Chapter Text
We're all curious about what might hurt us.
Federico Garia Lorca
As Allegra removes her earrings, sitting by the vanity table tucked in a corner by the open window, her hands do not shake. The weight of the jewels in her palm feels comforting, while the lazy glint of the gems seems to wink at her mischievously. She is going to miss them, she thinks.
Pawning the earrings is not the smartest choice in purely monetary terms - their age and uniqueness is going to be overlooked. It will only be up to the carats and emerald clarity to pull the weight of the bargain. Be that as it may, she still prefers it to a straightforward sale. The pawn shop owner will hold on to the earrings for at least for a month. Maker willing, she may earn another commission, before they are sold off.
Life in occupied Treviso has changed significantly. The Antaam are not kind to the townsfolk. While they do abstain from actively vandalizing the city, they spare no effort at subjugating its population and stripping the citizens of whatever stream of income they possess. It is hard to get any trade done, unless that of essentials. Trade of luxury items, including art, has become albeit non-existent.
Which leaves her at her current predicament - the tax for the house is due next week and she has no money to pay it. Aside from losing her home and most of the family valuables to her father’s debts, the allowance her husband sent from the sea had ceased coming. She has no way of knowing what had become of him, aside from a letter from a chartering company he had been employed by, should it ever come. And that could take months, she knows.
While she holds no great love for Bertramo, she still wishes him home safely, if only to provide a helping hand. Her marriage had been a pragmatic affair rather than a passionate one. She was no young maiden following the throes of love. Instead, she was thirty, lonely and penniless, while he was an honest tradesman with gentle hands and kindness in his eyes. Their life together, however short, had been peaceful until he left Treviso for a two year voyage with a promise to write. His niece Stella, a daughter of a dead sister, was left in her care at the tender age five. She is to turn fourteen now, come spring.
Being a high-born daughter of an impoverished house, Allegra has no profession to speak of, nor knows any trade. What she does have, however, is vast knowledge of history and art, as well as an impeccable taste in it. She tried putting both to use last year, when she had assisted several old acquaintances with purchasing various pieces of art. Acting as an intermediary and an expert valuator allowed her to earn some commissions, which had proven just enough to support her and Stella, as well as repair the roof for the winter. But ever since the occupation grew more entrenched, the interest in finer art, understandably, died down. People she knows are no longer interested in spending money on decorative, even if priceless, luxury. Survival is at the forefront of the Trevisian nobility’s minds. The only families that have the means to trade are those allied with Antaam and therefore - scarce. Pawning the earrings, she guesses, should allow her to pay the tax and keep both herself and Stella warm and fed through the winter. From there, however, she has no further solutions.
With a sigh, Allegra carefully places the earrings into a worn jewelry box by the mirror and stands up to unbutton her dress. She slips into a worn silk robe, a remnant of days of old, to fetch herself a glass of water before bed.
The house she lives in is by no means large, but in order to get to the kitchen, she has to walk downstairs and pass the unused, redundant dining room. She is loath to do it, bracing herself for the chill she expects to find there. She has opted not to heat the ever-vacant space in her frugal quest to conserve the coal. Changing into a flimsy robe seems a rather short-sighted decision, in the light of the circumstances.
As Allegra pushes the handle to the double doors softly, trying her best to avoid unnecessary creaking, she is dumbfounded to find the room warm and brightly lit. A huge, muscular figure in an elaborate headdress, which would have looked ridiculous on anyone, save for the imposing Qunari, stands by the fireplace with his back to her. His enormous hands are taut, flexed behind his back. His pose is tense.
Allegra stills in fright. Her first instinct is to turn around and run before the intruder sees her, but her feet become leaden. Even if she does run, she has nowhere to go, she realizes. This house is the only place in the whole of Treviso that could offer her a semblance of safety, not to mention the fact that she can in no way abandon the girl sleeping upstairs. No. Whatever it is, Allegra would have to see it through and hopefully, with minimal losses. She takes a calming breath and straightens her shoulders. A warrior she is not, but no Trevisian lady is ever without armor. The calm, slightly disdainful demeanor of a woman that is not accustomed to crudeness - designed to disarm, is spread over her face in a concentrated mental effort. By the time the Antaam turns around, she is the picture of just the right level of surprise and indignation, befitting the situation.
The front of the intruder presents another challenge to her pretend calm. His right shoulder is adorned by a single pauldron, accentuating the broadness of his stature. The bare skin of his chest is pallid, but rather than make him look sickly, it somehow contributes to the overall aura of menace he seems to project. He appears unarmed, save for a thin, gold-encrusted dagger, pinned to a leather strap across his middle. His face, devoid of eyebrows, is surprisingly well structured. High cheekbones, a resolute lip and an aquiline nose contrast greatly with the overall brutish shape of his appearance. Piercing, maroon eyes appear too intelligent and perceptive, as they fixate upon her face.
