the blossoms of sun and wind

by RiddleRedCoats

Summary:

When the Inquisition left Halamshiral after resolving the Civil War they left a sole empress in charge of Orlais. Through the years since, even post-Exalted Council and rumours of an elven rebellion mounting in Tevinter, Celene has helmed the ship of state alone. It does not mean, however, that she has forgotten the past or her relationship with Briala.

Cyril, of all people, appears to have a plan. Celene is sceptical but she's for everything now.

For her part, Briala has been in exile, working in Tevinter, fulfilling a destiny she did not think would entail this much sacrifice. At a crossroads herself, Briala is to take part in events that will shape the world (again).

Prologue takes place in 9:50 Dragon.

Chapter 1: Prologue

“Your Radiance.”

The Chevalier bowed his head as he opened the large windowed doors to her gardens. His white and gold mask glimmered in the sunlight until he ducked his head into his gold-laden chest to show her proper respect. The man, Andoran Rosil, was tall and broad-shouldered, like all the Chevaliers seemed to be, and his yellow feather seemed purposefully puffed to make him stand out in the sea of soft golds and deep blues. 

“Thank you, Rosil.” Celene nodded at him. “You may leave, I will stay a while longer. Have afternoon tea brought to me.”

The dark eyes hidden behind the masked helmet sparked with something. “Of course, majesty.”

“What is the meaning of that stare, Rosil?” a quiet voice came from behind her, almost close enough to make her jump had she not been used to the sudden appearance of that voice. Celene heard the tall-tale hiss of a sword just leaving its scabbard. “If you know something, you should say it.”

Celene allowed a smile to soften the edge of her lip. “Champion.”

The simple word made Sabran take a step back, wrist now limply resting on the pommel of their sword.  They stood tall, at attention, ready to obey any of her commands, like always. Sabran Blanchard de Val Montaigne was an exemplary soldier, older than her by three moons, and with an impressive military record,  with a distant relation to the Valmonts. Their royal blue eyes and dark hair marked them and the impressive height that came from their common ancestor only reinforced that connection. Hair of black ink, cut short but styled as most women in court, and fair complexion that allowed Sabran to use the less heavy make-up reserved for men; that ambiguity was their preference. 

Sabran had been the perfect replacement for Michel, once matters had settled down after the peace talks at Halamshiral more than eight years ago, despite their tendency for slight over-protectiveness. 

“I will stay here, Your Radiance,” her Champion said, their eyes a steady blue that never wavered, “to allow you some privacy.”

Celene nodded, sure that she would be safe in the gardens, even as big as they were. 

Terra-formed by a revolutionary architect, the garden clung to the palace like a caterpillar, with several layers and greenhouses scattered across its extensive grounds to take advantage of the space that her ancestors had so neglected. Some of the woods of the island where the palace stood had been cut down — Celene had never much-liked hunting, at any rate — and were now part of her pet project. 

The space was open to the whole of the city, any who wished to visit; all of it was free to roam, but this one part was for her, and her alone, planned meticulously from the massive trees to the coloured cobblestones to the small creeks that flowed to the river that surrounded the small island that held her palace. 

The Empress's impeccably straight posture slumped, just enough to bring a painful relief to her shoulders when the worries and demands of her duties remained locked inside the palace. Celene made herself leave the thoughts of trade meeting behind her as she stepped into the garden. The afternoon was pleasant, and she was happy to stroll about in the safety of her grounds. 

The weather was growing warmer in this late spring, heralding the arrival of summer. 

Celene, in the back of her mind, began to concoct her spring fête, knowing it would take most of her attendants time in days to come and she wished to leave them with a detailed plan. 

Bypassing several flowerbeds, Celene absentmindedly dismissed some of the plants as too colourful, too prickly, or simply not pleasing enough to plan a whole festival around, and began to wonder if an outsider flower would not be a bad idea. Perhaps from somewhere near Serrault, she thought, could improve realm unity and—

A white, bright tulip drew her attention, and Celene could not help but kneel to cup the darling flower. 

The soft petals brought back memories, far-reaching, far before this garden had been conceived, and Celene felt the echo of an ache deep inside her heart when the image of Briala as a young woman flooded her vision; a memory from the first time she had seen her since the night where everything changed. 

She sighed. 

It was only in the quiet times that Celene allowed herself to think of Briala. When there was nothing pressing to take care of, when there was nothing that could distract her. Because, no matter what, Briala was always there — even after all these years, nearly ten since they had last been together and eight since they last saw each other — a constant chime in the back of her mind. 

Fingering the petals, Celene could not help but recall the first time she truly began to appreciate tulips, rather than her favourite daisies.

From her time with Felassan, Briala had brought very little. She had laid all she had on Celene’s plush bed on the first night she came back, the first night of what Celene had imagined would be the first of the rest of their difficult, but joint lives. 

Briala had looked sheepishly over worn-out, old clothes and the meagre collection of personal items she had managed to accumulate during her time with Felassan, though she had reached for a single package she had very lovingly saved for Celene; an inexpensive but very meaningful and much treasured locket and solitary red tulip from the Dales, carefully preserved in the one, single book she had had with her.

Do you know the meaning of the red tulip? She remembered Briala’s voice asking. Celene had been trembling since the elf arrived, legs shaking as they sat on her bed and traded small touches that were so intensely charged Celene thought lighting would crackle in the air. No, she remembered answering, though she had been lying; she knew the story well, and all she wanted was to keep hearing Briala’s well-missed voice. There is a story of a love unfilled, Briala had told, voice catching often on her words, of a common man who loved a nobleman. But their love could not be and the common man never confessed his love and would admire his love from afar. When the news of his beloved’s death reached him, he ran to hills near Halamshiral, where the elves still held home, and he plunged a knife into his heart. The blood that poured from him stained the white flowers forevermore and every red tulip that springs from the ground is him, finally putting words to mouth a thousand times, admitting the love that thrummed in him from the start. Celene had merely stared at her, eyes inadvertently shifting to Briala’s mouth. Celene, the memory of the shape her name took in Briala’s mouth would torment her for the rest of her days, I do not wish to be a tale for generations hence. 

She had then, in that interminable and undefined time, considered telling Briala about her crime, her treachery, but those eyes had taken her in, bright and dark and achingly vulnerable, and Celene could not face the notion of being the cause those eyes lost their light.

Celene wanted to believe their love had started with a flower, a simple bud blooming in a shadowed land, and that they had tended to their lives together as if it were a garden, dragging all the fruits of their love into as much light as they could, nurturing the delicate seed of that blush of love. 

It had bore fruit and a beautiful garden to match the one she stood in now. 

Until her betrayal was exposed and the rotting soil was, too, contaminated by fire, until a Civil War devastated the fields they cultivated, until all that remained was the remembrance of the colours that told their story.

It had been eight years since the end of the Civil War, and exactly as many since she had last seen Briala. So many things had changed. 

Celene was living a life she had not desired when Briala was by her side. No matter how many people close to her pushed for her to tie her house to another, for her to marry, for her to bear an heir. 

And yet, she could not let go, could not drag the brand that had Briala had left behind with every caress, could not rid herself of the voice that echoed in her mind even when she spoke, could forget the eyes that seemed to follow her even when thousands of miles apart. 

Even when Celene was married to a man she did not love and had a four-year-old son.

The cry of a bird drew her attention back to the present, to the sweet caress of the windy spring, to the colourful bounty of her garden, to the soft smell of flowers.

Her garden, which had taken three years to complete, ostensibly a gift for her son spread throughout the area of her palace Celene had set aside for this small project of hers. Flowers of every colour bloomed across artificial hills resembling her country, with little canals running between them like rivers, while tall trees that provided shade on a sunny afternoon thrived on fertile ground.

Celene nodded to a gardener before bending down to pick out a magnificent specimen. A white petaled tulip that created a six-pointed star shape rather than a shell-like shape, purity and forgiveness mingled in its meaning. Tulips bordered every area of her garden, like a weed that would die, littering each spot seen and unseen, scattered out so as not to arouse suspicions, but they were by far the most abundant flower throughout her gardens.

She heard a voice above her and noticed a familiar shadow on the flowerbed.

“You must explain to me, cousin, why you insist on these little white things.” He did not scoff in her company; he had learnt that lesson when they were young. “There are a plethora of different hues and much nicer flowers available.”

The garden was as colourful as a rainbow, but Cyril was prone to exaggeration. There was only one person who knew what these flowers truly meant, and despite how close they had gotten in recent years, Cyril was not that person. 

“They offer me comfort, Cyril,” she remarked, for the thousandth time. 

Sighing, she rose to her full height with his assistance, wincing when her knees cracked. She was just forty-six, but time showed no pity. Turning to look at her cousin, she noted that the passage of time had not left him unmarred either. 

His youthful face had grown severe, though there was a glimmer of his wry nature and wicked humour in the pale-blue eyes that so mirrored her own. The black hair that was a mark of his branch of the Montfort family, rather than her mother’s silvery-gold locks, was now peppered with grey, making him look distinguished and ever so like his father. It almost hurt to look at him sometimes and see Prosper looking back at her. At least, his taste in clothes had stayed as eclectic as ever, often creating both scandal and new fashion in equal amounts. His latest dress had caused a sensation at court, leaving the city’s tailors scrambling to create matching designs for the women in court. Today, however, he wore a more demure dark blue habit habillé, embroidered in white and reaching his knees with a silky smooth line.  

Cyril smiled, dulling the harshness of his gaze, and offered her his arm. Celene gracefully took it, enjoying it as he gently guided them over the paths of her garden.

“What brings you here?” she asked. “Today, I thought that you and your chevalier were taking the children to the square.”

Cyril rolled his eyes. “Robert was not in the mood to entertain us. He and Francesca are in their library now, reading some sort of treatise.”

Celene hummed, mildly amused that her cousin had married Francesca Treviso, a comely woman with flaming red hair. A woman very much lacking the usual controversy that Cyril preferred. Of course, Cyril would never abandon his ginger-headed Chevalier, Robert de Metz. They lived in harmony with their daughter, much to the chagrin of her court, who craved nothing more than gossip and drama.

“And the children?”

“I was not going to go with them to the square alone .” He sounded appalled. “I will not be responsible for the loss of the heir to the throne.”

Celene could feel herself softening as she recognised the screech of children’s laughter, a sound that had eluded these walls for too long. Her son and Cyril’s daughter, Amelie, were most certainly driving their governess beside herself. As she exchanged glances with Cyril, the empress let out a muted chuckle as she recalled their own childhood adventures. 

Cyril seemed to notice. “Fancy another one?” he said, his brows wagging like an idiot.

“If my husband ever enters my bedchambers again, I might just stab him with a salad fork.”

Cyril chuckled, unaffected by her somewhat feigned contempt. “You like Damodar.”

“Certainly,” she admitted. “I just like him very far away from my bed.”

A gardener buried deep in her flowerbeds let out a giggle disguised as a gasp. Celene battled the blush that almost spread over her cheeks when she realised Cyril had done it on purpose.  She discovered him grinning brighter than he had the right to and fought the urge to hurl him into the nearby creek. The decision rested on a knife’s edge. 

It was not like her... preferences were unknown at this point in time. There had been a gorgeous composer who had piqued her interest for a while, just enough to be noticed but not enough to lead anywhere, and when she had banished Damodar from her bed upon the birth of her boy... well, it was not unknown, Celene just disliked to see it discussed out in the open.

“Must you?”

“Of course, my most wonderful cousin.” He truly was very obnoxious. Shoving him into the water beneath the bridge was not entirely out of the question. “Did you honestly expect anything else from me?”

She exhaled a fond sigh. “To do so, Cyril, would be to expect you to be someone else entirely.”

That was why he remained unaffected by the waterways she had created for this private space of hers. Her fondness for him was a lifelong one, and she was certain his roots when deep into her heart. He smiled at her, and she glared back playfully, secure in the solitude of her garden. As they strolled beneath a weeping willow, his smile increased for a minute, but as the sun hit them again, he sobered.

“I have been paying close attention to the theatre lately; there have been some truly excellent plays.”

“Yes,” she exhaled contentedly. “Filomena’s latest is absolutely stunning. And the actress they have acquired is certainly a once-in-a-lifetime talent.”

“So you have taken notice of her.”

Celene chuckled, smiling as the scent of daises entered her nose and the sound of running water became a tune in her ear. She hummed, truly relaxed, as she so rarely found herself. Cyril gently bumped into her, expecting an answer.

“I would have to be blind not to, cousin. She is utterly incredible.”

“Beautiful, too.”

She stiffened, instantly certain of the outcome. “Cyril.”

The warning beneath her voice compelled Cyril to nearly flinch, though he only expressed his distress by clutching her arm tighter. They — alongside many of her close Inner Circle — had been over this more than enough times. The idea of another similar conversation almost compelled her to abandon all protocol and simply use the length of her long legs to leave Cyril behind. 

“I—… Please forgive me. I simply wish to see you happy, and you have been so melancholic as of late.”

“The news from the north is not promising,” she needlessly reminded him. “With scarcely eight years passed since our previous calamity, shorter time still since the last international affair with the Qunari, and with this renegade God on the loose, along with Qunari invasions... of course I appear melancholic, Cyril. I am surprised I do not appear outright manic .”

“Your mind is on the North, cousin, but, if I may say so, it is not on the Qunari. Nor necessarily with the rebel God.”

She truly rued the day she informed him about her entanglement with Briala; he wielded that particular weapon frequently. But, frankly, he was not incorrect; Briala’s affiliation with Solas’ organisation was old news by this point, though Celene could not fathom how or why—... She pushed the notion away, aware of the effect it had on her and hesitant to be so open in public.

“So you feel that sleeping with another woman is the best way to help me forget?” 

“She’s an elf,” he said sheepishly as they walked through a flowerbed of white tulips, a prayer for forgiveness dripping from every petal. “I assumed familiarity would—

“What do you mean by ‘familiarity,’ Cyril? What a thing to say! What unspeakable—” She came to a halt, her rage boiling out. “I do not want familiarity, Cyril; I want—

She bit her tongue so hard that she could taste a hint of the copper from her blood. She would not say something foolish out loud, not with so much still depending on her. She had a son, a nation, and her people to look after. She would not entertain the thought of Briala; not beyond the few scant hours each night on her lonely bed. Cyril remained silent for a few paces, just long enough for them to pass by a fountain and enter the section of her garden with stone archways and exquisitely carved benches.

“Yes?” Cyril persisted in his prodding. “I’ll do whatever it takes. All you have to do is name it.” 

“Cyril,” she sighed, shaking her head.  

It was pointless to speak further because there was nothing else to say. 

“Please, cousin.” 

“What I desire, Cyril, is impossible to achieve. By you, by me, by anybody other than— 

Celene let the sentence linger in the air, certain that he would know and certain that she could not mention her name without a sliver of her inner mask breaking. 

“Briala,” he said with a startling lack of venom. “You long for her return.”

“I long for her to be home.” There was no use in hiding, so she avoided his gaze by carefully plucking vines from the archways that resembled ancient buildings. “I long to bring her back, drag her back, if that’s what it takes. I long to go to Tevinter and talk sense to her. I long...

I long to not be confined here, waiting for news of her death or for an army led by her to march into my throne room. She did not even let the worst of her dread linger in her imagination; that she has done nothing to avert Briala’s death or would do nothing in the face of Briala as her enemy.

“Not all wishes are destined to come true, cousin,” Cyril and Celene would admit that he was gentle when he wanted to be. Though it was hardly a source of solace. “However, this one may be.”

She laughed, almost against her will. “Be serious, Cyril. I cannot simply leave to bring her home; I am necessary here. I have armies to recruit, courtiers to restrain, and a son to nurture. It would be insanity.” 

And she might not even want to see me, to come home, to be away from that place and those people. She dared not voice her fear aloud.

“Do you not put your confidence in us? Do you believe the Cabinet would run the nation into the ground? It would not be the first time they would rule in your absence.” His pointed stare was piercing, and Celene very nearly flinched at the reminder. He continued, “Or that Colombe, Fleur, and Couteau would allow a challenger to stand in court? Or that Damodar and I would be uninterested in Leon?”

“Those, I believe, are my obligation.” Briala, on the other hand, may not be, at least not in her heart. “In addition, I can only travel in disguise for so long. What would be the point of heading north in the first place? What kind of security would they allow me? It is simply impossible, Cyril.”

Cyril stopped, abruptly, making Celene under the weight of her dress struggle not to topple as they both came to a stop. He grew serious, like he so rarely was even after becoming a father himself, and he stared at her with an intensity she could not put a name to.  

“Is that all there is to it? You know those things are not impossible to achieve.”

Celene wet her lips, suddenly dry for being put on display like this. It was so rare that anyone got the better of her these days; long past were the days when she had something precious to hide from the court. Nowadays all her most precious people were on display by default, and her hidden affair with Briala was but a memory.

“It has been ten years since we were last together. And eight since we last saw each other.” Celene paused, and finally let some of her disbelief and desperation show on her face and voice. “It is madness, Cyril.” 

“Perhaps it need not be.”

Oh, but he sounded so resolute. Too resolute, in hindsight. 

Celene looked at him, almost surprised. “What are you—”

Their children dashed towards them, screeching and tearing across her gardens at breakneck speed, stumbling over rocks and bright flowers. She and Cyril exchanged glances, silently deciding to finish their conversation later, and turned their attention to the children. 

Her son was in front, only a few months younger than his cousin, carrying a beautiful and colourful bouquet of purple and pink tulips in his hand. They withered as he raced, but his grin as he hurried towards Celene was so dazzling she did not believe he even noticed.

“Slow down,” she said, her voice rising slowly over the gentle breeze. “We are not going anywhere.”

Leon and Amelie both approached Celene and Cyril with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, their hands clasped around each other like Celene had done with Cyril when they were younger.

Leon bore little resemblance to Damodar and was more Valmont than even Celene herself could be considered to be. She could see the edges of her husband’s features in her boy’s eyes, and, after the baby fat vanished, some lines of Damodar’s features would break through Leon’s young features, but he was all hers. 

“For you, Maman,” he extended the colourful bouquet. His royal-blue eyes sparkled, framed by his extremely dark blonde hair and tanned, plump cheeks.

Celene could not help but feel her heart expanding and contracting all at once in a dance she was only just becoming used to. This boy had a grip on her heart that was beyond her comprehension, beyond anything she could articulate. It went beyond duty, reason, and even her entire being. It was sometimes so excruciatingly painful that it drew breath from her lungs. She lowered herself voluntarily, putting all her fragility at his feet, even though he would not comprehend for a long time to come.

“Thank you very much, mon soleil.” She reached for the gift, stroking his grass-stained knuckles softly. “Be careful not to spoil that shirt, darling; Lady Catalina will be furious with both of us.”

He nodded solemnly, her precocious boy. “I will not. May I go?”

“You may, but be sure to tend to your studies, too.”

He smiled at her, a gleam in his eyes reminiscent of her own — long-since controlled — rebellious streak. Celene swallowed the unexpected tightness in her throat, concealing it by reaching out to adjust her boy’s already perfect collar.

“I will, Maman.”

Judging by that expression... there was absolutely zero chance of it. Celene made a mental point to speak with Professor Dominic in order to learn more about her son’s growth. To her right, she heard her cousin speak, eager and teasing in equal measure.

“What about me, daughter? Do you have any flowers for your beloved father?”

The bright redheaded child blew out a raspberry, a spectacular display of temper accompanied by an equally stunning grin. “If you want some, go pick your own.”

Celene bit her tongue in order to suppress a chuckle. The girl was irreverent, obstinate, intelligent, and completely dedicated to causing trouble... In short, the girl was Cyril incarnate, a smart trick of fate. All who saw Cyril battle with his daughter, like he had done with Prosper before him, found it endlessly amusing.

“Amelie!”

Her cousin knelt and began lecturing his child in low tones, which the young girl simply stared at. When her eyes shifted to Celene for a moment, the empress could not help but give an encouraging nod, far too fond of wilful, crafty little girls not to. The child returned her gaze to her father’s heated chiding, grinning.

“And you, Leon,” she turned to her son, “go on and do not lead your cousin into any further trouble.”

Leon scowled, as children were prone to do, and the roll of his eyes told her all she needed to know. Amelie, of the two of them, really was the most inclined to stir up trouble and drag her boy into it. There was, however, something to be said for loyalty.

“Please, no fighting. You have to—

“I know, Maman.” Celene feared the day he reached his teen years, a young man who would wreak havoc on her life and sanity. “I am not stupid.”

Celene exhaled and got to her feet, wincing as the cracks reappeared. “I know you are not, Leon, but make an effort not to follow her lead everywhere or, at least, to bring some sense into your adventures.”

He nodded, but Celene could see his mind was already elsewhere, in whatever misadventure he and his cousin were up to. She sent her parents a small apology, knowing she had caused them double the grief at his age.

“Mia,” he murmured, his voice nearly petulant, something Celene sought to rectify. “Your papa will be here later, and I have a tutor in two hours. Come on, let’s play.”

Amelie reached for Leon’s hand and they were off, sprinting around the garden again. Little Amelie returned her gaze to her father and, after she made sure no one was watching her, her tongue jutted out at him with an impertinent delight in her Montfort-blue eyes. Cyril shook his head at his daughter, as Celene let out a hum to conceal a loud, tasteless cackle.

“I am sure Father is laughing at me right now.”

“You know what they say, cousin...” she replied as she slipped between the blooms of a thousand colours. Cyril’s stride was full of expectations, hanging on her every word. “Payback is a bitch.”

Amazing. Celene could actually hear him rolling his eyes. 

“I hate you so much right now.”

Celene grinned as the words came with a pat of his hand on the crook of his elbow. They strolled together over the cobblestones, their brains swimming with the ideas they needed to put into action. At the same time, their children raced ahead of them among the enormous trees that cast playful shadows on the colourful flowerbeds, between the Greenhouses of various make, across hills and sunshine alike, amidst little canals of rushing water that bathed every plant that dared to grow in this piece of land she had made to compensate for the absence of one person alone.

Cyril’s suggestion piqued her interest, and she was prepared to play to acquire what she desired.

Chapter 2: Tulip

Summary:

Tulip:
Consuming Love
Forgiveness (white),
Undying Love (red)

Notes:

This chapter takes places two years after the prologue. Meaning we are now in 9:52 Dragon.

There was something comforting about Minrathous. 

Perhaps it was the fact that no other city on the continent boasted as impressive a defence. Perhaps it was because the old city offered a multitude of hidden passages, allowing her to vanish in seconds. Perhaps it was merely the fact that in this populous city, she could hide in virtually every corner without rousing suspicion. Perhaps it was simply the bloody politics that, even ten years on since she last saw it, so reminded Briala of home—… of Orlais. 

That reminded Briala of Orlais.

Yet, despite the comfort, the piercing Northern Sun and stifling heat did little to improve her mood.  

She grabbed a drab cloth, dabbing her flushed forehead and wincing as her coiled hair, once neatly braided, now clung to her skin. She snaked between the other people in the market, dodging parchment-bound loads and speeding customers. There were a few eyes looking at her askance and she made sure the badge of the House she was serving was on full display.

Being a slave wasn't her preferred cover; she'd rather be leading a cell, as she had before, instead of solely gathering information. Her demotion had occurred nearly two years ago when she had discovered Solas' true plan, and her unwavering dedication to his cause had crumbled like the souffle her maman used to make. Having had nowhere else to go, she had managed to convince him of her devotion and, albeit primarily for Felassan's sake, he had spared her life, allowing her to continue to serve. 

There was a part of her that wondered if going back to Orlais had not been a better deal. Whatever punishment awaited her would surely be better than this... Celene had once let her escape a noose, she doubted she wouldn’t do so again. But her pride was a terrible thing, and here she knew that there was a chance, as small as it was, that she could do good here.

Besides, the man who outwardly owned her was partly in the rebellion as well, though he did not know the full extent of Solas’ plans. Aurelius Eonus was not a kind man, but he knew opportunity when he saw it. She doubted he would enjoy the high possibility of his demise by supporting Solas’s plans. 

Briala waited for the doors to the shop she had ventured out to open, and when she entered inside, she privately recoiled at the powerful scent of incense and the too-dark mahogany woods.

“From House Eonus I see,” the merchant’s voice was grave. “What can I do for Aurelius?”

Ignoring the fact that she was the one here and not her ‘master’. Briala approached the counter with large steps to show him a list of meaningless shopping items that would disguise her trip to the market as she bought the random ingredients for a spell or another that Aurelius was preparing.

Before she could continue, her gaze landed on a dried tulip—a dull, wrinkled red against the stark white coating of the showcase. It reminded her of a time when she had offered such a flower, to a young empress she had once so lov— 

“Fifty gold pieces,” the gruff voice of the merchant jerked her out of the memory.

Briala scoffed. “If I wanted to get robbed, I’d go into a dark corner and wait for some malcontent to come by.”

The man’s dark eyes flashed and his bronze skin flushed with irritation at her dismissive tone. She saw the way his eyes darted around as if looking for someone, she saw his jewellery glittering in the low light of the candlesticks of his shop, his ears and fingers adorned in turquoise earrings and rings. Briala culled her pride, tamed her temper, and lowered her head as if in supplications.

She often forgot she wasn't in Orlais, even ten years on since she'd last set eyes on her country.

“Pardon me, sir, I spoke out of turn.”

She made her ears drop as if she were afraid of him. She merely didn't want him to call the guards; there was no one less kind to insolent slaves than them.

“You people grow bolder by the day,” he snarled. “Your badge means your master permitted for you to leave his estate for the day, not to order others around. Give me his list.”

He gestured towards the parchment on her hands, which she gave with a trembling hand. What he took for fear was her anger seeping through her motions, but he thought her and the elves too cowardly to do anything, too beaten down to retaliate. He thought they were safe behind the walls of the city from the rebellions plaguing the rest of the country.

He shook his head as he turned from her to enter the back of his shop. “Filthy rattus ,” he muttered, darkly.

He was wrong.

It wasn’t the elves that were confined here, it was the humans that were confined here with them; the walls would soon be a prison rather than protection. And these ancient streets would soon run with rivers of blood and crumbling buildings.

Briala wasn't sure if she wanted it, she was hardly sure of anything anymore.

The man returned with a parcel for Aurelius and Briala slipped the paper that would serve as a guarantee of payment as slaves weren't allowed to walk with their masters’ coin.

Just as she stepped into the street Briala noticed a shadow in one of the corners of the market. She then noted the gestures that the shadow made and made her way to meet it.

There were three dead bodies in the alleyway, and a blonde, slender elf twirling a dagger in her hands. Jade of Montsimmard had been her second-in-command once upon a time, she now ran Briala’s former group for Solas, though often she came to Briala for help.

From the look of her usually pleasant green eyes, this was not one of those times.  

Jade’s face was implacable. “You aren’t going to like this.”

Briala felt her eyebrow rise. 

Well, then.

 

---

 

Briala walked towards the dungeons in a daze, the words of her former second-in-command echoing in her head like a macabre chorus of a play. They caught Celene , she remembered Jade saying and remembered laughing in response; they have her, Briala. I have seen her . Briala's shock must have registered to Jade, even as she felt as if the floor had come out from under her. She’s in the catacombs, the one near the Senate chambers, they plan to kill her at dawn, when Solas arrives, on the hill where— Briala had not heard the rest, she remembered giving Jade the parcel and rushing to the dungeon.

It couldn't be true.

When she entered the dungeons, however, there was a jovial mood in the darkest parts of their stronghold deep in the earth. 

The usual sombre place, filled to the brim with Solas’ supporters and frontline workers was alight in the candlelight and remnants of the party they had littered the floor. Some elves were 

Briala passed the several levels of their make-shift dungeons and counted how many Chevaliers filled these cells. Two or three dozen, a regular retinue for a travelling empress.

These Noble soldiers would die alongside their empress come dawn, but they hardly reacted. The elves in the stronghold threw jeers and food into their cell, but all they did was remain stoic, as if awaiting orders that would never come.

Briala passed by another former comrade of her unit, Adrien des Valées, who smiled at her with a grimace before coming to stand before her.

“Briala.” He eyed with his steadfast grey eyes. “I see you are heading upstairs.”

“Adrien.” She nodded back. “How have you been? How is your wife? Is her pregnancy—“

He blinked owlishly at her. “My son had his first birthday last month, Briala.” 

Briala didn’t wince, but it was a near thing. Adrien was kind enough not to mention anything, but she saw his eyes narrowing and his mouth frown in a sympathetic smile. He started walking with her, guiding her to where Celene was. 

“It’s fine, Briala,” he said, reaching out to tap her shoulder. “You must have a lot on your mind, right now. Especially with… the current situation.”

Briala almost smirked, but it lacked fire. “Very diplomatically put.”

“Not all your teachings went into empty heads, I know the value of diplomacy,” he countered, nodding slowly to an elf along the way, who returned it. “Though, unfortunately, some don't. The younger folks… well, they’ve always been angry and I get that, but to celebrate what’s about to happen…” His face hardened. “It doesn’t seem right.”

“So, they are executing Celene.” It was too much to hope that they’d spare her, to think that there still might be some way to end this without bloodshed. “Jade told me that—” Briala heaved a sigh and licked her lips “—that they are planning to burn her. In the same place that Andraste burned?”

Adrien nodded slowly. “No, they won't burn her. That’d be too symbolic I think, even for the likes of her.” He likely was thinking of Halamshiral, where his wife had had family. Then, he softened a bit. “Still… no one deserves this, to have their death be made a spectacle.” 

“She burned Halamshiral.”

Adrien nodded. “Yeah, well, we’ve burned a lot of villages. I’d like to think that, if were ever caught, they’d be… compassionate, if not to me than to those who loved me.” His eyes didn’t veer towards her, but she felt them on her nonetheless. “Instead, we are using her death to launch a war; neither she nor our movement deserve that.” He tensed as they passed by a cheering crowd in a room. “There’re many people here, Briala. Many people that I’ve never seen in the first place. It…” He walked closer to her. “It reminds me of the court, of the nobles in Val Royeaux.”

Adrien de Valées, as the name implied, was born in the alienage of Val Royeaux with no name but the name all those without a family name were born under — he had been away from luxury but close enough to know it. Adrien had climbed from the slums into a position in the markets, through his marriage to Alexandra de Valées — another elf born in the shadow of the Grand Cathedral, but of a merchant who had peddled his wares in the better markets of Val Royeaux.

Adrien and his wife had joined Briala back in 9:40 Dragon, wanting to fight for their right to exist as it was in those days, and they had followed her to Tevinter. Briala owed them her life, for all they had endured for her and with her. 

She couldn’t help thinking that she’d led them into the slaughterhouse, regardless of how it all ended. 

They approached the stairs that would lead her to Celene 

“Hey,” he called her attention. “Don’t get lost up there.”

“I won’t,” she said, firmly. “And Adrien… thank you.”

He smiled. “Anytime, Briala.”

She watched him go with a muted sort of pain in her chest. The poor man didn’t know nearly as much as Briala had wanted him to, and he was still ignorant of all Solas truly wished to do. There no helping that, she knew, not if her head was to remain joined with her body. Briala, as she always did and as she always must, continued on. 

Only once she reached the last level of the stronghold, the only level where there were windows, did she catch a glimpse of Celene.

It was through a dirty mirror, but there she was.

Dawn , Jade had said, and Briala now privately quivered at the words.

Celene was all that glimmered in the sun; her hair of white-gold thread, her voice of silvery tone, her eyes the colourless blue of diamonds, her heart as guarded by the shine of silverite. The thought of her fading, when the dawn broke over the execution stand, grew rotten on Briala’s tongue, a taste so bitter it was as if death itself inhabited her very being.

Briala kept to the shadows, afraid that her hammering heart would be heard by those in that cell; Celene, wrists bound to the wall and crossed above her head, and the three elves that crowded her.

“Look at her,” Eloise sneered, “not so high and mighty now are you, your highness?”

Celene’s eyebrow curled. “From Amiens, are you?”

Eloise's fair complexion turned paler. “How—

“Accent,” came Celene’s simple answer. “You roll your ‘ r ’s and ‘ l ’s as they do. Your hahren mentioned very few of his elves joining this ill-advised rebellion. From description alone, you are Eloise, no? Your brother sends his love.”

A duo of young elves — Liandir and Rowle — rushed forward while Eloise merely stood, pale. The two men tore at metal bars with abandon, madness and fervour shining in their eyes. They, alongside Eloise, had once been part of her movement in Orlais, at the cusp of puberty then, only to fall headfirst into Solas’ fight… Some days she felt as if she’d failed them, others she merely did not recognise them any more.

There was the sound of a lash in the air, of strips of cloth smacking the air and then— Slash ! against a solid body. There was a groan and a muffled yell from the victim, and Briala felt the inside of her skin screech in protest.

Still, she remained slicked to the shadows, contorting in pain at each rasp of breath as if the blows were delivered to her own skin. If they were expecting Celene to yell, they did not know her, she’d been beaten often enough by the Dowager not to know what pain felt like. And she would never give them the satisfaction.

“You probably want to flick your wrist, otherwise your balance will be off,” Celene’s voice came, groaning.

Then there was the echo of a slap this time, and then Celene gave a gasp. 

Briala finally made to slink off into the shadows, only she saw through the mirror Rowle approaching Celene, his face the picture of pure rage mixed with utter delight at her pain.

“Don’t damage her mouth.” Liandir grabbed at his crotch. Briala’s teeth ranged in her mouth. He would not dare-“I want her to have a taste of my big, fat—

Red clouded her vision.

“Enough!” Briala was hardly aware of her voice rising above the jeers, but the chattering came to a halt. “Get out. Get out, now .”

Liandir paled. “Briala—… I—”

“Be very careful about your next words, Liandir. I will not be held responsible for what I will do if you step another toe out of line.”

There was far too simple an ease of slipping into her old role, and she commanded these three as she’d done so many times before her demotion.

Rowle stepped in. “Briala we were just—”

“I saw what the three of you were just doing. If Solas knew what was going on…” The man’s plan may be deranged, but he was not a man who approved of methods like this. The trio winced, they well knew the consequences of angering the wayward god. “Liandir, go free her wrists, she’s to be free to walk her cell.”

