shouted back, "don't worry—"

"A little hard to do while dodging arrows," she replied, shooting down an archer before ducking. The oar drums boomed in her ears, racing like her heart as the ship sharply turned into the wind.

But her First Mate's maneuvering wasn't enough to spare them; much to Isabela's dismay, the nauseating crunch of wood giving way to steel shook the ship, as the Ostwicker battering ram caught the starboard stern. She ran to the stairs leading below deck, nearly losing her footing from the impact.

"What's the damage?" She shouted over the drum.

"We're patching as we speak," the ship's carpenter shouted back. "Tell Cavendish to move his leaden arse, Captain: I can only do so much here…"

She scoffed a laugh at the profanity, returning to the fray. Thankfully, the Siren's Call was already pulling away from the Ostwicker ram, not too severely damaged; Isabela and the crew managed to take down a few more enemies before they inched out of range. The Ostwickers pursued, relentless. Isabela cursed: they were in the perfect position to shear off their oars…

"Hold on," Cavendish cried. "I'll get them off our tail…" He wheeled the ship fully against the wind.

"Ramming speed," Isabela shouted below deck. She returned to the railing with a smirk. "We'll teach them to play with fire…"

Just as Isabela predicted, the Ostwickers launched their fire jars; Isabela and the crew shot them down midair, pottery bursting. Liquid fire sprayed onto the sea below… And floated right back to the Ostwickers, thanks to the wind and current.

Isabela and her men cheered as the Ostwicker ship lit itself ablaze. "One last volley," she cried, lighting an arrow. "Loose!" They set the smoldering sails ablaze, slowing the Ostwicker ship considerably. While it wasn't enough to stop them completely, it gave enough time for the Siren's Call to escape immediate danger. The ship glided to a stop after a safe distance, the oarsmen too exhausted for anything more.

"Who's in need of healing?" Isabela called. Several crew members raised their hands, the ship's physician and his assistant making the rounds. Isabela made her way below decks to inspect damage.

"It's bad, Captain," the ship's carpenter said upon her arrival. Water poured in, despite the grid of boards reinforcing the break. "The boards are splintered beyond repair from that ram; I can't mend them properly while at sea. I need a shipyard."

Just what she didn't want to hear. Isabela heaved a sigh. "Can it last till Kirkwall?"

He shook his head, "we'll barely make it to the mainland, at this rate."

She blinked at him, "but where are we to go? The closest shipyard is in Ostwick, and we're not going there, after that warm reception…"

It seemed they were at an impasse, until the carpenter's apprentice piped up, "me hometown isn't too far from here," she said. "Shoreham, west of the capital. It has a proper shipyard and everything."

Isabela bit her lip in consideration. She had heard of Shoreham; merchant ships sometimes stopped there to resupply before continuing their voyages west to Kirkwall and Orlais. She had never been there herself, but if the place had a shipyard, as the apprentice said…

"Any port in a storm, as the adage goes," she said. "Go and tell the First Mate about Shoreham, sweet thing; I have business to attend." She patted the apprentice on the back and left for Hawke's cabin. The physician's other assistant met her in the corridor.

"How is she?" she asked. The youth's face went solemn as he quietly shook his head.

"Barely stirred all through the battle, Captain," he replied. "She's in a bad way, I fear; my master will examine her after tending to the wounded." With that, he bowed and departed, taking Isabela's optimism with him. Hawke's condition must have been far worse than anticipated, if she could sleep through a naval battle. Would she…? Isabela blinked hard, hurrying down the hall.

"Of course she'll pull through," she said, "she's Hawke: not even a dragon could stop her…" her treacherous memories whispered of all the times Hawke almost hadn't pulled through over the years…and how Isabela had caused many of them through her past selfishness.

'You kill everything you touch,' the voice inside hissed, 'Hawke's better off without you, so is the crew; you nearly killed them all today. You're nothing but bad luck, just like your mother—'

She pointedly ignored the goad, throat burning, heart pounding and tears welling in her eyes as she assisted the physician in dressing wounds. She'd prove those words wrong: no matter what it took, she'd get both Hawke and her crew to safety. She'd never lose another person she cared about ever again; even if the odds weren't in her favor, Isabela would overcome all obstacles. She'd prove her worth as a leader, Captain, and friend to everyone… especially herself.

It was too dangerous to remain, what with the Ostwickers prowling about; as soon as the physician finished dressing wounds, Isabela swapped the oar crew. Time was of the essence now; the sooner they got to Shoreham, the better. They rowed in shifts, not daring to trust only the winds for their passage across the channel; despite the carpenter's best efforts, the water still seeped in. Those crewmen who weren't rowing bailed the hold and assisted in repairs.

