anyways I love Isabela because if you’re dating Anders, and you get into Act Three she’s like “Hawke, you should come sail away on my pirate ship with me” and if you say “What about Anders?” she goes “of course Anders can come too!” with no hesitation
THANK U. ALMOST EVERY OTHER ONE OF MY FRIENDS HAS STUCK THEIR NOSE INTO MY RELATIONSHIP AND SAT ME DOWN AND WARNED ME ABOUT HOW AWFUL THE MAGE™ IS AND HOW I SHOULD LEAVE HIM.
And here’s Isabela, who accepts it no questions asked, and it’s so goddamn refreshing, thank the Maker for Isabela, my Hawke’s true best friend
Anders never was much for sleep since his Joining–insomnia had been his sole companion through many of the past decade’s empty nights. Until Justice.
And until Hawke.
He watches half-lidded as she snuffs, makes as if to turn over, then settles back down against him. Anders smiles and flicks a lock of hair off her face, marveling. Here lies a contradiction: she is a human firecracker, his bulwark in battle, yet now she cups herself to his chest, almost more dove than Hawke.
The banked fire glows in the fireplace and he drifts, on the cusp of sleep now and musing–thoughts of Justice, pushed far back in his mind tonight, and of stories and names. She’d never asked his surname, and he’d never called her by her first. Not for three years. Not until this night
(Oh Maker – yes, Marian, yes – )
and he relishes the memory now, how sweet it was to call her and know her, the consonants and vowels of that name falling from his lips in a babble as he arched above her.
He slits his eyes open for one last look: the portwine birthmark splashed across her nose like blood, like fire. He wants to reach into that fire, close his fist through it and shape it, burn down everything that would try to take her from him.
Anders sleeps. For tonight, at least, she is safe. For tonight that is enough.