Briala dared not risk a look at Celene, lest she fully lost her temper.

“The three of you are to report to Jade. I want an accurate report and I will be enquiring her about your statement so do not try to undersell what you’ve done. Liandir will face consequences tomorrow from both myself and Solas. Tomorrow will be a long day, and I wish—

There was a cry from the cell and Briala twisted around to see the aftermath. Liandir had a hand to his eye while Celene panting against the wall, free of her binds and cupping her elbow. Briala almost smirked. Before matters could get out of hand, she quickly sent them off, feeling a strain of stress pound behind her eyes. However, the stress was relieved a bit when she saw Liandir nursing his already blackening eye.

She turned to Celene, watching her brush the dust off her pants with some gusto. Long blonde hair ran down her back like a river, a flimsy white blouse adorned her, and black breeches were tucked into a pair of good black boots.

It was so similar to what she used when they’d traversed the Eluvians all those years ago that Briala thought her breath would flee from her lungs. Even with Celene looking bruised, split-lipped, and worse for the wear.

“Did you really have to elbow him?”

Celene stared, those eyes stark and questioning. “Are you serious?”

Briala supposed that they both would have done worse if they had their daggers on them. Liandir was hardly a threat despite his appalling insinuation, but his words and condor did merit more than a simple elbow to the face.

“Well, I am just surprised you didn’t strangle him with your bare hands.”

“I would have if Eloise had not been standing so close.”

Briala let out a chuckle and walked to a nearby closet, she gathered some materials; a white cloth and two jars containing curatives for situations such as these. Despite Solas’ wishes, torture did have its merits sometimes. The promise of it did, anyway.

She approached Celene, careful to close the cell door behind her as she had no doubt that Celene would use any opportunity to escape, and after a nod from the empress, she allowed herself to get close with the magically enhanced remedies that would make her bruises and split-lip disappear come morning. She managed to cull the urge to inhale deeply when the scent of rose and honeysuckle entered her nose. Oh, how had she missed it but, oh, how she still remembered it so well even after ten years.

It was a struggle to focus on the face in front of her, her senses swaying just slightly. Though when she did, she let out a hissed breath.

“What have they done to you?”

“Pleasant, your companions are not.” Celene winced when the wet cloth gently touched her split lip. Then let out a hum of contemplation. “Though it is refreshing to hear clear insults to my face rather than behind my back or veiled in so much flattery as to strain the credulity of even the most naïve of observers.”

Yes, this was definitely Celene. Briala couldn’t help but let out a muffled chuckle at seeing her annoyed face; the twisting nose that denoted disgust, the curled pink mouth that lingered on certain familiar sounds, the pale blue eyes that were narrowed in pain and distress but also alight with curiosity.

“They needn’t hit you.”

Briala dabbed a red mark that had come from the makeshift whip the trio had made. It was not as bad as whip marks, not even close, but with Celene’s pale and delicate skin, it was already bruising.

“Yes, they did,” Celene hissed when she pressed too hard on another mark on her shoulder. “I am the woman who holds Halamshiral and who burned it to the ground twelve years ago. I imagine I would have done the same in their stead.”

That sounded like wishful thinking. Briala allowed a grin, humourless, to be seen on her face. “Anyone you want to hit, majesty?”

“You hardly need call me that, Briala. I am wearing no livery.”

“There is your ring,” Briala said and Celene nodded slowly and twisted the golden ring topped with a purple sapphire that marked her as the sovereign of the masked Empire. “And really? Trying to redirect the question? Don’t think I didn’t realise that you didn’t answer me.”

“I fear that who I want to hit would not be particularly conducive to my continued existence…” the empress trailed off, turning to look at her, “…if his powers are to be believed.”

“They are.”

Celene scoffed when she pressed the cloth to the bruised skin of her stomach. “Bummer for me, then.”

“Celene,” the shape of her name tasted sweet on Briala's tongue and she nearly closed her eyes to savour the sound, but her next words curdled any sweetness, “they’re going to kill you.”

“So I imagine.”

Briala’s eye twitched, but she continued gently dabbing Celene’s hot and bruised skin with the salve and ointment. Her words came more clipped than before as she tried to control her temper at Celene’s apparent irreverence for her certain death.  

“They're going to send you down, at dawn, right on the hill where Andraste was burned at the stake. The entirety of the Inner Circle is already here, there is no way out. They’re only waiting for Solas. Your death may well be the first salvo of the incoming war.”

“Well, I am flattered by the symbolism.”

Briala threw the cloth to the floor, a spur of rage blinding her for a second. “Would you stop quipping about?! You’re going to die !”

There was a clattering coming from downstairs that stopped for a while until the festivities — and it was a party — started again, louder, as if to drown her and Celene out. Briala and Celene were left merely staring at each other until Celene broke their gaze and seemed to shrink before her.

“I am sorry, Briala,” her tone was soft and, for the first time, she did sound like Celene. “I… I came to terms with what was going to happen as soon as they captured me. I never had any hope of escaping.”

“I just… I don’t understand.”

Celene’s eyes grew mellow and almost sad. “I know, I know. Ask me what you wish to know.”

There were many things she wished to ask. About Orlais, about the elves, about the court, about her husband, about the women that had surely graced her bed since she’d been gone, about what she was doing here. But none of that mattered, not really. All she really wanted was—

“What is it?” Celene pressed, gently.

“I—… Who is keeping that rabble in line now?”

Celene’s eyebrow quirked and her voice came strained with amusement, “Is that what you wanted to ask?” No, Briala had panicked and Celene likely could very well see it, but the empress did nothing but smile. “Very well. The cabinet is ruling in my stead while Colombe and Cyril control the court.”

“And your son?”

“Cyril.” At Briala's unimpressed stare, Celene shrugged. “Damodar had to go to Rivain to sort something out.”

“You left your son. To be raised by Cyril de Monfort .” 

Briala let the words linger in the air, stressing each word as to impart the stupidity of that plan. Celene’s entire face twisted into a grin.

“Well, in that tone, everything sounds silly. You make it sound like I have doomed Orlais entirely.”

“You did that by coming here in the first place!” she hissed, the reins of her temper loosed when she heard the amusement in Celene’s voice. “What mad thing possessed you to come here in the first place? What insanity has been allowed to fester in your cabinet for this to be even considered, much less allowed?”

Briala was left panting, truly altered in a way she did not think she could be anymore. It was bizarre, this whole situation made no sense… Celene was going to die and Briala could not figure out why.

“I had to bring something here.”

Briala stared, incredulous. “Is that really all you have to say?”

“Yes.”

Briala rose with a grumble. “You are impossible .”

She paced from one dark side of the cell to another, wondering and turning the problem around in her head. Celene was calm, too calm, and that was… Briala did not know what it was, but sat wrong on her stomach, her gut feeling as if something was terribly off.

Celene’s voice broke through her thoughts.

“This fierce Tevinter sun agrees with you greatly,” she said, softly. Briala noted her twitching hands like she was desperate to reach out and touch her. “Your freckles are more pronounced here.”

Celene was staring deeply into her, taking her in, drowning her in casual affection of her gaze, as if wanting to burrow herself into Briala, as if Briala were the light of the sun itself that shone on this dark, damp cell.

“I hate them,” Briala said, uncomfortable, wishing to put an end to it all. 

Celene dragged her gaze from her, a flash of hurt sparkling in those eyes. “I always loved them.”

It was hardly news for Briala who had awakened many a morning with Celene counting and thumbing her freckles often leading to a mad clash of kisses and late mornings they hadn’t known how to explain. 

Fondness and dread coiled in her belly. 

If Celene was here to steal her away… Well, she was doing an awful job of it by being captured in the first place, but her very presence seemed to enthral Briala, to pull her further away from a cause she hardly believed in anymore.

“And they go well with this colour you have going on with your hair now,” Celene finished, seeming utterly oblivious to the wreck she was causing in her life.

Briala grasped at the ends of her own hair, twisting them in the candlelight. Her coils were tending auburn these days, a vanity project she had not been able to refrain from. Dyes were not expensive here and infused with magic they tended to last a fair amount of time. Most thought it was her natural colour since it was really close, but of course Celene would be able to tell the difference.

“That is age for you,” Briala said, eyeing the wrinkles in the corner of Celene’s eyes and mouth. She wished she could have seen when—… “a whole slew of grey hairs.” Looking closely at Celene, she noted none of that affliction, her hair was as always; a pale-blonde waterfall. “Ah, the virtues of your gold-spun locks.”

“Please.” Celene sneered playfully, hand waving in the air as if dismissing an over-confident suitor. “ Silver-gold locks.”

Briala chuckled. “Apologies, majesty. Silver-gold locks.”

“Accepted. And while my spun locks may not have changed, there is much that has.”

Briala’s eyes veered off to below Celene’s neckline, almost without wanting to. “So I see.”

“Subtle, Bria.”

She refused to blush. “Not my fault you are walking around in a blouse that could come loose with a single deep breath. Honestly, no wonder they spotted you, probably couldn’t take their eyes off your chest.”

Briala came to sit back down again, wanting to feel closer to her, wishing to sense that familiar perfume filter into her nose, desiring nothing more than her undivided close attention. And there was that smell of honeysuckle and roses and the prickling of her skin of being so close to her, and the thrill that rushed down her spine at being pinned down by those eyes the blue of colourless diamonds.

“Pregnancy.” The word came from Imperial lips, annoyed. “Everything grew to an absolutely absurd size. I lost much of it, but some remained.”

Her hips were rounder too and now Celene cut something of an hourglass figure without the aid of corsets. Which was rather novel, for her stick-thin Empress.

Briala had always liked Celene’s figure; the tall, slender, thin figure she cut when they were alone and she need not wear those courtly dresses that enhanced everything . That hidden figure seemed to be only for her. Though looking at her now, Briala could not say that the body displeased her. Not at all. Her throat was dry, her blood boiled in her veins, and even with the current predicament Briala could not help but want her. Even in a dungeon.

“So I see,” she repeated, controlling her voice not to crack.

“Are you calling me fat?”

That tone of voice would have sent anyone to their knees, begging forgiveness. Briala, for her part, rolled her eyes; she knew well when Celene used feigned insult to hide her amusement.

“Yes,” she said, her tone fully dripped with sarcasm. “Absolutely. You are truly monstrous, I'm unsure as to how they managed to fit you through the cell doors. Truly a feat unto-” she gagged and then coughed when Celene elbowed her stomach. “Maker, Celene.” Her voice came as a wheeze. “What is with you and your bony elbow going all over the place today?”

“Careful now, it would not do for your compatriots to hear you lauding a human god.”

Celene’s words were harsh, but her hands turned to tend to the bruise that was already forming on her stomach. Celene lifted the nice linen shirt Briala was wearing, and the elf watched her Empress’s eyes narrow slightly when the scars and muscles came into view.

“What have they done to you?”

The words were as a whisper, but a growl could be heard beneath all the indifference she was trying to project to her voice. Unable to stop herself, not with that tone that screamed possessiveness and hurt and demanded retribution for every blow received, Briala leaned in towards Celene, intent on tasting her lips even if for the last time.

At the last possible second, Celene turned her head and her lips landed on air as their faces nuzzled together sweetly. Undeterred, Briala tried to kiss her again.

“Stop.”

Briala tried not to wince. “Celene.”

“We should not.”

“Then our last kiss will be that one, in that Chamber of the Eluvians, where I tricked you to get the ruby.” She had once been the mistress of the Eluvians, and the thought was a sour medicine to swallow. Briala pushed it down, focusing on Celene. “It should not end like that.”

“Yes, it should.” Celene raised her hand when Briala tried protesting her words. “You know it should. We have damned each other often and tricked one another far too much for a happy ending now. That kiss was always goodbye and maybe we could have built something better under new circumstances, but we did not.”

“We could have.”

She was sure of it. Somewhere deep down, for as angry and hurt as she’d been at Celene, she’d known that there was always a possibility of their reunion. She had just never thought it would come like this. 

Celene smiled at her, a strange pain in her eyes.

They fell into silence and a heavy, warm blanket seemed to cover the rest of the night. Briala wished she could be back in Orlais. Back in the bedroom that had always been theirs no matter where Briala was supposed to sleep. Back to laying down on the bed trying to sleep as Celene read one of her impossibly dry tomes like they had done a thousand times before.

But it was not to be and, through the small window in the cell, she could see the sky lighting as the sun started its climb.

Briala did not dare speak.

“The sun is rising.”

Water lodged in her throat and filled the dam behind her eyes. “I— I can’t.” She would not betray the role had sacrificed everything for, her endless fields of principles that had been razed to the ground by the fire of Solas’ rebellion. “I can’t do anything to help you.”

“You do not have to do anything, my love.”

Relief and anger twined in Briala’s breast. To know that twelve years since they were last together had not abated Celene’s feelings for her was a comfort that seemed to be unparalleled by any that would ever come into her life. But to know that these might be the last words she’d say… how dare she, how dare she to come here, now, and crumble every one of Briala's painstakingly risen walls. The gall, the audacity—…

She did not know when she curled into herself, when her knees hit her chest and her arms curled around them. Her vision was in darkness, from her serrated eyes to the press of her face against her arms.

Then she felt Celene’s touch — as soothing and gentle as the early dawn that used to paint their bedroom windows, a touch that even in anger and anguish had never lost their soft trace — grabbing at her chin and lifting her head. The light burned Briala’s eyes and tears slipped from her control; for the light and nothing more.

Celene pulled closer into an embrace, into her arms where Briala had laid bare tears and secrets and laughter and countless confessions of love. Her arms curled now around Celene’s back and her face now pressed against her shoulder.

Loving hands tried unyielding her back by tracing the dip of her spine, but Briala knew if she let Celene succeed she’d never be able to regain any control. And she was needed, time was coming and she would be expected to stand by as sword or magic separated Celene’s head from her neck.

“Come now,” Celene’s soft voice was a gentle breeze on her hair, Briala hardly heard it through the wild beating of her heart, “whatever happens, I am happy just to have seen you again.”

Briala was too intoxicated in their last embrace to fully register her words.

Chapter 3: Carnation I

Summary:

Carnation:
Fascination and distinction,
Deep passion (Red),
Pure Love (White)

The ancient floor of the damp cell glistened in the candlelight; sunlight had not lighted in the sky and the moons still shone above Minrathous even as it dimmed over the hills. Mould seeped into the floor, snaked through the cracks in the wall, and nested in the fixtures. The smell was deeply unpleasant, churning the little food in her stomach, and even Briala’s embrace — drenched in her customary scent of lavender and lemon — grew uncomfortable as they sat on the dirty floor. 

Celene gently separated herself from Briala, quelling the urge to hug her tighter, and put some distance between them by rising to full height and pacing to the other side of the cell. She kept her back to Briala, knowing that the elf would be embarrassed to be seen cleaning her tears, and tried to find the reins to her emotions. The hour of her execution was fast approaching and she would need all her cold blood to endure it.

“Celene—” Celene breathed out gently, unwilling to let Briala see how her heart wretched itself in her chest at the sound of her name coming from her lips, “-you know that—

“Briala,” she interrupted, smiling, “it will be fine, please, let us not speak of it any longer.”

Briala’s beautiful, large, dark eyes that so entranced her flashed angrily. Briala always did hate being interrupted. “You cannot sweep this under the rug, Celene. This will be the last time we will speak and you—”

“And I wish to speak of happier things.” Those eyes were on the verge of cracking lighting such was their anger; she was playing with fire. “Briala, it matters not now. The fates will decide what happens next, there is nothing left for me or you to do.”

Briala’s face grew pinched, sadness and anger mixing in such a way that Celene’s own heart ached for her. She turned from Celene and started pacing herself around the cell, her slightly redder hair than Celene recalled it being swaying in the air behind her. 

The colour does suit her so well , Celene thought as she revelled in watching Briala, in seeing her in the flesh instead of her merely in her dreams. Her hands grew damp as the desire to simply reach out and touch her grew in a steady burn; it was not the passion of their young romance, it was deeper, burned longer and warmed more intensely. Celene had to clasp her hands together; she could not touch her, it would ruin everything.  

Briala gave another turn in the cell, and stopped right in front of her, coming so close that Celene could count the freckles of her dark skin. She loved those freckles that became so apparent in this hot Tevinter sun that darkened Briala’s skin so beautifully.

“There may be nothing I can do for you here. You will die—” the words seemed ripped from Briala’s throat. “—but there is something else I might be able to do. Your child, Leon, tell of him and I will ensure his safety, go to Orlais myself if I must. If this is the first salvo of war, he will not be safe.”

Celene felt as if a cold bucket of water had been dropped on her. “…You would go? Abandon this cause you have dedicated yourself to?”

“I—”

There was a soft sound just outside of the room and both Celene and Briala turned to see who had intruded in their little private moment. 

The first thing she saw was a flash of gold, the glimmering armour resplendent in the small beam of sunlight that entered the cell. The figure was thin and slender, though he stood tall and regal enough to be able to fill the room with his presence alone. There was a pelt of something swinging around his back coming fasted at his chest — a wolf, Celene would wager — and though he bore no staff, Celene could almost see the magic seeping off of him. His face was constructed, a little too obviously so for her court, and his grey eyes showed nothing. 

It was him.

The man who had started a war that brought the entire continent to the brink of a reckoning. 

Fen’harel, the elven god of legend. 

“Briala,” his voice was softer than Celene had imagined. “It is good to see you, you have been away from the centre of our movement for long enough.” He gestured towards Briala. “Come close and tell me what brings you here.” 

Briala walked towards him without a single glance behind at Celene, and Solas drew her close.

He seemed almost… gentle with her, carefully manoeuvring around Briala without ever entering her space, and he nodded at her constantly, taking every word Briala said with the utmost attention and with nary a hint of doubt to his face. He valued her, Celene quickly realised, and a small thread of panic grew in her chest. She had heard that Briala had willingly let herself be put in less and less important operations in Solas’ group, that she no longer led any part of it, and Celene had thought that it meant that Briala was disillusioned with it all and Solas was slowly letting her go. 

Perhaps she had been wrong.   

They were speaking of something, she could not eavesdrop without getting closer and getting closer would be terribly boorish behaviour that would not favour what she had in mind. Still, she did not need to be close to know what they spoke of; Briala’s piercing stare told of an anger she had only seen when Laindir had insinuated that he wished to have his way forcefully with her. 

“It will be dealt with,” Solas’ soft voice rose, just enough for her to hear. “Now go, Briala, I expect to see you in a few minutes.”

Briala nodded, those deep, dark eyes veered to hers one last time before she turned on her heel and disappeared into the dark, leaving only her and this God-General behind. 

Celene refused to be cowed and kept her back straight, her hands laced in front of her as if this were her private office and she was receiving a petitioning noble. She found some comfort in the gesture, but there was a rush of fear running down her spine, tensing her muscles and forcing her to centre her mind. 

The elven god of legend started at her. “Apologies for the cell, Madame Valmont.” 

Celene culled the urge to quirk her eyebrow at the name. She had not expected to be called ‘Your Majesty’ , but ‘Madame ’ seemed strange, especially when ’Lady’ was more appropriate. 

He continued, “I would have sent you to my quarters, but to do so would require time that I simply did not have. I heard — and see — you have suffered under the care of my comrades.”

“It is my understanding that they have been dealt with,” she answered, neglecting to mention that she had elbowed the smart-mouthed man in his eye, though she was sure he would find out. “There is no need to dwell on it.”

“Most would demand compensation for injuries suffered.” Solas gestured towards her lips with his head. “You will scar, most likely. The salve Briala gave for your wounds does heal but also scars more easily.”

Celene kept the wince to herself, she did not care to have her visage ruined. It could be worse, she supposed, though she had not yet seen the damage that the elf had given her with his ringed hand. After all, Briala had touched her again, it could only be a victory; small though it was. 

“There are worse things.”

She felt a small itch of discomfort in the back of her mind. There was a build of energy in the air, like the simmer of a pan that grew close to a boil, and it heaved the air. There seemed to be line and needle carving through the air, cleaving it in half and sowing it together all at once; the cell seemed to grow colder and warmer all at the same time, the smell of mould stronger and masked in equilibrium, the sunlight dimmed and brightened more than she could bear. Was it all him? Was this merely the effect of being in the presence of this god of legend? 

“So there are.” He approached, though still stood at a distance to make her at ease. “You know, you have always reminded me of someone.” 

Her head ached. “So I have been told.”

“Oh?”

The thread of tension that built in the air suddenly snapped .

Celene bent forward as a flash of lightning seemed to race through her every nerve. What was happening? There was a voice at the back of her compelling her to tell the truth, whispering softly for her to reveal her every secret, roaring at her to spill every scheme she had ever concocted. It was dizzying. It was painful. It was headache-inducing. 

Turning the ring on her finger — the large, ostentation mark of her status — relieved some of the tension, freeing space in her head as if by magic. Though not enough to quell the temptation to speak truthfully. 

“Morrigan,” she said, clenched teeth as more words tried flowing from her mouth. “Her stories about her mother are terribly illuminating.” 

The elf inched himself closer — he seemed taller than her, for a single second — but stood at enough distance so she would not feel threatened. His strange grey eyes delved into her, appraising her, evaluating if she told the truth. His shoulders relaxed for a second and seemed to nod almost imperceptibly.

“Apologies, Madame,” he said, offering a glass of wine conjured from his mind, “but you must understand that your appearance here is rather… strange. You will now be unable to lie for the duration of our conversation.” 

Her mouth tasted rancid as if something had crawled on her tongue and died; she took the drink and drowned it in one go. When she was through and she lowered the glass, it filled again. This time, she took careful sips, unwilling to have her mind further altered but desperate to rid herself of the taste.

“Better?”

“I would be. Had you not forced your way into my mind and tore secrets from my unwilling mouth, that is.”

Solas nodded slowly, a flash of regret in the cool, grey eyes. “It is vile what I have done, yes, but needs must, Madame.”

“Is that your excuse for all of this as well?”

“Do you not believe it necessary?”

“I believe it cruel. I believe you need it to succeed. I believe it monstrous. And I believe I know why you have engineered it,” Celene said, making sure to keep saying the truth just to avoid another painful shock like the one he had given her. “I quite understand it, in fact.”

“You would do the same,” he said, a meld of surprise and relief on his tongue. 

Celene allowed a smile to grace her face. “I do not believe myself dedicated enough to undergo a scheme of this magnitude. I have done atrocities that I would repeat to ensure my realm’s security and prosperity, but this scale is beyond even me.”

“You will not try to dissuade me?”

“I am certain that many, and better equipped than I, have tried.” She crossed her arms as she let out a humourless chuckle. “I do not consider myself someone whom you hold in high enough esteem to actually heed my words.”

“Most people would try to save their lives and dignity from a public execution.” He must have seen the expression on her face. “It will be quick, Madame, I assure you. Unless it is something else you have an issue with.” 

“It is barbaric.”

“Do you not have public executions, Madame?”

“What lords do in their lands is beyond my purview, at times. I try to refrain from the spectacle of public punishments,” she answered. “After all, if you wish to send a message in Orlais, subtlety and discretion are often the way.” 

“Is that what you believe I am doing? Sending a message?”

He was clever, giving her enough rope for her to hang herself rather than him doing the deed. 

Celene almost shook her head in comical disbelief. 

It was as if she was arguing with Briala again; always on guard, always expecting a trap, always wondering if she would lose the argument simply by speaking more than she should. 

What a strange exercise, what a queer thing to notice, what an utter irony that this would be her final test.

But she all the more to gain.

“How could it not be? You could have started this war in earnest long before my arrival here, but you needed a symbol, something grand to herald the dawn of this war. The death of a world leader, of course, a symbol of those who had taken your people’s lands, or a Divine, the symbol of the religion that drove yours out. Only, with the Inquisition’s army, everyone started protecting themselves even better than before, built greater walls around their palaces, and hired enough mercenaries to make a warmonger blush. Then this movement grew too large, and a weaker world leader would not do any more, it would not incite the masses as it should and so you have dawdled.” 

Celene started pacing the cell, laying out Solas’ strategy as she saw it.

“Newly appointed Archon Maevaris Tilani would have been an ideal candidate had she not built defences to impress even her staunchest dissenters. Divine Victoria would be next, but she had gone into hiding. Of course, then it would be me; the woman who holds Halamshiral, the woman who holds the last lands your people had for their own. You waited until one of us three made a mistake. And now that I have, you will have your due. On the site of Andraste’s fall that might have heralded your people’s rise from slavery but that only seems to be a diversion as we took that from you, you will have a rebirth, a renewal of the promise for land that began to die when Shartan threw himself at the pyre to save Andraste. And you will parade my death around to strike fears into the hearts of your enemies and as a rallying cry to your followers. And this war will start, and whatever it is you wish to do will finally begin in earnest as clashes of swords and arrows engulf Thedas.”  

Solas hummed. “You have given more thought to this than some of my own followers.”

“Such is the quick calculus of those who have led and who see the arc that history can take.”

“Yet you do not seem terribly concerned despite your own assumptions about what awaits you.”

Celene allowed a veiled smirk, though she was certain that he could see through her calm façade. “I come from the most elaborate and duplicitous court in the known world, if I did not know how to mask fear I would have never survived a week.”

“So you are fearful?”

“Who would not be, at the sunset of their life? Memories have a way of resurfacing at times such as these, and I am fortunate enough to have lived long but done enough that having them flash before my eyes would not be an altogether pleasant experience.”

He nodded and seemed to be of the mind to ask something until his expression soured and he turned from her. He stared at the small window of her cell, at the slow-rising sun behind the bars. The window gave nothing away, she could not see where she was, she could only see the boots and shoes of those who walked the early morning Minrathous streets. It was a basement of some ancient building, but where she would not be able to tell. She wondered if—

“Do you know what grows on the hill where your Andraste was murdered?”

Celene paused for a moment. There were hundreds of tales of what grew in the field where Andraste had been murdered. Some said that a field of white roses sprung to life, symbolising the delicateness and peace-seeking nature of the woman. Others suggested that nothing had ever grown again, and never would again, as the ground grew tainted with betrayal. 

The most obscure tale, however, told of a flow — just one, just enough — that grew over and over in the same place. 

“A single red carnation.”

Solas nodded. “Exactly. Do you know its meaning?”

“A common meaning is ’My heart aches for you, I bleed for you.’” Celene let out a breath as she pulled from her memory to recall her theology lessons. What was it? Ah, yes—“ Maker of the World, forgive them. They have lived too long in shadow without Your Light to guide them. ” Solas’ eyebrow quirked, and Celene clarified, “Canticle of Apotheosis, verse 2:5, the last words of Andraste. As she died in the pyre, she pleaded for mercy, her heart aching for our souls as she bled and burned for our sins. Or so the story goes.”

“Mhm, not the meaning I had in mind,” he confessed. “Now, however, I do wonder if you will have such comely words.”

Celene let a chuckle escape her throat. “I suppose only history will tell.”

Solas answered with a smile of his own. “Quite right, Madame.”

There was the sound of footsteps coming from the staircase that led to this high cell. Solas took a step back, and his stance shifted again as he clasped his hands behind his back and stood tall. Celene’s back straightened too, out of habit than necessity this time, and she awaited to see who had come to interrupt them. 

A broad-shouldered elf — an almost antithesis of itself — appeared, his bright red hair and pale freckled skin marking him as of traditional Anderfels descent. He had a kind face, though it was severely impacted by his closed off expression. 

Solas let out a hum, “Ah, there you are. Madame, this is—

The man let out a small grunt. “I do not believe the lady needs to know my name, Dread Wolf.”

Solas seemed slightly taken aback, but he nodded nonetheless. “He will be bringing you to the dais in a few minutes. Until then you are under his protection, any attempt at escape will be blamed on him. Please do not make his life any harder than it needs be.” 

He turned to leave the cell, but just before he did, he seemed to try and comfort her. 

“Rest easy, Madame,” he said, just before stepping out, “your death will herald the dawn of a new world.”

He needed some practice. 

The redheaded elf entered her cell just as Solas left and, with an almost trembling hand, he manhandled her so she would turn and he could use the rope to bind her hands. Solas’ figure was standing tall again, more so than at any time during their conversation and Celene felt a particular tendril of recognition as she realised he used the same trick as her to appear larger than life itself, and it started to disappear towards the same place Briala had gone.  

“This world you will build,” she dared to call out, even as the guard fasted the rope on her wrists, “who will clean the floors?”

Solas stopped or, rather, stopped in his step long enough for her to see that she had rattled him.

Celene saw the way his shoulders tensed in the golden armour; she saw the way the fur around his shoulders almost seemed to rise in response to his… anger? Perhaps surprise? With his back turned, Celene could not be sure. 

After all, she was sure that his mind was turning at her words, so resembling ones that Felassan had once told Briala in their trek through the Eluvians. Though she had not exactly been close enough to listen at the time, she had come by them later. 

He seemed to recognise them, and Celene privately cursed her need to have the last word.

This strange God turned back, and with his hands clasped behind his back and that all too serious expression, even Celene had to cull a chill at him.

“Make sure you do not hurt her, Del—” he stopped himself as he realised that the man had not wanted his name revealed. “She is to be unspoiled, unharmed. We are not barbarians. See to her safety until she reaches the dais.”

The redheaded elf nodded. “She is safe with me, that I can promise you.”

Solas nodded and, with a last look in her direction with his strange grey eyes, he finally left the cell. The Sun had already risen, painting the sky a soft violet just at the cusp of blue… they were behind schedule, but she hoped it would not be a problem. Deladrid did not stop his task, tying the knot loose enough not to bruise her skin. Loose enough to allow some range of movement. 

Loose enough that she could escape when the time was right. 

Chapter 4: Carnation II

Summary:

Carnation:
Fascination and distinction,
Deep passion (Red),
Revolution (Red)
Pure Love (White)

The mirror was foggy.

It was strangely arranged too, and Briala had to shift to see herself fully on the wooden-framed mirror. She adjusted her collar with a sneer, disliking the gold and black robes; it was only for formal occasions, as Solas had put it when he’d presented them to her, but Briala had never worn them as she had quit the higher echelons of the movement before an opportunity present itself.

“I am surprised they let you in.” An oily voice came from behind her and Briala struggled to keep her eye-roll in check. “I thought you’d stepped away.”

Gaius, of course. Briala gritted her teeth, oh, how she hated the man. The elven mage who had taken the seat in Solas’ Inner Council that was supposed to be hers. Solas had miscalculated twice in that week two years ago; first, in telling her his true purpose, and second in picking Gaius when she refused to be part of his plan. 

“Well, I am back,” she forced a cheer into her voice, a fake enthusiasm that seemed to fly over his head. 

“For how long?” 

There was a panic in his voice and Briala now did roll her eyes, making sure he couldn’t see it through the mirror. That was Gaius’ problem, unbridled ambition. He had joined the movement because he could no longer climb the social ladder of the Circle in Cumberland. He should have moved to Orlais, there he’d have had a chance. 

“For a night.”

“Truly? And this one of all the nights? After all, considering the bitch we are hanging today…”

Briala clenched her teeth, it would not do to seem overly upset. She was poised to come back to strike at him again, calmer and hinting at his latest blunder in Antiva, but the door to the room opened again. 

It was Solas, fresh off his talk with Celene. Briala saw his pinched face and had to contain a smile, Celene had rattled him, of course. She was very good at that. Briala noted Gaius standing at attention, hands clasped around his back, and she leisurely followed the same form.

“Briala.” Solas nodded at her. And then turned to the mage, “Gaius.” Solas paced closer to them, his armour glimmering in the very early sun from the window.  

“Fen’harel.” 

“Solas.”

The man did not like to be called ‘Master’, even as he threw the world into chaos and commanded enough people to make armies tremble. 

“Strange turn of events this,” he said, him too standing at attention in a way that so resembled all of Celene’s champions; Briala thought it told much of his past. “Strange that we find ourselves here, with these people, all converged on this spot. All that could be, all the permutations available… strange it was this one that won out in the end. How many paths available, how many choices had to be made...”

Briala blinked as the man waxed poetic and fell into this melancholic state that Briala often saw in his eyes. She took it in stride, as she often did, while Gaius seemed to hang to his every word. 

This couldn’t be the full reason why Solas was here. 

Briala didn’t move from her position, even as the seconds stretched into minutes and Gaius started fidgeting on his feet. Sapless circle mages, Briala rolled her eyes, so weak-willed. The sun was starting to really climb the sky, delaying them further, but Solas seemed content in waiting, in observing them as she and Gaius stood before him. Only when he was satisfied with what he saw did he finally speak.

“And as it begins here, at the end, I have come with a question.”

Briala hummed. Solas always did enjoy pitting her against Gaius. 

Gaius had seen their competition as nothing more than a Tournament of Wicked Grace, a series of small games that would tally to a victory in the end. Foolish. Their struggle had been a chess-match, meant to protect and entice the God-King to consider them worthy of defending him and his battles.

“Are you aware,” Solas continued, “of the flower that grows on Andraste’s grave?”

“A single red carnation,” she answered immediately, smirking when Gaius looked dismayed.

“Indeed, Briala,” Solas said, eyes fixed on her and walking closer, ignoring Gaius. “Its meaning?”

“There is the meaning The Chantry means to convey; of bleeding for a cause, of regret.” She paused and smiled. “I assume that’s not the meaning you speak of.” 

Solas shook his head before gesturing for her to continue. 

“Once,” she did as he asked, organising her thought, “before time immemorial, before the Elven Gods were truly Gods, there was a man who had seen the way of things, a man who had seen what would lead to Kings becoming Gods as the Evanuris did. In retaliation for a regime that was already far more aggressive and oppressive to the masses, the man staged a revolution; a bloodless revolution, if you can imagine such a thing. He and his followers planted carnations at the roots of the trees and in the staffs the mages carried, everywhere they could.” 

Gaius, still with hands clasped around his back, asked, “Did it work?”

“For a time,” Briala answered, “but, before long, the future he saw came to pass and Kings became Gods, and freemen became slaves.”

“Why did it work at all in the first place?” 

Briala blinked at Solas’s question. “I—… I do not know.” 

Even this tale had come from Felassan, though it had been in pieces that Briala had later put together herself. 