“Good evening, my lady” he says in a deep voice with a resonating timbre that could have been enticing, had the circumstances been different. “I apologize for imposing upon your hospitality unannounced at this late hour. I assure you, it is not a habit of mine that I intend to repeat in the future.”
Allegra is too stunned to respond. Receiving a courteous greeting was the last thing she expected, given the circumstances, immediate death or at least a threat thereof seemingly more fitting. Her relief, however, is promptly ground to dust as the full meaning of the Qunari’s words registers – this, the Antaam seems to suggest, is not his last appearance in her home.
“My name is Daathrata, my lady” he introduces himself. “But you may have heard of me by another, more colloquial title of the Butcher”.
At this, the exhale Allegra was hoping to eventually release since the start of the encounter, gets stuck in her throat. Not only does she find herself face to face with an intruder alone, but the enemy turns out to be no other than the leader of the occupant forces, holding her city in an iron grip. The sheer absurdity of the situation is overwhelming. She owns nothing of consequence to be of any interest to a person of his standing. She is no one worthy of any notice. Trying and failing to formulate any sort of response, she continues staring at the Qunari, dumbstruck.
“The reason for my intrusion at this untoward hour, Lady Salis, is that I have an urgent need for a well-reputed expert in fine art, who is no less honest as she is knowledgeable.” The Antaam appears to have followed her train of thought with this. “As you might guess, your name has been mentioned”.
Allegra could swear she sees his lip quirk a little on the left side. Or maybe it is just the shadow from the fire, twisting his features.
“I have not been Lady Salis for almost a decade, my lord” she finally responds, feeling pleasantly surprised that her instilled courtly manners have not failed her in the face of her terror. Her voice sounds even, pitched at the exact tone of mild aloofness, so prized among the Trevisians. She may not possess material riches anymore, but the elegant countenance of nobility still comes to her effortlessly. This trait of hers used to bring much delight to her father.
“It is simply Marino now, my lord.” She continues. Arguing on her proper surname seems utterly pointless, however. The Butcher clearly knows who she is exactly.
“Ah, by marriage, I assume. Please accept my apologies. The Qunari do not uphold such social fixtures, so you must excuse my insufficient awareness of your customs. The referees mentioned your house of birth as a testament to your expertise and abilities. My intention was not to offend, my lady”. His voice remains level as his eyes shift a little to account for the fact that he is now taking in her whole appearance, rather than remaining concentrated on her face only. She regrets having changed out of her daily clothes even more.
“None taken, my lord.” She responds and makes a valiant effort not to clutch at the lapels of her robe. Despite all the fancy phrasing, this is no social call.
“Your benevolence is greatly appreciated, my lady” comes his unexpectedly polished response. “Which is exactly the reason I would not dare to intrude on your evening more than strictly necessary. I have a great favour to ask of you. A piece of Antivan art has been offered to me recently for purchase, the seller claiming it to be of great value, as well as historical significance. And while I do hold great esteem and interest in matters of culture, I am not delusional enough to imagine myself possessing sufficient expertise required to determine whether or not the painting so offered is indeed genuine. That, as I am aware, comes with extensive exposure to finer art, which I am not fortunate enough to possess”. He pauses at that, as if letting the information sink in. “Therefore, I have hoped to engage your expertise on the matter. As you may know, my… current position in Treviso creates certain obstacles to procuring an advisor that would be motivated by honesty first and foremost, which is why I have avoided professional art dealers.” He smirks, undoubtedly enjoying deliberate and transparent attempt to veil own role in the occupation of Treviso. “Your efforts, of course, will be adequately compensated, as befitting the assistance offered”.
The Butcher looks at her expectantly, having said his piece.
Allegra exhales. Her thoughts race. The first instinct she has is to refuse outright. She can cite having no formal education and politely excuse herself, demurely belittling her expertise, as she was taught to do ever since being a young girl.
However, she has also been taught to think, long and hard, before responding. Was refusal even an option? She highly doubted that. The Antaam are not known for honoring rejections and the whole occupation of Treviso has been a testament to that. It is rather more probable that, if denied, the Butcher would shed this pretense of courtesy he had been willing to extend her so far and use other methods of persuasion, more common with the Qunari. The ones that involve maimed limbs, perhaps. It will be smarter to acquiesce, of that there is no doubt. She does not lose much by doing so.
