Bran's peevish rebuke, "Just a moment, you can't–" warned her before the door banged open with enough force to rattle the elegantly framed painting on the far wall. It was surprisingly primitive, and the only decoration of Dumar's she kept when she assumed the office of Viscount. Ignoring her unannounced visitor, she focused on it now, letting her eyes wander across the thick brushstrokes until she found the mabari – her mabari, or so much like her own Maric it might have been his sire. It stood sentinel over its pack as they fed; the animal's tawny hide separated it from the darker browns and blacks of the common mongrels.
The rest of the picture was an unpleasant reminder of her childhood on the outskirts of Lothering. The bleached reed huts, crude pots over smoldering cook fires giving a dusky haze to the air and the large pagan stone statue mimicked the Chasind settlement she and her mother visited, bartering for grizzly hides to ward against autumn's chill or leathery strips of dried deer meat when the price of mutton became too high. Growing up, she resented her parents' endless list of 'mustn't' and longed for the civilized refinement of Ferelden's Circle of Magi. She almost ran away half a hundred times, but when her father died, her mother's reliance on her eldest daughter increased exponentially; she felt obligated to stay, for Cassandra's sake. 'The Maker has a plan for each one of us.'
It was the other redeeming feature of the painting: amidst its rough and lawless setting, the few villagers dressed in homespun, stood a tall woman, armed not only with a sword but also with a blazon of their faith – the silvery Seeker's eye – embroidered on the back of her cloak. Conceivably, it could be a man, but Aislynn preferred the idea of a strong female, with her long hair hidden, tucked into a tight bun under the conical barbute.
Impossible to determine the figure's reaction to the scene with any certainty, but Aislynn imagined – based on her stance and drawn blade – she viewed the scene with distaste equal to her own. 'Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure.'
"–turn away my attaché?"
Reluctantly, she ceased contemplating the painting to stare impassively at her unwelcome visitor. The tiny woman, at least a head shorter than herself, wore a cunning mix of plate and leather armor. Buffed to a reflective shine, the cuirass, fauld and greaves would put the most conscientious of her Templars to shame – and made a striking contrast between silver and the chased work cerulean griffon on her chest.
Aislynn tugged at the cuffs of her robe; as she released her grip, the gauzy purple fabric belled up at her wrists. Then, clasping her hands tightly on the top of her desk, she allowed another minute to pass, but the woman just glared at her, chest heaving as if she'd run from wherever she and the other Grey Wardens were quartered.
"My Lady," Aislynn added, coolly.
"Pardon?" The woman blinked uncomprehendingly at her, derailed from her impending tirade by the seemingly disconnected comment.
The woman's Orlesian accent – with its alternately clipped and slurred syllables and consonants – made Aislynn want to pinch the Warden Commander's cheeks and force her to enunciate; she stridently ignored the impulse.
"Bran?" Her assistant hovered cravenly near the open doorway. Indispensable for running the everyday affairs of the Viscountess' office, his position provided implied social standing which enabled him to intimidate the persistent aristocrats out of disturbing her with their petty problems. When faced with a daunting physical presence, however, he became ineffective as a fluffy newborn kitten. Perhaps it was time to revisit Aveline's suggestion of a guard posted outside her door. "Have I been ousted from my position as Viscountess of Kirkwall?"
Recognizing an opportunity to redeem himself, the man stepped forward eagerly. "No, my Lady – I do not anticipate the rebels troubling us further." His too wide, oily grin hinted at a joke the newly arrived Warden-Commander undoubtedly wouldn't understand.
"Then, unless I am mistaken, Warden-Commander Caron," she paused for emphasis, and the woman's cheeks reddened at the unsubtle rebuke, "I am still in charge of this city and you will address me properly. In this specific case, you may address me as 'My Lady', as the use of the title 'Viscountess' is considered socially incorrect. Gauche, if you will," she supplied helpfully, a sympathetic smile fixed on her face that was as false as a stoat's winter coat.