“Because the military supported that revolution and no other nation interfered. They refused to attack when the carnations were planted at their feet.” 

Solas’ grey eyes focused on her. 

“Is that what will happen here, Briala?” he asked, softly. “We need the military to be focused elsewhere, its interference or support is crucial for our cause, but stye might be carefully managed or crippled. We know that the Tevinter military is not aligned with Orlais, however, if it is in a fight against us, they might. And then, things become very complicated.” 

Solas stepped closer, though still at a distance to make her comfortable and yet, close enough to make her struggle not to show the fear he engineered in her. 

“Are they aligned, Briala? Is that what your empress was doing here?”

“I do not know why she is here,” she said, again, as she’d said in that cell. “I asked, she only said she had something to bring here.” 

His voice rose, “You are aware of th—!” he sighed himself to a stop, realising the volume of his voice. 

His hand twitched as if to reach out and pinche the bridge of his nose. Briala had seen Celene suppress that impulse enough to know what it looked like.

“I apologise,” Solas spoke, softly, almost sounding truly apologetic — as if Briala were someone who would buy such a display. “My temper got the better of me. This is simply far too strange, Briala. You yourself said that she is not one to take risks.” 

“Positively risk-averse, yes.” For most things, she added in her head. “I don’t know what’s got into her.”

Gaius coughed and both she and Solas turned to him. 

“It could be a trap, sire,” he said. “The Orlesians are fond of those and she’s a high-profile target, she must have known that we’d capture her.”

“How likely is it, Briala?”

“Likely. But, beyond that, she would have to know what we would do with her.” 

Briala closed her eyes and put herself in Celene’s mind; in the way she desired, in the way she felt, in the way she thought. It came easily, as Briala suspected it always would. 

“Execution is the most likely,” she said, opening her eyes, “of course but where would we do such a thing is impossible to know if she wished to mount… a military excursion?” It seemed absurd to her. “Unless, of course, she had someone in the Inner Circle. That would change the calculus very quickly.” Briala focused her gaze on Solas. “How likely is that?”

“Impossible,” Gaius answered for him. “Everyone there is loyal, Briala! There is a reason you are not on it, and the fact

The oily voice came to a stop suddenly, Briala hardly needed to look to see that Solas had given him one of his patented looks; deep and piercing. It was hard to keep talking once those eyes settled on someone, but Briala had more than enough practice with pale piercing eyes. 

“The thought is a provoking one, Briala,” Solas’ voice was soft, as if no interruption had ever occurred. “Thank you for your candour.” Solas looked at the window, saw the position of the sun, and winced. “We are late, let us get this done with. I assume there will be no problems.”

The reins on her emotions were tight and Briala knew it would hold for a couple of hours still. What came after…

“None from my part,” she assured him.

Gaius snorted quietly beside her as Solas made his exit. Briala was right behind him, she just hoped that this would all be over soon. 

 

---

 

The hill where Andraste had died was underground. It was something that would surprise almost every soul in the South if they knew, but it was true. 

It was still in a place of prominence, with various tunnels and passageways leading to the place where Andraste had perished, but the fanfare was much less than it had been before. Andraste was a minor disciple here, not the Bride of the Maker she was in the South. The place had once been the centre of all things to do with the Faith, and a grand coliseum had been built around the hill, but after the split from the Southern Chantry, it fell into ruin. And the place was rarely utilised any more.    

The only source of natural light came from a skylight that hung above the hill — the sun piercing where the fire had consumed Andraste — and that was where the large dais for the execution had been placed. 

The dais had a block of white marble placed at the centre, where swords would descend on the prisoners, and it also sported eight chairs; one for each member of the Inner Circle, plus one for Briala. There was a larger one, meant for Solas.  

Briala walked towards the dais, adjusting her robes as she ascended, and noted that she was seated between Solas and Semidra, the woman who had engineered this entire spectacle. Solas trusted her implicitly and Briala was almost sure that Semidra was an Ancient Elf, considering that Solas had given Semidra full reign over the… festivities.

Briala took her seat and looked at the venue, already full to the brim of Solas’ soldiers who had come from every part of Thedas, travelling fast through the Eluvians as the word of Celene’s capture spread. 

Briala also saw the other people who would be executed alongside Celene, already on the dais, and wondered why the Chevaliers were only stripped of their masked helmets and not every other ornament of their standing.

“To make it a symbol,” she heard Semidra whisper next to her ear, almost startling her. 

Briala turned around and saw the smaller elf behind her, staring in the black and gold garment that Briala also wore. Semidra was beautiful, with delicate features and deep-set eyes, the robes suited her well, especially as her dark skin seemed to glow in the scarce light from the skylight. Her face still held vallaslin, likely as part of her disguise. 

“After all,” Seminar’s clipped voice continued, “the masses need to know who they are, don't you agree?”

Briala gestured the swords at the Chevalier’s waists. “But the weapons?”

“Well, what better way to see them cowed than for them to have their useless weapons?”

Briala could think of many other ways to accomplish that but, before she could say anything, the rest of the Inner Circle, with Solas at its head and Gaius at the rear, sauntered into the cheers of the crowd. They all took their seats and, with a wave of Solas’ hand, a side door of the coliseum opened, allowing everyone to see Deladrid Telandorai escorting the Empress of Orlais towards the dais.

They climbed the steps to cheers and chants from the crowd, and Briala clutched the arm of her chair to keep from squirming too much.

“I thought it would be on the hill,” Celene murmured, and finally Briala heard a hint of panic in her voice. “This is not on a hill.”

Deladrid grunted, manoeuvring the bound empress with a somewhat gentle hand. “Minrathous has been built thrice and again since those times, Your— Madame Valmont—” the man let out a cough. breath. “It will be fine.” The poor man blanched white. “I—I mean—”

“I know what you mean.” The tone came near acerbic, Celene was in no mood for playing. “No need to try to gentle the blow now.”  

Deladrid paraded her to where the rest of her entourage was, and Briala watched the Chevaliers snarled at the elf manhandling their empress. Deladrid paid them no attention and gestured for Celene and her Chevaliers to kneel near the execution block.

There would be no speeches, no larger spectacle. Everyone knew what this meant, and where it would lead, and the venue held its breath. Then, suddenly, there were no cheers or shouts of revelry.

Celene’s back remained straight, a defiance Briala had not expected her to do — had hoped she would not do — and boos and jeers were coming from those assembled, calling for her head and insulting her very existence.

“The Empire does not bow—” Briala closed her eyes, exasperated, while the crowds jeered at Celene’s words, “—and so, neither will we.” 

That went to the crowd like a spike of lighting, igniting the mood to its height and raising every soul in the arena to its feet and their voices at their maximum volume. Briala’s breath caught as Deladrid stepped closer to Celene, his eyes wild and promising something Briala dared not decipher.

A hand snaked around her wrist, and Briala slowly tilted her head towards Solas so he could whisper and they could feign that nothing was the matter.

“Stop her,” he murmured. “This need not become a bloodbath, Briala. Convince her.”

Briala rose from her seat and walked over to Celene, even as jeers and chants filled the air, and she stepped close to where Deladrid and Celene were. His hand was in the air, raised as if to strike her. Her vision blurred red for a bit.

“Step away from her,” she heard herself say, her voice coming as daggers slid from their sheaths.

Deladrid looked at her. “I—

“Step away from her, now ,” Briala hissed and noted with some satisfaction as Deladrid shook in place. “Next time, I won’t ask so politely.”

Deladrid did as she demanded and took a step back. He was shaking still, blanched white, and Briala was surprised to see him show fear in those dark eyes. Was he expecting retaliation? A punishment? Liandir had been punished by having to miss this event and then by being confined to his house, but that had been different.

Briala pushed Deladrid out of her mind and, instead, walked close to Celene.

“Do not make this harder than it has to be,” Briala whispered, reaching for her. “Kneel, please.”

There was a smile, of all things, on her face. “The empire—

“Yes, yes, I heard you the first time.” Briala searched her, for a way to make this as painless as possible, then she noted a glint from the sun and the way it shone on a ring on Celene's finger. “Ah.”

Briala reached for the golden signet ring, the thing that marked Celene as the ruler of Orlais, and gently slid it away from her finger. The crowd roared its approval and Celene smiled again. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw an elf approaching Deladrid to whisper in his ear.

“Well done, Bria,” Celene breathed, and with a look towards her Chevaliers and another towards Deladrid who, somehow, looked calmer now, she began to kneel. “We might be able to pull this off after all.”

“What?”

Her words seemed to herald a hailstorm as an explosion on the far side of the venue drew her attention. Briala was unable to see what it was, as the next thing she knew, there were two arms, bound at the wrist, coming around her neck and pushing her down to the floor.

Her back hit the floor with a thud. Air snapped from her lungs. The wood under her screech in distress. She smelled the scent of roses and honeysuckle from the body that had tackled her and tasted dust on her tongue. Through the ringing in her ears, Briala heard the oily, indisputable voice of Gaius. “ Kill them! Kill them all! Resist.” And the sounds of battle entered her ears, spells and swords and shields clashing in a ringing sound.

Briala opened her eyes and saw smoke.

Blinking through the tears, out of the corner of her eye she saw Solas’ golden armour disappear in through a passageway, getting away from the trap. Briala groaned, cursing as the dust dried her mouth, and when her vision became clearer, she saw the full extent of the trap.

There were armies from every corner of Thedas. Briala could see the Orlesian colours mixed with Anderfels’ and Antiva’s, Ferelden’s and even some from Rivain. There were elves as well, coming to put a stop to Solas’ Rebellion with the armies of the other nations, and Briala watched them all work together to subdue the elves who had come to see the execution… The percentage of which made up a large part of the leadership of Solas’ movement. 

It was too heavy a blow; the movement was as good as over. 

Though, Briala doubted Solas was. 

Finally, she noticed the dais. Half of it was blown away, torn apart by a spell or a bomb she had not seen. The place where the Inner Circle had sat was gone, Briala could see bits and pieces hanging on to where they had sat. There was merely a small circle of the wooden dais standing, its epicentre where she and Celene had fallen together. 

“How—,"

“The ring,” Celene panted, still on top of her, “has a protection spell.”

“Your Majesty!” Briala heard a stark accented voice, but it was familiar. Deladrid…? She thought he was from the Anderfels, but that accent… The broad-shouldered elf stepped through the smoke, and with a flick of his wrist threw a dagger towards Celene. “Your Majesty, here.”

Celene waved her now free hands. “You did a terrible job, Deladrid. Next time, at least make it convincing.”

“I do not plan to tie you up again,” he chuckled. He reached for his parrying dagger with a grimace. “You will be fine here?”

Celene let out a groan and rolled off of her and, this time, she made a motion with her hand that was as if she was swatting away a fly.

“Yes, yes, go on.”

Briala watched him go join the fight, managing to defend a Chevalier from a blow that would have killed her had he not interfered. When a few elves came to retaliate, the rest of the Chevaliers — fighting in their own armour and their own weapons — formed a wall around him, protecting him. 

Briala stood silent as everything fell around her. The battle cries were softer now and the scuffle of the struggle was still present but winding down, Solas' rebellion coming to an end with a quiet whimper. Hundreds of soldiers could do that, and the Gods knew that Solas had irritated and antagonised enough people to easily raise a thousand men.

She rose to full height to see the extent of the damage and was pulled from her musing with Celene’s soft-spoken, quiet voice.

“Would you believe that the hardest part of this ruse was convincing everyone I was able to do that without hurting myself?” Celene groaned, her long, thick blonde hair spread out around her like a halo on the dirty floor. “ Putain , I do not think I was very successful,” the words came as a whisper, involuntary and dragged from her lips, as she stretched and her hip bones let out a satisfying crack.

Briala was still just staring at her, half-stunned, but she recovered her wits quickly.

Yet again, Celene tricked her. Yet again, she let herself be led by the emotions this woman caused in her. Yet again, she was a fool on this woman’s string. And, yet again, Briala’s heart breathed easier to see her alive. But— gods damn it.

“So, this is what you actually came here to do—” she could not help the bitter tone “—you’ve come to destroy what has been built. You’ve come to set yet another thing ablaze. What a fool you must take me for.”

Celene’s eyes snapped to her, as piercing blue as any time Briala had seen them, staring right at her. 

“I came for you ,” the words were simple, nonchalant, as if it were the weather they spoke of. “ I would make a fool of myself for you any day, Briala, but I needed to know it would not be in vain.” She was still laying on the bloody dais, like it was a damned picnic and not a battlefield. “Besides, Cyril was the one who organised this.”

“ Cyril ?” Now that was just absurd. “Are you quite serious? There are Ferelden men down there. And Nevarran. And even some elves ! I refuse—

Celene lifted her hand as she put herself on all-fours to rise, to halt her speech. Briala rolled her eyes and offered her hand to Celene, wiggling her fingers when the blonde glared at her hand as if it was extended in offence and not assistance. Well, at the least the fall had not bruised that infamous Valmont pride. 

Celene rose to full height on her own and leaned down to dust the dirt off her breeches like they were returning from a ride across country and not in the middle of a battlefield.

“Cyril roped me into the plan,” she said, distractedly picking lint off the fabric, “though it existed in some form or another before he or I joined. The Inquisition’s Inner Circle, as well as current influential forces in Tevinter, have been formulating a plan for a few years now. They just needed—”

“Bait. You were bait.” Briala sneered, almost incredulously. “And you agreed? What madness, Celene! Was there no one else?”

“There was, of course. But none with the high profile that I bring, nor the symbolism of killing the woman who holds the last land the elves had dominion over, the woman who rules the country with the seat of the faith that granted and stripped your people of lands. Besides—” 

Celene reached into the cleavage of her blouse, pulling on a delicate chain that Briala had simply not seen there before, but now…. No. Had she truly… 

“—I truly did have something to bring here, Bria.”

Celene lifted the chain around her neck, her long blonde hair swaying as she made the silver chain thread through her hair, and with a smooth movement offered Briala a piece of cheap jewellery that had once belonged to her mother. The locket, her—their— Celene’s locket — which it had been for the past twenty-five years — right there, offered back to her. The simple wood was polished, clearly cherished, and Briala was aware of her staring, she must look like a fool; silenced and stunned by a mere locket. 

But it was no mere anything, it was—

“Cele—”

“Your Majesty!”

Through the mist of battle, a figure stepped out, sword brandished in hand, standing tall and vibrating and ragged. The very tall… — Briala could not tell if they were woman or man, the styled hair said 'woman' and the make-up said 'man' —… person’s eyes were wild, dark blue eclipsed by the pupil, and the dark hair was caked in mud and blood. Their cry brought her and Celene’s conversation to a halt, though their eyes remained locked.

“Go away, Sabran.” The chevalier — Champion, Briala would wager — comically stopped mid-step, eyes wide as if they’d never heard the empress speak in such a voice before. “ Now .”

The Chevalier obeyed, and Briala, from the corner of her eyes noted them standing guard at the foot of the dais, stopping anyone from coming to interrupt them.

Celene was suddenly upon her and, when she reached out to touch her hand, Briala felt a spark of lightning in her skin at feeling her again, after having thought their last moments had passed them by. Then, she felt Celene slip the locket into her hands and watched her take a step back.

When she spoke, her voice came firm,

“Go. Go. I am letting you go, I am giving you away. There is nothing left to bind us now. I do not wish for your love if you only believe in it because it is the only thing that might save you. You are free; of me, of our relationship, of this path you have taken. It is a chance for you to get away.”

Briala could not contain the small bout of panic in her veins, the feeling that Celene might have actually moved on from them. It was heart-wrenching, it was a pain that seeped into her skin, travelled through her veins, and settled on the very marrow of her bones. What an impossible thing, what a cruel thing for Celene to be here to do.

“Unless…” Celene’s voice again, softer, pleading and cracking as it’d never been in public before. “Unless you believe that what remains between us is worthy of you, of me, of our lives together… If so, then I beg of you— I plead and make myself a fool for you… stay.”  

Briala looked at the locket in her hands and felt the surrounding smoke dissipate and the cries of the battle abate around them. A sunbeam from the skylight broke through the dust in the air, striking a small white flower streaked with red that spurned the environment it grew in and drew her attention to its beauty. The flower was white and pure, stained by the blood of this ruse. Its vibrant colour, the impossibility of its existence; a carnation, of course.

Turning the locket once in her hand, letting a quick smile stretch her lips, she quickly tossed the cheap jewellery towards Celene. The empress caught the locket easily, though her expression soured and Briala spotted a flinch — a hurt — that she could not seem to mask. Once upon a time, Celene would have known what she meant by her simple toss of the locket, but now… Well, they would have time to relearn. Briala took a step forward and reached for the hand that held her mother’s locket, back with whom it belonged, clutching tight until Celene’s pale skin turned white.

She leaned in, whispering, “It seems you are in my blood. I can’t help it. We can’t be anywhere except together.”

A pained relief passed through Celene’s face briefly, and a half-sob-and-half-laugh made its way past her lips as water prickled those pale eyes hers. Her empress nodded, twice and very quickly, to dispel the tears that had threatened to fall and to accept her words. It was simple and subtle and hardly a declaration of love, but it would do for right now, in the middle of a battlefield.

Briala saw her gulping back every trace of emotion before a cool marbled expression manifested itself again, her eyes piercing and cunning.

“You know what you will have to do?”

Briala nodded just as the final drags of smoke cleared and she could finally see the aftermath of this trap they had been caught in.

Gaius’ message had changed, now it rang, “ Tell them nothing! Not a word! Do not speak!” and Briala knew that the man who oversaw most of the destruction caused by Solas was scared and panicking. She heard it in his voice. Saw it when three men were required to silence him. Felt the tremor of the land that threatened to split apart if the rebel elven mages were not calmed. 

There were very few rebel elves still fighting, as most surrendered when the arena became inundated with soldiers of every ilk of Thedas.  

She glanced back at the flower, surviving all of this bloodshed, reawakening and rebirthing every year despite the blood that soaked the soil… perhaps, because of the blood that soaked this soil.

Sacrifice, regret, revolution; all in the petals of a single red carnation.

Briala’s spine straightened. 

She blew on her fingers, a whistle somehow stilling the scene.

“Enough!” her voice then rang out like thunder, the sound spreading through every crevice of the cave.

Every soldier from the armies that had been brought turned towards the dais — where the block for the execution still shone in the sunlight, where the Inner Circle had once stood, where she and Celene still remained — and then, after what seemed to be a moment to come to terms with the enormity of the moment, they all sprung into action.

Swords, staves, and arrows in the hundreds were suddenly pointed at her, but she did not flinch. She felt Celene position herself behind her, a clear sign that she would let her lead the conversation and how this part would go. There was an implicit trust in the image, that she allowed Celene full access to her back but she stood not defeated nor cowering nor cowed, and she hardly needed look to see the stoic expression that Celene wore, giving nothing away as they presented a united front.

“We have information about Solas,” she said, voice clear and loud. “I believe you will want to negotiate.”

Briala saw the expression of those in chains — this time not by the hand of Tevinter Magisters wishing to enslave them, but by forces meant to stop them from retaliating; it hardly seemed any different, but Briala would make it so — light up as they recognised that she would offer protection and take leadership. Briala could not help but smile as the weapons pointed at her were slowly lowered and the expression on Gaius’ face soured.

The King had finally fallen and there was no doubt as to who had won the Game.

Notes:

The revolution that Briala talks about is based on the Portuguese Carnation Revolution of 1974. It is a real thing and it did work as Briala explained it.

Chapter 5: Chrysanthemum I

Summary:

Chrysathamum:
Fidelity, Optimism, Joy and Long Life,
Love (red)
Truth (white)

Celene Valmont paced the jet-black stones of the Tevinter palatial chambers provided for her by Archon Talani. Her bare feet hit the floor with a slap that made her head ring, but at least provided some respite from her wild imagination. 

Waves crashed beneath the elaborate balcony and Celene was sure she could see some of the other islands that made up the city of Minrathous and all the bridges that connected the different parts of the city. 

The Archon’s Palace was on an island, a somewhat familiar set-up as her own Palace in Val Royeaux rested on an island. Though the layout was entirely different; the island in Minrathous was small and the palace seemed to drape over the cliffs of the Nocean Sea. The black stoned walls and columns of the palace stood in defiance of the elements, in a display of wealth that most of the city would never see, and Celene was struck again by the similarities that Orlais and Tevinter.

Though the weather was certainly much warmer here. 

Celene waved a fan around as a warm breeze came from the open windowed doors that gave way to the large balcony which hung over the most northern part of Thedas. Her dress was light, an almost sheer violet with golden trimmings, and it draped over her with flowing lines, its sleeves were large, of the same light fabric as they almost hit the floor due to the length. The dress was more of a robe and helped with the heat, but Celene was more used to cold winds and heavy clothing. 

Glad that she, at least, was not sweating, she sat down on the bay window, right above where the impossibly blue waves chipped away at the cliff and wondered at her predicament.

She was bored. 

Utterly, undeniably, unquestionably bored.

She had spent an entire month within the vicinity of these chambers; she had read every book afforded to her at least twice, and she paced the room so many times she was certain she would have to compensate the Archon for worn-out tiles.  

Food was brought to her four times a day, often by Magisters willing to engage with her in some talk that happened to be the highlight of her day. Her attendants were forbidden to come to her, it was as if the Magisters were afraid that she would plot a hostile takeover from within, and were unwilling to leave her be.

It probably also did not help that Celene refused to have anything to do with how Tevinter treated their slaves. 

There was no slavery in Orlais, every law and text was very explicit on that, and Celene would not be endorsing it.

Just as she contemplated getting up to pace again, a knock came at her door. 

Celene quickly reached for some shoes and smoothed over the fabric of her robes. She made sure that everything was arranged just right and walked back to the seat at the bay window, opening it just in case she would need to send someone hurling to the sea as she had twelve days ago during an assassination attempt. 

“Come in.”

The tall doors opened quickly, the man and woman behind it impatient as everyone seemed to be in this forsaken land, and Celene reminded herself not to roll her eyes; she did not have her mask here to hide it. 

“Arnold. Elizabeth.” She did not sigh. She would not . No matter how much it was weighing on her throat. “What a pleasant surprise.”

The two people, a united front before her, sneered. 

This time Celene did sigh. 

The ambassadors from Ferelden and Nevarra had caused problems since the beginning, and in the month since their plan had been executed and the interminable wait began, they had only got worse.

Nevarra was going through its own succession crisis, which had only exacerbated when Tevinter seemed to be on the verge of collapsing into itself. Too many cousins were vying for the throne, and Celene knew that Elizabeth was stuck fielding demands from both families who tried to take the mantle of King of Nevarra. Not to mention, they were not any a fonder of Tevinter than the rest of Thedas was, and even less so considering that it was often them that took the brunt of Tevinter's search for… supply. 

As for Ferelden… Celene wondered why they had bothered calling for Ferelden's aid. As soon as Orlais' involvement became apparent, they had withdrawn from the plans and only the Inquisitor's insistence had resulted in anything resembling cooperation. Ferelden was no friend of Tevinter either but Celene had seriously wondered if the Dog Lords would not have preferred the Qunari, if only to spite both Orlais and Tevinter.

“Your Radiance.”

Her title came in unison and with practised, almost mocking, bows. 

Outstanding . 

Celene gritted her teeth briefly, before letting the faux-smile be heard on her voice, “Your Graces.”

“It has come to our attention that you have revisited your deal with Tevinter,” Elizabeth started, while Arnold just stared and stared and stared.

Celene culled a frustrated scream. 

They had all altered their deal with Tevinter. Outwardly, all the delegations of the continent had all come as a united front under her authority, as the highest-ranking human, but they were not a true coalition. Each country could - and had - negotiated under their own authority. 

Elizabeth lifted her chin. “We wish to know the specifics.”

They feared a joint attack from Orlais and Tevinter, most likely, and Celene could not blame them. There was, after all, a historical precedent. Once again, Celene cursed her war-prone predecessors. 

“Negotiations have been ongoing," she said, rolling her shoulders into an elegant shrug. "Nothing has been signed yet, Elizabeth.”

Her new deal was worse for Tevinter than the one before, purposefully so. Celene did not know what Briala had up her sleeve, though the Empress knew that she must have something , and delaying the negotiations was the most likely way to get them all what they wanted. She was, perhaps, putting too much faith in Briala... but Briala had never failed to surprise her before. No, Celene did not think it was a gamble, that she was letting sentimentality rule her decisions; Briala was always impressive and always had an ace up her sleeve. Betting on Briala was no gamble, it was betting on historical precedent. 

Celene almost smiled a true smile. In the end, she was no different than Arnold and Elizabeth. 

Arnold jeered. “You are not being very forthcoming, Your Radiance.”

“Neither are you nor your Queen, Arnold,” the empress supplied a counterpoint. 

“You will keep Her Majesty's name out of your mouth!”

His hand came to rest on the hilt of his sword, clearly feeling emboldened by their solitude to threaten her. Celene argued with herself that showing the Fereldan diplomat the way out through a window would not help any matters. 

Except, perhaps, that of her headache.

“Arnold!” The Nevarran Ambassador reached for Arnold's hand, dark eyes wide. “What are you doing?!”

It seemed that there was a limit to Elizabeth's support of her companion. Celene sighed, again. It was amateur hour, really. Maker, she never thought she would miss her troublesome nobles. At least, with them, there would have been the momentary thrill of shock before a dagger plunged itself into her back. 

“Elizabeth. Arnold. Perhaps you should coordinate yourselves better next time.” Celene gestured towards the door. “You may leave.”

Elizabeth almost had to drag Arnold away from the scene, and Celene pretended not to hear the woman casually chastising the man. If Celene were to guess, these two had entered more than a simple partnership to overwhelm Orlais. 

She sighed and hoped that, at least, Elizabeth's ploy was somewhat satisfactory to her, if nothing else. 

Celene twirled the rings in her hand, a disappointing new quirk that she would have to quell when they returned to Orlais, but was perfectly acceptable here. Twin rings in her hands, both gold and big; one that marked her as the sovereign of Orlais, returned to her by Briala before they had taken her in to negotiate terms, and then there was Mantillon’s ring still in her fingers after all this time. There was space for a wedding band. Celene had never worn one. 

Another knock came at her door.

“Come in.”

This time, it was Magister Faustus. He was short and hunched-over, decrepit in his old age that bordered a century, with an angled face that resembled the old birds that Aunt Melisande used to have in the Imperial Palace when Celene had first moved in. Celene offered her hand, hiding her distaste when he lingered longer than necessary to greet her. 

“Magister.”

“Your Radiance.” He bowed low. “Your figure is simple stunning in traditional feminine Tevinter garb. Truly an example of grace.”

Celene had long tired of the Magisters' not-so-subtle hints at Maevaris Tilani and how the Archon chose to style herself. As if it mattered that Maeveris had not been her birth name, as if gender were not simply another mask that was easily traded. Stranger to her was seeing everyone so plain, so true to themselves. 

Then again, it might just be her Orlesian sensibilities shining through. 

“Is there anything you need help with, Magister?”

“Your deal, Your Radiance.” His stare was pleasant, but Celene saw something in there that could have made her shiver. “Why have you lowered your proposal?”

“Our countries have been at war for centuries, Magister. If not our countries, then our religions. We fear that too much sudden cooperation is… ill-advised.”

“We, Your Radiance? Who is we? That is not the general sentiment of the rest of your party.”

So , Celene thought, the others are making deals that favour Tevinter more.

It was not very surprising, unfortunately. Everyone wanted to one-up each other. In different circumstances, Celene would have done the same. 

She really hoped that whatever it was that Briala had up her sleeve would be worth it.

“I see you do not deign to answer.” His teeth yellowed and weak from age, seemed to glint like daggers. “That is all right, Your Radiance.” Magic rose in the air, making her skin crawl into goose-flesh. “It is only a warning, after all. We would not wish to see you hobbled.”

A sword had been aimed at her just a few moments ago, but this was the most threatened Celene had felt in a long time. 

“We will take that into consideration, Magister. Your opinion, after all, is key to all that happens in the Senate.” Not untrue at his age and mastery of the power he wielded. “Now, if you will, there is someone coming with afternoon tea.”

His cunning eyes told her he knew he had rattled her. “Your Radiance.”

The door closed softly behind the Magister, but it felt like the thunder that heralded the beginning of a storm. 

Celene shivered in its wake and wished for Briala's questioning to be over soon. She moved to sit again by the window when another knock came to her door. Sighing, the Empress straightened her back.

“Come in.”

She felt comme une espèce de perroquet.

The door opened for the third time that afternoon and a tall, blonde-haired woman entered the room, a tray filled with an assortment of biscuits and tea. Ah, so it was the Archon Talani that would be her company for the afternoon tea. She had not seen the ruler since she had been brought to the palace. 

“Your Radiance.” Maevaris bowed her head.

Finally, a perfectly acceptable greeting. Not too hostile and not so obviously fake.

Celene reciprocated. “Archon.”

“How are your quarters?”

“Adequate.” The bed was appalling, but the rest were perfectly serviceable. The view was easily the best part. “It would be better if I could leave it, however.”

Maevaris's eyes twinkled with delight. “You know the agreement.”

Celene grimaced a smile. 

By order of those who had made the plan to actually allow Celene and her Chevaliers into Tevinter, any and all contact with the outside world beyond those agreed upon beforehand was strictly forbidden to ensure that everything went smoothly and no… daring schemes were put in place.

It was a nightmare; she was bordering on a hostage. 

“Here.” Maevaris gestured towards the tray in her hands. “I brought it for you since I found out none of the servants are willing to come here.”

“If you do not allow my attendants to attend to me, then someone must. I do not like slavery,” she said, keeping to the agreement that had been hammered between everyone who had come with her. No one would be seen showing support for Tevinter's... less-than-desirable qualities. “And neither I do not plan to endorse it during my stay here.”

Maevaris hummed, unimpressed. “I heard you like Rivani tea?”

The Archon’s heels hit the floor of the chambers with a similar stride to Celene’s, confident and measured. Celene watched Maevaris lay the tray on the small ebony table near the window where she sat. She watched the blonde mage gaze at the vase of flowers.

“Chrysanthemums,” Maevaris said.

“I am aware.” 

Celene reached out to touch the petals, feeling the softness of the colourful flower in her hand. 

“Oh?”

"We do not have them in the South," Celene admitted, gently twisting the petals in her hand. "However, they are lovely."

Maevaris’s hand came to cup hers and, together, they held the relatively sturdy flower in an almost too intimate gesture that Celene knew was only done to make her feel unstable.

"They favour warmer climates," Maevaris said, her voice low as a sad thought twisted her lips, "but the Nevarrans have appropriated them to lay on their peculiar graves, and they have come to symbolise death. For us, however, it represents truth and revelation." Maevaris smiled. "Perhaps that is why they have always been my favourite; I have never been fond of lies, either telling or living them."

And I know nothing else. Celene kept the words to herself, knowing they would be misunderstood.

"You know," the blonde continued, soothingly, "you are everything I wanted to be when I was younger." 

She had noticed Maevaris's passing glance on her body. Celene, blonde, blue-eyed, and as tall as she was, probably was the thing Maevaris wished she could see in the mirror when she was younger. Nonetheless, the words were spoken without melancholy or hidden desire; the woman in front of her was secure in her position, image, and body. It was just a childhood story, a vulnerability shared with someone who also shared a potentially embarrassing secret.

Celene gave a warm smile. "It is a good thing you let go of such desires, Archon. I do not wear green as well as you do; it clashes with my complexion."

Maeveris laughed, her green robes swaying in the warm wind from the sea. "I'm sure you're exaggerating."

"We best agree to disagree or descend into a common battle for the best-paid compliment." Celene turned from the high-window and gestured towards the tea provided for her. Maevaris refused with a polite shake of her head, and Celene served herself some tea. "Is Magister Justinian being a stubborn fool once again?"

"Have you talked with him?"

"He considers me a Southern Barbarian," she explained, almost laughing at the irony as she stirred her tea, "and it makes his tongue exceptionally loose."

"He seems to like you," Maevaris observed, somewhat amused. "He put your proposal to the Senate today, almost word for word, of what you told me."

Celene sipped on her tea. "I am a charming Southern Barbarian."

“And then he proceeded to tear it to pieces,” Maevaris added, smiling when Celene let out a disgruntled hum, “but he only had praise for you, if that makes you feel better.”

“Marvellous.”

“Come now, we knew that forging an alliance would not be easy, even with all the historical precedents we have of when our countries formed alliances to fight off the Qunari... and the occasional Blight. The fact that you helped put a stop to Solas’ meddling has helped your reputation, but Tevinter was not built in a day.”

A knock on the door prevented Celene’s retort. 

“Archon, Empress,” the serva— slave, Celene reminded herself — that always accompanied Maevaris greeted with a bow, “there are two visitors here for the empress.”

Celene and Maevaris exchanged looks, unsure as to whom else it could be. With a nod, Maevaris allowed Celene control of the situation. 

“Send them in, please.”

The elf seemed surprised at her last word and Celene could well imagine it. She was not one to do so in Orlais either; ask gently for servants to do their job, but here it felt… It felt necessary. 

The two visitors entered the room and Celene almost lost her composure.

One was Magister Justinian, the man they had just spoken of and who visited Celene often enough. There he was with his short stature, brown skin and impressive moustache that was starting to turn grey. 

The other person, however…

Celene had not seen Briala in close to a month and was again struck by her mere presence. Those now-redden curls were exquisite in this light, almost the colour of fire. Her skin had lightened just a small bit from a month with no sun, but it was still that sunstone colour that Celene so loved. Even though the sun had made Briala's freckles less prominent, they were still visible when she looked closely. Celene was aware of her staring, of how much of a fool she must look, but she would take every opportunity to drink Briala in, drown in her image that had started to fade away from Celene's memories though she had not realised it until she had seen Briala again. 

“Briala,” she greeted, her voice coming just this side of breathless. 

Briala opened her mouth to greet her in turn, but instead of her melodic voice, a deep, straggly voice filled the room instead.

“Your Radiance, the offer you made,” Justinian started, distractedly looking at Briala as if unsure as to why Celene was so fixated on her, “...well, while a good start… would hobble us. We must simply decline.”

