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“How do you even deal with this?”
Isabela dug her face into her oversized scarf and bundled her furs tighter, her attempt to keep out the chill of the night. She was unequipped for the winter, and Hawke supposed it made sense: all of her clothes save for that white smock she wore was at the bottom of the sea. Whatever warm clothing she owned was what she was able get from Hawke or steal with ease, making for a cobbled together look that was functional more than stylish.
“You just do?” Hawke said.
Isabela grumbled. “Easy for you to say,”
“I like the cold. The heat… you can only take off so many things until you're naked.”
“You say that like it's a bad thing!”
“Not everyone's comfortable letting it all hang out.”
“You never complain when I do it.”
“That's because there's nothing to complain about.”
Isabela tisked. “You need to work on your smooth-talking.”
“It got me this far,” Hawke said, the snow crunching beneath her boots.
She loved the winter. It reminded her of Ferelden, of when she was a child in Lothering. Even as she grew older, the first snow still excited her, going outside without a coat to feel the chill on her skin. Her mother would scold her and tell her to go back inside, or at least dress appropriately for the weather so she wouldn't get sick.
In Kirkwall however, it was less pleasant. The smokestacks of Lowtown spewed black smoke into the grey sky, the blanket of snow-covered rooftops darkened by dust. It felt wrong and depressing, nothing like what she was used to.
“Did you know there's snow in Kirkwall?” Isabela said, falling a few paces behind Hawke.
“Oh, is there? I'm not sure I noticed, what with all the tar.”
“My point is,” Isabela righted herself from almost tripping, “why do we have to go all the way to the Wounded Coast to look at it?”
The weight in Hawke's pocket bumped against her ribcage. If Isabela noticed she was hiding something, she didn't mention it—or maybe she was too distracted with the cold.
Hawke had a reason for taking her out of Kirkwall. If she was going to do this right, it had to be here, where it was truly winter, where the snow looked like snow instead of ash.
“You didn't have to come,” Hawke said. “Besides, didn't you spend time in Ferelden? Shouldn't you be at least a little used to it?”
“No. I hated every minute of it. No offense.”
“None taken.” Hawke stopped walking and offered the torch to Isabela. “Do you want it? At least it'll keep your face warm.”
It looked like she was about to protest. Instead she pouted and took the torch, holding it high and trudging through the snow.
Eventually the two of them reached a small overlook beside a tree, its branches glazed like glass. They could see the sheet of ice over the shallows of the sea, and the sand covered in white. The moon hung high in the night sky, illuminating the snow into something bright, like some sort of magic.
“This looks good,” Hawke said, watching Isabela wipe snow off of a log and sitting down. “I'll make the fire.”
“Have fun,” Isabela said, curled up and giving the torch back to Hawke. “I'll just be here, freezing.”
“And you say I'm dramatic!”
She managed to get a decent campfire going—aided by the flyers and dry tinder in her bag—and sat beside Isabela, who was already warming her hands. Hawke pulled out her flask, the metal cold against her lips.
“I can't believe you like this time of year,” Isabela said, half grumbling.
“I used to. Or… I guess I still do. It's not the same.”
“The table's more empty than it used to be. So to speak.”
Hawke grit her teeth. The first winter without her father was a quiet affair, his boisterous presence missing from what used to be a pleasantly busy time of year. Three years after, with Carver gone, it was more tense. Gamlen and her mother spent the entire meal arguing, ending with her mother in tears and shutting herself off in their shared room.
And now with Bethany in the Gallows, the entire season was forfeit. Her mother hadn't discussed any plans with Hawke, and in turn, Hawke didn't bring them up. Both of them were tired and defeated, willing to remember times past but never move forward, as if celebrating now would erase more pleasant memories.
“Did you ever do anything for winter?” Hawke asked.
“No.” Isabela bit at the gold stud in her lip.
“I remember how the twins and I would get into snowball fights. We'd build forts and…” Hawke stopped.
It was a long time ago, when Bethany and Carver were just six years old. Marian looked back at the two of them, taking a commanding stance over her little siblings.
“I'm going to knock on the door. Ready?”
“Ready!” the twins said in unison, Bethany stifling a giggle into her mittens. Hawke quietly stepped to the door of their house, giving two firm knocks before running to the snow fort, jumping over it and ducking behind the walls. She froze when she heard the door open, palming a snowball in her hands.
“Hello?”
Her father's voice was deep and gentle. The Hawke siblings were silent, unsure of what to do next. Their father didn't move and tapped on the door.
“Well then,” he muttered to himself. Marian heard him turn to go inside.
“Now!”
The three of them threw their snowballs at him, catching their father on his back. They laughed gleefully, their plan a success. The laughter didn't last long, however. Their father stood still, turning slowly with his arms folded over his big chest.
