“Isabela?”
Isabela turned around from her spot in the Hanged Man, took a long drink of beer before setting the tankard down with a loud thunk. “Bethany! What do you need?” She looked around her. “Your brother not playing guard for you?”
Bethany smiled and shrugged, shy, and settled next to her. “No, I came alone. I had been thinking about, um, about something you said.”
Isabela tilted her head and smiled. “I say a lot, sweet thing, you'll have to be more specific.”
For day 5 of @dragonagesapphicweek with the prompt "first time".
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How about “Do you miss us?” for ya gorls, Bethany and Isabela? :D
Hi! And sorry for taking forever. I'm the most unreliable prompt filler in the history of this website. :D
Behold, Bethbela fluff!
-----
It's been quite a while since they last did this. A year, in fact, and the third glass of wine threatens to go straight into Bethany's head. The lights of the tavern seem softer — the murmur of the patrons slower.
Isabela must pick up on it, for she pokes an elbow into Bethany's rib and chuckles; “Amateur.”
Bethany smiles at her, the crow's feet by Isabela's eyes matching her own. Somehow, her hair is still black, unlike her wife's, whose brown locks are highlighted by grey stripes.
“Watch it, or you'll find yourself sleeping in the doghouse tonight.”
Clearly the threat has no effect: Isabela merely laughs and waves down the bartender, ordering them another round. “At this rate, you won't get farther than the sofa, so excuse me if I don't take that seriously.”
Bethany huffs, but can't really argue. Her tolerance isn't what it used to be, and her head isn't made of iron like her wife's.
Not that she really minds. Life's been good, especially the last couple of decades. Living off of the pirated profits of their early years, tending to their little garden and foraging what's easily reached from their beach side cabin. Bethany's even become quite the fisher, whereas Isabela never has the patience for sitting still for so long.
In all honesty, it's a miracle she agreed to settle down at all.
Bethany watches in silence, smiling contentedly, as her wife challenges yet another young sailor to a game of Wicked Grace. And wins. Cheating, as always.
The coins go to good use; Isabela buys them another round. Bethany leans her cheek into her hand, eyes on her wife.
Isabela lifts a brow. “What is it, sweet thing?”
A thoughtful hum builds in her throat, and all of a sudden she feels a bit foolish. But there's no escaping Isabela's gaze once it lands on you.
“Do you miss us?” she wonders out loud.
Confusion tilts Isabela's head.
“I mean, who we used to be?”
“You mean, being always on the run? Sailing the high seas?” There's a fond smile when Isabela pauses. “Being young and reckless?”
“Mm-hm,” Bethany nods, smiling in return. The wine warms her veins, dulling the edge of her concerns.
“I miss being able to beat my men at arm wrestling. Being able to sleep in an uncomfortable bed and not feeling like my back might never recover. But if you're asking if I'd rather be adventuring than be with,” she reaches out, a finger caressing Bethany's cheek, “you, the answer is no.”
Bethany catches the finger, gives it a clumsy little kiss, and chuckles. Whatever threat that's loomed in the back of her mind evaporates.
“I'm proud of what we've built for ourselves,” Isabela confesses quietly. Even now wary of getting caught being sappy.
“Good,” Bethany smiles, lifting her glass to Isabela's pint. “Here's to 25 more years.”
The glasses clink and Isabela grins; “Greedy. I like that.”
the wind in my sails - Isabela/Bethany, Ladies of Thedas Appreciation Week
Bit of a canon adjustment here - Isabela has Castillon's ship, but he's dead. I never saw any convincing reason why we could not just murder Castillon *and* take his ship, other than that the game wanted to make us ~choose~ between Doing The Right Thing and Getting Good Stuff. Sometimes, you can have both.
This is intended to be set in the One Elegant Solution ‘verse, but it can also completely stand on its own.
the wind in my sails
isabela/bethany, post-Kirkwall
She feels the wind shift through the bones of her ship, the flapping of the canvas and lines, the creaking of the wood. The Siren's Fury is more lively in the water now that most of her passengers have disembarked; Isabela didn't regret taking them on, taking them all to safety out of Kirkwall, but their combined weight had made her ship wallow in the water like a drunken pig.