Briala's fingers tightened and loosened on the fabric of her shirt, catching her attention again. They had invented signals when they were young; they could have entire conversations without saying anything or changing the tone of an entire conversation that seemed innocuous to those listening.

Celene purposefully sweetened the deal after another discreet look to ensure Briala's intent.

"We will, of course, double the offer to make it more acceptable. It is only proper to offer protection for this new alliance. At least twice the agreed-upon amount of Chevaliers as well as half-taxed for docking fees and food-stuffs.”

"That is… incredibly generous." Maevaris was, of course, no fool. "Almost too much."

"Nonsense," Justinian was, fortunately, not nearly as clever. "It is just right. Her Radiance is an example of grace and friendship, and your derision of her is a mark against you, Maevaris.” He said the name as if he spoke of the dirtiest thing on a street. “Honestly—

“I agree with the Archon,” Briala said, “it is simply too much, Your Radiance.”

That tone… Briala was definitely playing for something. 

“Unless you have a counteroffer, Briala, then the proposal is an adequate one for a future ally such as Tevinter.” 

A double-edged statement, as the offer was only so high because Tevinter was currently so beleaguered. Maevaris winced, Justinian beamed; the picture of what she expected the Senate to be — divided in the middle, torn between understanding and utter embarassment. Briala stared impassively and then held up her fingers to count her points.

“I believe you offer too many soldiers, Your Radiance” — true — “and that half-tax for docking fees are bound to be exploited for nefarious purposes” — Briala meant slavery... which was also true — “not to mention the fact that it would seem too necessitous of the empire.” 

“The counteroffer, knife-ear?”

Celene breathed in the exhale, willing her temper not to snap. Justinian was like any noble, hopelessly greedy and utterly tactless.

“During my questioning... well, many things came to light,” Briala said, “and I happened to remember an incident perpetuated by Solas.” 

Both Maevaris and Justinian leaned forward, eager to hear Briala’s words.

Empress Celene Valmont, however, knew that tone. It was one Briala often used when exposing a problem to her; one that hinted at something, one that hid something, and was waiting for the game to play out. It was one that promised nothing short of a revelation that would shake the foundations of the deal and braced herself for the words that would land like a bomb.

“Your treasury, Archon,” Briala continued, “I know where it is and have it on good authority that it is, for the most, intact.” 

And there it was.

The much-missed treasury whose absence was a large part of why Tevinter was in such a mess to begin with. Maevaris's eyes were wide, torn between shock and delight, though she quickly hid it. Justinian seemed on the verge of losing his last shred of sanity and whatever he had left of serenity crumbled like an ill-made soufflé.  

“Were you part of the band of deplorable villains that robbed us blind?!” Justinian’s words came as a yelled-hiss. “You slew an entire House, older than the walls of Minrathous themselves!”

Briala was hardly bothered by the flushed Magister losing his temper, and merely stood quiet, cleaning some lint from her outfit. 

“I was not part of it, no.” There was a twitch to Briala’s finger, one she masked fisting her pants, but Celene had seen it. She was lying. “But I knew of it long before it happened. I regret that I let it go on for so long—” another lie, this one more blatant than the last “—and I can only hope that this is proof of our intent to cooperate.”

The questioning had not gone well for those questioning Briala then if she wished to make her cooperation this apparent; Briala could be incredibly annoying, entirely too flighty for any questioner that tried his hand at breaking her. Celene would almost wager that Briala was trying to cool tempers now, showing her... willingness to be cooperating. Though, Briala, of course, was nowhere near finished.

"I will give you the location... provided you accept the empress’s first offer.” Justinian nodded, now eager to have the deal. “Of course, there is an additional condition." Briala's words almost made Celene giggle. Of course , there was. Of course . "I must attend the negotiations. After all, they could help to further refresh my memory."

Briala inserted herself into the negotiations with a few simple words and a little blackmail.

Typical.

Celene's cheeks were hurting from trying not to cackle.

“A knife-ear in the Senate Chambers? The insul—”

Celene stepped in, just in time, as if she and Briala had coordinated it. “Justinian,” she let her tone drop to familiar as if they were old friends, “it is perhaps unorthodox in Tevinter, but Briala is Orlesian. What better way to cement and celebrate our newfound friendship?”

“Your Radiance, I—

“I would relish having a compatriot during the negotiations,” Celene said as if revealing a secret, dropping the royal plural entirely. “It would temper and, as Briala has had the pleasure of being in Tevinter for so long, perhaps enhance our negotiations.”

The promise of even more chevaliers seemed to delight him, and Celene knew they had them in hand. Just another push.

“Of course, the Senate would need to actually approve of a treatise. I have heard that the Chamber has stalled, no? I am certain that… disentangling that lot will require a mind that would be ideal of overseeing much of the resources of the country.”

Not her finest or most subtle work, but Justinian was not exactly the sharpest staff in the circle. 

"You will have my support, Maevaris," he sneered, the rich moustache bristling with the movement of his lips. His support and, most importantly, that of his faction. "Though, of course, I expect to be able to oversee part of this old money reservoir.”   

“I am sure something could be arranged,” Maevaris spoke, Celene noted, for the first time in a while. “Go tell the Senate what we have discovered.”

Justinian’s dark eyes shone with delight, and he made a bow; still not low enough, but deeper than before. “As you say, Archon.”

The man left the room with a spring in his step, the ageing magister almost running to share the news of their agreement and of Tevinter's newfound funds. 

Maevaris turned to Celene, an arched eyebrow looking at her. "And I am sure that you knew nothing of this?"

"I assure you, Archon, I was as much in the dark as you." The truth, even if only modified. "My offer stands, of course, but I believe my compatriot has made her conditions very clear."

Maevaris smiled as she shook her head. "Your Radiance, I will make sure to notify the Senate. We appear to have reached an accord, after all."

"Outstanding, Archon!" Celene extended her hand, grinning as Maevaris shook it, still smiling in almost disbelief. "My offer for half-taxed foods remains," Celene assured her, "as I would not see your people suffer. I shall ensure that my General arrives with adequate company to monitor the situation."

Celene noticed Maevaris’s face relax for a fraction of a second, a simple relief. Celene was gracious enough not to speak of it.

"Thank you, Celene."

It was more direct than she was used to, but if any leader in Thedas had any right to do so, it was the one who governed Tevinter.

"Certainly, Maevaris." But it did not mean she would allow it to happen without a small retaliatory jab. "We are entering an era of collaboration, and I would not see you hamstrung."

The blonde nodded, though Celene could see that her mind was already on the next issue. Their deal would ensure that Tevinter could loosen its breath for an instance, perhaps get back on its feet as Solas’ interference was bound to be over, at least on the large scale it was when he had a near limitless organisation. 

The war with the Qunari still raged, however, and they would make an affront to them. Together, for better or worse.

“You are free to roam the palace, Your Radiance,” Maevaris waved away the metaphorical restraints on Celene. “ Just the palace.”

Maevaris bowed her head and left the room, leaving her and Briala alone for the first time in more than a decade.

"She knew," Briala observed, quietly, "smart woman." Her tongue twisted appreciatively. "Most people in Orlais would not have batted an eyelid."

Celene made a hum. "She's desperate and she knows it," she whispered. "From here to Antiva, this war is draining their coffers, killing their people, and destroying every major city."

"Are you serious about offering her Chevaliers? Is there to be another Exalted March against the Qunari then?"

"Doubtful. Divine Victoria wishes to postpone playing that card for as long as possible." Celene walked over to the small table where her tea was still waiting for her. She poured herself a cup with a small spoonful of honey and another with three spoonfuls for Briala. "To be honest, I quite agree," she said, stirring Briala's tea three times counter-clockwise and once clockwise, "there has been too much fighting in Thedas to last all of us a lifetime." She smiled happily as she handed Briala the porcelain cup and the elf took the tea with a small, contented sigh. "Let those who have trained for war deal with war."

Briala's eyes, which had closed to enjoy her perfect sip of tea, opened to look at her, curious. And so dark. And so beautiful. And so—

"With this offer, you are choosing a side." Briala took another sip, the same contented expression on her face. "Is that prudent?"

Celene paused. "No. Perhaps not. Still, this little operation had to have some significant disadvantages, and I would rather have Tevinter as a rogue ally than the Qunari. We may have intellectual, moral, and theological differences, but not to the extent that we do with Par Volen."

Briala murmured, "I see."

The silence became too loud for a few precious moments, an uncomfortable thread thrumming through the air that stretched into a long, uneasy moment between them in a way it had never done before. After a month, emotions had settled and adrenaline had worn off - though Celene's heart had evidently not heard the message - to allow logic to take its place. 

And with cooler heads, came doubt.

She had meant every word, every action on that dais, but if she had been thinking straight, if she had been less scared of Briala abandoning her, she may have moderated her... desperation. And, while she was certain of what she had done, she had no idea if Briala regretted succumbing to her feelings for Celene.

Celene was convinced she saw Briala shifting her weight from one foot to the other, even though the tea in her palm scarcely moved. Briala, too, felt embarrassed and unsure about what to do next. However, Briala, unlike Celene, had always been the resolute one, the one who ploughed on no matter how difficult or unpleasant the route ahead. Nonetheless, the elf still coughed briefly to clear her throat before speaking.

"From shiny empress to shiny bait to shiny captive." Briala laughed quietly, as if she didn't want to disturb their fragile truce. "You keep getting demoted each time I see you."

Celene laughed, albeit a little sheepishly. "Well, at least I am still shiny."

Briala placed the cup and saucer on the nearest ebony accent table, freeing her hands to reach out and tuck a strand of Celene's pale-blonde hair behind her ear. Celene flinched away from the touch, rather unintentionally.

Briala's hand halted in mid-air. Her expression hardened. Celene was able to keep the flinch to herself this time. She could have been more tactful, but she had no intention of hiding herself from Briala this time.

“Briala—

“No, no. It is fine,” she said, her teeth clenched in anger. “You clearly have a reason to flinch away from me every time I try to touch you. You did so in that cell as well, flinched away as I tried to kiss you, for I thought would be the last time I saw you alive.”

“Briala—

“You are even wearing the damned locket. Celene—” the exhale Briala gave told the story of incredible restraint, and Celene clung to the locket at her throat “—I'd appreciate it if you stopped being manic, stopped the with the mixed signals, and started making sense.” 

Celene tried again, “Briala, you do not understand what—”

“What I understand is that you lied to me. Again. ” The words brought another flinch. “Don’t you dare play the victim here. Don’t feign hurt when you’ve made the mess again .”    

“There is something you do not know !”she finally managed to say the words, her volume higher than it needed to be.

It hardly stopped Briala, as she continued to scoff. “More secrets? How novel!”

“Yes,” Celene confirmed, ignoring the volatile and bitter tone. “Secrets that are not mine to share." 

Celene made to turn away from Briala, to gather herself, but a hand on her arm stopped her. Briala’s eyes were focused, staring right at her, unmovable and implacable. Celene, however, noted a point of vulnerability, a plea for her not to hurt her again.

“Don’t turn away,” Briala demanded, “I want to see your eyes. I want to see if you will lie to my face again.”

She sighed, resigned to do as Briala wanted her to, and face her as the words flowed from her mouth. The scent of the chrysanthemums lingered in the air. 

“I… There were several approaches I could have used. I wanted to tell you everything the instant I saw you, but I was... discouraged to do so—

“’Discouraged ’? And you obeyed orders? Mark me down as impressed."

Celene chuckled bitterly. "Yes, do try to keep your astonishment to a minimum. When the Inquisition and others approached me, they were quite adamant and entirely deliberate. They did not intend to be merciful to the higher echelons of Solas' organisation, but someone forced them to reconsider.”

That, predictably, derailed Briala's anger. The elf's eyes grew less furious and more focused, hand quite unconsciously reaching up to rub against her chin in thought.   

Briala frowned. ”Do you know who?"

“No, I only joined after they reached an agreement with that. I was only allowed to join after. They thought I would mire the operation because I was—” Celene was unable to stop her awkward shifting, clearing her throat to release some tension. “—compromised.”

“Is that what you’re calling it?" There was a faint hint of amusement in Briala's tone, marred as it was by her still lingering anger. "Compromised ?”

“It is what they called it.” Briala’s eyebrow lifted, sceptical. Celene sighed. “It is not, necessarily, an incorrect assessment.”

Briala blinked, and then nodded slowly, coming to terms with her words and what they might mean. “If that is so, then why—

“I did not wish for you to touch me under false pretences.”

“Again,” Briala added, mercilessly.

Celene nodded. “Again,” she confirmed. “There is still something that I am keeping from you—” Briala opened her mouth “—and no, I will not tell you of it. It is not my secret to share.”

She bristled. “Celene—”

Celene pushed herself forward, putting herself almost flush against Briala. They were close, just shy of a touch, and it was enough to put a stop to Briala’s words. She could smell the scent of Briala’s bath; lavender and lemon, subtle and dizzying, so untwined from when Briala usually bathed with Celene in rose and honeysuckle scents the empress preferred. 

The elf lifted her head to look in the eyes, and Celene drowned in those dark pools that delved deep into her each and every time Celene thought no one could see beneath her many masks.

“Do not ask it of me, please,” she begged softly. “I cannot bear to omit anything or lie to you again.”

“Yet, you did.” Briala’s voice dragged, burned with the memories of her past mistakes. “For twenty-years you hid what you did to get the throne. I would have understood, had you told me. I would—” Briala turned away, chuckling bitterly, “— I would’ve even forgiven you. Instead, you lied .”

Tears clouded her vision and though she always longed for Briala’s eyes on hers, just for this moment, she was glad that she had turned away.

“I did. I wanted—” Celene choked, truly the words caught in between a cry and sob she would not release.“I wanted it to not be true.”

Briala nodded, grimacing. “At least you offer no words of trying to spare me the pain of knowing the truth.”

“I did want that,” Celene confessed, a deep well of shame enclosing around her, “but that was not the main reason.”

“I know.” 

“I do not… I am not certain if you have—”

Briala prompted her, after a moment of silence. “Yes?”

It seemed silly to say; an almost too gentle and simple a word for the magnitude of what she had done. But Briala was asking. 

“—forgiven me?” her voice came softly, shyly. 

“Yes.” Briala then frowned. “No. Or… maybe.”

Celene smiled, teasing her lightly. “Very enlightening.”

Briala did give a small smile, but it was obvious that the question had rattled her. Celene had not meant it to; she thought that the answer would be ‘no’, that something like this could not be forgiven merely by the passage of time. No matter how much she wished to take it all back and never have to ask in the first place. Briala seemed to be in agreement, at least intellectually, but, somehow, there was something in the elf that seemed to disagree; Celene dared not hope that Briala's heart might have... softened to the cruelty Celene had inflicted. 

Celene's had not, would never, but Briala was miraculous — if there was someone who could... it would have been her.

“I have always known you capable of atrocities," Briala spoke softly, "I have always known you ruthless and prescient enough to execute them. That you did it never surprised me.” Celene winced; it was a terrible thing to know of the woman you loved. “The lying… you have never lied about what you thought you needed to do.”

“It was a terrible thing, Briala. I wanted to forget.” Celene exhaled, feeling the prickle of tears on her eyes. “I wanted you. And I did not trust that you would, that you could… that anyone would ever be able to understand. Much less forgive.”

“I would not have, perhaps, not when I first returned from Felassan.” Briala’s pained face at her mentor’s name sent a sharp note through Celene's chest. “But in the Eluvians, when I asked, you should have told me. We had decades together by then, and I would have weighed it all against what you did when you were a child. The memories we have made would have… balanced it out.”

“Yet, they did not matter.” 

”No. Because you lied.” Celene nodded, well aware of the mess she had made then, but Briala reached out to her, stepping closer. She whispered, “After that, I banished every memory you and I had ever made. But when I saw you there, in that damp cell, and you looked at me like you do, and you touched me like you do…” 

Celene felt her resolve melting away in light of Briala’s words, spellbound to her by her voice and her sentiment. Her hands reached out to stroke Briala’s bare arm, a gentle touch that drew Briala in and made their faces be merely inches apart. 

Briala shook head, eyes locked to hers, in utter disbelief. “It was as if everything came back to me.”

Celene jerked her head up, as the words struck her. "That would make an excellent song."

Briala stared, startled, then laughed. "Perhaps a little too... contrived and cliché, don't you think?"

"No, no, I can hear it already." Briala let out a breath of laughter as Celene made gestures with her hand, as if conducting a song. "The soft piano, a harp and some strings, bombastic drums, all rising to a climax, the choirs..."

"Make sure you mention it to Lully then; he'll doubtlessly come up with something for you."

Celene cleared her throat and bit the inside of her cheek. “Perhaps—" she exhaled deeply, "Perhaps, you could tell him."

Those dark eyes that had haunted her for years, almost as long as Celene had been alive, turned keen and soft at the same time, as if anticipating an assault yet willing to suffer the blow.

"Do I take that to mean that we are actually going to talk instead of dancing around the issue?" she asked, her dark lips a thin line. “What happens now? Do we just go back to Orlais and to how things were?”

The derision in Briala’s voice was palatable, and the air that grew thick with tension again. That would never do, Celene knew, it would break them beyond what they would be able to repair. 

“I made a garden.”

It was not what Celene had been planning to say. Even Briala looked taken aback.

“All right…”

“I mean—” Celene pushed forward, “—the garden I made, it had an infestation two-or-so years ago. Everything had to be removed—”

Briala shook her head. “Celene, we cannot simply remove everything that went wrong with our—”

“Let me finish, please.” Briala gave away her permission, and Celene breathed out a sigh. “Everything had to be removed, but the soil was still the same. You cannot truly move soil once the infestation has infiltrated the cracks deep underground. You must treat it.” 

Celene walked past Briala and went into one of her many trucks. She knew exactly where what she was searching for was. With a simple motion, she pulled out a dossier from under a dress she would never wear here. 

“What is it?”

Celene swallowed, and walked back to be closer to Briala, right in the cloud of the simple yet familiarly comfortable scents of Briala’s perfume of lavender and lemon, right next to the window that gave way to a beautiful endless sea. If Briala rejected—… no, it was unlikely, but Celene might as well chunk this whole plan to sea, if she did.

“This—” she extended the dossier to Briala “—is your future, should you wish it.” 

Briala took the files from her hands and opened the front page. Those dark eyes that Celene loved so well widened as the words started to make sense. She watched Briala leaf through the dossier, the way her fingers would linger on some words or some page, her quick eyes and quicker mind wrapping itself around what Celene — and the whole of Orlais — wished to offer. Well, perhaps not the whole of Orlais, but Celene was its conductor and she wanted this, so everyone else would follow along... for a time, while she held leverage. After that, well—

Briala spoke, finally, voice cracking, “Is this—”

“An elevation to Marquise of the Dales, yes.” Celene watched her flip to the last page of the edict, saw her noticing the signatures of all the members of the Council of Heralds as well as Celene’s own. “It only needs your pen to make it official.”

“I—… I do not know what to say.”

Well, there had to be a first time for everything. 

“Perhaps I should have started here,” Celene admitted, tracing the dossier with the pads of her fingers, almost lost in thought. “I should have offered you this many years ago during the Civil War, perhaps even before that… No. Definitely before that, before all descended into chaos, before all that—" Celene shook her head. "But especially this time I should have set my emotions aside and convinced you to abandon Solas simply by providing another path.” 

“Celene—”

“It is true and you know it. It would have been easier for you had I just—” Celene exhaled, frustrated. “Instead, I let my emotions rule me over and this seems like… compensation as opposed to it being the original offer.”

Briala smiled, put the dossier down on the ebony table with the arrangement of Chrysanthemums, and reached out to touch her hand to lift her chin so their eyes met again.

“I have always loved your passion,” Briala said. Then a smirk curled her lips, turning her tone smug, “The fact that you are completely henpecked is just a bonus.”

Celene sputtered out an appalled gasp. “I am not— Briala! ” She shoved the elf, making the dark-eyed woman laugh, and then Celene turned to mockery herself. “If anything, you are the one who is henpecked ”—the word was strange in her mouth— “after all, all I had to do was show up.”

“Oh, now you’ve done it.”

Briala stalked towards her, and Celene had to brace herself from the impact of the elf trying to shove her back. They struggled for a bit, more of a playful tug-of-war than anything else, and soon they were breathlessly giggling at their dishevelled, uncouth state. 

Briala’s arms did not falter as she said her words, “I missed you.”

Celene thought that well worth losing the match, and let her arms falter to her side. The movement was enough to bring Briala into her embrace, where Celene carefully gathered the much-missed figure of her… of Briala, in all the different ways she mattered to her. Briala tensed for a moment, but soon melted into her arms.

It was enough, Celene was sure in that moment, to just hold Briala was enough and well-worth any and all trouble she had accumulated.

There was a knock at the door, signalling that it was time to do away with the secrets between her and Briala once and for all. She slowly untangled herself from Briala, but not before tenderly tracing Briala’s freckled cheekbone with her thumb and placing a light kiss on her other cheek, a promise and a comfort all at once. 

Briala was frowning, but with a look from Celene the elf sobered up immediately. Celene sighed and took a step back, minding the small train of her dress, and after a last squeeze of Briala’s hand, she walked towards the knock. She reached the large, golden doors and, with a sigh and a last look towards Briala, she pulled the handle. 

The person on the other side did not surprise her but, behind her, she heard Briala’s cursing as she dropped the cup of tea she had been holding. 

The elf before Celene stood tall and with his hands clasped around his back. Like this, Felassan had never looked more the Ancient Elf than he did now. His golden eyes were on full-display this time, unlike the purple they had when they had trekked through the Eluvians, and were focused on one thing only.

“Felassan.”

Briala’s voice was devoid of emotion, devoid of shock, devoid of sympathy. Celene kept a wince to herself; Felassan would not have an easy go of it. 

“Briala.”

Perhaps it was her own bias, but in Felassan’s voice she heard the unmistakable edge of fondness… and of worry. Briala, to the most casual of observers, was a hard person; slow to forgive, quick to feel hurt and hold on to it. This Ancient Elf that had taken her as a young girl under his wing was bound to know that, but he was also bound to know that Briala was a gentle soul at the centre of it all, and all he had to do was appeal to her and the love she held for him. Briala had told her many tales of Felassan’s own obstinacy and Celene had spent enough time with him these past few months to know the truth of those tales; she doubted it would be that easy for either of them. 

It would be a match for the ages.

But one she would not see.

Celene walked forward, intent on giving Briala and Felassan the space and time they needed for their conversation. She found Felassan’s eyes and nodded at him. 

For their loved one's sake, she asked of him, "Be gentle."

"Do not overextend your concerns, Lady Valmont," he admonished, his voice devoid of the mockery she had grown accustomed to after months of daily contact. "You have nothing to do with this."

Celene felt compelled to object, yet she knew he was correct; she knew better than most what it was like to have a mentor, someone who taught you all they knew. She was well aware of how deep that relationship could go. Briala even had the extra benefit of truly respecting and trusting her mentor - unlike herself with Mantillon, whose piercing black eyes still frightened her awake some nights. Celene knew she had no right to interfere here.

She took one last glance at Briala, whose face had become indestructible, before closing the door to her chambers. She sighed, prayed to any God who would listen for Briala and Felassan to come to an understanding, to reconcile after the falsehoods that had grown between them, and went in search of Maevaris Talani.

Surely, the Archon would be able to direct her to the nearest library.

Notes:

Like I said in the Prompts Fic, I am so sorry but these past weeks have been kinda of hellish and tbh this week hasn't been much better; I won't go into detail, but Good Christ peeps. I usually do a revision on each chapter before I post, but I didn't this time, so... ???? hopefully its okay.

Notes:
- Yes, there is a Celine Dion reference in this fic. I think it's funny idk fjklasf
- Lully is less a reference and more of a blatant robbery of a man's name. Lully was Louis XIV's very famous composer, and yes, I stole him 100%. Soz, Mr. Lully.

Chapter 6: Arborvitae I

Summary:

Arborvitae:
Everlasting Friendship.

Briala heard Celene softly closing the door to the room but her gaze was solely focused on Felassan. 

Framed by two pedestals each harbouring a small tree-like bush in an urn-like vase of gold-and-black stone painted with depictions of ancient battles, the large gold-painted wooden door hung over him like a halo.

He was different, Briala observed, and he had changed far more in the last ten years than the first twenty she knew him. He was still tall, but his hair was white where it had once been an inky black, his skin had lightened, and his eyes - once violet now shone gold.

And his face was bare of any Vallaslin. 

“Long time, no see.”

Behind her, the seas clashed against the rocks, and the light of the sun dimmed behind clouds. It gave an ominous tone to her words, and Briala almost expected the thunderclap of clouds warring in the sky to echo in the room. 

It didn’t, but Felassan twitched nonetheless; it was likely more akin to a flinch for anyone who was not a centuries-old elf. 

He did not speak and Briala almost laughed. This old tactic, of waiting for her to hang herself before he said a word… She was too old to fall for it now, far too experienced at The Game of listening and seeing rather than speaking. And she now knew where this tactic had come from; Solas had been a master of using it, of saying little to hear more. 

“I have to admit,” she said, “I expected much from you, but not this.”

“Your mistake then,” he finally spoke, his voice the same as she had heard as a child, “I taught you to examine threats, you should have known.”

She had feared him sometimes, yes. She had known his power, the power beneath all of his words and gestures, the gaze of the killer in him, the way he had circled her like a wolf to prey. She had known of that, she had not expected a lie of this magnitude.

“Did you wonder that, had you told me all you wished to do before you sent me back to Celene thirty years ago, I would have been willing to join?”

Felassan leaned against the pedestal with the large vases, the edges of the ever-green arborvitae trees grazing his forehead. The green trees lined entire walls of the palace, standing tall in their pedestal-vase enclosures. The imperial palace in Val Royeaux boasted similar sights. She had been told it brought good luck in relationships and fostered long-lasting friendships. 

Clearly, they had never met any of the people Briala associated herself with.   

“I did not want you to.” He never did pull punches. “The plan never meant to include you.”

Not Briala, specifically, just elves like her. Briala nearly let out a frustrated scream; between this and the Dalish, no wonder her people were dying for anyone to rise from the ashes to lead. Anyone at all; from an ancient elven god bent on destroying their world, to even her.

Briala stood her ground, stood tall, more than a few paces away from the man who had taught her much.

“And yet,” she said, “you did not let me tell you the passphrase to the Eluvians.”

He turned his face away, to mask shame. 

When he spoke, it came quietly, “I saw the truth in the end. Of the value you and your lives have.” His eyes did not meet hers. “I saw hope, for the first time in centuries, for something more that did not require destruction.”

The walls around her heart had been built so high for so long that Briala could hardly see the sun. It shone only at certain times and only had a few cracks; trapping her in the promise of its light and warmth. Felassan exploited her vulnerabilities so very easily.

“You lied to me for years.”

“No,” he said, “I obscured.” Briala gave him a look, and he chuckled. “Yes, I did not think you would enjoy the distinction.”

He walked closer, almost as if to comfort her.

Another betrayal she would forgive, she knew. There were very few people to whom Briala was weak, but as fate would have it, two of those were fated to betray her. For nothing more than the fact that the positions they held could have only clashed with the one she meant to play.

“You chose me in the end,” she said.

Felassan shrugged, stepping an inch forward again. “It seemed… expedient and harmless. After all, our- Fen'Harel's plan was only meant to destabilise nations, to ensure that they were too occupied to see what happened under their noses.”

“I know.” Solas had told her. “You used me to do it in Orlais. First by encouraging me to do better for the elves, which upset the nobility while still empowering them—” a one-stone-two-bird solution, “—and then by manipulating me into taking the Eluvians.”

He had been right and Briala did not regret any of the choices she had to make in those days; she would do it all again, regardless of who it hurt. Her people deserved better and she had intended to fight for that. It would be foolish, however, to deny that Felassan had held a far steeper hand than he presented in those days, that he had an agenda that hardly included her or her people. 

Felassan chuckled, unaware of her doubts. “The last one did bite me in the ass, but yes.”

“By then, you had already found hope ,” she teased, smirking when he scoffed. “Your words, not mine.”

“Bah. Sentimental drivel.”

Briala shook her head and hid a smile. No, Felassan did not enjoy ‘sentimental drivel’, and likely would have gagged at all the sweet things she and Celene had traded before. Felassan… The name was strange to her thoughts, for she knew it to be false, but she had never thought of him as anything else.

“You know, you didn't even tell me your name.”

“It does not matter,” he was quick to say, stepping forward. He was almost upon her. “Felassan was not the name that came first, but it is the one I want to be.” 

Briala made sure to forget the name Solas told her, then. If that was who he wished to be... well then, she would try to stick to it and forget his life before her. 

“And how did Felassan end up here exactly?” she asked. “I thought you dead when you did not appear in the following months. I was certain of it when you were not here.”

Felassan twitched. “I see he is still keeping secrets,” he murmured, stepping forward to pour himself a cup of Celene’s tea. He took it with no honey. “He severed my connection to the Fade-

“I know.”

“-and in doing so turned me Tranquil.”

Briala kept a dismayed exhale to herself. She knew how Felassan felt about magic, how all the Ancient Elves felt about magic, and she knew how Solas abhorred the idea of the Tranquil themselves. Tranquil was something that unsettled most mages, but it was egregious - pure blasphemy - to the Ancient Elves who could not imagine life without magic.

The sea beneath them roiled, turning violent. Briala could feel the splatters of water coming from the balcony behind her, hitting her back.

She said nothing, waiting for Felassan to have a taste of his own medicine; to know the feeling of being left hanging, of not knowing what she was thinking and what were her plans. He twisted under her scrutiny and it was then that Briala knew that he wanted her back into his life, in whatever form she would come.

“He did not intend to, I believe.” He wanted to believe it, she saw it in his gaze. “It is likely that he intended to kill me.”

“I presume the Lady Seeker Pentaghast’s little retreat in the Hunterhorn Mountains lies behind the cure?”

Felassan nodded, his face charged with disgust. “Yes, indeed. The Lady Seeker rounded up all the available tranquil that would consent to being part of her experiment.”

“How did you even end up in her care?”

“After-… After , I was alone, screaming inside my own head, but a farmer found me and brought me to the local Chantry where the resident Templars recognised what I had become.” He twisted his neck, cracking the bones with a relaxed sigh. “I stayed there until the Rebellion started in earnest. They were-…” Felassan seemed surprised, “They were kind to me, there.”

“That tends to happen in villages with few mishaps,” Briala acknowledged.

He nodded. “When the war started… Well, I was pushed around from hand to hand, and ended up in Montfort with a charter.” She had been so close to him, so close. “I stayed there until after the Inquisition defeated Corypheus, just… going through the motions. It was as if I was not the master of my own body, just leashed and trying to break free. The more powerful a mage, the harder it is to resist becoming catatonic.”

His eyes were a contradiction of things; vacant and focused, lost in the memories but loathed to do so.

“The Seeker found me,” he continued, “and brought me to the mountains. It took years to perfect a cure, and many died for it, through experiments that for as humane as they were still were hardly an example of how to treat a person. Eventually, they healed me.”

“And when was that?”

How long had he waited to come find her?

“Five years ago,” he said, gaze unyielding. 

It was almost a physical blow. “And you didn’t—

“I did,” he interrupted, not allowing her to even finish. “I tried to find you, but by then you were already in league with Solas. I… I wanted to help you, you did not belong here. You did not even know what he was doing, I was nearly certain of it. But…”

Briala exhaled. “But you could not be sure I did not.”

“I could not,” he affirmed. “I wandered for a few months, wondering what to do. Many times I thought of contacting you or Solas. Eventually, I went back to Montfort. There, I met Cyril de Montfort—” his proud nose twitched at the name, “—and everything fell into place.”

Briala blinked. “With Cyril ?”

Felassan chuckled. “I was surprised too. He introduced me to the Inquisitor and those who wished to see this threat come to an end. The rest is history.” He sighed, then. “A miss-step and I would be one of those Occularium . A miss-step and I would be one of the trial-and-error. A miss-step... and all would have vanished.”

So many things that could have gone wrong, so many possibilities that spelled the end for both of them. Briala nodded to him and herself, acknowledging the minor miracle it was for them both to be here.

“And you are free of it? No… block remains to your magic or your emotions?”

“Well, I do have a lovely souvenir.” His hands passed through the tresses of long, white hair. “Shock, you see. Most would have died after such a thing. Lucky for you, I only had a minor convenience.”

She would say it suited him, but she would be lying. She could have made a quip about finally matching his aged wisdom, but she refrained.

“I thought you would have cut it,” she said.

“Any servant of Mythal would not dare have hair, true, no matter how long they’ve left her service,” he said, revealing more of himself in that single sentence than in all the years they had spent together. “But old habits die hard, I guess.”

“I already knew you had been hers,” she stated. “The golden eyes are not exactly subtle.”

He chuckled, eyes lost in memories. “No, Mythal could never be accused of being that. I have heard she has only got less so with age.”

Morrigan’s mother. Well, at least a part of her. Solas had told Briala of it and she had told him of what she had thought of the Witch of the Wilds. Morrigan was ordinary, to Briala's mind, no different from most people; eccentric in her own ways, dedicated to her interests. Celene had been enamoured with the Witch’s irreverence when it didn't annoy her, and so she had remained. Briala heard she played a part in the Civil War, but she never knew in what capacity.

Solas had said that Mythal always had a plan, a way to survive, and he thought that the next host would be Morrigan. Briala wondered if it'd come to pass or if it already had.

“So I've heard as well.” 

Silence rolled around, the only sound was the sea beating hard against the rocks of the cliff.

“And you?” he asked, his voice almost awkward. “I've heard that you have found a deal with the Senate.”

Briala’s mouth twitched. “Yes.”

“You seem displeased.”

She had a right to be. The information she had given them was worth far more than what they had given her. Granted, she had not given them everything, but it still rang hollow to her.

“Immunity for myself.” She knew that had come from Celene and her diplomats, as it'd been acrimoniously conveyed to her first thing during her interrogation. “The others are more complicated. Many aren't from Tevinter, and those are being expedited to their countries, with next to zero repercussions. Those who are from Tevinter are being incarcerated, but they'll be exempt from slavery.”  

