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A roll, a heave, and there’s nothing left in the lurch. It crashes against the hull, a sea salt spray that flies upwards, against the palm of her hand. She braces herself against the railing and keeps that reach out over the sea. A wave, the crash, an echoing call of gulls which follow the bright white sails of the ship. A different thing, to stand on deck, not huddled in the hold. That journey is engraved in her mind. There was the wet, of course, but there was also the smell. Fear in every inch of them, believing their ship to be the next taken by storms. The next to be turned away from Kirkwall’s port. Now there’s only the sea, the softer scent of her.
Isabela leans back against the wood of the ship. She watches sailors move here and there, her arms crossed. Satisfied with what she sees, she closes her eyes and tilts her head back. Curls of hair fall over her shoulder, brush against her cheeks. She stands easy, breathes deeply. It’s as though she doesn’t feel the waves, and the roll of the ship. Her eyes open as she turns to look at Hawke, and smiles. “Here I thought us traveling together might mean I’d wake up with a beautiful woman in my bed each morning,” she says. Hawke chuckles under her breath and shakes her head.
“I thought you were supposed to be the Captain. You know, up at dawn, ordering your sailors around,” Hawke says, giving her a sly grin, something made for trouble. It’s one Isabela returns. She moves closer to her, a mirror image of the way she stands. Bracing elbows on the railings, hands out over the water.
“Anything before noon is a job for the first mate,” she tells her, all so very matter-of-fact. Hawke raises her eyebrows as shoulder bumps against shoulder.
“And what am I?”
“Luggage.” Hawke sputters indignant laughter, and at this wave, this spray, she turns water droplets into snow. Sending them in her direction, the flakes settle themselves in Isabela’s hair, against her cheeks, and quickly begin to melt. “Very special luggage?” More snow, and Isabela moves to bury her face against Hawke. “Magic is cheating, and you know it,” she says, voice muffled. She raises her face once she’s sure the snow has stopped, and settles the point of her chin on Hawke’s shoulder.
“You know,” Isabela says, “even though it took me a damn long time to get this ship, I’m glad it did. Meant the next time I was a proper Captain, it was with you.” She leans back against the railing, hip against it, and elbow on it, wind moving through her hair.
“That sounds almost sentimental,” she says.
“Shut up. I’ve earned the right to be sentimental from time to time,” she says. Hawke chuckles, shakes her head. “Forget it, I shouldn’t have said anything.” Isabela still has a smile curling around the edge of her lips.
“If it makes you feel better, I’m glad the second time I got on a ship was with you,” she says.
“Right. That too. I thought that might be on your mind,” Isabela says, putting her hand against Hawke’s arm. A small gesture, much appreciated. An invitation to open up, something they’ve both been learning to do with each other.
“Both times I’ve been on a ship have been with my family.” She gives Isabela a wide and adoring smile, bats her eyelashes at her. Isabela immediately lightly punches Hawke’s arm, sending her into fits of laughter.
“Sod off.” She reaches up, pulls at the ends of Hawke’s frayed hair. A gentle tug, pulling Hawke closer to her. Close enough for the tip of her nose to brush against hers, for warm breath against lips, the exhale before the kiss. Her hand moves back to Hawke’s arm. “I know it can’t be easy. Doing this all over again.” It is strangely familiar. Kirkwall isn’t burning in the way Ferelden was, but they are the same in the sense of being suddenly unwelcome. Ferelden has healed. Kirkwall will heal. Both without her.
“Well, being on the deck is nice. A much better view,” Hawke says, her hand following the line of the cord around her neck. The end of the necklace dips beneath her shirt, pressed against her chest. “The lodgings are quite nice as well. Much better than sharing one cramped space with a hundred other people. We have a destination that we know is going to accept us, and there’s a job and a home waiting. So the two trips really aren’t the same at all. Can’t be compared.” Isabela gives her arm a small but reassuring squeeze.
The days are easy. They pass without notice, but the nights – the night lingers. Isabela curls up at her back, and the whole ship sways. A rocking back and forth, and Hawke thought she might be used to it by now. Instead, she looks out the windows at the back of the room. The stars shine bright and full, hung in their proper place. The moon is something of its own and without seeing it, knows it will be mirrored on the surface of the water. Legs tangled up in legs, Isabela’s arm thrown over Hawke’s chest. She sleeps soundly. Hawke barely sleeps at all.