What worries Allegra, however, is the fact of her agreement possibly becoming a precedent. The Butcher already all but stated this intent to come back for more advice. She would prefer to do anything to avoid it, if possible.
“You flatter me, my lord. I am afraid the reccomendators that mentioned my name to you have greatly overestimated my passing fancy in finer arts – I have no formal education or expertise to offer you. Surely, there are better suited experts whose input would be much more professional and, thus, valuable”.
Allegra is not going to reject him, though. A plan is forming in her mind as she speaks. This one time she shall humor him, take a look at this painting of his and even go as far as to accept the commission hinted at. And as soon as she gets her hands on it, she and Stella will be out of Treviso, with the whole of the city none the wiser. There is nothing keeping her here anymore.
“However,” she continues, “I will not render your time and visit fruitless. Please let me take a look at the painting and I promise you to deliver an honest, if flawed, judgement to dispose of as you will”, she says, approaching the dining table, preparing to sit down.
The burst of laughter that explodes out of the Butcher’s chest startles her. Had she not been clutching the back of the dining chair, she would have dropped on her feet in terror.
“You are being too humble and kind, my lady”, the Qunari drawls, once his outburst of merriment is done. Allegra does not fail to notice the calm tone of his voice, holding no indication of the magnitude of his fun just moments before. With those words, he turns towards the double doors leading into the dining room and shouts “Karashok!*”.
Two Qunari soldiers enter the room almost immediately and Allegra can hear her own breath hitch. They must have been in her home all along – there is no way they entered from outside this quickly. What appears to be a mid-size painting, wrapped in cloth, is carried by them. Wordlessly, they place the bundle on the table before her and leave as swiftly as they entered.
She raises her eyes at the Butcher, unsure of whether she is expected to unwrap the cloth herself or wait for his instruction. He is watching her intently, as if cataloguing every minute movement and reaction, filing it for his later consideration. She suddenly feels like prey, observed by a hunter.
“Please, take a look, my lady,” he says, gesturing to her to remove the wrapping. She fervently hopes her fingers will not shake.
Nothing, however, could have prepared her for the shock that hits her, as she uncovers the painting. It is a landscape, or, rather, a seascape of the Rialto bay, as seen from the Chantry belltower. While indeed precious in its own right, the reason for her heart beating so violently against the ribcage is the familiarity of it. Her father used to own it, and she remembers when it hung above the fireplace in the drawing room of her old home. That room had not been used for entertaining guests, but rather, for cozy family evenings, spent on the chaise by the window. The memories of happier times when she read her books on the rug under this very painting, crash into her with a brutal force. She can feel the tears prickle at her eyes.
A piece of herself is being sold to the Butcher, of all people. And the greatest irony of it all is that she is the one to set the price for it.
For a moment, she entertains the idea of lying to the Qunari outright. Calling the painting a piece of rubbish, a fake, a dupe. Anything to prevent him from owning it. All his curated words and courteous manners do little to conceal the overt greed for violence, so common to his kind. He is a horned beast, a crude monster unworthy of the calm and peace this painting offers. He has no right to it.
But, yet again this evening, her cold logic triumphs. The past is in the past. Clinging to it would do her no good. She had already grieved for her house and all that it contained. Her father is gone, her legacy forgotten. Allegra only has her life left, the one she intends to live in whatever modicum of peace she can. She shall not let her sentiment or useless pride ruin her only chance at it.
“It is a wonderful little seascape,” she says, raising her eyes. “However, it is not old, if that is what your seller has claimed. The artist is Fridenzio Ricci and he died just recently, in Dragon 9.49. Therefore, there is no value to this painting in the historical sense. The artist’s mastery, however, was well known and appreciated in Treviso during his lifetime, which is why you will hardly find a Trevisian noble house not possessing at least a single piece by him. How much has the seller asked for it?” she inquires, trying and, apparently, succeeding in sounding nonchalant.
“Three thousand andris” is the Butcher’s curt response.
“It is rather too steep” she replies coolly, determined as she is to remain honest in this exchange. “But not too high as to be entirely off the mark. The fair price for this piece would be two and a half thousands, given the fact that the artist died recently, so it is expected that his works will now grow in value”. She feels calmer by each word. She can do it. Allegra looks at the Butcher as she finishes her appraisal, feeling somewhat grounded for the first time from the moment she had lain eyes on him. There is nothing he can challenge in her appraisal. No honest art dealer can accuse her of dishonesty. She is being fair and square, and she is deriving an odd sense of calm from being truthful.
However, it is not to last.
The Butcher’s eyes narrow slightly at her tirade and Allegra can almost feel the intensity of them pierce right through her ill-collected serenity. Had she not been watching him intently, she would have missed the tiniest of smiles that creeps across his face as he speaks.