“Yes, that was the original deal,” Felassan said. “The Senate shows some leniency and we come in to deal with Solas.” His cunning eyes were alight with amusement. And pride. “I heard you did more.”

Briala smirked. “I may have gained some members to a party of my own.” A party that would be based in Orlais, she now knew, as Celene eliminated one of her pressing concerns. They'd be in her household, should they wish to be. “Those who don't wish to return to their countries or stay in Tevinter will be beneath my authority. And all I had to give was the location of a few trinkets and traitors who defected to the Qun.”

It was not a large number, she'd admit. Perhaps a few dozen out of a few hundred, as that last attack during the execution and the revelation of Solas’ plans had cowed most.

Felassan laughed. “I did teach you well.”

“That wasn't you,” she said, remembering her mother’s lessons of giving and taking. And Celene’s lessons with Mantillon. “But you did, yes.”

“And the slaves? I heard a grumble about that. I thought it was part of your deal.”

Briala snorted. “You cannot end slavery in an instant without destroying all that makes Tevinter,” she echoed the words of the Lucerni party. “Apparently,” she added, bitterly. She sighed and allowed some grace to her voice. “There is a compromise in the works; a ban on branding the slaves as chattel and trading us like animals.” It was not nothing, but it was not nearly enough. “But no more than that.”

“That is it?”

“Those are their starting lines and they will still try as much as they can to pull at them.” Briala had seen in the Archon’s face; they would have a fight on their hands as it was. “I intend to keep those lines intact. I don't think I'll be able to push them myself.”

She had already given an ace to be at the meetings, and with every negotiation she would lose another; she'd need to play it safe. The thought was not a pleasant one and, with Celene’s proposal, she would have to store a few away to use in Orlais as well. No, it was not something that settled easily on her, but it was a start.

“A very poor starting line,” he commented.

Briala snorted, base and common in a way she refrained from being in front of most people . A very poor starting line , he said. As if it had not taken every bit of her acumen and a strong bit of manipulation to even ensure that. As if to be playing with this much was not already a far larger concession than they had ever made, especially considering how much Solas had eroded whatever lines of trust they might have made before.

The unrelenting crash of the waves breaking against the cliffs spurred on her temper. And the winds of stormy skies whipped past her through the open columned windows.

“Maybe I would not have to compromise so much if you’d just arrived sooner.” She was being sullen. She didn’t care. “Three years too late, almost. Though even by a few months would have helped matters.”

“You want to know why it was so late? Your damned empress delayed at every chance, at every step, at every meeting. You’d think the woman did not want to be here. She would not leave until any and all protection was laid on that boy of hers. Almost a full year of delays.”

The crown prince… Briala had seldom thought of him in the month since she’d last seen Celene. It was a foreign concept to her, an abstract thing she knew existed, but rarely more than that. But, yes, she could well see Celene putting one stop after another to ensure the safety of everyone involved.

Positively risk-averse , she had once said to Solas of her empress. It was good to know that it still stood.

“It passes scrutiny,” she defended.

“That she would tend to her affairs before attending to you? So it does.” His tone was bitter, laden with something she couldn’t identify. “I should have stopped it all,” he whispered, almost beyond her hearing.

It was guilt. For what, exactly?

“You could have come by yourself,” she offered, though she knew it would not have been enough.

Likely, had he come when he had planned, all it would have led to was her convincing him to join her and Solas; something he would have done. Felassan had always encouraged her darker and quicker impulses, tempered with self-preservation naturally, and she would have fallen deeper into the organisation, climbing the upper echelons with barely a blink to all she had to do.

And, by now, she would be nothing but a smoking crater beneath the city.

“We both know how that would end,” he said, and so they did. “Besides, there was another way, a far more risk-free way to get you out.”

Celene. She had known that her empress could not have organised this operation on her own, had known that she had been nothing more than a pawn. She had thought that Celene had inserted herself, no matter what she had said, and that she had demanded to be bait for the plan. It seemed like something far more sinister was at play.

“So, it was you. You brought her into this.”

Her tone was less than warm.

Felassan rolled his eyes. “No, it was her annoying little cousin.” The black flecks of his eyes almost twitched. “I did not object, however.”

“How could you allow her to come here—”

“ Allow her? The woman practically strong-armed herself into the meetings. No one was happy with that, I can assure you.” That did sound like Celene, she would give him that. His eyes narrowed, “but that tone, are you— ah ,” he said, his tone of realisation and clarity.

“What?” she barked.

Briala knew what he had seen. She had been too quick in defending Celene, in clamouring for her safety. It did not take a great deal of intellect to know where she had landed again.

“What has she given you?”

He did not bother with gentleness, he had always said that it was a waste of time to worry about feelings, a sentiment she had embraced wholeheartedly with most people, though to imply that she had been bought was certainly a step above what she had ever imagined he would do. She stared at him, unflinching, until he lowered his eyes in an almost apology. 

Satisfied, she veered her gaze to the small ebony table behind her, falling to the folder Celene had given her not an hour ago.

Felassan walked to the table, and picked at the dossier, the waves beneath them still bashed against the rocks, but the tides were finally starting to relent, and the sun seemed to break through the clouds.

He riffled through the papers with an interested hum. “This is…hm,” he mumbled, quietly, keeping his thoughts to himself as he read.

Briala watched his eyes grow wide a few times before fading back into stoicism. The deal was comprehensive and the papers were authentic, missing only Briala’s signature - everything discriminated on the page, black-in-white as so few things were. Finally, he reached the last page. 

“Convenient,” he said, after closing the folder, “that she gave you this now and not earlier.”

He had found nothing to grasp at.

“A thought she also expressed, a regret she told me herself.”

He turned his gaze to her. Gold now stared at her instead of violet, but the gaze was the same; determined, calculating, hard.  

“And you believe her?”

Yes. “Does it matter?”

“You would allow another leg of your... affair to be based on lies.”

Affair … she would let the word slide, though internally she scoffed. If there was anyone who knew the extent of their ‘affair’, it was Felassan.

“It is not a lie,” she said, she gestured to the folder and gave him a look. “But, even if it were, it is one I will gladly play the fool for. For all that folder implies.”

“Nothing I say will dissuade you, will it?”

He sounded defeated.

With good reason.

“No.” She realised that she wanted it all; both the woman and the position. Realised that no word but hers - and Celene’s - mattered in this. “Not in this, hahren .”

Felassan’s face was a mask, one Briala could not read. “Once, I set you upon this path. Once, I stirred you to see only this path. Once, I had you young in my care and used you to see the will of others done. If I cannot change your mind, I will guard your back.”

His eyes said what his mouth would not, the guilt there for her to see. He had set the path of her life well ahead of her own desires and, had he not encouraged her to return to Celene all those years ago, she would not be where she was. Those eyes told a story of a long life, of a life that had been lived for one person alone; one that had not been Briala. But it would be now.

“If you will have me,” he finished.

I will submit to your desires, the gold eyes said . You have me at your side, the softened corner echoed . I am yours to command, the steel screamed beneath the gold .

Briala swallowed the sudden emotion in her throat. “You once told me that if I wished for a world where our people could thrive, could stand as equals, I needed to go back to her.” How ridiculous to be here again. She continued, “I will not live to see that world—” she knew that now, “—but I will usher it in.”

Her words were double-edged. Briala was more than informing Felassan of her intentions and of how long she intended to execute them; she was informing him of her destination, of the path ahead, of where and what they would do for the rest of their lives. Orlais and The Game. If he wished to accompany her, he deserved to know where she would go.

He did not falter, instead, he nodded.

“And the elves of Orlais?”

“Slow, small steps,” the words came ripped from her throat; an old and new and constant anger scratching her veins. “And likely my name will fade into history books, with only Celene’s to remain.” Briala let out a humourless chuckle. “And no one will thank me.”

Felassan exhaled, likely remembering the conversation they had had more than a decade ago.

“So, you have finally learned. How does it feel?”

Like a hollowness that transcended thought. “Like a new purpose.”

He knew her to be lying; he had to know, but he said nothing of it. Instead, he knelt in one fluid and solid motion.

Now framed by arborvitae — the tree-like bushes that lined the room of this palace and Val Royeaux’s both, the tree of long-lasting friendship — he was as a general before a queen, a penitent before divine, a sight out of paintings of fealty.

“I have come to pledge,” his tone was of ancient beings, of things long past and never to come again, of the weight of history and too many lives lived, “my service to you, Briala of—” there was a pause, as he was unsure of what to call her, “—The Dales.” Val Royeaux would have been more accurate but this was far more appropriate. “And do so swear to follow your word.”

She did not acknowledge his pledge, it seemed unnecessary, and it was contrary to her nature to accept a submission of this type. He was an asset to be had, to be certain, but he was Felassan as well. She allowed him to make his way, but she did not have to participate.  

“You are different now, you know?” she asked, smiling when she saw him frowning. “Less irreverent.”

“There is little to laugh about now,” he lamented, rising. “Fen… Solas ,” the tone was firm, as if reminding himself of the mortality of his former friend, “will not stop until he has achieved his will. Or is annihilated on his way.”

She said nothing in return, she knew it to be true.

Felassan’s tone had been one of fear, though not an impotent fear, but as one who knew Solas’ plan. It was defeat of the sweetest kind, the kind that though he thought he would lose he would die trying to defeat a cause he had once given life and limb to.

Briala smirked, teasing. “Where is the slow arrow that would wait for everyone to slaughter each other and then kill the last one standing?”

“He took in a girl that dulled the tip.”

Briala felt her breath leave her lungs and the sting of tears behind her eyes. She had been alone for years now, without the two people who had brought her comfort for so many years before, carried forward by the few connections she made and by the grace of her resilience alone. In less than a day, she had both of them back.

It would be a long road, but there was a path ahead.

She had forgotten the feeling; hope, a spring that ran unimpeded through the rivers of her veins, washed away the ache of her heart, and bathed her bones to form strong sinew anew.

Felassan said nothing else, but he moved quickly, coming to stand before her. He was a pace from her, evaluating as he had done so many times when she’d been young and learning the bow and arrow from elves they’d encountered on the road.

Faster than she could blink, she felt his arms around her; warm, welcoming, and unwavering. Briala could not help but place her arms around him in turn.

The seas had finally calmed and the smell of the trees-of-friendship broke through the brine.

Chapter 7: Red Orchid

Summary:

Orchids:
Refined Beauty
Determination, Courage, Perseverance, Desire, Passion, and Love (red)

Notes:

Warning: Sexual Content.
If you want to skip, it should be easy to see where it starts. It ends when the scene shifts with of those middle-line-thingies.

Celene took every bit of praise she had had for her dress back. It was an active menace, actually.

The fabric was so fine and sheer that she could not stand beside the window for too long lest the piercing northern sun burn her skin to a truly awful shade of red.  At least with the approaching sunset, there was a little more of a leeway... Well, in theory of course. The winning sun would do nothing for the faint red around her ankles that was already showing where the dress’s fabric really started to turn flimsy and sheer. 

Not for the first time in her life, Celene cursed her delicate, peach-like skin.  

The empress shifted her position for the fifth time in as many minutes, hiding any visible part of her skin away from the large arched window that bathed the room in yellows and oranges of the incoming dusk.

The velvet settees that the Archon had in the library were comfortable and, had the sun not impeded her reading every few minutes, she would have enjoyed both the setting and the afternoon immensely. As it were, she was ready to throw the rather interesting book on ‘Agricultural Norms of Northern Thedas’ out of the offending window just so she could relieve some of the tension that had built in her bones during the wait.

Celene weaved a sigh. She would have preferred to be back in her quarters — much as she had bemoaned them earlier — if for no other reason than because she could be alone to recline on a seat without fear of anyone noticing her. 

... Of course, that would mean interrupting whatever went on with Briala and Felassan and that was simply out of the question. 

Resigned to stay where she was while Felassan and Briala had their talk, Celene adjusted her posture.

Her legs were daintily stretched along the settee, covered by only the violet dress, and her back was straight and supported by nothing - which was starting to sting her shoulders in an effort to remain composed. 

“The northern sun suits you as well.”

The sudden voice almost made her jump in the air, but Celene managed to refrain from it. She had been, perhaps, a bit far too engrossed in the book... or her scorn of the current weather, really. Rather ill-considerate of her, especially while being in enemy territory, but, this time, at least, she knew well who had interrupted her.

Celene turned to face Briala, her eyes enjoying a languid caress over her. 

The elf was leaning into an ebony bookcase, casually looking like the sight of so many of Celene’s dreams. Her simple presence was enough to engineer in her a sudden heartbreak, a palpitation, a string of longing that left her gasping for breath. The snug breeches and the loose white shirt that emphasised the swell of Briala's breasts drew her attention only briefly as the look in those dark eyes was only fanning whatever flame was endlessly alight in her for Briala. 

The sudden shift of the elf's eyebrow prompted Celene to remember the words Briala had said, and Celene had to fight a flush at having been caught so blatantly staring that she had lost the thread of conversation.

Celene cleared her throat, expelling the awkwardness, and played to Briala's comment, “I have had to move three times because I was turning a truly horrifying shade of red.” 

Briala let out a crackle of a laugh and came to sit at the other end of the settee, just next to her feet. “Even through the dress?”

“Yes.” Celene bit her lip, stopping the pout from forming. “It is... annoying.”

Briala’s lips were pursed, to stop a smile. “I believe it.” 

The elf reached out her hand, holding it in the air before giving Celene the universal gesture of 'give-me' while looking at the book in Celene's hand. The empress sighed, already expecting a healthy dose of teasing, before giving Briala the book as she requested.

Briala took the book, read the title, and quirked her eyebrow impishly, “ Agricultural Norms of Northern Thedas ? Maker, Celene, didn’t they have anything less dry?”

Celene snagged the book from Briala's, lighting fast, before clutching the tome to her chest like a child. “I happen to enjoy it,” she snapped but ensured that Briala could see her smile.

Briala smirked. “Pedant.” 

“Philistine.”

“Pleonastic.”

“Sophist.”

“How dare you?” Briala said, deadpan. Then, she gave a blinding grin, “And I win!”

“We never set any rules to begin with!” Celene protested, struggling not to smile back. “My insult was perfectly adequate.” 

“It didn’t start with a ‘p’”

“I did not know it had to.”

Briala glared, faintly. “You are insufferable.”

“And you, my love, need a mirror.” 

Her words seem to put a halt to their playful conversation. The air was suddenly chockful of tension that could be sliced by any one of their daggers. Thick and inescapable. Ready to envelop them in its wrath and never let go, a funeral wreath or a wedding band, depending on how it went.

‘ My love’.

The words that could stop an empress and a rebel elf in its echo.

There was truth to it, Celene knew.

They loved one another — there was no doubt in her mind — but she did not know where that left them. 

Book in hand, she turned her torso from Briala, hiding her trembling lips under the guise of putting the leather-bound book in its rightful place. She could feel Briala’s eyes on her, following her every move. Celene tried not to shiver at the way the gaze seemed to pierce, prickle, and pin her. 

Instead, she turned back to Briala and, after cleaning her throat, she started a new conversation. 

“Your talk with Felassan? It went well, I hope.”

Briala scoffed, though Celene was not sure if it was at her, for changing the subject, or at the topic now in conversation. The elf brought up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. 

“Better than expected,” she admitted through some effort. Her gaze was looking over the window, over the city in the near distance, beyond the waves. “Though I don’t think he is very happy with my decisions.”

Seeing Briala struggle made Celene find the courage to reach for her hand, so much so that she inched forward. Yet, she refrained from taking that final plunge. The empress did not know why it was suddenly so hard to be near Briala. They had talked; they had reached an agreement, and now, finally, there was nothing between them to hinder any reconciliation. 

Still, Celene could not bring herself to touch her. 

“Any in particular?”

Briala turned from the city to look at her, those dark eyes amused. “You.” Celene was hardly surprised. Briala gave another bitter smile, “Though he came around a bit, in the end.”

“Because of the Marquisate.”

It was not a question, because Celene did not require one to know where Felassan had landed. After many months at his side, he was… ‘easy’ was the wrong word, but ‘easier’… to read. Briala still nodded at her statement, though it required no confirmation. 

“You know that it is hardly a punishment,” Briala said, shrugging into her knees. “People will know you went easy on me.”

Celene sat straighter, her back away from the cushion in the arm of the settee, looking into her eyes, conveying the truth of it. “You will have to work for it, Briala. You said so to me once.” Celene then repeated the words that haunted her for a decade, “ Freedom is not given, it is won.” 

The elf's eyes widened for a brief moment before Briala gave a small smile. 

“It is nice to know you listen to me sometimes.”

Celene chuckled bitterly. “If I only I could make it stop sometimes. Twelve years on, and your voice is still the only one that echoes in my ears long after you have gone. Long after I have made any decision. Yours is still the only opinion that matters to me.” 

Briala’s eyes thundered from her words, lost on dredges of the memory of their parting. It was a hollow place Celene knew well. 

Celene continued, “And I believe it; your words are true. They are always true, I think, even when you lie. You do so because you believe and because you are you and that is the truest truth I know." Celene made sure to smile at Briala. "Those words you said that day, near the Eluvian... You were especially right, then. So, I am merely giving you the opportunity to do it yourself; to do the hard work of making that position all it can be… All I know you want it to be. I will give you the same consideration I give new lords, but you will have to win everyone who opposes you over. Them and your subjects.”

Briala rolled her eyes. “I do remember how Orlais works.”

"I have no doubt you do." Celene gave her a look— eyed her like a drowning woman gulped down water. "Just as I have no doubt you will succeed."

Her words, as they often did, made Briala pause. Made her consider things she had not considered before. Opened possibilities. The elf reached out towards Celene's extended leg behind her and Celene felt Briala slowly lift the hem of her dress, just enough to slip her hand through and touch her ankle.

"You always say such pretty things, Your Majesty."

The touch grew bolder, pressed harder... And Celene had not felt the familiar thrill that followed Briala's every caress in years. The empress trembled, and the caress paused for a split second before resuming. Briala’s slender fingers danced softly across the flesh of her calf, not risking more than a gentle stroking motion, but the intent beneath her touch was undeniable.

“Are you certain?” Celene whispered, aching to be sure. “We do not have to. Not yet—” her throat felt dry, “—not ever, if that is what you want.”

Briala was suddenly upon her, moving so quickly that Celene, to avoid a total collision, had to slide down the furniture. Her back hit the cushions, while Briala’s hand broke her fall on the arm of the settee so the elf could hover over her, one foot on the floor while her other leg slipped between Celene’s legs. 

It was relief and breathtaking all at once; her back thanked her, while her eyes were focused on her former lover’s body looming over her; lavender and lemon enshrouded Briala, enveloping Celene in her scent.  

Briala’s big, lovely dark eyes peered down at her, sure and brokering no dissent. 

“Do you believe me a fool, Celene? I know why you have come here,” Briala whispered. “You want me. Feigning chivalry now is pointless, Celene. Do you think—

“I am feigning nothing ,” Celene hissed, appalled at the implications of Briala’s voice, “do you think me a worse monster than I am? I would not take away your choice, Briala.”

“Then, why are you pushing me away, why are you putting all the choices on my side? What sort of game are you playing, Celene, that you would set me up like this? This is not only my choice to make. I will not walk into the slaughterhouse on implications alone.” 

Briala’s eyes burned a hole in her, pinned her in place, and left her vulnerable for whatever it was that Briala wished from her. 

Celene had no doubt that Briala wished for her, wanted her truly, desired to be with her — that she had never stopped even when she cursed Celene’s very existence. Now, if Briala just wanted Celene or whatever else there was that Celene could give her, that the empress did not know. 

What Celene did know was that Briala would only give in as much as Celene herself would. No more and no less. The empress had thought that her actions — that her being here, in this country and away from hers — would be enough. 

It, clearly, was not.

“My actions have been clear—”

“I would hear it from your lips,” Briala countered, “rather than having to guess.”

“I… Briala, I cannot promise you a kind road bellow us to walk all the twisted paths of our lives… Whatever promises I make—” I will break them, she thought, but could not bear to put the words to lips.

Briala did not seem to care. The orange dusk glow seemed to frame her, her vibrant colours only highlighted by the sun rays. When she reached out to cradle Celene’s cheek in her hand, it was as if some divine thing had managed to break through the impossible constraints of an immortal realm. Celene’s heart barely seemed to fit her chest. 

“I don’t need any promises.” Briala thumbed her cheek, so gently as if afraid to break her - them . “Just an understanding that any promises I make I may also not be able to keep.”

Trust Briala to say what Celene never could.

“If there are no promises to make…” Briala trailed off. Those eyes demanded equal commitment and compelled her to promise things she had no hope to promise. She dared not take her eyes from Briala’s. “Then, truly, what do you want, Celene?”

Forever , Celene thought. I want everything, forever . And, if Briala’s words were true — that she did want as Celene did, and Celene dared not doubt her — it meant that there was only one thing left to do. 

Celene searched around herself and Briala for something to carry out her plan. 

Briala noticed her looking. 

“Celene?”

“Find me a string; something long and strong.” Briala stared at her, gaze suddenly wary, as if she dared not believe her instinct. Celene absolved any doubts. “To tie our wrists.”

Briala nodded and set to search about as well. Celene cursed herself for having just the one ring beyond the ring that marked her as sovereign of Orlais. The one Mantillon had given her when she proved herself by murdering her household was… inappropriate, cruel almost. 

Something—… Anything else would have to do. 

Celene looked at the finger where her marriage band should be, the one she never wore and never would wear, with a somewhat contemplative hum. Her husband knew the arrangement, the agreement they had signed and swore to all those years ago, though she doubted he would take lightly to her tying herself to another. 

“Will this suffice?”

Celene turned to Briala, watching her brandish a large stem from a flower. It was a red orchid, Celene recognised it immediately. It had been Briala’s mother’s favourite and, as their gardener, Briala’s father had grown it in the estate’s garden at every chance. Celene’s mother had been a particular fan and her father had insisted on displaying them at any opportunity.

Briala seemed bewildered by her discovery as if she could not fathom that they had found something so… symbolic. Celene could hardly believe it as well.

“I think to use anything else might be a bad omen at this point,” Celene said, quietly. Almost reverently.

Whatever god was watching over them now… Celene breathed a silent ‘thank you’, willing the promise and compromise they made to last, to hold, to withstand all their joint lives together would mean.

They sat together, closed in by bookshelves on both sides, an arched window behind them and nothing in their sights but each other. The glow from the orange sky brightened the orchid to an almost impossible red.

“A kind road, you said,” Briala said, taking one end of the red orchid to twist it about her wrist carefully. “Then—” Briala offered the other end of the stem to Celene “—do you let me walk that road with you? Regardless of whether or not it’s a kind one?”

“I do.” Celene gracefully wound the flower around her wrist, the sweet scent of petals filling the air, and gestured for Briala to tie the knot. “You?”

“I do.”

Neither Celene nor Briala alone could give the last turn, instead they made the last knot together. It was… the flower was fragile, easy to break the stem or damage the petals, but they had handled it with care and managed to twist and turn it around without ruining it. It seemed beyond all possibility. Celene thought that, sometimes, the fates were surely laughing at them.

They sat, each lost in the enormity of what they had done. Unofficially, perhaps, but not to them.

Celene felt the movement of Briala rising, the creak of the fabric, the rush of wind, the smell of lavender and lemon and something that was simply Briala's that always left Celene dazed.

“Come.”

She looked up to see Briala standing in front of her, offering her hand.

Celene gently took it and let herself be guided through the seemingly endless corridors of the Archon’s Palace. If anyone saw them walking, hands clasped together, Celene would not be able to tell. A calm had taken over her, a certainty that seemed to transcend thought, and she was surprised to find that even if anyone could see them, she hardly cared to be bothered by it.

The doors to her ante-chambers were upon them, and Briala strode through them with a confidant step.

"Your Majesty," a voice came, low and concerned, as one of her attendants tried to speak to her, "the other diplomats are in a frenzy, perhaps we should-

“Leave.”

The attendants that had come with her and her champion, allowed to visit her again now that a deal had been struck and Briala was legally free, all stared at her, eyes askance.

“You heard the Marquise. We will meet tomorrow, alongside the diplomats.”

They nodded and left the ante-chamber to her bedroom. Briala pulled her towards the door, still holding her hand.  

Once inside, Briala pushed her against the door, trapping her with her arms in a cage that Celene did not ever want to leave. Briala’s breath was hot against her neck and, with a simple impulse to make herself reach her lips, Briala’s mouth was on hers.

Briala kissed her like there was no doubt that she was where she belonged; a single-minded, possessive, frenzied passion that had no match. She always had, Celene had realised in these last ten years. It was ravenous and wanton, hands gripping her hair and the side of her neck, as their lips tangled in a fervour of movement.

They parted, only for a breath, to gaze at each other.

Dark-brown on pale-blue, they searched for a trace of any doubt, a trace of misunderstanding, a trace of deceit, perhaps. There was none to be found.

“Hello,” Celene muttered, sounding nonsensical to any who might hear.

But she quickly realised that she did not; it all made perfect sense to her. It was as if she was seeing Briala again for the first time; it was a coming together; it was the beginning of the end. There would be many adventures, many fights and reconciliations. There would be time . Precious, precious time. And this was how they began again.

Briala smiled, understanding her with just one word. “Hi.” 

They grinned at each other with watering eyes and breathless giggling in elated disbelief.

And there was nothing left to say. 

They walked to where the bed was, her hand still in Briala’s, allowing herself to be guided. The bed was large, framed by an arched window that displayed a bright dusk of pinks and oranges and the endless sea that matched the sky. The sound of the waves crashing against the rocks beneath them was the only sound in the room.

Her dress slid off easily, falling to her feet with a simple flick of her wrist, and with Briala’s help she stepped over the heap at her feet. Briala’s eyes were dark, almost black, as they took her in for the first time in years. Celene noticed Briala’s eyes softening at the large scar on her navel and the fading stretch marks. Suddenly unable to think of the reason for them, Celene lifted Briala’s chin and bent down to kiss her.

A stifled moan left Briala’s throat and Celene shuddered in response. Her hands clasped Briala’s face and tangled in her curls, mouths never staying apart for more than a few seconds.

Celene grasped the white shirt tucked into Briala’s breeches, letting go of her lips just enough so she could pull the fabric over her head. Celene ran her hands slowly over Briala’s revealed skin as her mouth returned to hers, feeling old scars she knew were there and discovering new ones that would be tales to tell. Briala was still tending to her hair, gently twisting strands about her hand while the other gripped her throat.

Celene’s hands passed from her back to her sides, gripping Briala’s slender hips over the fabric of the pants. She pushed herself away from Briala’s mouth and, making sure Briala’s eyes were on her, slowly knelt in front of her, bringing with her the edges of her breeches.

Briala’s eyes were a black abyss, drawing her in to drown her in its depths. Celene, eyes still locked on Briala’s, helped her step out of the breeches, and afterwards, gently and slowly dragged her bottom lip from Briala’s knees to her stomach and up her throat to find her mouth again.

Briala pulled her by her nape, kissing her with abandon. The elf walked back to the bed, falling herself first into the mattress with Celene on top of her, both finally free of clothes and pretence.

There was a heedless need between them, throbbing in their heads as they joined together after so many years. Celene palmed Briala’s breast almost as if wishing to reach her heart, and Briala’s hand seemed to cradle her head, wanting to hold her in place, in the present, and not have her mind wander.

A feverish desire invaded Celene’s mind, a desperate want for something she had not dared want in years. Her mouth began to descend tasting soft skin with every drag of her lips, and she felt more than saw Briala’s feverish grunt and staggering thrust into Celene’s thigh.

It had been a while since she had done this, and longer still with Briala, but her mouth watered and grew dry all at once. 

Her teeth caught her lip for a moment and before she knew it she was already making her descent down Briala’s body, kissing down her neck, the hollow chalice of her collarbone, in between her breast; rasping her teeth over a hard nipple and then another, leaving purple marks on the skin over her heart and down her stomach.

She laid a splatter of kisses across Briala’s thighs, leaving blotches of red skin behind as she dragged her tongue to the apex of her thighs. Briala’s hand gripped her blonde hair, hard and gentle all at once, and it was all the encouragement Celene needed.

Her hands cupped Briala’s thighs, and the legs wrapped around her back, making space for herself between them, and finally pressed her tongue up through her in a long, flat stroke. Briala bucked against her, and Celene slid her hands from Briala’s thighs up her hips to secure her in place, her mouth never leaving its place.

She had forgotten the taste of her, tart and sweet and utterly able to dismantle her. Celene took her time, lavishing equal amounts of care on every inch of Briala her mouth could find, but deliberately ignoring the throbbing clit that demanded her attention. Briala writhed against her, trying to make an accidental contact to send her over the edge, and when Celene’s grip on her hips proved too secure, the elf resorted to wordlessly begging, trying to force Celene’s head through the grip of her hair.

A broken whine was what finally led her to give Briala everything she wanted and she finally sealed her lips over the little nub. She sucked and Briala almost shuddered away from her, overwhelmed by the sudden influx of feeling after so long without, but quickly set about writhing against her mouth, breathy moans catching helplessly in her throat. Celene released the bud, keeping her smile in check when Briala let out an almost desperate whine, and licked lower, faster and harder than before to gulp all the new slick that had come from Celene’s simple first taste. 

When she was satisfied, she lapped back to the clit and mercilessly sucked until Briala’s moans could only come through strangled breaths.

Briala’s lithe thighs suddenly snapped around Celene’s ears, but even so she could still hear the shuddering gasp that left her mouth. Briala’s body started to jerk, and she stiffened only to relax after. Celene lapped at the release, easing down the descent, hands gently thumbing the dips of her slender hips.

Briala’s incessant grip on her hair loosened, and Celene whined when her short nails rasped her nape. Briala propped herself up on an elbow, and she gently lifted Celene’s head to look her in the eyes.

“Let me—”

Celene reached up to kiss her, swift and greedy. All she wanted was to have Briala in her arms, falling apart with her name on her lips. Besides, there was no need for Briala to offer; Celene was wet enough already.

With a sudden inbound of strength she had seldom realised she possessed, she lifted Briala into her arms, and sat back, legs crossed as Briala settled on her lap with her legs tangled about her waist. Briala’s possible yelp was swallowed by her mouth, still wet with Briala’s release.

Briala moved against her, and dragged herself wetly against her stomach and thighs with an angry, eager whine. She grasped at Celene’s back, clutching at the very sinew of her, bringing their bodies almost unbearably close. Her hardened nipple brushed against Celene’s and Celene was lost, bucking against empty air, a desperate want gnawing at her. Briala took that as all the initiative she needed.

Her slender hand reached between their grinding bodies slick with sweat and want, and found Celene’s centre; wet and yearning for her. She let out a shuddering gasp, a keen from deep within her, and Briala let out a pleasing hum.

“Bria—,” Celene murmured against her lips, but Briala claimed them in a kiss that left no room for any words that might have left her mouth.

“Just touch me,” she said, eyes looking down at her bleary and dazed, between grasps of breath before she took her mouth once again.

Celene reached between their bodies, as Briala had done, and found her dripping and wanting as much as she herself felt. Briala let out a satisfied groan and clutched at her neck.

They set a rhythm, a trance that left them dazed as they moved against each other. Briala let go of her lips, her head tilting back so she could heave her breath to the air. Celene buried her face in Briala’s slick throat, panting in tandem with her.

There was a stillness in the air as the world came to a halt; waves stopped at their crest, and the sun seemed eternally bound to some tether, hanging over by a single line over the endless orange sea.

Celene lifted her head from the collarbone, nose and mouth dragging over Briala’s damp neck, heavy panting making their breasts meet and making her leave her breath on every inch of the tanned body in her arms. Celene dragged her lips over the line of Briala’s jaw as the elf started losing the rhythmic trance they had found, and crushed their mouths in one last savage kiss, deciding that if her final breath was against Briala’s lips, then it would surely be worth it. If their hands hurt to be crushed against their bodies, Celene would never care to know. Not when everything seemed to hang on a line as thin as the horizon and they were on the edge of tumbling over.

Briala’s spine curved like a bowstring, and Celene tilted forward to forgo relinquishing her mouth, to forgo relinquishing the hold she had on her, intent on holding on and ensuring that if there was a fall to be had, Briala would not tumble alone.

And then the waves broke over the rocks and the sun finally disappeared beyond the horizon. 

 

---

 

Briala felt her breath slowly return to normal, her chest no longer rapidly rising to collide against Celene’s own. Her hair was matted against her collarbone, where Celene was resting, and draped over her eyes due to being stuck to her forehead. 

Apropos of nothing, she started giggling, shaking and unable to stop. It was hardly novel; it happened whenever she and Celene returned to one another after a week or two of being unable to be together. And it had been twelve years this time. She felt free and tethered all at once. Hot from the sizzling heat of their joined bodies, and cold from the cooling sweat on her back. Thrilling ease at being where she was again. And it was, perhaps, that combination of opposites, that made her giggle like mad.

Briala let out a deep breath, still seated on Celene’s lap with her legs wrapped around her waist just enjoying the feeling of release, until a familiar sound drew her attention.

A masked sniffle.

The desire to laugh returned, this time with good reason.

If release made Briala’s head spin and left her giggling, Celene's reaction was the polar opposite. The empress grew sober, almost languid and, much to Briala's delight and Celene's embarrassment, unexpectedly weepy.

Briala glanced down at her shoulder, where Celene's head was buried at the spot where the shoulder met her neck. Celene must have felt her gaze down because she burrowed deeper into her shoulder to cover her face even more. Briala couldn't stop herself from laughing.

"There you are," she teased, reaching out with her palms to lift Celene's head. "I thought you had been replaced." She wiped the lone tear that had fallen down Celene's cheek. “Now I know it's you."

"Shut up," Celene whined, her voice quivering in an almost hiccup, and tried to wipe away the trail left behind with the back of her hand.

Briala chuckled again as she noticed Celene's pale face flushing a deep crimson, not from tears but from embarrassment. Briala kissed her cheek, smiling when Celene turned away with an exaggerated, disgusted expression. With the turn, she could see Celene’s pink ears and the way the blush spread to the top of her head and down her chest.