So far from land, and there is a strange emptiness about the ocean. So far out, the birds here are rare. She never thought she’d miss the sound of gulls. There is nothing on the horizon but water, and it laps continuously against the hull. She knows how free it makes Isabela feel. Nothing to stop her from getting to that horizon, further out, no one to tell her where to go, how to be her. It isn’t about one destination to the next. It’s the journey. Hawke understands that. For her – there is naught but the wood beneath her feet.
She has walked the length of the ship time and time again. One foot in front of the other, a line from here to there. The lift, the brace, bowline and clew. The tack, hatches, windlass. Hawke is still learning the language of the ship, while Isabela knows it in her bones. She walks from front to back, back again. Hand over the railing, wet with water, looking at that empty horizon. Isabela knows her place. Hawke’s seen the way the others look at her. Respect, admiration. She gives orders easy, knows exactly what needs to be done and when to do it.
This isn’t Hawke’s place.
The only ship she thought she’d ever be on again would be to go back to Ferelden. The years passed, and even that thought faded. What point was there in going back when she had carved out a home in Kirkwall? That was Hawke’s place. She wonders if this was the way Isabela felt, in the city. Walking from Hightown to Lowtown, knowing every step, unable to see the horizon from streets and alleyways, constantly watched by every other person walking past her. Trapped.
She watches Isabela behind the helm, and knows this has been a long time coming. The smile is a constant thing around her lips, and here, on the water, she is so full of life. She always has been, but here it has blossomed, on full display. How can she tell her about all the sleepless nights, the way she misses Kirkwall in her bones? How can she take that smile away from her? So Hawke keeps to herself, and doesn’t trouble anyone to voice exactly what this ship is doing to her.
Instead, she walks the length of the ship. Back and forth, adjusting her every footfall to the rhythm of the sway. “We’re coming up on an island soon,” Isabela says, falling to step beside her, putting a hand on her back. There’s a rolled map in her other hand. “A little sailor’s secret. We’re going to stretch our legs if you want to join us.”
“That sounds excellent,” Hawke says, and means it.
They anchor the ship a little ways away from the island. The row boats to the island are filled with rough eagerness, most jumping out when they’re near enough. Hawke’s first steps are unsteady, her entire body re-adjusting to the fact that the ground beneath her is solid.
There is no swimming in the ocean, unknowing of what lurks in the depths. It’s an unspoken rule, one enforced by common sense. Too often have the shadows of leviathans passed beneath them. In this island cove, there is nothing to stop them. They race through white sand, shucking trousers and shirts as they go, leaping into the crystal clear blue. Laughter echoes against the cliffs, and they dive deep. Isabela is laughing along with them as she shakes off her boots, leaves them scattered on the shore.
The sand is hot underneath Hawke’s bare feet. She almost doesn’t want to swim. She’s content to feel the grains between her toes, and enjoy the simple pleasure of standing upright. She walks slowly, lets everyone else pass her. In between the laughter, there’s the sound of palm trees swaying, leaves moving. Grass shifts against grass, and sand strays between each blade. Familiar sounds, which seem to belong to somewhere else. A coast, perhaps. Hawke stands at the edge of the pool.
It’s warm at least, a far cry from the cold sea spray. She wades in slowly, feels it rise inch by inch. A shiver, a shake and a chill, as it envelops every part of her. Black tendrils of hair swim around her, and she opts to push off from the shore, lay flat on her back, an occasional hand checking to make sure that the necklace stays in place. She kicks her feet once, to get her more to the center of the pool. The water laps against the side of her face, and every bit of noise is so distant to the sound of the water. The sun shines brilliantly bright above her, and the waves rock her. She is untethered, easily able to float away.
Untethered, and unsure of who she is now.
As a mercenary, she earned her place. She carved it out, from blood and dirty streets. With Carver by her side, there wasn’t any in the underground who didn’t know the name Hawke. They were always good at fighting, something so easily turned into a profession. Rough, but suitable. They knew what needed to be done, and did it. They were good at it. As Champion, that place was made for her. It was no longer just the underground that knew the name Hawke, now it was on the lips of every noble, every citizen.