"If all goes well, we'll reach Shoreham in two days," Cavendish said later that week.

Isabela sighed in relief, "good. I don't like the looks of those clouds on the horizon; the last thing we need is a storm…"

He shook his head, knocking on the helm. "Shh! You'll bring it down on us, with such talk."

"Pfft! Superstitions, the lot of it." She chuckled and left for her cabin, gaze lingering on the black clouds to the west before she went in. "…Just superstitions," she whispered, hand instinctively closing around the amulet around her neck. She ducked inside and retired for the evening, exhausted.

Sometime in the night, a rough hand shook her shoulder. Isabela startled awake, dagger drawn in reflex. Cavendish stood before her, her blade at his throat; the tight grip on the hem of his tunic was the only thing betraying his fear.

"S-Storm's almost caught up with us," he said. "We're bailing out the bilge as I speak." Isabela cursed under her breath and apologized, sheathing her blade.

"How far are we from Shoreham?" she asked.

"If the weather cooperates, a day, but now…" he shook his head. "It's bad, Bela; I'm not sure about this one."

"Hey!" She sat up, taking his hands in hers. "We are not giving up, understand? Not this close."

"We must move and fast: the storm's almost upon us. We're going against the wind—"

"Then we row," she countered. "We have a chance if we row." It was a mad chance, she knew—no Captain in their right mind would sail into a storm with a ship in such bad shape. Her First Mate shook his head.

"It's too much; she won't take it," he replied. "We're already taking on water faster than we can handle…"

"Then we don't have much time, do we?" She gave his hands a squeeze. "Thom. We're not losing the Siren, not like this. Get half the crew on the oars, the rest will bail; we'll work in shifts."

"But—"

She cupped his cheek, "I'm not giving up on you," she said, voice hushed with emotion. "Any of you…especially us."

His breath hitched, "'us?'"

Even if she couldn't see his expression clearly, she could feel the hope radiating off him. Guilt twinged in her chest. She was still unsure of her heart, but if a 'half lie' could save Hawke and the crew, it was worth playing with fire…

"'Us,'" she confirmed. She thanked every god she knew that it was too dark for him to see; her gaze slunk down to the coverlet as he gasped for joy and kissed her palms.

"Pilcher! Half the men on the oars," he cried, rushing out the door. "The rest, I want bailing the bilge and manning the pumps." He flashed Isabela a grin before disappearing into the hall.

Isabela watched him go, falling against the headboard with a sigh. "One last time," she whispered to herself. "The end justifies the means: he'd do the same, for the crew's sake…"

Except her First Mate would never play with someone's heart for gain, no matter how noble a cause, and that made all the difference. She chastised herself all while dressing into her storm gear, girding her proverbial loins before heading to the bilge.

She hated the bilges: as there were only two 'heads' on the ship where one could relieve themselves, most of the crew used the bilges as their latrine. The crew may have cleaned it recently, but the room still smelled like the sewers in the Undercity. And as unsavory as it was, Isabela wanted it that way: a watertight, stinky bilge meant there were no leaks. The fact that they now smelled of salt and stinging cold air was terrifying.

Isabela grimaced: the room was frigid, its fetid water already to her knees and threatening to slosh inside her tall boots. Her eyes went wide. This... just became more complicated; frostbite would become an issue, if they prolonged exposure to the cold water in this unheated room.

"For Hawke and the crew," she reminded herself, grabbing the first bucket she could and wading in. She stifled a yelp from the icy cold temperature.

"Pace yourselves," she advised the men over the clacking pumps, "we're rowing to Shoreham in shifts. Those whose feet get wet must dry off immediately; no one is falling ill over this."

The ship's carpenter smiled, renewing his efforts. "You heard her," he cried. "No cold feet, you bilge rats: keep bailing." They formed a human chain, carrying water out of the bilge and out the nearest window. The rowing drum rumbled from down the hall, setting a tempo for them.

It was torturous: the winter sea seeped in through Isabela's boots, gloves, and thick woolen hose, soaking her skin in liquid ice until everything was numb. The ship rolled in the churning waves, riled from the storm; it was all Isabela could do to not lose her footing and fall in the sewer-like bilge water.

The hours stretched on, interminable. The only constants were the rhythmic clacking of the pumps and the invariable passing of sloshing buckets. Isabela's shoulders and arms ached from the repeated motions.

"Captain," the carpenter said, "go dry off; you've been here all day."

Her teeth chattered so badly, she could barely speak. "Y-You've been here longer than I have; I'm..."