Briala reached out and ran the length of the pale, damp collarbone. “Oh, the curses of your pale skin.” Goose-flesh erupted where her hand passed, and the muscle of the thigh beneath her shook once. “How ever do you survive?”

Her teasing prompted a glare, dis-amused but bright all at once. “Shut up.”

The blush had spread further if that were possible. Flushed seemed too light an adjective to describe her; she was positively red at the moment.

“You know-” Briala felt her mouth widening in a grin, “-that colour almost makes you look like a rage demon.”

“ Tais-toi, ” Celene repeated, this time in a hiss, her eyes slithering to slits.

Pale blue and piercing, they spelt danger. Though, the red-rimming certainly dulled the effect.  

It hardly bothered Briala, red-rimming or not.

“You’re not helping your case,” she sang-song, truly obnoxious as only she could be to Celene. “You only bring out the Orlesian when you’re mad.”

The last thing she coherently saw was Celene’s lips twisting to a smirk before a sudden movement had her tumbling back first into the mattress. They grunted on impact, Celene chuckling at Briala’s cursing. With her back on the mattress, her legs wrapped around Celene’s hips and pale blonde hair colouring her vision, Briala could only spat away the hair in her mouth at Celene’s manoeuvring.  

Celene was shaking on top of her, laughing now, her head buried in the pillow where Briala laid her head. The empress relaxed her body; well and truly laying on her.

“How are you not hurting?” Briala groaned, tensing and then relaxing when her back gave a satisfying crack. “ Fenhadis, Celene.”

They were too old to actually tumble about the bed.

Celene turned her head towards her. “Shut up, you sat on me for an hour! I ought to be the one complaining.” Celene gave her temple a soft kiss to ease the words. “And dancing keeps me… agile.”

So Briala had seen, though she was surprised at the revelation.

“You’re doing it again?”

Celene had loved to dance when she was young; her sobriquet had come from an hours-long ballet performance that had won the hearts of any lucky enough to have seen her. In the years leading up to her ascension, as the schemes and machinations of Mantillon only grew, more and more Celene performed for her fellow nobles. Often gaining supporters at the end of each act. Yet, when Briala had returned from Felassan and wondered why Celene hadn’t continued the popular practice, Celene had merely laughed when she brought it up, a ruse to hide the hurt. Later, Celene had told her that it too was tainted by The Game, and she could not fathom how she could possibly continue to degrade something that had once given her so much joy.

“I had to do something to tire me out during the evenings.” Celene’s smile was gentle, clear of any accusation. “My usual method suddenly upped and vanished.”

Her method had been Briala. She had been the one who pulled Celene to bed almost every night, and every one of those nights they had made love until they were both too exhausted to move. She had been more than willing to put in that effort — which was not effort at all — for what she found to be her duty as Celene’s lover. The words were loving, and though lavished with longing, they were only meant to tease.

Briala took them in that spirit, surprised that she felt no anger at the words that she would have once taken as an accusation, even if that had not been Celene’s intent.

Still, the tease deserved retaliation.

Briala gently punched the arm to her right, grinning when Celene playfully pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes down at her.  

“And… are you tired now?”

Celene’s lips twitched to mask a coy smile. “Not in the least.”

Briala smiled back and pushed Celene away from her, coaxing her down to the bed on the other side. She swung her leg over her love, straddling her and, not waiting for her to settle, bent down to kiss her again, deep and with the intent of laying the very last of her breath against this woman’s lips.

Dawn was still a ways away, the tightness of the red orchid somehow still burned her wrist and the scent of its dazzling petals still lingered in her brain, and the promise that was etched into their skin gained new life, like the bud of a flower. 

 

---

 

Dawn still had not touched the sky, but Celene had been an early riser for years now. Even last night’s exhausting activities had not dampened years of careful routine.

Still, it had been some time since she had awakened with a woman in her arms. Blinking away the sleep, Celene opened her eyes to find Briala’s relaxed face lying next to hers. She thought she might well weep, but instead felt nothing more than relief at being where she was.

It was very nearly perfect.

Wrist burning from the tie and vow they had made the night before, Celene pressed her lips together to cull a smile as she traced Briala’s cheekbones, counting the endless freckles that scattered across her sunstone skin.

A groggy voice whispering close to her face made her lose count.

“Have you reached a final count?”

“One thousand and fifty-three.” Celene was quick to give a false number to Briala’s false question. “Give me a few more hours and I will be able to give you a final answer.”

Briala chuckled and burrowed closer to her, head tucked beneath Celene’s chin. “I am certain that your concentration is unparalleled.”

“Did I not sufficiently prove it last night?” Her voice was teasing, and her hand began to wander the sides of Briala’s hip and her lips began to trace Briala’s exposed ear, making the elf shudder. “Must I prove it again?”

Briala yawned, stretching with a content grin when her back cracked. “But didn’t you promise your diplomats that you would talk to them this morning?”

Celene groaned and buried her face in Briala’s curls. The body in her arms shook with unrestrained laughter, and Celene grunted displeased. Her hands now aware they would not enjoy a delightful journey now tangled in Briala’s curls, her fingers twisting about, rolling the strands.

“They are not mine,” Celene clarified. “I am here as a representative of the South, they are the diplomats that the other nations have sent.”

“They allowed you to lead the negotiations?”

Celene rolled her eyes. “Of course not, that would imply that they trust me. I am the head of the corps, but they are allowed to negotiate without me. There are things we all want, and I will lead those, certainly, but private dealings are occurring as we speak I am sure.”

Briala suddenly propped herself up on her elbow, making Celene have to have her back to the mattress.

“That is not very lucrative for you.” The elf peered down at Celene, dark eyes cunning and quick. “This operation is costing you more than it’s giving you.”

“I disagree.” Celene reached up for Briala, tucking an errant curl behind the tapered ear that caused such a fuss for everyone else. “I believe it is more than worthwhile.”

Briala seemed satisfied by the answer and plopped down, this time in her favourite position; head laying on Celene’s collarbone and an arm curled around her waist. Celene nearly snorted, but simply put her arm about her as well and played with the ends of her hair. Briala’s fingers wondered about her body, drawing invisible patterns that Celene could not discern. Briala had touched her plenty the night before, but in the coming morning the touch was less meant to arouse but rather to explore.

When Briala focused long on a scar on the left side of her stomach, Celene took it for the question it was.

“An accident with a horse,” Celene answered. “Leon was riding, but something spooked the mare. I managed to get him off the horse, but not before the stirrups took a bit of skin.”

Briala almost preened. “I never liked those beasts.”

Celene laughed, remembering the agonising riding lessons she had insisted Briala take when they had been young. Her hands started to wander too, to the new scars she had felt the night before. The tips of her fingers lingered on a large gash right at the bottom of her spine. It was similar to the ones Briala had from being whipped by one of Mantillon's as a child.

“A magister with a magical whip,” Briala said, nonplussed even as Celene flinched. “I am afraid that most of my new scars are not as light-hearted as yours. Though,” Briala’s fingers wandered to the large, horizontal scar on her navel crossed with fading stretch marks, “I doubt this one is any more light-hearted than mine.”

“My first pregnancy.”

Briala frowned. “First? I didn’t hear of it.”

“You would not have. It was complicated from the start, they believe the babes were in the wrong place to begin with, something about their positioning in my belly being wrong.”

Briala’s eyes softened. “Babes?”

“The family’s propensity for twins struck again, I am afraid.” Celene smiled gently as Briala winced. “It was fine, truly, for most of the duration, but we were advised to keep it under wraps.”

“What happened then?”

“The babes simply came early, three or four months, and with their position being wrong it compounded every complication.” Celene traced Briala’s naked shoulder, lost in a memory that had not afflicted her for a long time now. “The healers and midwives all agreed they needed to get them out, but I could not deliver them. Fortunately, Morrigan and Vivienne were in the palace, they agreed that cutting them out would be the safest option as any complication could be staved off by them. Though I protested, I do see that…” it hurt to say, but it was the truth, “that it was the right choice. The babes would not have survived being as small as they were.”  

“Did you… see them?

“A pair; a boy and a girl.” Celene made the note to add a visit to her children’s urns to their schedule. Once they reached Orlais, she wanted to go as soon as they arrived. “We quietly burned them and all that remained was the scar.” 

Celene paused for a second, recalling the other complicationsm before Briala's intake of breath drew her attention. Her lover appeared pale, skin almost waxen, and Celene soothed away any fear that might linger, deciding that if the need arose she would tell Briala of them. Celene had been in her place for a long time, constantly wondering if Briala was alive or if she had succumbed to any of the dangers in Tevinter.

“But your second went well, yes?”

“It went better , I suppose. It was a bit touch-and-go for a while there.” Celene smiled down at her when she noticed holding her breath too long. “Too narrow hips, the midwife said.”

She could see Briala swallowing away her worry for an almost decade-long possibility. There was a breath too long as she recomposed herself, enough for Celene to see her preparing a jest.

Briala nodded very quickly as if understanding the issue completely. “Always one of your major issues.”

“More like my mother’s issues.”

“True, you and your mother always were slips of a thing.” Briala’s hand curved around her now-rounder hips. “Tall, gangly, thin. Honestly, it is a miracle you can balance yourself at all.”

Celene rolled her eyes. “Oh, ha-ah, t’es très drôle aujourd’hui .”

“I am always funny,” Briala quipped back. “Though you have certainly changed. I don’t dislike it.”

If last night had been any indication, Briala was positively fixated on the changes pregnancy had wrought on her body. Celene decided to keep the observation to herself, for now, to be used later whenever Briala mocked her for whatever reason.

It left her giddy, to be able to build an arsenal for a possible future bickering with Briala.

“I have heard that some moods during pregnancy can be brutal, that you are particularly needy. I remember Adrien's wife...” Briala continued, her fingers still gently passing over the scar on her navel. “Any anecdotes?”

The words, unbidden, made her tense.

“Did I hurt you?” Briala asked immediately, taking her hand away, but she must have seen the flush of her cheeks.

"No, no," Celene soothed. "It is just that— Well, not all pregnancies are the same."

Briala peered down at her, eyes narrow. "No, I suppose not... But there's something you are not telling me."

"There, ah." Celene licked her lip. "There might have been another woman."

Briala knew Celene was not exactly the type to indulge in affairs simply for desire's sake. That if she had taken another woman to her bed then there had been something more than simply carnal attraction. Well, that would have been Briala's guess at any rate, from what she knew Celene to be. The empress was not entirely sure it was wrong either, but her affair with Odette had been... so entirely different from her relationship with Briala. 

“Ah.” The word was not cold, but Briala's tone did lose warmth. “Who was she?” Celene was poised to open her mouth, to let her know that Odette was truly no one to compare herself to, but Briala stopped her. “Nevermind, I don’t want to know. Was she the only one?”

The words were soft. Briala was not truly jealous, Celene did not think, but there had always been a glimmer of possessiveness for her. Even if Celene had never been one stray, even if only left with a memory of her.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “It hardly meant anything.”

“Truly?” Whatever cloud there had been in her eyes seemed to disappear. “Were there truly no others?”

“Throwing themselves at me? Yes. Especially after Leon and my duty with Damodar was through, but there was no one else, no. You know how complicated it is, how much trust it takes, and after Leon… I had someone else to focus on.” Celene shrugged, feeling a bit embarrassed to have such a limited, narrow view of affairs of her bed. “It did not help matters that most were simply looking for more power.”

“It need not be only power,” Briala protested, reaching out to trace her nose and the contour of her lips. “You are a beautiful woman.”

Celene rolled her eyes. “I am certain it did not hurt, yes.” She looked at Briala, at her irreverent glee, and her alluring eyes and that magnetic personality. “You, on the other hand, had your pick of them.”

Briala did not even deign to feel the slightest bit embarrassed. “Perhaps.” That was a yes. Her eyes closed, satisfied. “Some of them are even joining me again, to be part of my household.”  

That told Celene all she needed to know about the affairs; insignificant, temporary, fun.

“I bet you I can point to the majority of them.”

One of Briala’s eyes opened, the other staying forcefully shut, and it was impressive that she could glare with such intensity with only one eye and still so muddled with drowsiness.

“No, you couldn’t.”

Celene was certain that she could. “Yes, I could.”

Briala’s eyes were fully open, both now glaring, staring her down as if she had just laid the most grievous of insults at her feet. Celene grinned; it was an unparalleled joy to be playing games with Briala again.

“A bet, then,” Briala said, voice arrogant just as Celene so loved in her. “You guess all—

“I said ‘most’.”

“Fine! You guess—” Briala paused to think “—eighty per cent of my affairs and you win.”

She could do eighty, but she was never one to pass on bargaining with Briala. She pressed herself up against Briala, her mouth almost touching her lips. Briala’s eyes veered towards her lips right on cue.

“Fifty.”

Briala snorted, moving her mouth away from her. “What happened to ‘majority’?”

Celene shook with laughter, surprised. “Fifty is the majority.”

“It is half.”

“Not according to the mathematicians at my university. Did you know—”

“No. No. Absolutely not. It’s far too early for one of your niche diatribes. Give me a break,” Briala whined, making Celene laugh. “I will allow sixty.”

“Fine. Fine. Sixty, as a compromise.” Celene patted her hair sweetly. “And what happens when I win?”

“ If ,” Briala corrected with a flimsy glare. “If you win… I will endeavour to perhaps—” Briala’s face twisted into a scowl “— be mildly considerate towards Cyril. On occasion. Once a year, maybe.”

“Please,” Celene started, sardonic, “do not strain yourself.” She sighed but accepted the peace offering. “And if you win?”

“When I win, you give me the Rosier Estate in the Dales.”

Celene had already been planning to give her one. Couronne du Soleil was a massive estate in the Heartlands, traditionally given to the emperor’s mistress. Or at least, it had been until Etienne I and all subsequent emperors had ceased the practice. The estate was known for its exquisite wine, said to be an aphrodisiac to those who cared to taste. It had been out of production for almost two centuries now, and Celene hoped Briala would resurrect it; if for no other reason than to make a hefty amount of coin with it. 

But if Briala wanted an estate in the Dales, Celene could well give her that as well.

“Very well, I accept the terms.”

Briala offered her hand, looking at her expectantly. “Deal?”

“Deal,” Celene said before bypassing Briala’s offered hand and accepting the agreement with a fervent kiss.

They did not need to be at the meeting for a few hours more, and there were things much more pleasant to do than talk of her old, best-forgotten scars.

Chapter 8: Daisy I

Summary:

Daisy:
loyal love,
gentleness,
innocence

Briala blinked away sleep from her eyes, groaning as her neck screamed in pain. She tried to move, but a crick in her neck and shoulders made her hiss loudly. Her muscles felt languid and Briala berated herself; she was not exactly young enough to strain herself every night after hunching over a desk the whole day. 

“Perhaps you should stop clinging to me like a monkey as you sleep.” A cool voice came from near the window. “Then your back would not hurt so.”

She opened her eyes to come face to face with a familiar sight; Celene, in her robe, standing in front of a window, watching the sunrise with a cup of steaming hot tea in her hand. Ignoring the smile that threatened to overwhelm her, Briala glared, ignoring how, if her blurry eyes were anything to go by, it was as terrifying as a newborn kitten. 

Celene’s quiet laugh didn't let her forget.

Mildly miffed, Briala said, “You snore now.”

Celene’s affronted stare and appalled gasp were hilariously incompatible with the serenity she was trying to pass, and it made Briala throw her head back to bark a laugh. Celene’s pale eyes narrowed before they glinted with a wicked stare that she tried to hide behind a feigned careless shrug. 

“Yes, well, you drool.”

Briala smirked. “I have always drooled over you.”

“I preferred it when it was metaphorical rather than literal.”

Briala chuckled. “Touché.” She paused, just long enough. “If it bore even a sliver of truth.”

Celene, bereft of any words that would not sound like a lie, resorted to sticking her tongue out. 

Briala chuckled and stretched her muscles on the bed, groaning as it loosened some of her discomfort. She rose from the bed, twisting her nose at the way sweat had clung to her body.

Briala ran her hand through her curls, dragging them away from her forehead, and headed for the ever-necessary bath. Autumn might be at its peak, but even still humid heat lingered in the air. 

Shivering in the cold bath, Briala pictured Val Royeaux.

Orlais would be teeming with gusts of wind so powerful that it would knock them over. Briala longed for a sliver of wind that was so scarce here.

Cleaned of all the sweat, Briala robed herself in the garments that people had become accustomed to seeing her in; a gold and black long, loose gown that showed her status as a noble visiting Tevinter. In Orlais, she would have other colours, certainly; ones that matched her lands better, that showcased just how rich the Dales could be. Here, in Tevinter, however, the combination resonated well and drew the ire and attention of the Magisters who were most opposed to her initiation and participation in the negotiations about the trade-and-military agreement with the South.

Coming out of the bathroom, Briala spied Celene sitting at the table for breakfast, she too was already dressed — in white and silver, as all other diplomats were — in Tevinter design.

The drapery and light fabric made her seem as flowing water. She considered asking Celene to make it the style of the current attire in Orlais, but the dress was simply too light for the cold and windy weather that Val Royeaux boasted most of the year. 

Briala allowed herself the simple pleasure of enjoying the attire here, resigning herself to the large Orlesian dresses that would eventually replace it.

There laid an assortment of food at the table that was far too much for them to eat, just as she’d wanted. The ones serving her household were well compensated — they were not and would never be slaves — but they shared barracks and rooms with those who were.

More food would go a long way to create ties. Ties that Briala would exploit later, naturally, but a good deed nonetheless.

Briala approached the table, smiling as she noted the colourful arrangement of daisies that centred the table. Celene tilted her head to receive a kiss — on the side of her head, away from the makeup — before returning to the newspaper and her cream-filled pastry.

She had just sat when the doors to the private dining room opened, revealing the cook who had prepared the spread.

“Your Majesty.” Alice, a tiny slip of a thing despite her forty years, squeaked slightly. “Marquise.”

Alice was not surprised to find her in the empress’s private chambers, having a private breakfast, enjoying a private moment sitting so close together. It had become commonplace in the last two weeks since that night after tying their wrists together. Briala had been given her own private chambers, the position Briala occupied now was to be of no doubt to anyone… but, truth be told, even if Briala’s life depended on it she couldn’t tell a single detail of the room given to her. 

Briala nodded, acknowledging the elf. Celene starred, quiet and making a show of tasting the pastry. Alice gulped loudly, making Celene and Briala trade looks.

“I—I—” Briala had never known Alice to stammer. “I mean, is everything to… to your liking?”

Celene hummed. “Quite, yes. These pastries—”

“Croissants,” the blonde elf interrupted, unaware of the fact that Celene could very well demanded her head on that alone. “Lemon Tart croissants.” Alice’s jittery dark eyes turned to Briala. “Yes, lemon tart croissants.”

“They are very good,” Celene finished her sentence, finally, and did not even give the other blonde a pointed look for the interruption. The pastries must be very good. “Here—” Briala, noting the soft tone, turned immediately towards Celene, ignoring Alice’s quiet gasp, “—taste it.”

Celene was offering her a piece of the croissant, the beige cream dripping slightly into her fingers. Briala reached out and tasted the offered food. It was good. It was really good even. Why had Alice never done this for her before?

Briala swallowed the savoury treat. “They are very good.” Briala reached for her napkin, dabbing away at crumbs she knew she had not left behind. “Alice, the position I am offering you… Is that what you want?”

Let this be it, she privately begged. I can’t deal with more tastings. If I’m having so much trouble with these low-risk positions, then what will happen to the more high-risk ones?

“Yes!” the enthusiasm was undeniable, “Briala, I have wanted nothing more than to bake since I was a girl.”

Briala smiled. “Congratulations then, Alice. You will be the head of the pastry chefs. Make sure you hire a good staff.” 

“An excellent appointment,” Celene commented lightly, having already returned to her newspaper. “Only one-hundred-and-three more to go.” Then, under her breath, so only Briala could hear, she mumbled, mirthful, “how many other women will come, I wonder.”

Briala leaned into her, waving off Alice with a nod and a smile. “Shut up.”

For the past two weeks, every time a new woman came in to serve them or talk about joining Briala, Celene would stare. Inauspicious to them, but Briala could see her thinking. As luck would have it, two or three women that now occupied her growing household, Briala had dallied with. Maybe more… maybe a half-a-dozen.

And Celene had picked them all, somehow. 

For Alice, Briala had reached out to her before this final meeting to make sure they did not seem overly intimate - even if their affair had ended years ago - and Briala even kept her gaze steady but not too interested in Alice. She didn’t want to give Celene any reason to even suspect that-

“Her,” Celene said as soon as Alice left the room, eyes not even lifting from the newspaper. “Definitely her.”

Briala groaned and let her forehead rest on the table while Celene let out a cackle that she had the mercy to swiftly conceal behind a sip of tea.

 

---

 

There was a lovely spot in the Archon’s Palace that Celene almost envied. 

Just below a balcony, in between the columns that gave it life, with the same view but hidden from the piercing sun. The little spot was turned away from the city and had a view of the expansive and impossibly blue Nocean sea. A view that stretched out to the horizon — ‘incredibly useful for the military,’ Sabran had mumbled one morning when Celene had dragged her poor Champion to accompany her — and filled her morning with a delightful breeze. 

Her chambers back home held a similar view, but the blue waters of the river that ran through Val Royeaux were always framed by the large, ever-expanding city that Celene commanded. 

While Celene would miss — and did miss — the view of her balcony, it was nice to have an uninterrupted view of the horizon and the sunrise and sunset. 

Celene leaned back against her chair, sure that no one would come to this side of the palace at this hour, and breathed in the salty brine of the sea, letting the breeze wash over her in a soothing rhythm.

The negotiations were almost through and all that remained were the final preparations for the final vote in the Senate. There were considerations to be had and while Celene was not happy with the way things had turned out — she thought they were all giving Tevinter too much — she was happy to be going home and putting this country behind her and sending it to the recesses of her mind. 

She sighed pleasantly in the solitude beneath the balcony.

Everyone always preferred to be on the balcony proper, in full view of the sun. Celene was all too happy to hide in the shade and shadows when left to her own devices. 

Then, she heard the door to the balcony above slamming close.

“What do you think you’re doing, Arnold?”

Elizabeth? Celene almost preened at the thought of getting some information on the Nevarran and Ferelden ambassadors; they were being terrible instigators and delaying the process as much as they could.

“I’m doing exactly what we agreed to, Liz.” 

Arnold’s voice… Celene had never heard his voice sound like that; it was almost soft, but there was an undertone of steel beneath. Interesting. 

“We didn’t agree to this!” Elizabeth hissed, just loud enough for Celene to hear. “You are getting a little too cozy with her.”

Arnold laughed. “Jealous, darlin’?”

Celene blinked at the obvious mockery of his tone. Clearly, this… ‘relationship’ was running its course if this level of bitterness was reaching these heights. 

“Concerned.”

The word came through teeth so gritted that Celene was surprised that they didn’t crack. Elizabeth was clearly over what it was they were scheming… or maybe she was getting cold feet. Whatever it was, it sounded like something to exploit. Perhaps not here in Tevinter but somewhere else, later. Celene chewed very carefully on a pastry that Alice had left in her and Briala’s chambers. 

“With what?”

“Maybe,” Elizabeth said, still clenching her teeth, “at the fact that you are getting too cozy with the Tevinter Magisters.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t be getting close to them, if we could get anywhere on our own.” Arnold bit back. “We can’t get a foothold in this conversation, and we don’t really have any leverage to actually do anything.”

Elizabeth sighed. “Maybe if you’d have some patience and not aligned yourself with the first person who volunteered their help.”

“The last Senate vote is in three days!” Arnold shouted a whisper. “Of course I had to do something. With that knife-ear and the empress pulling strings everywhere they go, they will probably ally themselves with Tevinter, leaving us in the dust only to crush our countries at their earliest convenience. If not sooner!”

Celene’s eyebrow rose quite without meaning to. Interesting that they thought that was their plan. Celene almost laughed; she really had no intention of doing such a thing. 

It was always amusing when people conferred any sort of meaning to her meaningless intentions. 

“Arno, honestly.” Elizabeth seemed at the end of her rope. “There is another way to—,”

“We have to delay the vote.”

Now, that was an idea.

If they were worried about Tevinter and Orlais aligning, then it would behove Nevarra and Fereldan to delay that alliance as soon as they could. It would not work, of course, since they would need the majority of the votes in the Alliance to go their way, but it was rather unlikely that. Antiva, the Anderfels, and Rivain wanted this solved as soon as possible… It looked like there was nowhere for Arnold and Elizabeth to run. Most of the Magisters were also eager to see this deal done, and those that were not were a scant minority that dwindled every day as the Qunari pressed further into Tevinter territory.

Celene considered leaving, but then thought better of it. While irrelevant to her plot, it was always nice to remain informed. 

“That will never happen,” Elizabeth said.

“Then, perhaps, we should listen to Magister Livia.”

Elizabeth let out a gasp. “You’ve been talking to Livia?”

“Interested now?” Celene heard the smirk in Arnold’s voice. “Let me tell you about her plan. You must know about her and Curiatius, yes?”

“That pompous ass, yes, I know,” Elizabeth huffed. “She’s far too clever for him.”

“Yes,” Arnold said, grinning. “Yes, she is. So, imagine my surprise when…

Celene hummed as she listened to Arnold lay out the interesting — if irrelevant — intricacies of the Senate and sipped her tea. 

Well, well, well, she thought with a grin, I must come out of my chambers more often. 

 

---

 

Briala left the Antivan diplomat’s office trying to mask a smirk.

Everything was going according to plan, finally. 

The Antivan diplomat had been extremely easy to sway, though considering the state of his country nowadays it would’ve been foolish for him not to understand the state of things. Rivain had also fallen in line, which all but clenched Briala’s victory. 

She really was far too good at this. 

The Marquise of the Dales smiled at a scowling magister as she went on to the chambers she blatantly shared with Celene, knowing that it was a cause of consternation for many of the Magisters in Tevinter… and likely some of Celene’s private Orlesian entourage. Briala hadn’t made herself very dear in Orlais, prior to her departure. It would change… eventually, but for now, she had her work to do.

Briala thought she would feel guilty about what she was doing. She did not. It was nothing personal, after all, it was all politics. Celene would understand, she knew, because her empress had before. It was not Briala's best tactic. Or, rather, it was one of the best ways she could think to actually influence the vote. She didn’t, and wouldn’t, have a voice in the incoming procedures.

Briala pushed the door to the living room of her and Celene’s chambers and, despite not feeling guilty, Briala eyed the table where she and Celene had their meal together with a pleasant expression. 

The daisies on the table, her empress’s favourite flower, did look lovely this morning.  

Briala looked at the room, confident that their meeting would go on unbothered as this was Celene’s time to go have tea underneath the balcony she so liked.

Felassan was leaning against the column of the room, his attire that of the same make as hers, black and gold that suited him well. His white hair was shining, defiant of all the things that he should be seen as. It was… reassuring to see him here, beside her. 

"Felassan."

He bowed. “Marquise.” 

Behind him, there were three other elves. 

One was a tall man, built like a champion from years of lumbering in Orlais after serving a Chevalier and a decade of working for Solas, he had dark hair and darker eyes but his skin was as pale as moonlight even in this country that tanned even Celene. The scar across his face was rather characteristic, and if not for that, he could’ve been an excellent fit for a spy.

The other were two women; one was Alexandra, wife of Adrien, with hair as dark as an abyss and skin just as richly dark. In her arms was a small child, her son with Adrien, just over one-year-old. The last person in the room was Yvonne, honey-blonde, with sharp hands that wielded daggers as fiery as her temper. 

These were to be her inner circle, alongside Adrien. 

Well, rather, she was trying to evaluate Yvonne, as the young woman showed much promise and Briala was rarely wrong about people — or their worth. The others, however…. Briala would feel hobbled without them, much like Celene would without Colombe, Couteau, and Fleur. Perhaps, she considered, even Cyril.

“Well done,” she said to them as a greeting. “The Antivan delegation is going to raise their concerns tomorrow when the Senate reconvenes.” 

Alexandra smirked. “Adrien has been slaving over that information for a few weeks. Glad it came in handy.”

Briala noticed the teapot boiling in the corner. Not very dissimilar to the one that Celene had. Briala reached for it and served herself some contents… It wasn't tea, but rather coffee. Briala sighed into the hot beverage. She very much preferred it to tea. 

“Yes, now we have to make sure that the rest goes our way.”

The Senate wouldn’t allow the dissolution of slavery wholesale, but the agreement that they had reached was poor. Everyone could see that, especially the Southern nations that had come in good faith. It wouldn’t do. The Senate had only agreed to stop selling slaves to certain sects of the population, but even those sects could acquire slaves in a myriad of other ways. 

The proposal was a complete and utter joke.

Briala wouldn’t stand for it, wouldn’t leave the country until some more meaningful compromise was made.

“Alexandra, let Adrien know that he can start looking for people to fill my household back in Orlais. You can take over his duties?”

Alexandra bowed her head. “Of course, Briala. It will be done.”

Briala nodded and let herself relax; Alexandra and Adrien were excellent at their jobs, and she knew she could trust them with anything. 

She turned to Cahir, as competent as Alexandra and Adrien, but he didn’t really have the same ease with people that they did; he was the quiet sort, someone who had served a Chevalier who had used Cahir for training. Briala wanted him to be her Champion — perhaps, also, her chief military advisor. For that, Briala would need him to do more than simply guard her. 

“Cahir, I need you to follow Magister Livia and her posse, there is something going on there and I want to know if they’ll go how we want to.” She raised her hand to stop his protests. “I know you had other ideas, but this is what must happen.”

Cahir grunted. “It shouldn’t be happening at all, Briala,” he said, voice steady and dark eyes piercing. “I should be with you at all times if you really want me to be your champion.”

“I don’t need you to protect me, Cahir. What I need you to do is protect my interests.”

“You have many.”

Too many, she heard in his tone.

And many he didn’t agree with. Yes, Briala could read between the lines. She had often sent him on missions that he hadn’t enjoyed; she remembered a particular one to Orlais, on the night before Celene’s wedding. He was bound to know where some of her concerns lay.

He wasn’t wrong — Celene was a concern of hers — but needed to know that she still held their cause in high esteem. 

“I do, yes, but none dearer than the one that protects what we have gained, not what we may gain.”

He evaluated her words and her, and bowed his head. “It will be as you say, my lady.” He drew himself tall. “Your interests shall be protected. I will shadow the Magister.”

Briala felt the pouch at her side grow heavy. It would certainly help him, she thought as reached to grasp the leather pouch at her waist, and if anyone finds it on me… Yes, Cahir would be best to keep it. She couldn’t be the only one that held power here, it couldn’t all depend on her.

“Here,” she said, tossing him the sack.

Cahir caught it easily. “What is it?”

“Helleborus.” 

Felassan let out a hiss, and Cahir’s eyes widened. Helleborus was part of the flora of Arlathan; a plant that could easily induce hallucinations or drug someone in its raw form. It was now extinct, with the only remnants of it being jealously guarded by Solas, who used it in some towns to ease their passing as his movement bombed them out of existence. He had said that he wanted to give them peace in their last moments; Briala had almost found that noble. 

She had stolen some of it, interested in its properties as any bard should of all substances. She passed it onto Cahir, both as a promise and a submission; a promise that she would trust him, and an acquiescence to protect herself. 

Cahir — her Champion — nodded and pocketed the sack. 

Behind her, Briala felt Felassan titter on the edge of an argument, but her mentor remained silent. Briala, then, turned her attention to Yvonne.   

“And you, Yvonne?”

The blonde fidgeted, uncomfortable. “I’ve been sticking to Arnold’s entourage, but it’s slow going. I don’t really have anything to tell you today.”

Yvonne reported twice a week and her role was one of the information gatherer in Arnold of White River’s household. She should brim with information from a diplomat’s household… especially one like Arnold’s. 

“Do they suspect you?”

Yvonne shook her head. “No. I don’t think so. They are simply slow to trust.”

Briala considered the words. Yes, it was possible, but it was the third week that Yvonne appeared empty-handed. It wasn’t often that Briala was wrong about people and where their uses lay, but perhaps she had been wrong with this assessment. 

“Very well, you go back for another week, but I think we should start looking for some other role for you.”

Yvonne’s eyes shone. “Briala! No, please! I want to help!”

Briala reached out to her, soothed her by gently touching her arm. The touch seemed to calm Yvonne as she released a breath, and Briala smiled at her.

“You will help, Yvonne,” she assured her, “but it must be somewhere where you fit.”

Briala had never had a role she didn’t fit. Either as Celene’s handmaiden, spymaster, or marquise… She was trained for that, almost engineered to those roles by the challenges of her childhood. Even her role with Solas… only a vestigial of her morality had strained against the restraints that Solas had tried to put on her. 

She would ensure all her people would have the same chance to do what they excelled at. 

“Now, all of you, keep to your assignments. The Senate meeting will be in three days. After that, we will reconvene and dole out a plan for whatever happens.”

“Briala.” 

Came the three voices from the bowed heads before Cahir, Alexandra, and Yvonne left the room, leaving her and Felassan alone.

“Oh, this is going great.”

Briala sighed at the less than helpful comment coming from Felassan. “At least Yvonne has been eager to help,” she said, then turned to Felassan, lifting her eyebrow. “And what have you been doing today?”

He seemed unamused by her implications. 

"Perhaps I should ask, da'len, why have you been sneaking out?"

Briala hid her suddenly stiff spine. "What do you mean?"

"There is nothing going on with you these days? You have nothing to do with what I saw today, near the market. It was surprising, I admit." He leaned closer. "After all, I did not think you had it in you. Such a thing to protect, such a thing to fear having taken away from you." 

The words lingered in the air and a frosty chill raced Briala’s spine, clutching at each nerve and spreading through the length of her body without prompt; like a second skeleton, slipping in between the cracks of her muscles and blood, crashing into her setting bones with a hammer that left her aching in every single inch of skin that dared to breathe.

