Isabela helped her peel her armor away. For once the pirate was quiet, careful, her dexterity exactly what was needed to pull the dented metal out of wounded flesh. Meredith's sword blows had driven the armor into Hawke's skin, leaving it to scrape and tear with her every movement.
The wages of war, the rogue thought to herself, though that didn't keep her from hissing when Isabela pulled a splinter of metal out of her shoulder.
"I'll stitch those for you," Isabela offered, looking at the wounds that healing potions had mostly closed, but not quite erased.
There were other marks, other wounds. Old scars, new scars. Reminders that being Champion did not come without a price paid in blood. She traced the eight red scoremarks that ran down Hawke's back. They wouldn't need tending, the healing potions had closed whatever wounds there had been.
"These won't even scar," she assured Hawke.
Hawke twisted to look over her shoulder and drew in a breath when she saw the marks Isabela indicated. Her legs seemed to crumple under her, sending her falling back onto her bed with a sob.
"What?" Isabela was at her side in an instant, wrapping her in the protection of her arms.
Hawke turned her face away, looking at the bed where she and Anders had spent so many nights. Isabela followed her gaze to the rumpled sheets and hissed softly through her teeth.
Eight lines of dried blood marked the sheets and Isabela cursed herself for not seeing the marks for what they were; she'd left enough of them on men and women's and backs over the years.
Hawke scrubbed her tears away with the heel of her hand and gently pushed Isabela away.
"I wish they would. I wish they would scar."