"Soaked through; you'll make yourself ill."

Isabela closed her eyes against the truth of his words. "A good captain doesn't leave her crew," she countered. "She works alongside them until the task is done—"

"Captain!" A sailor clattered down the narrow corridor, chest heaving. "Captain, Shoreham sighted on the starboard bow. We've made it!"

Isabela and the men cheered. "Come on," she cried, handing off her bucket to the nearest sailor. Much to her dismay, she couldn't feel her feet when she tried wading to the door. A sailor caught her when she stumbled.

"Fetch the physician," he said to the other at the door.

Isabela waved off his concern. "I'm fine," she lied. "Just get me to the door." The numbness was unnerving as they made their way on deck. She pushed herself through the pain as a little warmth crept back into her frozen flesh.

"Prepare for mooring," she ordered, wishing she had her cloak; the wind pelted them with spray and rain, tossing the ship like a child's toy. She braced herself against a mast, girding a rope around her waist so she wouldn't fall into the churning sea.

"How are we holding up?" Cavendish called from the helm. He pulled the great wheel with all his might against the strong current; Isabela couldn't help but be impressed with his strength.

"We'll live," she replied. A rogue wave battered the ship; Isabela clung to the rope as the frigid wave knocked her off her feet. Several crew members were nearly washed over the railing, the winter sea burning her skin like liquid fire. She scrambled for footing.

Docking was fraught with danger, a protracted process that left Isabela worried the waves would trap them onboard, unable to get into port. But the men carefully guided the Siren's Call to the dock; Isabela let out a sigh of relief amidst the cheering.

"Cavendish, have everyone change into warm, dry clothes, including yourself. Then see the harbormaster about the repairs; I'll arrange accommodations. The rest of you, secure the cargo and prepare the ship for repairs, you hear?" She ordered through chattering teeth. The sailors saluted, eager to finally stay on dry land. Isabela stumbled downstairs to Hawke's cabin, numbness settling below her knees.

"How is she?" She asked the physician. His already solemn face was grave with concern.

"She's not keeping anything down," he said, "the sooner we get her off the ship, the better."

Isabela's heart raced as she headed to her cabin to change her clothes, returning quickly to Hawke's room. "Help me stand her up," she replied, looping her arm around Hawke's shoulder. They hauled her to her feet, boots barely laced and a cloak thrown about her for warmth. Navigating the stairs and the icy deck was treacherous, the rutted, snowy streets were little better as they made their way. The winter wind whipped right through their cloaks, stinging Isabela's cheeks until they felt raw. Needling pain shot up her legs at each step; she bit back the gasps.

"I think that's the inn," the physician cried, voice carried off in the storm. A painted wooden sign flapped in the wind, hinges creaking. Isabela adjusted her grip on Hawke, peering in through the leaded glass window. The room was dark, barely illuminated by the guttering fire. She frowned. It seemed everyone had gone to bed for the night.

"Hello?" she cried, pounding on the door. "We need rooms; our ship just came in—"

She thanked every god she knew when a dog barked, announcing her arrival. A lone candle crept forward from the depths of the inn, dispelling the darkness as the innkeeper answered the door. Isabela and the others almost fell inside.

"Sweet Andraste!" The woman exclaimed, shooing the dog away. "Whatever happened to ye, mistress? No one should be out in such weather."

"O-Our ship got caught in the storm," Isabela replied, teeth chattering from the cold. "Please, we need rooms—"

"How many are ye?" The woman asked, rounding the front desk and pulling out her ledger.

"Sixty-five."

The woman bit her lip. "I'll take in what I can; the rest will have to go to the other inns in town. And I'm sorry, but yer friend's too ill to stay; we just had a bout of croup here. Can't afford another."

Isabela's eyes widened. "But where am I to take her?"

"The Chantry Infirmary just might take her in. Across the square, can't miss it."

The idea of braving that storm again was most unappealing. Isabela launched into a complaint when the physician interrupted.

"If we quarrel, she may not take us in at all, Captain," he whispered. "Let it go; we need the rooms now. I must treat any of the men for frostbite immediately."

Isabela heaved a sigh. "Fine. Here," she handed over the coin purse, "have one of them arrange the rooms. I'll see to Hawke—erm, Hawthorne, here." She used a fake name for Hawke, not trusting the innkeeper. Maker only knew if the woman was a Templar informant…

The physician's eyes went wide, "but, Captain! You need treatment; have someone else tend to her—"

"I'm fine," she lied, "I wore extra stockings in my boots. Don't let the men suffer." She adjusted her grip on Hawke's wrist and took a deep breath, bracing herself for the cold. It was just as painful as she'd anticipated.