Felassan whistled low, amused by her silence. "What will you tell your empress?"

Briala sneered. "Enough. You are stirring the pot in your favour now."

"In your favour, Briala." Yellow eyes, bright as a flame. "Do not forget that. In your favour, always, now." 

Briala sighed and nodded, knowing that she was being led on by the fear that she felt about this particular secret being found out before the time was right. This would need to be handled carefully, with more finesse than Briala did not want to admit she feared she did not possess. 

No. 

The timing was not right, it would have to be postponed. Until after the negotiations were through and she could better control the narrative of how to tell all of this to Celene.

“Very well, Harhen, if this is all in my favour, then you will not mind overseeing the… situation for me.”   

Felassan smiled and gave a flourish bow. “As you say, Marquise.”

 

---

 

If people called Orlais opulent, then it was because they had never seen the inside of Tevinter’s Senatorial Chamber. 

It was massive, a domed roof that dwarfed them all beneath all the splendour and gold. The ceiling was masterful, depicting battles Celene had only heard of in history books so old that they needed special care to be handled; an amazing show of colourful tiles painting together a picture of what Tevinter was. 

It was impressive, Celene would gladly admit, but it was crushing, overbearing, and Celene was left wondering if people left her throne room with the same feeling. 

The room was brimming with magisters. 

‘Fuller than it had been in centuries,’ a slave had muttered quietly as they passed him to enter the chambers. 

Likely, if Celene were to guess, it was because Tevinter was still fighting a losing war with the Qunari and the city flooded with refugees.

Whispers followed behind her — as they always did, even here — when she entered, her ivory mask laden with moonstone and amethysts glittering in the sunlight. She consoled herself that this would likely be the last time she was here, the final vote of the magisterium was about to take place. 

Celene covertly arranged her thin, gold and purple robes with a gentle tug, making sure that every stitch was perfectly aligned. The robe’s small train fluttered behind her as she walked, and Celene relished in being in her house colours again, instead of the stark white they had made her wear.

And she could finally be on her way to Orlais, to be with her countrymen again and her son at last.

Four-months away from him was an ache to her heart that left her dizzy. This is for him, she reminded herself. For him, and Briala, and Orlais. It was for everything she held dear; she would weather years of it, if she must. It did not mean it did not make her weary, however.

Sabran, ever dutiful at her side, pulled the empress’s chair at the centre of the table while diplomats from the rest of the nations spread out from her to the wings. 

The Alliance, as the Magisters had taken to calling them, and all of their attendants filled a small portion of the chambers, and Celene was reminded of how isolated they were here. 

As the only monarch, she was afforded the brunt of scrutiny and was the shield behind which every other nation made their backroom dealings. Hopefully, that would not make her life harder in the future.

A hand on her right arm made her turn to smile at the woman beside her.

Annamaria of Dairsmuid was the diplomat of Rivain to Orlais and Rivain had deemed her worthy of accompanying her here too. After all, with Damodar as her consort, Orlais and Rivain were tighter than ever before and, outwardly, their wants appeared to match. 

Celene knew it was not such. What the nobility wanted was usually not what the population desired, and it was more so in Rivain. The royal family was far too removed from the population, they did not even worship the same gods, and while they might be aligned with Celene, she very much doubted that Seers would see it that way.

The Senate Chamber grew quiet as Archon Tilani swept into the room, and they rose to greet her and sat down as she began the proceedings.

“Right. Let’s get on to business, then.” Just a few more days to say their goodbyes and Celene would be home again. Just a few more now. “For the last time,” the room was electric, eager to get this almost years-long, if one counted the time they spent before Celene even set foot in Tevinter, negotiating over with, “are there any underlying concerns?”

“Yes.”

Celene controlled every muscle not to turn to Annamaria, to screech in frustration and demanded an explanation. Instead, she bore the brunt of the Magisters’ rising tempers, sneaking only a look at her side when the Magisters moved their ire to each other.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she noted the note scrawled on the margin of a paper in a cipher of Rivaini origin that Damodar and Annamaria had taught her as they taught Leon. 

Many approached for slavery. We offer a lower rate and they plan to use it to extend the slave market while using our armies to bear the brunt of the war. Forceful incursions to Rivain to ‘free’ mages and elves. Hoping to convert us and attack the Qunari settlement there.

Well, talk about heavy-handed. 

Celene paused to think as the whispers grew into shouts. She doubted Maevaris knew of such plans, but she also knew that it took little for an Archon to find themselves dead under mysterious circumstances.  

This would open negotiations again, which Celene was not entirely opposed to. They were giving Tevinter too much, she easily conceded to that, and with no idea of what else the others had promised to give, it was possible that they were giving Tevinter a rather enormous advantage. 

Celene cursed herself again for allowing this arrangement. It would have been better if someone got to negotiate for the South as a whole, but they trusted each other as much as sheep trusted dragons.

Celene just wished she could negotiate from the comfort of her nation. 

“The Alliance has come to a conclusion,” Annamaria continued. Using the word ‘Alliance’ was suspect, as it put this directly under Celene’s purview, being the head of the diplomatic corps. “We have conferred with one another and decided that this treaty should be more equal, Archon. An equal give and take, rather than one doing the taking.” 

The empress had to cull a surprised snort; she had not thought that Annamaria would serve her wish on a silver platter. She was speaking of Tevinter taking yes, but she was also speaking of the fact that backroom dealing had gone on.

If this went on, it would mean that she would have more authority over all the negotiations. Granted, she was bound by the oaths she had taken, by the things she had sworn on, but this was a better way to negotiate. 

Even if it meant that she would have triple the work. 

Everything would need to be checked and double-checked, she would need to confer with every diplomat every day… but it meant that Tevinter could hide nothing from them anymore and pounce on the openings they had left for them. 

“And,” Annamaria continued, and Celene readied herself for the dagger she knew was coming, “we cannot allow slavery to continue to fester in Thedas.”

The room erupted in shouts and screeches of protest and acclamation in equal measure. The factions that had so cleanly worked together in Tevinter to get a deal out of the Alliance crumbled into their own sides again.

Remarkable, really, how easy allies turned on each other. 

Celene turned slightly to watch Briala out of the corner of her eyes. Seated behind her for the formal vote, Briala’s face showed nothing, but Celene could see the satisfaction masked in those two dark eyes. 

Celene shifted her gaze from her, allowing her lips to smile at the magisterium now. 

“Order. Order!” Maeveris' temper was at its end, Celene could see her drained face. “Does Orlais stand with this, your imperial majesty?”

She could let Annamaria hang out to dry. She could say that Rivain’s demands were not sufficient to drag the entire continent into a standstill. She could do that. But she would not. There was much to gain, and someone, right here in this hall that stood on nigh two-thousand years of slavery, had made a stand; all Celene had to do was defend the hill and present the united front that they were not. 

“We do, yes.” Shouts rose again, and Celene was certain a spell or two flowed in the chamber. “As does the rest of the Alliance.”

Every magister rose to their feet, shouting at their table, screeching again as they bought her her little white lie. It was true that the south stood in defiance of slavery — or rather an increased power to Tevinter, if nothing else — but it was hardly true that they stood together. 

She would have her own damage control to make, she was sure, but Annamaria had raised the prospect and it was simply too good to pass up.

“What is going on?” she heard behind her as Annamaria and the diplomat from Ferelden traded hushed whispers beside her. “Briala, what is—

“Hush.” Briala’s voice was harsh. “Let me hear.”

Annamaria, turned from a flushing Fereldan, continued, loud enough to drown the screams. “The fact of the matter, Magisters, is that you stand alone. These are our terms, the line has been drawn.”

It was never that simple; the line would be moved over and over, but it was a good line for them to defend. 

The Antivan diplomat fell in line remarkably quickly, presenting the new demands he had so Celene could negotiate for him. It almost seemed planned. They too wished for a speedy resolution, hoping that Tevinter armies would bolster their own war against the Qunari, though really the Tevinter were more likely to stay afterwards… a tactic Orlais had often employed alongside the Imperium. The Anderfels delegation soon did the same, and Annamaria merely gave Celene her already filled list. 

Only Ferelden and Nevarra remained; they would never give her control, but neither would they treat alone. Four against two; they had all agreed to defer to the majority.

It only remained to see if they would.

Celene evaluated the damage of their loss of support; it was not like Ferelden and Nevarra bore the bulk of this alliance. Orlais and the Free Marches bore the brunt of it; between soldiers and grain. And the Free Marches had refused to enter the negotiations, offering only a flat number that could not be exceeded. So really, it was five against two. Ferelden and Nevarra were only there to inflate numbers. 

Not that Celene would ever express such a thing publicly.

She relaxed back into her chair, not completely of course, as Annamaria tried to convince Ferelden and Antiva tried to persuade Nevarra. Celene knew they were not opposed to delaying the vote, they were opposed to her taking over the negotiations. It would be hard work to convince them to give her the authority, but that was an internal issue they would resolve later. 

Likely, Celene thought grimly, with many a late meeting. She shelved that problem to the back of her mind and focused on the present. Leaned back, she could hear Briala and her entourage speaking.

“Are they really-

“No,” Briala’s voice landed like quiet thunder, shaking the foundations of those near to hear it. “No, they are not. This is a ploy, a tactic they are using because Tevinter demands too much. While Tevinter will not absolve slavery, they will appease the South with a few policies while ignoring the South’s actual desires. Tevinter gives ground on one side, the Alliance pounces on the other. Hopefully without Tevinter realising.”

“And… what do they- we hope to gain?” the woman whispered.

Celene could hear the smirk in Briala’s voice. 

“Power. Power to decide when to take military action, power to decide what tax rate to negotiate, power to conduct negotiations and create business. And power to make it clear that we can make the once great Tevinter Empire bow; even in this.”

Celene smiled; trust Briala to see right through this, to deduce their plans in less time than it took the magisters to even assemble to discuss their proposition. It only made her all the more confident of the decision to come here, even as negotiations dragged on to the very edge of insanity; Briala’s presence in Orlais was not only wanted, it was desperately needed.

The empress forced her mind to return to the negotiations, such as they were now.

Annamaria’s eyes were dark, implacable even as the Ferelden tried to dissuade her from pressing this advantage; she understood Ferelden’s position, but she was not about to stop for it, and she saw it when he wavered. Nevarra’s diplomat had an equally sour expression on her face.

Maevaris voice cut through the whispers.

“We will consider the Alliance’s proposal and schedule another private meeting to hash out terms tomorrow,” her voice rang true, loud enough to reach even the highest seat of the dome. “Dismissed.”

They all rose to their feet at the end of Maevaris words, diplomats and attendants reaching for dossiers as everyone mingled in a sea of people already trying to negotiate away from official eyes. 

Celene doubted anything would come of it today, so she opted to gather her things, trade a few pleasantries with a Magister or two who seemed eager to have lunch with her. She accepted, privately wondering how they would react when Briala would be there as well.

She felt her presence behind her, waiting patiently for her to finish her work, and until everyone who wished it had a word with her. Celene was gathering her things when Briala approached, her own team staying behind to talk with some Magister’s attendants too. 

“Clever,” was her only word. “Let us see how long it takes until Tevinter realises it.” 

“Hopefully, we will be on our way to Orlais by then.”

Celene carefully archived every scrap of paper that her entourage had left with her. There were too many nations to merge all their desires into one cohesive document, but she could narrow it down. She sighed as noticed the volume of the dossier.

Briala chuckled. “I doubt it. Here, let me.” The elf reached for the dossier, tucking it under her arm and walking beside her. “Let's go, I have a few ideas we can use tomorrow to negotiate.”

Of course, Briala was inserting herself into this again, of course. Celene chuckled quietly as she followed behind Briala, Sabran at her back with her retinue of chevaliers. 

“Oh, by the way—” Celene discreetly gestured to the blonde elf that sat by Briala all afternoon. “—her.” 

Briala’s flushed face told her she had hit the bullseye and the small grunt of discontent that Briala gave was sweet music to her ears. Celene’s lips involuntarily shifted to a smirk when Briala’s voice hissed at her.

“I hate you so much right now.”

Chapter 9: Black Dahlia

Summary:

Dahlia:
Elegance and dignity,
abundance,
(black) instability

It was mid-afternoon one-week after that supposed last vote of the magisterium when Briala pushed through the doors of Celene’s… well, their… chambers. The elf kept a wince to herself when her forceful entry shook a vase on a stand, but her eyes went over to her empress, laying on a settee.

“Have you kept up with your immunity to poisons?” Her empress looked up from her treatise, eyes narrowing in confusion until they cleared of confusion, but she still offered no answer. “Yes or no?” Briala asked, impatiently.

“Of course I have.” Celene sighed and put down her dossier. “I presume the Magisterium is not happy with our little performance on the latest negotiations.”

Considering they had gone for the throat and demanded the end of either the slave markets or voluntary enslavement… Well, it was a miracle anyone in the alliance was standing alive. The Antivan Ambassador had been vicious in yesterday’s negotiations. 

The Qunari must be closing in, Briala thought, and the princes losing their patience.

“No, they aren’t, we’re getting too close to the bone,” Briala sighed. “Today’s afternoon tea will feature five Magisters, all of them with grievances they’ll try to hide behind smiles. Your immunity still includes the Black Dahlia, yes?” 

Briala had to make sure. If her plan was to work, Celene would have to take the brunt of the work, but she would make sure that her lover was apt for it first and foremost.

Celene’s nose twisted. “It does.” There was an almost whine to her tone. There would be, as the Black Dahlia boasted of several well-known and terrible side-effects. “At least I know I can just avoid the tea and the poison. I heard that the Northern variant gives you a green tint rather than blue. I would rather not, Bria. You know I look appalling in green.”

Briala smirked, not nearly as apologetic as she should be. “Avoid the tea… Right. Not exactly what I was thinking.”

Celene groaned and buried her face in her hands.

The five Magisters filtered in an hour later, after Briala and Celene had prepared everything for the relatively intimate and casual meeting. The diplomats came after, all seated around the table centered with a vase of daisies, as servants brought their afternoon tea.

The diplomats that accompanied Celene were pointedly not drinking the tea, their own attendants having surely told them of the poison, and their eyes nervously eyed Celene’s own cooling cup. Annamaria of Rivain had her eyes fixed on the Magisters, glaring every time Celene took a sip of the poisoned tea. 

Alexandra and Yvonne, the women who had given Briala the warning, were in a corner. Their eyes contradicted each other; Yvonne's eyes were panicked, wide and accusing while Alexandra’s were calm, observing merely. Briala sent a glare Yvonne’s way, lest she give away their plan.

When the time passed for tea and all the Magisters left, their eyes glittering like mad, and the helpless diplomats went away after Celene’s gracious, but pointed, send-off, Briala finally let her backrest against the chair. It wasn’t as bad being in a corner serving the nobles, but it did leave a sharp sting on her back.

“What is happening?!” Yvonne's shrill voice interrupted her brief respite. “We warned you and you just let her drink the tea?”

Briala eyed Yvonne, her boyish face framed by her honey-locks and the way she jumped to the easiest and quickest conclusion, with no regard to think deeper and beyond what first appeared. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, but this convinced her that Yvonne was simply not suited to be anywhere higher than a low-level spy at best.

“You may go, Yvonne.”

The woman’s blue eyes were filled with tears, but steel doubled her spine, and she didn’t let them fall. Something that Briala had always admired. She closed the door behind her as she left, no further protest to her lips.

Celene watched it all from her side, eating a small fruit cake to delay some of the inevitable side-effects of the poison she had willingly consumed, and Briala turned to the other elf in the room.

Alexandra was the opposite of Yvonne; hair as dark as her skin, she was the calm to too many storms, and as intelligent and cunning as any player of the Game she had encountered. Alexandra was poised to become her Lady-in-Waiting, a fine match to her Horse-Master husband.

“Briala,” Alexandra sighed, her calm brown eyes a perfect match to her husband Adrien’s own calm grey, “that was reckless.”

“Perhaps.”

“Celene might have been in on the plan, but—”

Briala stopped her immediately. “You are part of my household and you may address me as casually as I see fit.” Her voice came crisp, as frigid as the coldest winters in Orlais. “The empress, however, is owed every decorum and all honours.”

Celene reached for Briala’s hand, cradling it steady; the warmth of her hand was a known quantity to Briala's own, its weight a steady and telling presence. Briala was hardly surprised, Celene touched her so frequently nowadays that it hardly registered, but Alexandra’s eyes were as wide as chestnuts. Briala relaxed back against the chair. 

“You may call me ‘Lady Celene’, or ‘Madame Celene’ if you wish,” the empress said, eyes fixed on Alexandra. “In private, at least.”

“I — yes, your majesty.”

Celene’s eyes were laughing, though Briala doubted Alexandra could tell. When she turned to Briala, her eyes were warm. “Your attendant, Marquise.”

Briala almost sighed. “You are dismissed, Alexandra. Give my best to Adrien. And keep quiet about what you have seen.”

The woman’s eyes were practically glued to the floor as she left their presence with bows so deep Briala was surprised that her knees did not touch the ground.

“Not her,” Celene said as Alexandra closed the door behind her, leaving them alone. “But the other one…” Celene trailed off, trying to remember the name.

Briala sighed. “Yvonne.”

“Yes, her. You definitely thought about it with her.” Celene’s certainty was a blow to Briala's perception of her own discretion. “There, there, my love. It is all right.” Her empress chuckled when she noted her expression. “It is no shame; you simply have a type.”

“I do not.” She crossed her arms, suddenly sullen, to which Celene pointedly queried her eyebrow. Briala growled. “Shut up and go dump the rest of your damn tea.”

Celene chuckled and chunked the poisoned tea into the pot and reached for the bottle of antidote tapped beneath the table. 

Later that evening, the poison racked its way through Celene’s body, much less fatal and aggressive than it would ever be without Celene’s immunity, but it was still not a pretty sight. Briala wrinkled her nose as the noises coming out of the usually lovely mouth were truly unbearable. 

From beyond their balcony, they could hear the festivities going on somewhere in the Archon's Palace.

“They’re all celebrating,” Briala cooed as Celene bent over to lose her dinner in the bucket again, “they think they vanquished the lioness.”

They were also saying that Celene had willingly ingested the poison as she had grown tired of Briala and regretted ever having come to Tevinter. There were also rumours about Briala’s knowledge of the incident, suggesting she had purposefully poisoned Celene to rule Orlais from the shadows. All likely scenarios, Briala admitted, if they didn’t know them. They hardly were worth repeating aloud.

Celene groaned and tilted her head back to hit the wall behind her. “Maker, I wish they had.”

Briala reached for a damp cloth, quickly twisting the fabric to rid it of the excess moisture. She dabbed Celene’s pale, blue-ish, sickly complexion with the cool rag. 

“Stop behaving like a child,” she scolded, gently, laughing when Celene mewled angrily at the damp cloth and tried to swat away her hands. “You will be fine.”

Celene’s response only came as another hurl into the bucket. Briala winced and held back the white-gold hair, knowing that the night would be long.

When morning came, there was nothing in Celene’s face that told of the previous night.

Briala knew Celene would never admit that the look on the Magisters’ face when she walked through the Senate Chambers, whole and hale, was certainly worth the miserable night they had spent in the company of the cool floor, the sickening hurling, and the very helpful bucket.

After all, a lioness had her pride, and Briala was only too happy to collect the exploits of fooling those who thought themselves clever enough to trick her.

 

---

 

I am sorry, cousin, but considering that you are restructuring the alliance and how it will work without the input of the other sovereigns, everyone thought it best to make it clear just how much they have over you.
Leon is not with me anymore. 
I know he is fine. I know where he is. However, I cannot tell you; my communication is being monitored thoroughly, as I am sure you can guess because this letter is not penned by my hand and has been inferred rather than dictated. And because it has no cypher for you to decode. 
Nevertheless, everyone here — but your husband, who has gone along with Leon — awaits your arrival with eager hearts. 
See you soon, 
Your Favourite Cousin,
Cyril de Montfort. 

Celene stared at the letter again and again, trying to understand the meaning behind those simple words. Her brain registered the words as they were, but her mind could not conceptualise the meaning of them. 

Her heart was beating so fast, going a mile a minute, and her hands grew so clammy they shook.

Her son was lost to her. 

Cyril said he knew where he was but as the letter said, it was obviously not his handwriting — his was far neater than this, and he wrote with far more flare — and Celene felt her heart squeeze in her chest, stopping all at once from its thundering pace. 

Celene quickly passed her eyes over the letter again, trying to squeeze some further meaning about where her son was, but there was none to be found. 

Feeling her control loosening itself from her tightly held grip, Celene searched for another letter — Fleur, this time. 

Her eyes almost clobbered over each other in her eagerness to get some more context. There was none; the letter was undeniably in Fleur’s hand, but she said almost the exact same thing as Cyril had — except that no one but Cyril knew where Leon was. Celene opened Colombe’s and then Couteau’s… all said the same, even with Colombe managing to say something about the happenings of the court and the situation of Orlais in code, but nothing about the whereabouts of her son. 

Celene rose from her chair and started pacing, her hand fidgeting with the Mantillon’s ring on her finger; twirling the black rock back and forth on her slim flesh. 

She felt her pacing build; the space growing shorter with each of her steps. Her hands were growing damp with nervous sweat, and she felt as if the walls themselves were closing in on— A hand on her shoulder made her startle, jump and bring a hand to her heart. 

Briala stared up at her, an eyebrow quirked in amusement as she noticed Celene’s shaking hands. 

For her part, Celene took a deep breath — taking in the scent of lemon and lavender that had engraved itself on Briala’s skin in the past ten years, even after months bathing in Celene’s rose and honeysuckle baths — and tried to find her calm. The feel of Briala’s hands taking hers grounded her somewhat. 

“Gods, haven’t seen you this stressed from a letter since we got news of that Chantry in Kirkwall exploding.”

Ah, yes, that incident.

Or, as Celene liked to call it, the beginning of the end. It was there that all the problems really started, where a carefully built society started crumbling fully; mage-templar war, civil war, ancient magisters, and ancient elven gods who were not gods only some of the catastrophes that afflicted them all. 

Even the Fifth Blight had not done as much damage as that damned exploded Chantry. 

Maker. 

And now… now to compare it to her son being…

“I—,” Celene tried to speak, but words seemed stuck. “Leon,” was all she managed. 

Briala blinked, as if she had forgotten altogether of her boy’s existence. “Is he…not well?”

“He— He has been taken.”

“Taken?” Briala frowned, yet still remarkably calm. “There has been no chatter on the usual channels about that. I have sent people ahead to Orlais—” Celene nodded, and though she had not known it, she had suspected that Briala would do such a thing “ — to prepare the field, so to speak, and no one has mentioned such a thing. And… And you look calm… relatively.”

Celene chuckled, surprised that Briala could see it that way when her heart felt like it was splitting in two. 

"Not taken, I suppose, but… He was with Cyril, as I told you. However, once we restructured the alliance and everything, the rest of the nations decided that—"

“—it was best to hold your feet to the fire and remind you that you shouldn’t take advantage?” Briala asked, slyly, already knowing the answer to her question. 

Celene almost pouted. When so plainly said like that, by a person whose political insight she respected and put at an equal footing to hers — if not higher, some days — well, it certainly made everything much more reasonable.

“Don’t pout,” Briala teased, thumbing her calloused fingers on Celene’s exposed arm, “you know it’s perfectly common practice.”

Well, Celene wouldn’t put it like that, but Briala wasn’t exactly wrong. High-profile hostages to ensure cooperation and adherence to deals was rather common. Celene still, technically, had one such… guest… from Antiva for a small slight a few years back.

But this was her son. It was different. It just was.

“He is my son. I do not even know where he is.” To Celene’s horror she felt her lip start to wobble. “Bria, I—,"

“—are an empress, Celene,” Briala’s voice was kind, but firm. “You’re an empress, and this is your duty. You’d have done the same, if not worse, in their position.”

That Celene could not deny.

“Here,” Briala gestured to the letters at her table, “they all say the same thing; that he is fine and healthy. Protected.” Briala reached for her hands. “Do you detect any sign of distress from either of them?”

“I cannot tell from Cyril, of course, but…”

Her Ladies-in-Waiting, the three that mattered most of the ten or so that attended her, were not lying or showing any signs of coercion. Fleur, Colombe, and Couteau would know how important it was to her that Leon was safe, they would not let her down. 

“You have not even opened your letter from your—” adorably, Briala twisted her nose, “—husband.”

Celene gave a soft, thankful smile when Briala presented her with the letters. She weighed the parcel, noting how heavy it was. Celene took a deep breath and opened the tightly bound paper.

To her surprise, it was burned by a seashell necklace — clearly child-made — of a multitude of colours. 

Unbidden, Celene felt her eyes starting to water.

Celene took the necklace, carefully weighting its fragile form, and ever so gently placed the piece on the hard-oak desk. There were two letters inside, and Celene picked at the first one, sealed with the seal and wax of the crown prince. 

Maman,

(Celene almost broke her rapidly crumbling façade when she noticed he was starting to curl the letter ‘m’ much like she did.)

I have been skirted away from home to somewhere safe. I don’t like being away from home, but I also don’t enjoy being away from you. I know you’re fine, Uncle Cyril has told me so and I read your last letter, but I wish I could see you, Maman. 
Right now, I’m near the ocean, I can’t really tell where, sorry. 

(Celene could see the part where he had tried to sneak her his location, but he had been caught if the stricken phrases were anything to go by and Celene felt a sliver of pride for his defiance.)

But I have made many friends. Though Paapa says they’re not very appropriate for the heir to the throne. I didn’t tell him about your friend that you have gone to help, but I think you’d like mine. I have also been good to my tutors, the new ones and Guillaume who came with me from Val Royeaux. The Lion must be always prepared to hunt, if the Lioness cannot. 
We arrived on the 23rd and…

Celene traced the lines of his script, and the phrase they had agreed to ensure that Celene always knew her son’s true feelings. He might well be complaining about being away from her and Val Royeaux, but he was happy… content… to wherever they had hidden him. 

Celene breathed out a tearful sigh of relief and a tearless sob when Briala's dark, freckled hand gently started rubbing her bare shoulders.

“See,” her lover mumbled, “he sounds happy, and his handwriting… It is like yours. It cannot be faked; you must have taught him.”

“I did, yes.”

There was a press of lips against her nape. “There, you see. Perfectly fine.” Briala’s thumb swiped across her shoulder. “There is another letter.”

Celene nodded and reached for the other letter, unfurling the parchment to see the neat, scrawly handwriting of her husband. 

I apologise for the late letter, priya, Leon was unsure of what to write. Hopefully, it will arrive before Cyril’s next letter, but I doubt it. Unfortunately, that means you will be insufferable until you get our letter. Worry not, though, Leon is fine, and he has made some friends along the way which have kept him quite busy. 

Again, do not worry, I will watch over our boy. 

Your loyal husband,

DofR.

Celene closed the letter with sigh and a small smile. At least, she thought with a faint relief, they are fine and together. 

“He decided not to send a letter earlier because your son didn’t know what to write?” Briala rolled her eyes. “Brilliant.” 

Briala’s disdain for Damodar was… endearing. If potentially problematic. Celene reached out to touch Briala’s hand on her shoulder. “You will have to live with him, you realise.”

“Your son? Of course.”

Celene smiled. “I meant Damodar. He does not live in the palace proper, but he is there all the time, every day. He especially spends a lot of time with Leon.”

Briala quirked an eyebrow. “Why doesn’t he live there full time, then?”

Celene chuckled, feeling slightly better at Briala’s reassurances. “He is an artiste, darling, you know how those are. Says he needs his space.”

“Sentimental fool,” Briala muttered, rolling her eyes, her warm hands never leaving Celene’s shoulder.

Celene clutched the letter to her heart, feeling some tears prickle behind her eyes. Her son was fine, thriving even, in whatever place they had put in. Celene would have to trust Damodar and her people to see that her boy came out of this unscathed. She leaned back in the chair, feeling the earth beneath her feet centre again, and felt the press of Briala’s lips atop her head. 

Now if only the negotiations could progress, everything would be just fine.

 

---

 

Later that week, Briala fell forward, panting. Her mouth was open as she tried to catch her breath, sweat dripped from her forehead into the dipped back below her. The body beneath her also rose and fell with the effort of regaining breath, the messy white-gold hair clung together and stuck to the damp skin that smelled of roses and honeysuckle and something that was just Celene. Briala grinned, giddy, satisfied to have given them both a worthy work out, and dragged her bottom lip along the spikes of Celene’s ivory-pale spine. She was thinner than when she first arrived in Tevinter, Briala noticed, tracing the prominent shoulder-blades and the small mole no one had ever seen.

“No. Do not move.” It was more a request than an order, a feat rare outside their bed — wherever that bed might be. “I like you where you are.” 

Briala smirked into Celene’s neck. “As you say, your majesty.”

“Don’t call me that in bed,” Celene whined quietly, drowsier than anything else if the contraction was anything to go by. Briala kissed her nape, letting her teeth nip just enough not to bruise. “Be—”

“—careful,” she finished, whispering close to her ear and spreading Celene's legs, making her whimper and clutch the sheets in her pale fist. “I know.”

Not that they needed to hide — there was not a soul in the palace that did not know about them — but it was merely courtesy. Orlesians might have a positive view of mistresses, and even conferred to them social and political status, but it was not so in most other countries. 

“I’m languid, my love,” Celene lightly protested, “and exhausted. With an even more tiring day starting in a few hours.”

Other countries that were, Briala privately grumbled, absolutely driving Celene insane with all of their dawdling. 

Rivain, though having originally proposed this rekindling of negotiations, was now dragging their feet. Antiva’s diplomat was busy trying to field the demands of the twelve merchant princes. The Anderfels envoy kept spending in his time in the pleasure houses of the city while Ferelden and Nevarran had never wanted to renegotiate. Celene spent hours - from dawn to late evening - trying to wrangle them together, but Celene was part of the problem. 

Orlais taking a leadership role would never go smoothly, not without some carefully pushed buttons and backroom deals.

And with all this dawdling both the Qunari and Solas were still wreaking havoc across Tevinter, making the Magisters rally against Celene. 

Briala, personally, could not complain. They might hate her — and they did, for all that she and the people under her had threatened them with blown up cities and dazed Hellborous-addled people — but the more time they gave her, the more Briala could put her own machinations in place. And it helped to have time to find Jade, who kept eluding her, and to do… other things.  

It was absolutely draining to Celene, who tried to juggle all of them.

With Celene’s words in mind, Briala quickly let go of the idea for another lovemaking session. Instead, she carefully disentangled herself from Celene and laid on her back, staring at the ceiling. Just as drowsiness was filtering in, she heard Celene’s voice, close to her ear as she laid her head on Briala’s shoulder, and she could hear the smile on her silvery voice.  

“Are you going to sleep like that?”

Briala mewled, annoyed, and, without opening her eyes, she reached for the clasp on the harness and threw the leather stripes away once the buckles were undone. She sighed deeply, content, with Celene’s head on her shoulder, she threaded the white-gold tresses of her hair. 

Celene hummed a famous Orlesian tune under her breath, an airy melody that often played in the city near the palace.  

“Did you hear about Magister Curiatius?”

Celene burrowed into her. “The one who tried to poison me?”

“The one who was about to confess, yes.” Briala pressed the pads of her fingers against Celene’s spine. “They found his body today,” she said, “poisoned, they believe. From the Black Dahlia.”

“Hm,” Celene hummed, eyes closed and leaning into her. “You would think that with the assassinations that go on here, they would protect themselves from such a common poison.”

Briala snorted and curled her arm around Celene’s naked waist. “You’d think so, but they appear to not have the knowledge of how to fend off a nearly harmless southern plant. Curiatius was said to have turned up a violent shade of blue.”

It was as if lightning had struck her, and she froze under the warm covers and the heat of Celene’s body.

“Wait.”

Celene froze with her. “Oh.”

Then they both laughed.

 

---

 

Celene smiled when Briala passed her a plate of the apple pie that Alice had made. She kept a tiny moan to herself; it was as exquisite as always since the elven woman had taken over their food here, though it made her nostalgic for the apples of Orlais, famed from being blessed by Andraste herself.

Nevertheless, the pastry was delicious, and she chewed it carefully, with intent, setting her gaze at the man that joined her and Briala for afternoon tea.

Arnold of White River was a very minor Ferelden Noble. A perfect example of his country, he was tall, dark-haired, rough hands from handling a sword and shield. But he was also part Orlesian, a rare remnant fruit of the last dredges of the war between their two countries, born of a night of passion of two nobles quickly rushed to the altar. Arnold, beyond being a sword master, had studied at the university, he was a contemporary of hers and Queen Anora.

In short, he was the perfect candidate for a diplomatic spot with the Alliance.

Which was why Celene wished it was surprising that he had fallen in league with the Tevinter Magisters and, alongside Elizabeth of Nevarra, had tried to poison her. She supposed they had taken her warning to heart.

“I have to admit,” she started when she felt confident that he was sufficiently frightened by her constant stare. Maker, she missed Anora; she would not have frightened. “I did not expect you to go this far.”

He gulped. In a very minor way, she would give him that, but it was hardly unnoticeable. Especially for her and Briala. She felt, more than saw, Briala smirking. The man gulped again. 

“I do not know of what you speak,” he said, almost surprising her with his firm voice. Celene smiled into her tea; she did like them overconfident. “Your Radiance,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

Overconfident and defiant. 

Celene allowed herself to sigh aloud, pleased. 

Fereldens were so delightfully obstinate, so refreshingly direct, and so utterly charming despite themselves. She might not have room to miss Anora after all, no matter how much prettier a picture she painted. 

“So, you did not poison me then?”

And the most darling thing about them was their belief that all Orlesians knew to do was talk in circles. 

True to form, Arnold choked on his tea.

Celene smiled and took a sip of her own rich Rivaini blend. Ah, yes, you never do expect honesty from us, do you? Then, hopefully, this brief detour of their duties would be over quickly and they would all be able to go home. 

“I— …” he stuttered, but for less time than she thought he would. “How did you—?” He looked flushed as he almost admitted what Celene already knew to be true. “I mean, if it is true, how did you know?”