Highever fell away on the horizon behind them, the last stop for most of her passengers. They'd let the mages off wherever along the route they wanted to go as long as it was along the way. Some of them still had family around Kirkwall, or elsewhere in the Free Marches, and they'd all trickled off the ship one by one -- but a solid dozen of them had had nowhere to go back to. Ferelden with its mage-friendly government was a safer place for a group of refugees than anywhere in the Free Marches, and Highever was a big enough place to have a solid continent of the Mage's Collective. They'd see to their own, Isabela was fairly sure; in the meantime she had her ship back, cleared of landlubber passengers.
All but one.
The wind shifted again as Bethany climbed up the ladder and mounted the deck, looking a little wide-eyed and unsure still as the shore slid back on the horizon and water filled the vista around. She stepped up to the rail and stared over it, gripping the railing, and drew in a breath as though to inhale the whole world.
Bethany was the only Hawke to emerge from the hold, and that was still a bit of a surprise to Isabela. Garrett had disembarked at Highever at the same time as the gaggle of mages, though he disappeared into the crowd in the opposite direction. It still felt strange to Isabela to see him go off on some adventure without her -- without anyone to watch his back -- but it wasn't her place to coddle or second-guess him.
"I'm surprised you didn't go with Garrett," Isabela commented, leaning on the wheel to adjust the angle of the ship against the new wind.
Bethany vented a short laugh, harsher than Isabela remembered her being. "Yes, he was surprised too," she said.
Isabela didn't intend to pry but she left the silence open, inviting. After a minute of creaking sails and sighing wind, Bethany went on to say: "I've made up my mind. I don't want to follow him everywhere any more. I've spent too much of my life doing that. I need to stand on my own two feet now."
Isabela nodded. "I'm sure you can, if you choose to. You've grown up a great deal."
A silence fell over the deck of the ship, filled by the sounds of the sea -- scuffling of the deckhands as they went about their tasks towards the stern, the lap of the waves, the soughing of the wind. Bethany gazed at the horizon, and Isabela gazed at her. She was a treat to the eyes right now, gilded by the slanting sunlight and with the breeze lifting strands of her hair.
The wind picked up, swirling around Bethany, the edges of her robes flapping and floating as her hair picked up behind her. Her cheeks were bright with color, and her eyes gazed hungrily at the horizon while her hands gripped the rail as though she could will herself to fly across the distance.
Another sharp freshet swirled around Bethany, picking up a stray line and some scraps of canvas to circle around her, and Isabela cleared her throat. Bethany looked over at her, blinking, and the wind died down somewhat.
Isabela nodded at the breezes flitting about the deck, still flirting with the canvas and carrying bright sprinkles of salt water through the air. "Is this you?" she asked.
"Oh --" Bethany's face flushed with deeper color; she grimaced and gripped the edges of her sleeves in her hands, concentrating on something. The winds died out in moments. "Sorry about that. I just -- I don't normally let it get away from me like that."
"No need for sorry," Isabela disagreed. A part of her instantly leapt to the calculation of how much it could be worth to an ambitious pirate captain to have a wind-summoner on board her crew, but she pushed the avaricious part of her back in her mind. Bethany wasn’t something she could just have. "I didn't know you could control winds."
Bethany gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Control, well, control is something I'm still working on. The breezes always came, since I came into my magic in Lothering. But in Kirkwall you're always surrounded by stone walls, so there wasn't much room for the air to circulate. And in the Circle…"
She trailed off, and Isabela nodded in sympathy. Enclosed in stone corridors, never the fresh sea breeze on her face -- she could understand. "It's not part of the approved curriculum," Bethany went on, the self-deprecating note getting stronger. "But magic is idiosyncratic. Every mage has their own little quirks, magic manifesting in unusual ways. We train to try to straighten out those quirks, stick to a standardized regimen that's well understood and controllable."