“And do you like it, my lady?” An innocent question, surely. But the way the smile on his lips grows, it is anything but.
Allegra’s chest quivers. He could not know, could he?! She lowers her eyes.
“I am quite partial to the Rialto bay, my lord. If you are asking whether I would have bought it for myself, then my answer is yes. But I would not have paid over twenty five hundred andris, if I had them” is all she says.
The Butcher hums in agreement.
“I thank you greatly for your honest response, my lady. Rest assured, you could not have bestowed your expertise on a more grateful subject” he responds.
Allegra hears the rustle of his cloak, signaling movement. She shoots up to her feet and steps quickly behind, driven by the instinct to be out of the way of the approaching figure. Is it now over?! Is she to remain unscathed following this encounter?!
The Butcher approaches the corner of the dining table, stopping an arm’s length from Allegra on his way to the doors behind her back. “Despite the … unconventional manner of our meeting, I am delighted to have made your acquaintance” he says, bowing lightly and unexpectedly swiftly, so at odds with his heavy stature. His eyes dart up at her, as if in question.
He is waiting for her to offer her hand in farewell, she realizes, to her utmost horror. She is expected to voluntarily extend her limb to the Butcher, to take into his hold and bring into proximity to his mouth.
Maker knows, Allegra had never been a flighty one. If anything, she was quite daring in the few riding lessons she managed to attend as a child and no less fearless in her handling of all other beasts, big and small, including Mabari. The terror she now feels is a sensation she had never before experienced. Letting him touch her seems utter madness. A suicide.
But she had come too far to retreat now, she thinks, not allowing herself to dwell on the fear, spiking in her chest. She is almost out of the woods – the Butcher is leaving. She managed to avoid provoking him and triggering his wrath. It is unlikely that he intends to bite her hand off and even if he does, she thinks darkly, she would still consider herself lucky. A limb lost, but a life retained is quite a bargain for a meeting with the Antaam general, if the stories she heard of him were anything to go by. Just one more push and it will be over.
Tentatively, calling for Andraste's grace to protect her limb from shaking, Allegra raises her hand to the Butcher.
In response, the general brings his palm into position right underneath hers, effortlessly sliding his thumb over her knuckles. His touch is feather light. She is hypnotized by the sheer contrast of their size, perturbed further by the unexpectedly gentle hold of his calloused fingers. She can feel his strength being restrained and is unsettled by it. The Butcher’s lips come lower to touch the back of her hand and she feels a faint, fleeting sensation upon her skin, sliding along without lingering even a second too long. Had it been anyone else, she would have thought the person exceedingly well-versed at courtly rituals. Perfecting the art of physical touch in such a manner as to avoid making it unnecessarily intimate was no easy feat.
With him, however, any touch is too close for comfort.
“Likewise, my lord” she replies, as he rises again to his full height.
“I shall be leaving you with this, the hour is indeed late” he says, while turning and walking towards the door. “Please do not trouble yourself to see me out – the foyer is quite draughty, I noticed, and I would hate for you to catch a chill on my account”. The Butcher turns his head to the side with this and throws her robe a meaningful sideways glance. “I have also noticed that the residence is not properly guarded during these troublesome times, which I find unacceptable for a dwelling where only ladies reside. I have therefore taken a liberty to station a couple of my most loyal soldiers that are to stand guard for your house for the time being. Knowing your dwelling is safe will bring me much comfort until we meet next. It was the least I could do, given the fact that not only have I intruded upon you unannounced, but I have also given myself the liberty to use your coal supplies, unprompted. This, of course, shall be rectified by a recompense being delivered to you first thing tomorrow morning, along with the commission, as we agreed upon. Good night, my lady”.
With an almost imperceptible nod, he steps through the doors, closing them behind with a resolute thud.
Allegra’s head spins. Just as she thought herself almost safe, the Butcher has crushed all her fledgling plans before she even got the chance to voice them . He had seemingly expected her urge to flee and had effectively prevented it by placing guards she had no excuse to reject. She has no doubt they are as much for her restriction as they are for protection, if not more.
The Qunari occupation had reached her doorstep and, apparently, intends to keep her contained, along with the rest of the city.
With that unhappy thought, she lowers herself on the chair by the table again. Hopeless, her weary head drops onto her upturned palms and she tries to massage her scalp to alleviate the pressure at the temples she can feel building. Her right hand still tingles with the remnants of the touch of the Butcher’s lips, which Allegra cannot help to consider a very bad omen.
Her quiet sob is the only thing that escapes its confines that night.