Title: The Depths
Fandom: Dragon Age
Rating: G
Length: 653 words
Content notes: No warnings apply.
Author notes: Written for the ‘stick’ challenge in fan_flashworks and ‘no honour among thieves’ prompt in genprompt_bingo.
Summary: Varric asks why Isabela decided to stick around. Isabela would rather not go there.

“So, Rivaini, you decided to stick around.” Varric thumped two ales down on the table and slid into the booth seat opposite her. “The Hanged Man’s swill grew on you, did it?”

Isabela looked up at the nosy dwarf and made a dismissive sound. “As if,” she said, but still reached out to take one of the tankards and took a deep drink. She wiped the foam from her top lip.

“Then it must have been our wonderful city,” Varric continued, gesturing broadly with a grin on his face.

“Still a shithole,” Isabela said with a twist to her mouth.

“Then tell me, dear Izzy, what is it that made you decide not to run to the sea at the first sign of danger?”

“Obviously not your kind words,” Isabela said, a bit sourly, and took another drink of her ale.

“Captain, you wound me,” Varric said melodramatically, clutching at his heart, but his eyes above his teasing smile were serious.

Isabela didn’t like serious. It was free sailing on the still surface of her heart. Underneath, she feared what lurked. Everything was a lot easier if they just left it at that. But Varric was here, and he was asking, and he had been a friend. One of the few she had ever known.

But that didn’t mean that she had to treat it seriously. So she shrugged, one shouldered, with the arm that wasn’t holding the tankard.

“Maybe it was your card games.” She manufactured a wicked grin that he would see straight through. “Never had such easy, reliable marks.”

Varric smiled good-naturedly. “Happy to be of service,” he replied lightly, but refused to give her anything more to work with. The silence stretched out.

Isabela sighed. “Maybe Fenris isn’t the only one tired of running,” she said, looking away from him, across the quiet common room of the Hanged Man.

She heard the bench creak as Varric leaned forward. “And it wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain Choir Boy, would it?” he said gently.

Isabela made another dismissive sound as her reply. She had tried not to think about it. It had been a moment of weakness.

Late one night, in the depths of Kirkwall’s choke-damp winter, she had gone to the Chantry. She didn’t know why she had found her way there. She had intended only to clear her head, and had expected her feet to carry her to the docks, where she would spend the witching hours of the night looking over the lights of the boats moored in the Harbour.

Instead, she found herself in the Chantry, the grand building lit only by what seemed like hundreds of votive candles at the feet of Andraste. And she had stood there, staring up at Andraste’s face, until Sebastian had appeared from the shadows.

“Isabela?” he had said, his incredulity magnified by his Starkhaven accent. It was that incredulity that undid her. She felt herself shrink before his eyes, her cheeks colouring, her eyes filling with tears.

“Maybe we should sit down,” he had said. And they did. And, as though they were in the confessional, Isabela spilled out the secret lying heavy on her heart. The slaves that she had transported. Their fate in the depths. And the revenge that she had thought would clear her conscience but had only compounded her shame.

Sebastian had reached out and gently brushed away a tear. “The Maker forgives you,” he had said, like it was a matter of fact. “You need only to figure out how to forgive yourself.”

Isabela had made a dismissive sound, stood up, wiped away her tears with an impatient hand, and left, with barely a nod in thanks. She had tried not to look at him at the card games since then. Obviously Varric had noticed.

“Chantry two-shoes?” she said with a scoffing laugh.

Varric only sat back in his seat, and smiled.