"Mm," Isabela said. "Maybe not the Circles in the South. But I've heard of such things before in Rivain. You might could go there if you wanted to learn more about wind-weaving."
"Rivain..." Her eyes went distant, focused again on the horizon. Not in the direction Rivain was in, but Isabela didn't correct her. Bethany shook her head. "I've never been there before. I'd stick out like a sore thumb."
"That's true," Isabela allowed.
"I'm tired of being different," Bethany said. "Alone among strangers who aren't like me."
There was not really much to say to that. Another silence fell, Bethany gazing wistfully out on the horizon. At length she seemed to come back to herself and sighed. "Well, I can't go back to Kirkwall," she said. "And Lothering is long gone."
"Maybe, but that leaves a whole wide world out there to choose from," Isabela suggested. "There's more to Ferelden than Lothering you know, and at least it would be a familiar culture. So would the Free Marches - the Amell family had connections in half a dozen cities. Then there's Orlais, big enough that anyone can get lost in."
She hesitated, biting her tongue, before she blurted out, "Or you could always take up piracy! Sailing the seas, free of country or connections, making a name for yourself… a new horizon every day. I could always use another person on my crew, especially a mage. And no walls, ever."
"It does sound like a dream," Bethany agreed wistfully. Her face turned solemn. "But... I don't want to hurt people.
Isabela chuckled. "Sweetness, a day where we don't hurt anyone is a good day for us pirates," she said. "We don't want to hurt the merchants we rob -- a good show of force and they'll realize they can't fight us, and hand over their goods without much trouble. If you kill the sheep you'll have nothing to shear next season, you know?"
"That doesn't sound so bad. And yet..." She hesitated. "Fighting does still happen, doesn't it? When they don't give in smoothly. Or when the authorities come after you."
"Sometimes, yes." Isabela shrugged, saw the way Bethany's eyes followed her when she did. "It's part of the life."
"I'd hoped to have a life where I don't have to hurt anyone ever again," Bethany said softly, eyes dropping to stare at her feet. "Where I'm not a danger to people around me, and I don't have to be constantly -- guarded."
"Is that Bethany talking, or the Circle?" Isabela said sharply. Bethany looked up at her, eyes widening, and Isabela softened her tone. "Look. You're kind, and I can't fault that. But life is hard. Pain will come, whether you seek it out or not; you have to be ready and able to defend yourself."
"I guess it is the Circle talking, at least in part," Bethany admitted. "That was always... the only part of the Circle I understood. The part that promised safety."
"Rivain does have a Circle, you know, if that's what you want. It's nothing like the Gallows. Mages are respected there, they have much more freedom, they learn the wise ways and see their families as often as they like."
"But it's still a Circle." Her soft brown eyes went flinty, her voice hard. "How could I ever set foot in one of those places again? Seeing what I've seen, knowing what I know? Every Circle is living under a death sentence, and it only takes one evil woman to bring the sword crashing down. It's intolerable."
For a moment, in her cadences -- the sharp anger, the conviction -- she sounded to Isabela like another mage they knew. One whom Hawke had banished from them entirely, the night that Kirkwall burned.
"So are you a revolutionary now?" Isabela asked, keeping her voice neutral. "Picking up where Anders left off?"
Bethany grimaced. "Maybe. No. I can't believe that Garrett..." She huffed. "I'm not Anders. You saw him, he was more spirit than man by the end. That spirit gave him the strength to go farther than I would ever have dreamed. I don't have that strength, I can't give my whole life away like he did. But I also can't just sit back and do nothing. I want to help people, if I can. Help other people like me."
In the setting rays of the sun she seemed to glow, iron resolution turned to gold by her inherent goodness, her kindness and her belief in the best of people. The wind danced around her, delighted and captivated by her presence, each gust reaching to tug a thread from her robes, a strand of her hair, and Isabela wished that she could be one of those breezes.
