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There’s no real reason for Isabela to feel guilty, though, is there?
She didn’t force Hawke and the others to do anything. She didn’t stop them from doing the smart thing and skipping town with her, or at least not that far behind. She hardly lied at all, and even if they do hold the relic thing against her then Isabela certainly can’t be blamed for what happened next. Hawke was the one who stormed the Viscount's bloody Keep; Isabela wasn’t even there when that poor decision was made.
Everyone makes their own choices, it's that simple. There are some poor sods who find it easier to pretend that they can’t but Isabela has never been one of them. She only lies to other people.
As soon as Anders arrives, he crouches over Hawke, whispering the same words over and over, and Isabela listens to the sound of Hawke breathing, as though that could make any difference at all.
She never asked Hawke to fight the Arishok. She never would have, probably, because she actually likes Hawke more often than not, and it was only ever meant to be Isabela’s fight.
Oh, fine, it was meant to be Hawke’s fight a little, like walking around with a really big sword so nobody tries to pull a dagger on you in some dark alleyway. Hawke scares people without even having to try, because the kind of person who puts down slavers and visits with the Qunari tends to make people feel inadequate without really trying, and if there’s one thing that Isabela knows about men it’s that they really don’t enjoy feeling inadequate when it comes to their… big swords. But she never meant to start, oh, swinging Hawke around and chopping people’s heads off, that sort of thing.
She reaches out to pat one of Hawke’s limp, pale hands clumsily and realises that she’s been pressing one hand into her side where Hawke—
Where the Arishok—
Well. Pressing one hand into her side, anyway.
Stupid. As though Hawke doesn’t fight to the death at least once a week; as though something like this wasn’t always going to happen; as though Hawke would never—
It’s just this town getting to her. Her skin crawls in Hightown at the best of times, all that stone and hypocrisy, and Isabela’s let herself get too comfortable trailing after Hawke, mostly only stabbing whoever Hawke wants dead or vice versa.
Hawke’s fingers twitch against her own, and she wants to hit something, or get hit, but Aveline has already excused herself to go supervise the clean-up. It’s just her, Hawke and the possessed mage, and going by the last few hours, it looks like Anders’ decisions are the best, or the least horrible, out of the three of them. Not what you could call a cheery thought.
Hawke blinks, then.
Looks, unseeing, up at the ceiling, and Isabela gropes within herself for something to say which isn’t “You idiot” and comes up empty. (Almost empty.)
“You bloody idiot,” she says, and Hawke turns towards the sound of her voice, eager as a puppy.
“You’re here,” Hawke says, tired but—Tired, and Isabela will take 'tired'. Tired is better than the alternative. “You came back.”
“Don’t go making a thing out of it. I just felt like it.”
“You felt like it,” Anders echoes sceptically. “You escaped all the carnage and then looked back and said, ‘Oh, you know what, I actually think that the middle of that mess is the best place for me to be, and this is the perfect time to look up a few old friends…‘”
Which is uncomfortably close to the truth, as it happens, so Isabela just glares at him. “Maybe I just thought you’d need some help.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure I don’t know what we would have done without you—“
“Don’t,” Hawke says, so quiet that Isabela nearly doesn’t hear him, but they shut up. There’s nothing they wouldn’t do for Hawke tonight.
None of Isabela’s characteristics are redeeming, exactly, which is one of the things she likes best about herself. She cheats; she steals; she doesn’t care if other people get hurt, and when a fool like Hawke tries to help her, she bilks them for everything they have and more. She only ever meant to take, and keep taking, and nobody would have been able to complain because it’s not as though she pretends otherwise.
But Hawke would have died for her. And Isabela never asked, never would have asked, because there’s a difference between duelling a giant ox-man one-on-one and the far more acceptable ‘sneaking up on people out of dark corners to stab them before they can stab you’ and there are some things that are worse for being given freely.
“Thanks for coming back,” says Hawke, and Isabela finds herself nodding.
“Don’t mention it. Please.”
“Right. Sorry,” Hawke says drowsily and smiles, sharp and sallow in the candlelight, and Isabela feels something catch in her throat. “’m just glad you did.”
Here’s her secret, then: You don’t just wake up one day and decide to be a pirate captain. You decide every day, stay or quit, raise or fold. You choose, and when it stops being fun, you choose something else.
Guilt’s a choice, too. Not Isabela’s, obviously; she has better things to do. But she can feel Hawke’s decision – no conditions, no expectation that she’ll do something in return – like it’s a physical thing, a little gremlin perched on her shoulder, and she doesn’t say anything at all.