"My Lady," the Commander said, the internal struggle to maintain her temper visible on her face. "My seneschal, Varel, informed me you refused to meet with him." She had been clutching a piece of parchment in her fist and now she waved it about animatedly, "That you didn't even read–"
"Because I am not stupid, Warden-Commander." She slammed her palms down on the desktop; its rich, chocolate-brown wood – chosen for its similarity to her lute – was lightly scored with shallow gouges from her fingernails. Carver pointed them out during one of their quarrels, citing the scratches as proof she couldn't control her temper; now she neatly hid the scratches with linseed oil. "You're here about Anders."
The Warden-Commander hadn't even opened her mouth to acknowledge her charge but Aislynn forged ahead; she knew her assumption was correct and leaned forward aggressively. To Leena Caron's credit, she stood her ground. "I will not deal with an intermediary and for you to expect it borders on insulting. Official documents with wax seals and embellished signatures are fodder for timid clerks!" She stood abruptly; the chair toppled backwards with a hollow clatter. "It is a struggle to keep the peace here in Kirkwall and your presence isn't helping. I'd order you out of my city, except I'm prohibited from doing so." Her impotence against the Grey Wardens galled her. "But I can deny you access to your confederate – I have that much power, at least."
Indignantly, Commander Caron stepped forward but whatever her intent, she thought better of it and halted a foot from the desk. Tersely, she replied, "Anders acted alone. The Grey Wardens had no part in anything he planned."
She was still struggling with the need to be diplomatic – Aislynn Hawke was not similarly hindered. "The word of a Warden has been proven to be relatively meaningless. Go away, Warden-Commander."
She considered it a vocal dismissal and turned to right her overturned chair, when the Leena Caron spoke. "I will. We will. The Grey Wardens will leave Kirkwall tonight if you grant my request to speak to him."
Aislynn hadn't believed the Commander was in any position to bargain, but the words were music to her ears. She whirled around; the fabric of her dress made a soft shushing sound as the pleats in her skirt brushed against one another. "How long?" she demanded. "I know you can't promise me forever, so don't try."
Her initial elation must have shown; the Warden's eyes narrowed. "Three months."
"A year," Aislynn shot back.
"Three months," as Aislynn inwardly cursed her momentary weakness, "is the only offer on the table, my Lady. You will, I think, take it, yes?"
Aislynn's hands clenched slowly into fists, as she stared at the Grey Warden. 'Outmaneuvered.' No doubt, the entire scenario had been engineered. The steely glint in the other woman's eyes confirmed her suspicion – she underestimated the Commander and was about to pay the price for her arrogance.
"Bran," she said tonelessly, "have Guardsman Donnic escort the Warden-Commander to the Gallows with instructions she is to have her meeting with the prisoner for no more than half an hour." Her smile felt brittle now, as if her mask of politesse cracked at the corners of her mouth. "Say your goodbyes to him, Commander Caron – you will not be seeing Anders again."
The first chapter in a two part piece for drathe on deviantART based on her drawing, Commander's Tears, which can be seen here: drathe. deviantart. com/art/DA2-Commander-s-tears-209441470 You''ll need to remove the spaces. I have no skill and don't know how to make ffnet recognize the address without chopping it into bits.
I've taken a few liberties with Aislynn Hawke (Drathe's character and done with her permission). I don't think in Drathe's canon that Aislynn has such a severe dislike for the Grey Wardens but when I sat down to write this, she seemed fairly adamant about it and I've found it's better to let characters do what they want. As to the setting, I place it very soon after the events in Dragon Age 2 (not three years after, when Varric is narrating to Cassandra), so perhaps the excuse is her feelings of anger and betrayal are still too raw for perfectly rational thought. Or maybe it's all bollocks. I'm fine with however you interpret it.
Aislynn Hawke, Maric the Mabari and Leena Caron belong to drathe and Bran, Varel, Donnic and Anders belongs to Bioware. Feedback is welcome and encouraged (criticism is just as valued as praise).
I'd give all my worldly goods (and my soul, if they'd take it) to Bioware and David Gaider in exchange for Zevran being mine (all mine!), but until they accept my "offer", all rights to their characters and the Dragon Age universe belong to them. Thank you, DG, for creating Zevran – in all my years of playing MUDs, MUSHs, RPGs and MMOs, he's the only character who ever inspired me to write anything (such as it is - and even when he's not in the story, he's my inspiration).