Bethany was so, so beautiful and Isabela wanted to catch her and keep her, steal her and wear her like she would any other shiny and beautiful and valuable thing. But she can't, she won't, because she'd been kept before, like a jewel in someone else's setting, and she vowed she would never inflict that on another woman.
So she opened her mouth with all the courage it took to turn back from Ostwick with the book in hand and said: "Well, when you figure out where you want to go, just say the word, and I'll take you there."
Bethany was quiet for a moment, stealing little peeks at her, before she finally turned away from the rail and crossed her arms with a huff. "Aren't you going to flirt with me again?" she asked.
Isabela blinked. "Say what?"
"You always used to," Bethany said, a faintly disgruntled expression on her face that looked ridiculously cute on her. "I learned a lot in the Circle, about... flirting. I was waiting for you to start doing it again so that I could flirt back, but now I don't know what to think." Her voice went small. "Have a few years in the Circle made me so ugly to you?"
Isabela couldn't help it. She snorted a laugh, because in that moment Bethany sounded so melodramatic, so full of angst that she could have been auditioning as Fenris. "All right, that's ridiculous," she said. "Sorry, sorry. But how in the Maker's name could being in the Circle make a beautiful woman ugly?"
Bethany wasn't laughing. Actually, she looked more wounded by Isabela's response than Isabela could have guessed, and a stab of guilt like a blade to the chest stopped her from chuckling. Not a joke, not this, not to Bethany. "Or did the Circle make you feel like you were ugly?"
She looked away. But Isabela thought she could fill it in, if she tried to put herself in Bethany's shoes: six years surrounded by Templars who hated you, being constantly told how wretched you were, told that you were one of those responsible for the fault of all mankind. Six years of being told you were a monster.
It filled her with a simmering rage from her boots up her spine to the crown of her head; and in that moment she only wished that Anders had blown up the Templar hall, instead.
She stepped forward across the deck to put her hands on Bethany's arms, drawing the younger woman's attention to her with a shocked gasp. "They told you that so they could control you," Isabela said, low and fierce. "They tried to make you feel like no one would ever love you so that you'd have nowhere to go, no one to turn to. Don't you ever believe that, Bethany. Don't you ever believe that no one could love you. Because you are so, so beautiful, and so full of things to love."
Bethany gave a grin -- shaky, but real, and said with a gasp: "See, that's more what I expected!" The smile faded, not disappearing but turning into something shyer, sweeter. "Do you -- really think so?"
Isabela cocked her head to the side. "Do you think I would lie to someone just to seduce them?" she said softly.
Slowly, Bethany shook her head. "No..." she said, almost inaudible over the wash of wind and waves. "No that doesn't sound like you."
She stood there with her face turned up towards Isabela and it was so, so easy to cross the last few inches, to bring her mouth down to Bethany's in a kiss. Bethany tasted like the sea salt, like sweet water, and an elusive taste that Isabela couldn't quite pin down -- if she had to describe it, she thought she would say she was tasting the wind.
Bethany kissed back, shyly, but sure of what she wanted. They leaned together, letting the rocking of the boat on the waves guide their motion.
At last they broke the kiss and Isabela tipped her head back, grinned down at Bethany. "So," she purred. "You learned a lot about flirting in the circle, hmm?"
"They had a lot of books," Bethany said. "Like, a lot of books."
Isabela laughed. "Well, I've never been one for books," she said, and let her smile slide towards something more like a leer. "I've always found that the best way to learn is by doing."
She gave the word a lecherous spin and was delighted that Bethany didn't recoil; if anything her eyes just went darker, she leaned back up against Isabela with her mouth half-open as if seeking to drink her in.
"Then let's learn," Bethany murmured.
There wasn't a lot of space on a ship for two women to find some privacy, let alone enough space in a cosy room with a real bed to discover one another. But a captain's rank had its privileges.
May I prompt you Bethany x Isabela: Keeping warm or abandoned house.
