Isabela assumed a lot of things about herself, over the edge of a tankard, or staring down a bloodied dagger. She assumed what people thought when she tossed her charcoal hair or swung her pendulum hips. Her philosophy was simple; as she swiped her tongue over her golden labret everyone watching either became afraid or aroused. It was a good day when it was both.
By now she knew that no man spitting, “Whore.” at her from across the bar was enough to break the seal of skin that she’d been toughening since her worth was totted up in sovereigns by her own mother. Nor was any woman who whispered and hissed about her in the market anything more than the green eyed monster clawing its awful, dirty fingers down their throats. She didn’t blame them, the women that is, what more had their well-to-do husbands and fathers ever taught them than to hate every other woman they laid eyes on. The men however – she was never one to hide a sneer – they should know better, but never learned.
Perhaps in some other life Isabela’s thousand step journey would not have led her to Kirkwall, maybe the City of Chains would never have held such a mantle in her heart. Even if such mantle was stained with grime and blood and teeth knocked loose.
But, now, for what it was worth, she was glad the soles of her boots had learnt what the soil felt like. She was glad that the sting of brine and the whistle of bitter wind had died down, that she could hold back the ocean in her chest long enough to learn things she had never wanted to know about.
For years, the blackest, wildest, roughest ocean was the one that sat within the pit of her stomach. Isabela knew not how to tamper down the constant fiery tide inside her, nor did she know why certain people, certain smiles and certain slanted eyes made the ocean coil around her guts and drown her in her own insides.
Hawke had always been different. From day one, Isabela had known that no one with eyes so blue and a smile so knowing could ever just leave her heart be. She wondered if it would be the way it usually was – when she’d lure someone into her siren’s trap for a night, then watch them nervously drag themselves away the next morning, thighs still shaking and eyes still wide. Hawke didn’t smile like she knew what she was doing, she smiled like she was making it up as she went along, and Isabela hoped that that meant she wouldn’t fall into a trap that for years she had been setting.
It was not only that Isabela had known so many lovers, that she had touched every shade of skin and tugged at every colour of hair. There was no fear of touch, no fear of intimacy – what Isabela feared was commitment, staying put, holding out her heart to somebody like they wouldn’t just use it for a quick fix of a one nightstand.
She talked, Maker knows she talked and talked like she was trying to run herself dry of all words. She wanted to forget about the way Hawke looked at her, the way Hawke bit her lip and narrowed her eyes and bunched her shoulders. It was either a poking finger to Merrill’s nose and, “I love your hair, kitten…” or a lazy arm over Fenris’ shoulders and, “You have very pretty eyes, you know.” Everyone knew to brush it off, because that was Isabela, that was how she kept the peace. It was only when everyone else caught on that Isabela felt she wasn’t even safe in her empty flirts and generic compliments.
“I think you like Hawke’s hair better than mine, Isabela.” however spacey she was, Merrill could be terrifyingly self-aware and the moment her pond water eyes grew that wide Isabela knew she was making her voice loud enough for Hawke to hear, where she stood at the bar sandwiched between Varric and Aveline.
“I don’t see what Hawke has to do with this.” Isabela pointed her nose and lips to her tankard. Merrill laughed.
“What Hawke has to do with this,” Isabela wasn’t sure she could take two pairs of twitching elf eyes on her, but she braved it, and met Fenris’ gaze with a pulled sneer, “Is that you can’t complement anyone without looking her way.”
Another time it was Bethany.
“You know, you’re very emotionally withdrawn for someone so flirtatious.”
“I have no idea what you mean, sunshine.” the Hanged Man stunk like it usually did, except above all the sour ale and stale vomit could be smelt the pungent fumes of uncertainty and stubbornness.
“My sister put up with a lot of snotty boys chatting her up in Lothering,” Bethany smiled, that same squint in her eyes as Hawke. That same squint. “Mother was so disappointed when she wasn’t taking the chance to be courted. Father and I always knew Marian was only interested in women but it took Carver and mother years to figure out.”
Isabela snorted, “Charming. Why are you telling me this, Bethy?”
“She’s never flirted back.” Bethany said, “She’s never acted so interested in someone until you came along.”
“Rogues,” Isabela raised her eyebrows, hiding the growl in her voice with a twisted smirk, “We have a lot in common. Like our love-hate banter for example.”
“Love-hate banter is Anders and Fenris threatening to rip each other to pieces,” Bethany stood, pushing away the full tankard that Varric had bought for her, “What you and Marian are doing is called flirting. Tell Varric thank you for the ale but it tastes like piss. Have a nice evening, Bela.”
Isabela assumed a lot of things, but the moment she felt a sliver of hope she let the waves swallow it. She assumed most people were attracted to her, because even if they pretend to be disgusted their eyes are still glued to her legs or her chest or some other place that she doesn’t care if she’s showing too much of. Marian Hawke was the exception. Marian Hawke’s soft stare that never strayed from Isabela’s eyes, mouth, cheeks, could never be the one that would continue to stare at her like that for years to come. She pretended she didn’t want it, she pretended she didn’t feel the swell in her chest or the smile tugging at her lips.
Isabela assumed that Hawke was just another passing thought.