“Look at this,” he said, his frown hidden in his bushy, dark beard. “Betrayed by my own children.”
Bethany looked mortified.
“You know what this means,” he said, slowly crouching to the ground as he picked up a handful of snow.
With a speed betraying his size, he made a snowball and threw it at them, just missing Marian's shoulder. They all leapt to action, taking their reserve of snowball ammo as their father rolled to the side, picking up more snow as he righted himself with a grunt. Carver caught him by surprise, who dove to catch him by his legs, shoving a snowball on the side if his calf.
It was chaos after that. Marian followed Carver, jumping in her father's back and wrapping her limbs around him. He shrugged her off without trouble, like a light sack into the soft snow. Bethany threw one last snowball, hitting their father square on the chest. He gasped dramatically, hitting the ground with his knees and grasping at the sky before the rest of his body landed.
Victorious, Carver roared and pumped his tiny fists, looking at Marian with a giant grin. Bethany shook their father, making sure he wasn't actually hurt.
He stood up with a chuckle, scooping the twins in his arms.
“You got me good!” He said. “But now you're all soaked. Let's get by the fire and dry off, hm?”
Later, when their mother came home, she frowned at the wet clothing drying on the mantle of the fireplace, her husband and children in front if the fire and drinking hot cider.
“What did you four get into?” she asked. Her mother looked so young then, hair still crow black like hers, face unmarred with wrinkles and grief.
“They started it!” their father said, raising his hands innocently. “Can you believe it? Our children, the troublemakers.”
“You've no one to blame but yourself. Where do you think they got it from?”
Their mother sat beside him, wiping his mustache before giving him a quick kiss and taking his hand into hers. Her father smiled, his blue eyes bright and affectionate, content and at ease.
Hawke took a drink. “And we had fun.”
“I suppose the snow's better when you have other people who enjoy it.” Isabela looked to the frozen sea. “Carver… what was he like?”
“A complete ass. He'd nail Bethany's hair to things and insist on doing everything by himself. He hated being one-upped.”
Hawke winced. “At Ostagar… they had to pin him so he'd stop fighting. He was so determined. But it was over—you've heard the stories. A complete slaughter.”
“Sounds like he had that Hawke family stubbornness.”
Hawke let herself laugh. “The only shared trait we had between all of us. Mother always says I take after father. Bethany's like mother. But Carver? He was just… Carver. He wanted to be like no one else.” She played with the cap of her flask. “I miss him.”
Isabela shuffled. “I didn’t mean to bring that all back.”
“No. It's…nice to remember that. You know, instead of him being crushed to death by an ogre.”
She shuddered and took another drink. The sound of her little brother's bones snapping into the earth still rang in her ears.
“Shit. The alcohol's really hitting me.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“I didn’t mean to get sentimental. I know platitudes aren’t your thing.”
“I know what loss is, Hawke.”
“I know you do.” Hawke ground her feet into the snow. “I should have done something.”
“We all could’ve done things...or at least thought we could. Things happen and…” she frowned. “Things happen.”
“That’s true enough.” Hawke felt sick. This wasn’t what she wanted to evoke, not around Isabela, and certainly not here. “As upbeat as this conversation is, I didn’t come here for that. I got you something.”
Curious, Isabela watched Hawke pull out the crudely wrapped gift from her coat pocket.
“Now that I have more money than half the nobles in Kirkwall combined, I figured I’d get you something nice.”
Isabela unwrapped the paper and threw it into the fire as kindling, revealing the amber coloured bottle of Antivan whiskey. Her eyes went wide.
“Hawke...this is-” she turned the bottle in her hands, feeling its weight and tracing a gloved finger over the label. “How much did you spend on this?”
“Oh, you know,” Hawke said, waving her hand. “It’ll be a nice break from the piss Corff serves.”
Isabela went still. “I hope you weren’t expecting an exchange. I didn’t get you anything.”
“I don’t mind,” Hawke said. “Besides, I’m sure you’ll let me taste it, right?”
Isabela carefully placed the bottle in the snow. “I’ll let you taste more than the whiskey.”
Hawke was about to comment on her bad joke but was stopped short, Isabela’s hands on her chest, grabbing her fur collar and pulling Hawke in for a deep kiss.
“There’ll be more later,” Isabela winked.
“Not a bad gift,” Hawke grinned.
“I’m a giver,” Isabela sighed. It looked like she was about to say more before she hesitated and looked into the fire. “What’d you get everyone else?”
“I haven’t gotten that far yet.”
“Really? Not even your mother? Or Bethany?”
“I’m not so sure what I can send to the Circle for Bethany. Mother… I think she’d rather pretend this all wasn’t happening.”
Isabela chuckled. “Looks like you got your penchant for avoidance from her.”