You may! <3 Also, it's this prompt's first birthday! Thank you for your patience. :D
Isabela/Bethany
Explicit
No warnings apply, 1,1k words
@dadrunkwriting
-------
The end of summer sails to Kirkwall via gentle winds; the warmth of the day lingers even as the moons dance alone in the sky. If Bethany pretends to shiver with cold, it's for a purpose mostly forgivable.
Isabela walks next to her, their arms linked and shoulders bumping. Evoking warmth beyond her body heat.
It rises to Bethany's cheeks, getting worse as the streets quiet down to give way to the cadence of Isabela's laugh.
Maker. It's not the pint of ale she had. It's not even the chivalry in Isabela's offer to walk her home after a night of Wicked Grace. This has been brewing for a while now, in lingering looks and tones of voices and touches that last much too long.
"It's so cold," Bethany complains, knowing full well the falsehood is obvious.
Isabela smirks at her knowingly, tilting her head. "Don't want to go home yet, sweet thing?"
"No," Bethany confesses after a moment, biting on her lip. Pushing their shoulders together ever so gently. "I'd rather be with you."
Isabela considers this for a beat, a smile on her lips. "I have an idea."
Hand in hand, they climb to Hightown, ducking through narrow streets and cutting corners until they stand by an ornate door to what looks like a mansion. Bethany stands guard as Isabela kneels by the lock with her tools, a metal stick between her lips.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?"
It's not the thought of getting caught that has Bethany nervous. Not entirely, anyway.
Isabela chuckles softly, shooting her a reassuring look. "Trust me. I know a guy who knows a guy."
With that, the door clicks open and closes behind them. Bethany finds herself trapped against a wall before she's taken in their new environment. Isabela's breath hot on her face.
This time, the shiver is real.
It's happening. It's really happening! The things she's dreamt about dance just within her grasp, there for her if she's just brave enough.
"Are you sure—"
Brave enough, Bethany cuts off the question with a kiss, wrapping her arms around Isabela's frame. Eyes closed, the faint taste of watermelon and whisky on her tongue when Isabela responds. Her hands travel up and down Isabela's back, exploring the grooves and curves underneath her top.
Isabela pushes against her, gripping Bethany's hips. Her hands so close to where Bethany aches, her breasts flush on Bethany's own.
She can hardly help the moan that pushes into Isabela's mouth.
"All right, sweet thing," Isabela chuckles as she pulls away, "we should really get a room."
A heady giggle escapes Bethany, even as her body mourns the loss of contact.
Isabela's hand finds hers again and they're on the move before anything more can be said. Moonlight spills from windows and exposes the house in pallid stripes; there's papers strewn about, cupboards overturned and muddy prints on the floor. All luscious luxury, in ransacked misery.
If she felt guilt for breaking and entering, it eases upon the knowledge of theirs being the lesser crime this house has suffered.
All such thoughts leave her once they stumble upon a mostly intact bedroom. This time it's she who pulls, settling on the edge of the bed, inviting Isabela between her thighs. Wrapping her legs around Isabela's, craning her neck as their lips meet once more.
She could get lost in the taste, disappear into the heat of the moment and stay there forever. Isabela's hands on her, squeezing her breasts with surprising tenderness. Isabela's taste in her mouth, their breaths mingling and skins tingling.
"Listen, now," Isabela pulls away again, her eyes closing in evident frustration, "I need you to be sure you want this."
Bethany stares up at Isabela, at her kiss-swollen lips and the eyes that shine like silver in the moonlight. There's a hint of vulnerability in them. Isabela wants her, Bethany realises. She's not just being kind or humouring her crush. Isabela wants her, too.
"I really, really want this," Bethany breathes, bringing her hands to Isabela's shoulders.
Isabela smiles down at her, but there's a hint of sadness in her relief. "You won't be my only one, sweet thing. I hope you understand that. You need to find someone else for that."
It stings, but Bethany had known all along. Still, perhaps there's a chance...
"I know. I know, don't worry," she says regardless, and leans up in hopes of another kiss.