"Come on, Hawke," she whispered, hoisting her friend up, "at least try to walk—" Hawke's head lolled on her shoulder, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on her brow. Isabela frowned; the square was too far for her to cross by herself in this howling wind, and Hawke was growing heavier by the minute. She stumbled to the nearest building, huddling in the doorway. A placard caught her attention:

'Ser Lukas Meyer, Physician. Ring bell for service.'

She gasped with joy, ringing the brass bell. "Please be awake," she prayed, shifting her weight. "I can't go any farther—"

A candle bobbed in the front window as the physician hurried to answer. Isabela's jaw dropped when he did.

Time froze. The sight before her was impossible, she told herself. It had to be the exhaustion setting in, the piercing cold and pain flowing through her body, affecting her sight and thoughts. The man in front of her was dead; Hawke had said so herself. Hawke had slain him for his crime, his remains buried under charred rubble. Yet no matter how many times Isabela pinched herself, the man before her remained unchanged.

"A-Anders?" She gasped.

Note: bilious fever was the historical term for hepatitis or any condition where the patient has an elevated temperature and jaundice; the term was also historically used for malaria and typhoid. I used it here for Marian's liver condition.

Note: Thomas Cavendish was an actual 16th century English privateer. He patterned himself after Sir Francis Drake, becoming the first to raid Spanish settlements in the Pacific and return by circumnavigating the globe. He was known as 'The Navigator;' Elizabeth I knighted him upon his return to England after his first voyage.

Note: Despite the fact that the fashions and culture in the Free Marches mirror 16th century Europe, Southern Thedas doesn't have gunpowder readily available like the Northern countries do… drastically changing strategy for the naval battle scene, since there aren't any cannons or muskets. I used medieval naval tactics instead: it was an interesting research project for this chapter!

Note: the Ostwicker ships are patterned after the Byzantine navy, to reflect Fenris's habit of adapting Tevinter military techniques for Southern troops. The incident with the 'Tevinter Fire' is based on an actual sea battle, where the Byzantines mistakenly set their own fleet ablaze in an unfortunate miscalculation: they were so set on pursuing the enemy, they never accounted for the direction of the wind blowing their Greek Fire towards themselves.

Note: the first suction bilge pump (a pump used to remove seawater from a leaky ship's hold) was recorded in 1431. It was made of leather valves and a wooden tube: the change of barometric pressure inside the tube forced the water up and out. In the 1700s, improved metalworking allowed for more effective designs.

As there were only one or two 'heads,' or onboard outlets for relieving oneself, the bilge was often used as a latrine, thoroughly washed once ships arrived at port. While such conditions were unsanitary, the smell was an important indicator of a leak. According to 17th century sources, if the bilges smelled 'pungent,' the ship was watertight, but once the 'air grew sweet and fresh,' it was an indication that water was coming in, and action must be immediately taken.

0o0o0o

William Tell Overture: 'Storm,' written by Gioachino Rossini

www. youtube. com (slash) watch?v=Mvt-yaND1MI

Written to represent the Swiss struggle for independence, the 'William Tell' Overture is perhaps considered one of the most popular operatic overtures in classical music. One of its melodies (which sounds like a galloping horse) was used as the 'Lone Ranger' theme, the heroic brass and galloping strings reminiscent of a cavalry of warriors riding to the rescue. It's also been featured in classic cartoons, like Bugs Bunny, Mickey Mouse, and The Flintstones. The entire overture is over 11 minutes long, separated into two parts; this was a classic Rossini writing style, where he would gradually build up musical intensity in the first section and then jet-propel forward with exciting brass, and fast-paced strings. This technique is known as the 'Rossini crescendo' or, more amusingly, the 'Rossini rocket.'

This excerpt is from the second half of the overture, the 'Storm' section. I chose this piece because it sounds exactly like a storm at sea, the strings representing the howling, blustery wind and rolling waves.

Rossini is well beloved for his sparkling, bubbly music with fast-paced vocal fireworks, and comedic storylines. An outgoing man who loved cooking and entertaining, he would often host grand dinner parties at his home (some of his recipes are still made in fine dining restaurants today!). Whenever he had an idea for a new music composition, he'd write down as much as he could and store the manuscript in his kitchen cookie jar for another day. Rossini always left writing the overture of his operas for last; to save himself time, he'd go to his cookie jar and take out a parchment at random. Whatever piece he pulled out, became his new opera's overture. These are called his Cookie Jar Overtures.