It wasn’t a title she had craved, or even wanted. At first, she considered it a burden. It was only her infamous bad luck which had her face down the Arishok. The right person, in the wrong place. Yet she would do it again, and again, make the same choices in a heartbeat. Isabela had come back, that book in her hands. Holding it out to her, looking her in the eye, telling Hawke that she had changed her. Hawke had been ready to face the Arishok no matter what came, but there was always some part of her that knew, trusted, she would come back. She’s kept that trust since.
Isabela swims up from below her, arms wrapping around her waist. Feet kick against feet, and Hawke’s arms slap wildly against the water. Gulping laughter, every other thought banished from her head, and she is rightfully delighted with Hawke’s surprise. “That was too easy,” she says.
“Pardon me for thinking there were no sharks in this pool,” Hawke says as she turns, arms settling over Isabela’s shoulders. A drop of water runs from a curl of her hair down her forehead, drips off of Isabela’s eyelashes. Down her cheek, back into the pool from which it came.
“You should always be on your guard,” Isabela tells her.
“Right. My mistake,” she says, pushing down hard on Isabela’s shoulders, pushing her underneath the water at the same time she pushes herself away. Isabela sputters back up, struggling to push all her hair up and back, out of her face. She succeeds somewhat, while other long pieces hang down heavy, slapped against her cheek. Hawke can only helplessly laugh as Isabela’s face goes from disgruntled to determined.
“Oh you are going to pay,” she promises, swimming forward with ease. Someone is at the top of the cliff, yelling as they leap off. Landing in the middle of the pool, the splash of it reaching out over almost everyone. It’s the leap which encourages more and more. For a day, at least, the sea is forgotten. It’s instead replaced by friends, a growing family. Hawke doesn’t know all their names yet, but as she watches them all pick up the words of the same song, she resolves to learn.
When they all finally trudge back to the ship, soaking wet through their clothes, most are dead on their feet. It makes dinner far calmer than normal, the usual rowdy conversation replaced by quiet contemplation. After, Hawke makes her way up to the deck, pulls up a stool. Arms crossed over the railing, her chin in her hands. She wonders how much longer she can feel sorry for herself. It was like that on the way over, all full of it for Ferelden. Now, she knows she doesn’t care if she goes back. She carved out a place in Kirkwall. She can do it again.
She’ll learn to read the map, the stars. How to navigate and find her way. This is Isabela’s place and she knows it can be hers as well. It’s like she reads her thoughts. Quiet footsteps on the deck, her hand against her back. “There you are,” Isabela says. “All alone. What are we brooding about today?”
“Kirkwall,” Hawke says.
Isabela leans on the railing. “This might be the first time you’ve said what’s actually on your mind since leaving,” she says with a smile.
“I’m sorry,” she says, but Isabela waves away her apology.
“I get it. You’re a big girl, a strong woman, all on her own. You didn’t need someone needling in your business and telling you how to feel.”
“You’re amazing, you know that?”
“I did, but go on.” They chuckle together, and Hawke moves to be beside her, pushing away the stool. Isabela puts her hand at her back again. “I know Kirkwall was home,” she says, “we could go back. Any time. Just say the word, love.” Hawke shakes her head, stands up straighter. Smiling as she reaches out, cups Isabela’s face.
“Thank you for asking, but I’m home with you,” Hawke says.
“Sap.” They chime with laughter, forehead pressed against forehead. Isabela reaches up, takes one of her hands. “I know how much Kirkwall meant to you. How much all of it meant to you.” The other finds the cord around Hawke’s neck, fingers pulling at it until the key slips from underneath Hawke’s shirt. The key to estate, the Amell crest carved on one side, Hawke crest on the other. Hawke pulls it from her grasp, tucks it back underneath her shirt.
“It will always be there for when we want to go back. When we want to go back,” she says. Isabela had told her once, that Hawke had changed her. Isabela is still changing her, bit by bit.
“I know you’ll love Antiva,” Isabela says. “It’s beautiful, much better than sorry old Kirkwall. It’s never short on exciting things to do, or trouble to get into.”
“I don’t think that’s a problem for us. Trouble always seems to find us wherever we go,” Hawke tells her.
“Part of our charm.” Laughter, over a silent sea. They lean against each other, talk softly into the night.