Isabela's lips meet hers, and soon they're undressed, immersed in one another's skin and heat. Bethany opens her legs, making way for Isabela's wandering hand. Fingertips dance frustratingly on her labia, playing with her curls and brushing near where Bethany throbs for her.
"Please!"
Isabela laughs against her breast, bites down gently on her nipple and repositions herself between Bethany's thighs. Glorious in a stripe of moonlight that leaves nothing to the imagination. For a moment, Bethany forgets her need and just stares. Pressing every detail to memory. The curve of her breasts, the shape of her stomach and the beautiful eyes staring back at her. The smile that slowly turns crooked.
Then Isabela does the unthinkable; she bows until her lips meet places so far left untouched. Bethany jolts as her clitoris is kissed, a moan leaving her at the gentle touch. She aches, craving for more, her hand searching for something to squeeze, settling on the bedsheets.
When Isabela's tongue comes to play, Bethany forgets herself. Forgets they've burgled into a house. Forgets her big brother waiting at home and worrying. Void, she might forget her name if Isabela keeps at this.
The piercing on Isabela's tongue rubs her to the brink of madness, has her squirming at the woman's mercy. Shallow breaths in her chest as she's lapped like a melted ice cream, nothing but liquid sugar on Isabela's lips.
It's all over when a lone finger enters her, crooked and all too knowleagable. For a moment, the world is nothing but a throb in her loins, the tongue lapping up her pussy and that sweet, sweet finger playing her like an instrument.
Isabela doesn't stop before Bethany's twitching with it all, overwhelmed to the point of discomfort. Mercifully, she leans her head on Bethany's quivering thigh and smiles at her. Lips slick and shiny with Bethany's arousal.
"You're the sweetest I've ever tasted," she says, voice like honey.
It sounds like a thank-you, but Bethany is far from finished. It's her turn to taste.
Hi, darling, and thank you for the prompt. <3 How about some Bethbela? Ok, here goes nothing. @dadrunkwriting
----
Bethany travels light. She's got little more than a staff, a coin-purse, and a nondescript set of light armour to her name when she's on a mission. Anything extra just gets in the way and risks to compromise Warden business — and the same applies to squad mates.
Right now she carries information — safely tucked away into her memory — as she rushes from Denerim to Amaranthine. The forest around her grows darker as the last beams of sunlight bathe the treetops, but the village she seeks for shelter isn't far. She just needs to keep up the pace.
Weariness weighs her eyelids, but experience keeps her steps light, even as the way dims. However, something unusual catches her eye when the path curves — a campfire glows nearby.
Huh, that's strange.
She slows to a sneak, a hand instinctively reaching for her staff. A rough laugh echoes from the camp; her nose crinkles in displeasure. Are these the bandits she's heard complaints of in local taverns?
It's not a Warden problem, she tells herself, they can't interfere with—
"That's it? That's all you got? Pathetic."
Bethany draws to a halt, the voice freezing her into place. She'd recognise it anywhere.
The nasty laugh bellows, followed by a loud slap and a demand: "Talk, woman! Where is it?!"
This has become Warden b— no, Bethany's business. She approaches the camp swiftly, silently, crouched so a line of bushes conceals her. A spell ready on her lips for when she sees the presumed assailant.
There's three men in the camp, including the one Bethany's heard, and that's who she aims her first paralysing spell on. A ball of white light hits him smack in his chest and he falls onto his back, alerting the others. She crouches again; leaves obscure her vision of the camp and she dodges an arrow by sheer luck, prompting her to splurge some mana on a personal shield.
Isabela needs her.
The two others suffer the fate of their friend; she's nothing if not quick and well-trained — battle-hardened, these days. But skill in combat doesn't help with what she's left with. Isabela stands by the campfire, her profile lined with the yellow glow.
Bethany lifts to her feet and swallows. All the nights spent in rough linens, softened by warm touches rush back to her. She never knew the right words to say, then, and she sure doesn't now.
Perhaps this was a mistake.
She almost turns to leave, but Isabela speaks first.