“I don’t avoid everything! Sometimes I even slightly address them!”
“Mhm.”
They sat quietly for a moment, watching the wrapping paper crackle and crumble into ash.
“Well, we don’t have to stay here. We could go back?” Hawke said.
She was afraid Isabela would say yes. Instead she turned to the sea, looking at the frozen masts of shipwrecks in the dark horizon.
“This isn’t so bad. And while we’re here…” she said, picking up the bottle of whiskey, “let’s try a little.”
“I was thinking you’d save it for something special,” Hawke said.
“It’s not everyday someone takes me out to freeze my ass off in the middle of a snowy wasteland for the ambiance. I’d say that’s special enough.”
“You just can’t wait!”
“Whose gift is this again? I can have it whenever I damn well please.”
She cut the wax seal with one of her hidden knives, putting the wax into her pocket and popping the cork with her teeth. Not wanting to wait a second longer, she took a sip.
“You know how to treat a girl, Hawke,” Isabela said, looking at the bottle in appreciation before passing it over.
Even Hawke wasn’t prepared for how good it would taste. It was one of those things where she didn’t realize the quality of something mattered until she experienced the expensive version of it, savouring the burn and lingering caramel aftertaste.
“Worth every coin,” said Hawke, giving the bottle back to Isabela. She corked it and placed it back in the snow, sniffling and wiping her nose on her sleeve.
Hawke let the whiskey wash over her as she tried to relax. She felt the heat of the fire on her face, the ambient sound of winter around her. For a moment, Hawke could imagine she was far away, back in Ferelden, in front of a fire her father made with her brother and sister. If she tried hard enough, maybe she could even smell the baked goods her mother always prepared for them when they’d come back inside.
But the reality of the winter crawled into her chest, as cold as the wind itself. She was here, on the outskirts of Kirkwall, where she’d go back to Gamlen’s shack and try not to speak of her father, or Bethany and Carver. Even though the Amell Estate was sure to be theirs again, and even with more gold than she knew what to do with, it wasn't enough. The old saying of how money couldn't buy happiness was cliché but infuriatingly true.
Isabela moved closer, resting her head on top of Hawke’s. She felt warm enough to quell the chill Hawke felt within, enough that she noticed how bright the moon and stars were away from the city, how the light of the fire bathed everything in orange glow. This wasn’t Lothering, and it wasn’t home.
And maybe that didn’t have to be so bad.
“Hawke?”
“Mm?”
Isabela stood up. “Wait here. No peeking.”
“Uh, okay?” Hawke turned around, wondering what Isabela was planning.
The sound of crunching footsteps moved further away and abruptly stopped. The silence made the wait seem longer than it was, until she heard rustling, and then cold impact on the back of her head.
Isabela laughed from behind her as Hawke patted the snow off her head, turning dramatically and crossing her arms.
“You know what this means,” Hawke said gravely. Isabela smirked.
A snowball formed in Hawke’s hands before she could even think about it, hurling it at Isabela. The pirate dodged too late, taking the hit on her stomach.
“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” She said, frantically trying to mount a counterattack.
Hawke already had another in her hand before Isabela could. Instinct took over when she tilted her head to the side, Isabela’s snowball sailing past her head and landing behind her with a soft thud.
“Damn it-”
Isabela was cut off from a blow to the shoulder, Hawke running left and grabbing more snow. She dodged two more attacks and struck again, hitting Isabela on the legs.
“Are you even trying to hit me?” Hawke taunted.
It looked like Isabela was about to try again before she changed her mind, suddenly taking off into a sprint towards Hawke. She took aim at the charging pirate, getting her nicely on the chest. It didn’t stop her. She was quickly gaining ground, getting ready to jump.
“Wait-”
Hawke felt herself bowled over, landing backwards into the snow with Isabela straddled on top of her and pinning her wrists down. Hawke laughed, feeling more joyful than she had in a long while.
“You just wanted to get on top of me!” Hawke said.
“Mm. You know my motto.”
Isabela held out a hand to help Hawke up, dusting the snow off of her back. They made their way back to the waning fire, sitting back on the log and dusting off any remaining snow.
“I haven't done that in ages,” Hawke said, her laughter finally dying down.
“It was fun, wasn't it?”
“It was. I needed that,” Hawke said, wondering if she should add more fuel to the campfire.
“I could tell.”
Isabela rummaged through Hawke’s pack, pulling out the remaining kindling and throwing it into the fire. It flickered and brightened again, stray ambers landing harmlessly on their thick woolen coats.
“‘Bela?”
“Hawke.”
“Thank you.”
Isabela smiled, placing her hand on Hawke's knee giving it a light squeeze before drawing it away, reaching for the bottle of whiskey and cradling it to her chest.