"You know, that was meant to be a negotiation." Amber eyes turn from the fire, fixate on her. Alight, as she always remembers them. "I was never in danger. Not that I don't appreciate your gallantry."
Isabela's dry little chuckle lifts the corner of Bethany's lips, even bitter as it sounds. She can't quite help it.
It's been years, and their ending was rough, and yet... there Isabela stands, as glorious as ever. Captivating, strangely majestic. Bethany never stopped lo— caring, and it's useless to claim otherwise.
"Sorry to have ruined it," Bethany responds, softer than she intended. She marches into the camp, her steps surer than she feels, and nods towards the paralysed bully who'd surely hit Isabela. "Guess you could clean their pockets and redo your plan."
Isabela nods, setting out to rummage through each of their pockets. In between discarding disappointing finds, she looks at Bethany. There's a fair bit of calculation in her eyes — already rerouting, Bethany knows — and finally Isabela approaches her and crosses her arms on her chest. "You know what, sweet thing? I think you owe me."
"Yeah?" Bethany says, her cynical snap almost the real thing. She pokes the bully with her boot for want of something better to do. The frozen surprise on his face doesn't flinch; her spellwork is never half-arsed.
"Yeah. I think you owe me a drink. Or twelve."
Bethany shrugs. "If you insist." She gestures for Isabela to follow — the thugs may be paralysed, but they can still see and hear. They'll be stuck like this all night, but names are dangerous. Knowledge is power.
By the time they'll stir, Bethany will have something much worse than their revenge to worry about — how to mend a heart twice broken.
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From the Dragon Age Promptober - 10, 11, 22 or 24 for Isabela/Bethany or Leliwarden please
Thank you for the prompt, my darling. <3 I'll go for Bethbela and "10. In Death, Sacrifice" -- for @dadrunkwriting
Warning: Major character death. It's tragedy hours over here.
----
Bethany's hand shakes around a cup of coffee. The morning is bright, the sky so blue, and the birds sing their spring melodies. There's a gentle wind in her hair as she sits on the terrace of her and Isabela's beach house.
Her nightmares have always been bad, but rarely have they followed to her waking hours. Lately it's been more a rule than exception.
She takes a sip of coffee, and that's when she hears it.
A distant chime, as if carried from the sea.
Bethany swallows, barely able to lay down the cup without spilling. She's not ready. Not... not yet.
----
"You're humming again," Isabela says, looking at Bethany from over her shoulder. "What is that song?"
Heard it at the market.
A sailor sang it at the tavern the other week.
The panicked lies nearly escape Bethany's lips, but she thinks better of it: Isabela's eyes betray worry.
Resting her berry basket on the grass, she sighs and looks away. She can't keep doing this.
"I... hear it," she confesses quietly, unable to meet her lover's gaze. Can't risk it, lest she breaks and chooses Isabela's juice-stained lips over hard truths about love stories cut short. "It's time."
There's a beat of silence before warm arms close around her. Burying her nose in Isabela's hair, Bethany cries. She's not ready.
----
Leaves crunch beneath their feet, barely audible through the Song, but Isabela's hand in Bethany's is firm and calming. The path feels long and winding, but she walks with determination she doesn't really feel.
They haven't spoken in what feels like hours.
There's so much left unsaid, so much more they both wanted, but nothing changes the trajectory Bethany is on. It's been twenty years. Twelve of them happy, filled with the steady kind of love she thinks neither of them believed in before.
Steady like the steps Bethany takes. Steady like the hold Isabela has on her hand.
When they reach the entrance to the Deep Roads, it's Isabela who breaks. Her breath is choppy on Bethany's neck, her arms too tight around her frame, and Bethany wants nothing more than for the two of them to melt together right there. Stay here forever.
She's not ready.
"I love you," she whispers, barely making out her own voice. Reading the response from Isabela's lips, drawn on her skin.
They kiss, and kiss again, until Bethany knows the feel of Isabela can carry her to the end.
"Live for me," she pleads in lieu of goodbye, and it's only once Isabela is out of sight that she cries.