“I have learned, Arnold, that Tevinter does have a poison called The Black Dahlia — which was a quite clever coincidence for you to exploit — but it is not quite prepared in the same way ours is. People turn green in Tevinter, not blue as they do in the South.” Something, Celene thought, a Ferelden would not care to note. “There is only one explanation.” Celene rolled her eyes, allowing him to see her fully. “Frankly, we feel silly to not have seen it sooner.”

“I—well—"

Briala interrupted him, as if he had never spoken. “Well, we were preoccupied with other things, no?” Briala reached for Celene’s arm, tracing the exposed skin with a caress that could not be mistaken. “No need to beat ourselves up for such an indulgence, Your Radiance.”

The more nonchalant they appeared the better they both would come off, and sprinkling in some details on their relationship was bound to distract some. Celene considered it good practice for when they finally returned to Orlais. 

“Perhaps not,” she conceded, leaning into the touch, “but to miss an assassination attempt from my corps is a little embarrassing. Or do you not think so, Arnold?”

“I do not know of what you speak,” he said, again.

Celene hummed, unimpressed, and kept the reins on her temper. That was another thing about Ferelden, about everyone else, they would deny involvement to their graves while an Orlesian would have revelled in it. 

“The Magisters could have gone in search of it, I suppose, and only by luck managed to find the Southern variant,” Briala said, laying a trap.

Arnold seemed to relax and nodded very quickly at the excuse. “They could have, yes.”

Celene tapped her fingers on the mahogany, as if she was playing the harpsichord in Mantillon’s saloon choke-full of nobles. Her short, manicured nails sometimes hit the wood, making Arnold’s anxious gaze turn from Briala to Celene. 

“Yes, or they might have meant to get the Southern version,” Briala proposed, “it might even be a slight against the empress, to use such a common plant of her native home. Especially with the story that The Black Dahlia has for having killed the last Orlesian Emperor.” Briala’s voice led Arnold on, soft-spoken and as-if pondering, “Especially ironic, with the blasphemous rumours that Her Radiance did the deed herself.” A blasphemous truth, perhaps. Arnold was nodding along, however. “I wonder… who could have told them such a thing? It is, after all, not even a blurb for Tevinter, who care nothing for the happenings in the South. It is especially curious that Magister Curiatius, on the verge of relaying the culprits, became afflicted with the Southern variant that is apparently very easy to come by here in the North.” Briala sighed. “Such strange and mounting coincidences.”

Arnold stiffened so fast Celene almost worried he sprained some muscle on his back. 

“I do not know of what you speak.”

Those innocuous words, repeated a third time, seemed to do her in.

She slapped the table with force, making the vase of fresh daisies dance as the table shook, and rose to her impressive full height. Nothing spilled, but everything trembled. Arnold flinched at her sudden movement, at her sudden anger, and Celene felt even Briala turn to look at her; there was nothing on her face, but Celene knew she was as startled as Arnold appeared to be. 

“I grow tired of this dancing around.” Celene leaned forward, hand still on the table, and her voice came as steel, slashing through the air like one of her daggers. “Did you or did you not try to poison me?” 

“I— … yes, we did, but we did not mean to kill you, just incapacitate you long enough—

Finally.

Celene sat back down, composed. “Well done.”

“— only because…” he trailed off, dark eyes wide as her words registered. “What?”

“Well done,” she repeated. “You and Elizabeth… I did not think you had it in you. Well, more you than Elizabeth, I suppose. That woman is a viper, and I have nothing but admiration for her.”

“She could well be Orlesian,” Briala chimed in, chipper as she never truly was. 

Briala poured her more tea, and then to herself, smirking at Arnold all the while. Celene expected a glare but had to smirk when she saw Arnold shudder instead. 

“I will extend an invitation, my love,” she quipped, appreciating the look in Arnold’s eyes. That should be more than enough to quell all other rumours about her apparent jaded relationship with Briala. Fools. “The court would have quite the day with her, no?”

“Certainly, bien-aimée.”

“Enough,” Arnold seemed near pleading. He was pale— No, almost green!… Ironic. “What- What do you want? What will you do with this?”

Celene blinked. “Do? Nothing.” And she would not. Doing anything at all now meant delaying the negotiations even more than they were. “You give me your demands and work with us and everything should be going along swimmingly.” He seemed relieved, but Celene was not that generous. Not when she was stuck in this inhospitable country still. “And, of course, if I ever call upon you, I expect a favour.”

“I— I do not have a choice, do I?”

“You do,” Celene said, truthfully. “We always have a choice, but in this case I urge you to accept. A small favour is a small price for you to get us all out of here as soon as possible and to… ignore a little assassination attempt.”

“Have you had the same talk with Elizabeth?”

“We’ve had no need,” Briala said. “She understands the circumstances.”

“And she agreed?”

They had proposed nothing to her as of yet, but Celene doubted Elizabeth would complain overly so. Rumour was the woman had always wanted the Ambassadorship to the Anderfels, anyway. Wilhelm would only be too glad to receive more guests on his qsar.

“In a manner of speaking.”

Arnold frowned and made to open his mouth - to protest or ask something, Celene did not care to guess - but Briala’s stare mercifully prevented him from speaking. Celen’s head was already pounding, throbbing hard enough she could feel it in her veins and in the back of her eyes. She drank another sip of tea, releasing a quiet sigh when the pain dulled somewhat.

The Marquise of the Dales, and she truly was her now, spoke for her, “Worry not, Arnold, the empress always collects her debts.”

It would not be as terrible as Briala was implying, surely, but the man left the room with a speed that left Celene impressed. 

“Well,” Celene leaned back against the plush chair now that she had the luxury of privacy to relax, “that could have gone worse.”

“Stop being humble.” Briala reached out to touch her. “It was a triumph and you know it.” 

Celene gave a soft smile, but privately frowned. She was tired of this godsforsaken country, tired of all the double-dealing from other nations that tried to sabotage their own side. At least, in Orlais she had come to expect it, and knew how to counter it. Here? It was all a jumble, a hit from a side she should have had protected and a weakness from another she should have exploited. 

A triumph would be when she set foot in Orlais, and she refused to celebrate until she did. Until she had Leon’s arms around her waist again. Maker—  He had been growing like a weed the last time she saw him, what would he—

She was startled by Briala’s peck on the corner of her lips.

“Stop overthinking,” the elf chided, “you did well today and you’ve made progress.”

Celene nodded and managed another smile as Briala turned her back to her to reach for her daggers and her outer layer. She was leaving again, Celene sighed privately. At first, it had only been a night every two weeks, and then, every week, and then every day. Briala wanted her to believe that it was merely to build her household, but Celene knew it was more than that. 

“You are going, then?” 

She had given her every opportunity to tell her, but Briala had never disclosed it. Celene, however, refused to press. 

“Yes,” Briala said, arranging her vest at the gilded mirror near the door, “we believe that we might have found a way to field the whole of the waiting staff.” She saw Briala smile at her through the mirror. “I think it should only be a few weeks more.”

It was surely a coincidence that whatever Briala was doing would be finished just at the same time that the negotiations were scheduled to end. Surely. Celene ignored the traitorous voice in her head that demanded she know what Briala was doing and instead focused on helping her love. 

Celene smiled and rose to come stand behind her. Gently, she slapped away Briala’s hands and arranged Briala’s vest herself, gave the cuffs of the shirt a nice tie, and smoothed over a piece of almost imperceptible lint from her shoulder. Celene's hand softly caressed Briala's freckled cheeks when she was presentable, a feeling of joy swelling within her at the thought of being able to do this as often as she desired. 

“Good luck, then.” 

She leaned down to give her a kiss on her forehead and a peck on the lips. Briala's dark eyes wrinkled in thanks and softened with affection. 

“Don’t wait up.” The elf leaned up to kiss her cheek, which Celene offered gladly. “I will be back later.”

Yes, of that, Celene had no doubt. 

Chapter 10: Daisy II

Summary:

Daisy:
loyal love,
gentleness,
innocence

Notes:

Don't even really have an excuse, lmao. It's just been very busy. I want to try and see if I can finish this fanfic before the new game comes out, but... well, no promises, obviously.
Anyway, soz for the delay and I hope yall enjoy it!

“Damn it.”

Celene raised her eyes from her book, looking towards the table where Briala was hunched over countless papers. Celene hummed in sympathy; putting together a household from nothing was difficult enough as it was without the added complication of Briala being an elf and far away from what would be her center of power.

“Trouble?” she asked, unable to stop herself but not rising from her laid position on the couch, knowing Briala would take it as her inserting herself into her business. “Do you need help?”

“No,” Briala bit the word out, and Celene watched her rise to rearrange the vase of fresh daisies that perpetually decorated the center of the table. “Not unless you can conjure a perfect candidate for Chief Steward of my house.”

Ah, that again. Celene sighed quietly and closed her book, knowing she would have no peace to finish it until Briala stumbled out of her mood and, hopefully, into figuring out the composition of her house. Night had almost fallen and soon they were to have dinner. Celene decided she would have this mood fixed by then.

“Come,” Celene said, patting the space she made on the couch by tucking her legs beneath her. “Come, sit beside me. You need to take a break.”

Briala did as she bid and sat beside her. Celene whirled her finger, making her turn around to which Briala complied. Her fingers set about Briala’s shoulders, finding the spot where she knew the elf accumulated the most stress.

“You know that any person on your short list is perfectly suited for the job you have in mind,” she said, gently digging her fingers into Briala’s knotted nape. “That you refuse to pick one tells me you have your mind on someone else. Who is it?”

Briala’s jaw was clenched, but she did give a name. “Jade.”

“Her?” she asked, intending on making a jest of their game.

It was not a real suggestion, and she expected Briala to laugh as she always did when Celene guessed incorrectly, instead all she did was shrug, a sad thing that left Celene wondering.  

“No. Not her.” 

There was a strange affect to Briala’s voice; a simmer of something that made Celene’s stomach clench. Odette had been a passing fancy for her, more the work of her pregnancy moods than necessarily attraction, and the thought of extending her fleeting relationship with her brief paramour had never even occurred her. She had thought that Briala’s own fleeting affairs were the same, knew that all the women she had pointed out had been nothing more than that.

This tone of Briala’s told of a deeper story in this case. 

Celene stared, and after a moment, withdrew her hands. “This one is different.”

“Yes. She could-… She could have been something more.”

A scratch came to her throat, a desperate need to scream at a possibility that had crawled through her mind while she laid on her lonely bed each night. Celene did not. It would not be fair.

“Why did it not?”

“Perhaps…” Briala’s face was almost pained, shamed by something. 

Celene reached for her hand, drawing soothing circles with her thumb. 

“Perhaps had you died, it would have,” Briala finished. 

Celene felt no sorrow at the words, she too had often wondered if it would have been easier to have Briala be dead. A shameful thing to almost wish. 

Briala appeared to know that and merely sighed. “But, instead, in my feelings for her I only found you.”

Briala let out a hollow laugh.

“You are similar,” Briala continued with a snort, “though, of course there are stark differences. She was born as any elf is born while you were raised in an estate overlooking Val Royeaux, with an eye on the throne. She is kinder, sweeter, with no competing loyalties to our shared cause. But her temper, her cunning… too much of her reminded me of you. She’s the only other woman I think could have matched the place you hold in my heart, and had you not lived, I would have succumbed to it.”

“And you never…” Celene let the words hang in the air, almost unable to finish the thought on her own.

“No.” Briala shook her head, the tips of her fingers tracing an invisible pattern on Celene’s thigh; adoring but casual. “It would not have been fair to her.”

“Did…” Words felt stuck to her tongue. “Was there an understating of this situation?”

Briala smiled softly, eyes amused. “Are you asking if she knew why, while bearing her great affection, I didn’t involve myself with her?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, she knew.”

Celene nodded, slowly. “And did it sour her view of you?”

“No.” Briala’s voice was laden with faint amusement, layers of awe mixing through. “If anything, she was more devoted, seemed to understand my reasoning. In fact, she was the one who alerted me when you were arrested.”

Such devotion and loyalty… It was hard to find, took years to forge and could only take seconds to dismantle by a simple understanding. It had not happened here, despite all the tangles that bound the relationship. A person like this Jade would be hard for Briala to come by again. 

“You should find her,” Celene said, suddenly. She had not planned to say it, but as the words came out of her mouth, she realised that it was the right thing to do. “This Jade, she seems like the perfect fit for the needs you have left for your household.”

Briala stared at her, those big, dark eyes blinking almost owlishly at her.

“Have you no jealousy?”

No, not in the way Briala thought, nor in the way Briala was of her single dalliance. Briala might resent the fact that Celene had shared something personal with another, that another had seen her in a way that Briala never would. Celene felt the jealousy of knowing that this woman - any of them - might have made a better - more loving, more stable, more open - match for her that Celene ever would. 

It felt fundamentally different, far more selfish than Briala’s own.

Celene detested that it festered in her. 

“No,” she said, finally, “but also, yes.” Briala nodded, as if those words alone were enough for her to understand all the things Celene dared not voice. “I only wish to see you and your house prosper,” the empress said. “I only wish for you to be happy,” Celene whispered, taking the hand she tied the flower-knot to.

That was the truth, in the end, despite all the caveats that Celene’s other wants demanded. Briala squeezed her hand, so gently and so sweetly that Celene thought she might well weep at the touch.

“I know , you foolish woman,” the words were so incredibly fond. “But I’ve got to admit that I’m surprised to hear you say that I should find this woman and bring her with me to Orlais.”

“I cannot say that I enjoy the fact that you would… could have found yourself in love with this woman,” — It made her stomach roil with twin threads of anger and dread, to be perfectly frank —,“but you did not. Not when you had every freedom to do so, not when I was countries away, and not when you had made no vow to me.”

Briala’s eyes were glittering obsidian stones, glowing at her and her words. Celene reached for her chin, bringing her head close so she could lay a simple kiss upon her full, tender lips. It was nothing more than a peck, really, but it held all her love and affection, and the certainty of their commitment.

“Unless you have changed beyond all recognition, my love, you would not betray me thus.” Celene thumbed Briala’s freckled cheek with unbearable softness. “Certainly not after you have made a commitment to me.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want-

“Yes, I am.” 

Briala searched for any signs of deception, any hints of doubt that Celene might have. There was none to find, and Celene saw her nod, eyes even brighter than before.

“I will find her, then.”

Celene hated that her heart shuddered in near terror, but Briala’s soothing touch on the wrist they had knotted together washed away all doubt her heart insisted upon that had never taken root in her head.

“Good.”

Celene was not surprised to find that she had meant it, and that her desire to see this woman found was as true as her desire to be done with this negotiation and be on her way home.

 

---

 

Briala slipped into the room with a quick foot, closing the door behind her with a gentle click . Carefully she toed off her shoes, grateful for the slippers rather than the boots she would need in Orlais at this time of year, and stashed them in a corner.

She walked around, soundlessly, in the dark trying not to wake a likely sleeping Celene.

“I am awake.”

The voice startled her, almost enough to make her jump in the air. Heart beating wildly, Briala let out a culled gasp, her nostrils flaring as she tamed her body not to respond. Squinting her eyes Briala finally saw Celene in a corner, leaning against a window, staring out at the sea, her pale blonde hair a silvery colour under the light of the moons.

“In darkness?” she prompted, riding herself off the outer-layer, remaining only in her breeches and shirt. “No overbearing tome by your side tonight?”

Celene was in her nightgown, white and scandalously short for Tevinter despite its vastly warmer weather than Orlais. Briala supposed that nobility had its conservatism everywhere; in Orlais it was the lack of masks, in Tevinter it was short nightgowns, apparently.

“I did not feel like reading tonight.”

The empress was brooding. Briala knew it immediately. She approached her lover with a quick step, eager to break her off her mood. When she was almost upon her, Celene turned to face her, her lips simpering in an almost smile. Brooding or not, near her, Celene always did her best to show her affection.

“Hello, my love.” Celene’s eyes veered towards Briala’s hand. “For me, I assume?”

Briala presented Celene with the daisies she had meant to put in the jar of the table as she had done nearly every night for the past three months. Flourishing the gesture with an overly dramatic bow, Briala smiled when she felt the air shift as Celene smiled despite herself.

“Always,” Briala said, “and I suppose you now know who brings fresh daisies to our dining table every day.”

“Yes, because it was such a mystery!”

Briala feigned a pout. “Well, I thought I hid my tracks very well.”

Celene rolled her eyes, affectionate. “I do wonder where you find such flowers, my love.” Briala shrugged. “After all,” Celene continued, “the palace does not have a single trace of daisies anywhere.”

So, Briala might not have been the most subtle of persons these past few weeks. She had known that Celene had noted her absence for more than mere meetings to coordinate the search for Jade or her other business, and she was glad that her empress had not asked the reason for it.

“I think you know exactly how I manage.”

“Perhaps.” Celene chuckled, fingering the petals of the pretty daisies. “You have always had an incredible talent for slinking to the shadows, Bria. I am not surprised that you and your House have found the secret passageways of this ancient place. Only to bring me a flower.”

Briala smiled, reaching out to cup the flowers with her. “You love them and they are hardly a hassle to get.”

“They are a bribe,” Celene chided, gently. “I know you disappear for more than a search of Jade or some flowers. I will not ask,” Celene was quick to add when Briala’s mouth opened to retort, “I just wished you to be aware that I know.”

Trust and freedom, in equal amounts. It felt good to be here, in this, with her, now.

“I did know that you knew,” she protested lightly.

“And I know you did,” Celene said. “I just want you to know it from my lips rather than your eyes.”

“Your lips have been quiet as of late.”

They were quick to lavish attention on her in public, quick to charm any magister that might find their way into a shared meal, quick to bring comfort to any diplomat growing restless. Those were the empress’s lips. Celene’s were poised to smile gently at her or humour Briala’s conversation or lavish another type of attention on her in private, but they did so rarely open to speak of their own volition these days.

“Perhaps it is simply the lack of things to say.”

Briala snorted. “The moment your head is not turning some plan or contemplating some artistic endeavour or plunging into an incredibly niche subject from a tome, is the moment you have lost all your wits.” Briala caressed her pale cheek. “I do not believe you witless.”

Celene separated herself from her, agilely escaping her embrace. Her eyes thundered, Briala’s simple words having awoken an anger that was disproportionate.

“Then perhaps it is the fact that I have been in this miserable country for months,” the word hissed in the air, chilling the unseasonably warm late-Autumn night, “dealing with details we have already agreed upon in the first month, while my realm is without its empress, marching on to the beat of a drum I instruct but do not control.”

Briala stared as Celene panted at the end of her rather unexpected tirade. Celene blinked once and then twice, and let out a sigh as the quick rage suddenly left her, hunched and apologetic.

“That was uncalled for,” she said, quietly. “I apologise. Even if the sentiment still stands.”

They had been in Tevinter for five months, the negotiations lasting a mere three. It was hardly novel or hardly their lengthiest journey away from Orlais. It could not be merely this that afflicted Celene. Briala made sure to gentle her tone instead of succumbing to the anger that had ignited in response to Celene’s. The softness she reserved for Celene and few others alone easily made itself known for her.

“That is not all, is it?”

Celene turned from her, looking over towards the roiling sea that reflected the two moons. It was not a dissimilar sight to the view from the balcony in the empress’s bedroom in Val Royeaux, though the waters there were framed by the banks of Celene’s beloved city. Here, the picture was barren, nothing but leagues of sea as far as the eye could see in all directions.

The empress leaned against a column of black stone, her posture nearly defeated. Briala had caught her moods slipping these past weeks.

Without anything to do, Celene was starting to get more and more into her own head; she was growing quiet and more introspective, and she was rarely talkative in private to begin with, often preferring to hear Briala than anything else, but she was growing positively silent in the past few weeks.

Briala noted the way her empress cradled her stomach, right where she would have swollen with child, and winced.

There were too many times she forgot the boy who held Celene’s heart.

“Leon.”

The mention of his name drew a twitch from Celene and prompted her to raise her hand to her face, as if to wipe tears that she didn’t allow Briala to see.

“I miss him, Bria,” her voice was shaken, troubled by a longing that she hadn’t deigned to share with her. “I know we have not talked of him, not beyond a few anecdotes, but…”

Her words were swallowed by a sad chuckle, as if reprimanding herself for having shown her this weakness. Briala would not allow such a thing. Instead she walked closer to her and wrapped her arms about her waist, laying her forehead between the shoulder-blades of Celene’s impeccably postured back.

“But?” she prompted Celene, whispering as she made them gently sway to the sound of the waves lapping at the cliff.

“I once told you that you hold the only piece of my heart not tainted by Orlais or the Game. The only piece that is really me.” Celene shook her head. “It is not so, not anymore. Leon holds most of my heart now, even with you in my arms. I am certain I would engulf Orlais in flames to see him well.” The words were not incidental, Briala knew; the fires of Halamshiral still startled her awake some nights. “It frightens me how much he holds of me.”

“I know.” Briala had not, but she had always suspected that this would happen. “I know, my heart,” she whispered close to her ear, pressing a kiss to her nape, offering her presence as the only comfort she could give.

Celene tensed further if it were possible, practically stone in her arms. “You do not. I have never been away from him for so long. It has been five months, and by the time we are done, it could well be half-a-year. He must be-… I will have missed much.” Celene’s voice came pinched. “I do not even know where he is.”

The smartest choice was often the most painful, Briala knew it well. This protected Leon far more than if Celene had known where he was, but she knew how much it must afflict her empress, who had always needed to know everything.

“We will go home,” Briala promised, wishing she could give her something more. But not yet. It was not time. They could do more. Briala still had things to arrange here and Solas was not yet dealt with. “Just a few weeks more.”

Briala wished that she could comfort her, that she could do something that would give Celene the edge in the negotiations, and they could all leave. Solas had often influenced the votings with attacks, spreading helleborus to daze people. Something like that would be perfect, it would rally everyone. 

The elf dared not voice such a thing.

Celene just nodded, face still turned from her, and they stood together watching the moons peak in the midnight sky and the ocean lap at the cliff that had stood for a thousand years.

Chapter 11: Hellbore I

Summary:

Hellbore:
(White) Sinnocence, purity, tranquility, and hope.
Blooms in winter, represent hope in darkness.

“Where are you taking me?”

Briala ignored Celene’s voice, choosing instead to merely nod at one of her attendants as they passed through their barrack to go through a passageway they had been told about earlier by some of the palace’s slaves. 

“You asked me how I escaped the palace every night—

“If you recall correctly, I specifically did not ask.”

“—and I am showing it now.” She chose to ignore the whiny tone that Celene seemed to use every day now. It would be imperceptible for anyone else, but Briala knew it from a mile away. “You have been locked in this palace since you’ve arrived, you need to get out.”

They were quickly approaching their sixth month in Minrathous and, while Celene had managed to wrangle the Alliance diplomats into a consensus, they still needed to go through the Tevene Senate. 

It was cutting close and Briala still had a lot to do in Tevinter. She wanted to set things in motion and find Solas to try and reach some sort of conclusion and put a definite end to her time here. That, however, would take longer than Briala had. Part of her thought about delaying the negotiations further and she already had people in place if her most pressing needs were not met, but she was hesitant to ruin so many months of work. 

Still, tonight was not the night to think of it; she had promised herself that she would not think of work tonight with Celene. 

“Bria—

“No one knows you here,” she interrupted Celene’s probable several page-long list of concerns. “No one will recognise you; you are just another person here.”

Celene bit her lip, eyes worried but with a small glimmer of excitement. “Sabran will be terribly upset that I have gone out without them knowing.”

“Oh yes, because we’ve never done that before.”

Celene chuckled as, likely, she too recalled all the escapades they had got into when they’d been young. The times they had bypassed the princess’ usual large retinue of guards to go into the city proper when they’d lived in their estate in the hills of Val Royeaux. The times they’d found themselves in some deep trouble as they explored the city they had known — deep down, they always known — that Celene would rule. The times they had got lost in dark alleyways, sneaked into tawdry taverns, frequented less than reputable guilds of assassins and thieves. It was there that Briala had first learned to love Celene, watching her delight in exploring all the parts of the city that most nobles would not dare to go to.

“Come on,” she insisted, stopping and turning fast enough to make Celene collide into her, she sneaked her arm around her waist and stared up at her, “you have come to one of the oldest cities in Thedas and you are not going to explore?”

The appeal to the empress’ curiosity always worked, and this time it was no different.

Celene’s eyes, now almost completely free of worry, were shining brightly. “Oh, all right.”

Briala grinned, took her hand again and lead her towards the exit.

When they reached the last room before the storeroom where the passageway was, Briala noted three of her people at the end of the hallway, a couple and their child talking. Briala stopped Celene and gestured towards them, Celene nodded silently. 

“Adrien. Alexandra.”

“Marquise,” Alexandra greeted her with a nod, and then a small incline of the head to Celene. “Your Radiance.”

Adrien smiled at her when he noticed Briala. With his baby son in his arms Adrien waved the little boy’s hand as if to greet her as well while Alexandra fondly rolled her eyes at his side. Briala allowed a small smile to grace her face too, a smile that only grew when Celene did the same, especially at the little boy who seemed fascinated with her pale hair, his hands reaching to touch it. 

Hesitantly, Adrien passed the child to his empress, eyes vacillating as he seemed to recall every injustice visited upon them by the country she led, if not by Celene herself. Celene did not seem to notice, though Briala knew she had, and instead took the small child into her arms.

Yves was almost two years old, perhaps twenty months, but his clever grey eyes seemed fixed on the light hair of the empress. Celene gently guided his hands through the curtains of her hair, holding the child with the expertise of a mother, and murmured to the boy about the virtues of a constant hair treatment. The child giggled; either at the words he didn’t really understand, at the soft accented voice that was so different from both his parents, or at the way he played with the hair.

Adrien walked closer to her while Celene was busy ‘talking’ to Yves, whispering to Briala when he was close, “Will it—

“Of course,” Briala reassured him, “she will not harm him.”

“I think I know that, but—

Briala softened. “I know.” It would take time to build trust. If it ever could be with someone who only knew the Empress of Orlais. “Have you given thought to who you want on your staff?”

“We will need to recruit when we reach Orlais,” Adrien said, eyes still on Celene who now also talked with Alexandra. “There aren’t enough people here to properly fill a noble household.”

Briala hummed. “Especially because we will need to field three, perhaps.” At his inquisitive stare, Briala added, “Halamshiral will be our primary residence, but there is the household de la Maîtresse—” Briala watched Adrien’s eyes blink as if confused. “What is it?”

“Are you— Are you sure she will give you that much legitimacy?”

“Yes.” Celene had not yet made the formal announcement, but that was likely because it would ruffle some feathers here that they could not afford to ruffle. “I am certain of it. Which means that we will need to recruit even more than you thought.”

“And the third?”

“That is a project that I am still unsure of how it will unfold, but there is the large probability of me having another estate once we arrive in Orlais.” 

She knew of Celene’s plans to give her Couronne du Soleil, but she had requested the Rosier estate as the payment of their bet. Rosier was deeper in The Dales, far more meaningful to her purposes, far more private. Perhaps she would have both, but it would be a burden to field so much, even as she planned for the Rosier estate to be smaller in size and need not be permanent. 

“I’ll see what I can do.” Adrien would be her Master of the Horse, and she could see him already planning ahead to field all the requirements of the estate. “I’ll need time to arrange my part.”

“Of course,” Briala said as she turned to watch Celene giving Yves back to his mother. “We still have some time.” 

“Not much. I heard that the magisterium’s close to reaching an agreement.”

She too had heard those rumours from her spies, but it was not decided yet. The deal was not a bad one — it was far more equal than what she wanted to give Tevinter, but it was far better than the one they had had before where Tevinter had seized on their divisions to request what they wanted from each nation.

“Hopefully they will,” Celene voice came to stand close to her, “and we can start making plans to leave.”  

“Yes,” Adrien agreed, “I am eager to leave this place, once and for all.”

Adrien had not taken well to being manipulated by Solas when what he wanted to do came to light, and his eagerness to leave this place they had spent a decade in was all too understanding even if somewhat surprising. Briala made a note to ask around, to see if everyone as ready to leave as they appeared to be. 

“You should go,” Alexandra came into the conversation, hushing Yves who still reached for Celene, “otherwise the hour will grow late to enjoy the city.”

Briala nodded, keeping a snarky reply to herself. She refrained from taking Celene’s hand as they walked to the storage room that held the underground passage that would lead them from the island where the palace was and into the city. 

Briala turned back when she revealed the dusty passage. Celene was wearing a Tevene dress of a very fine pale violet that loosely hung about her, teasing only at her figure. At her neck, Briala could see the chain that held her necklace, always nestled underneath Celene’s cleavage but always present, in a secret only they knew. She softened her look and gestured towards the dress Celene wore.

“It’s going to get dirty,” she warned.

“Bria—” Celene sighed, smiling. “I am sure it will not be the last time you dirty one of my dresses.”

Briala chuckled and, with a flourish pulled some capes that would protect some of their clothes. Briala fastened the clasp about her, smiling when Celene insisted she do her knot to protect her own — fancy — clothes of a deep green, far tighter on her than Celene’s own. Celene, watching the dark passageway, reached for a torch and held another for Briala.

With a nod, they entered the passageway and closed the way behind them. 

They walked through the tunnel in silence, often bypassing some rodent or another that had Briala cringing and Celene suck her teeth in disgust. But soon, they could feel the breeze on the other side.

The passageway came out in an abandoned store in a district of Minrathous that was fairly popular. 

Briala shook off the dust and dirt and helped Celene do the same, each ensuring they were presentable, and walked off into the busy streets of Minrathous. It was a busy night, just as Briala had wanted it to be, as the night market was in full swing. Noises, smells, and wares of every part of the Imperium mingled in the air in a mixture of every culture of Tevinter that would surely entertain Celene while they waited for what came next.

“This is incredible,” Celene said, voice already far more pleasant than before.

Briala privately congratulated herself on lifting her mood. “Come on, then.”

The empress allowed her to guide her into the busy street, and Briala could almost feel her vibrating with excitement as she took in a Tevinter market. They passed through many stalls, often Celene pausing to look at something that caught her attention, and was merely content with enjoying each other’s company. Briala looked up at the moons, calculating the time, when a deeply pleasant smell filtered into her brain. 

“Oh,” Briala inhaled slowly, then turned to Celene, “you should definitely taste this.”

She headed for the stall and, showing money first, ordered one of the treats that smelled so good. She asked for a pistachio-flavoured one, and offered it to Celene, bringing her fingers to her mouth to suck the sweet coating of the treat that stuck to her finger.

“What is it?”

“It’s a syrup from a plant,” Briala explained, cleaning the green coating off her fingers with a cloth, “made by crushing the petals and adding some sweetener from Par Vollen. It’s the ranun.” Briala pointed to a white, five-pointed star-like flower that hung around the vendor. “Also called Winter’s Rose, I believe.”

Celene took the drizzling treat, cringing when the sticky syrup immediately coated her fingers. The empress’ pale-blue eyes looked at her, sceptical, and Briala rolled her eyes and gestured for her to just taste it already! Celene sighed and, dramatically closing her eyes, bit into the sweet rectangle, crunching the several layers of the pastry into a savoury bite that coated her lips with the sticky-sweet syrup.

When Celene opened her eyes, they were sparkling, brightly lit by delight. “This is good!”

Briala chuckled and, after paying the vendor, reached up to tuck Celene’s pale-blonde hair behind her ear. Celene’s tongue slipped out to lick her lips, cleaning the sticky substance off the pink lips and the pale fingers once she brought the last of the sweet treat to her mouth. Briala eyed the satisfied look on Celene’s face, the glimmering eyes, the content expression and, ignoring the whispers that rose at having an elf kiss a human in public, leaned up to kiss Celene on the lips, in the middle of the busy night market.

Celene was surprised, Briala felt it in the way she tensed, but quickly pressed her lips to hers as well, her hand came around her nape to pull her close for a second. She tasted sweet, from the treat, and Briala grinned. They released from their kiss, cheeks flushing with excitement at what seemed such an impossible thing to experience. 

“My, my. Aren’t you two cosy?”

Briala sighed, and took a step back from Celene, though she kept her arm around her waist as Celene did the same. When she turned to see the person who had interrupted them, Briala shook her head at her mentor. 

Felassan looked much better than the first time she had seen him in Tevinter. Some colour had returned to his skin, and he looked much livelier than before, his eyes had returned to their violet as he seemed to prefer it and his face was free of vallaslin. He had settled in well, Briala noted, as he dressed in the Tevinter style to blend into the duties she had given him as her personal Seneschal. 

Mainly, he was trying to find Jade for her and keeping an eye on… something else she wouldn’t bring herself to think about tonight, not this night.

“Hahren.”

“Dangerous business, da’len. Both the elvish and kissing the human in public.”

Briala rolled her eyes. “Noted.”

“Look around—” he shrugged, feigning ease, “—they are all staring at you.” It was true. No one was directly looking at them, but Briala could feel the corner of their eyes on her back. “You would think that you would be more subtle. At least,” he smirked, “I would think that the empress might feel embarrassed to be seen kissing an elf in public.”

Briala felt Celene’s hand tighten around her waist, as if controlling herself not show any anger. Instead, the empress smiled at Felassan and Briala almost cringed at the blanket falsehood of that smile. Briala wondered at the history between them now, knowing they had worked together closely before Celene came to Tevinter. If she had to guess, it was not an altogether pleasant experience if their exchanged looks were anything to go by. 

“And where have you been, Felassan?”

The words came casually, merely a ‘how-do-you-do’ sort of question, but Briala could detect some distrust beneath her tone. She was surprised that Celene allowed it to touch her voice, knowing that if it did, it was because the sentiment ran deep, too. Still, the Empress had been polite, something Briala couldn’t say of Felassan who approached to almost glower at her, though he refrained from actually doing so. 

Felassan had a sneer on his face. “Around. You should already know, empress, that your lover has many plots in motion to only pay attention to you.”

“Play nice you two,” she said, feeling strange at playing diplomat, “there’s no need to fight.”

They were still staring at each other, in an almost war that Briala cared nothing for. Annoyed, Briala pinched Celene’s side, urging her to cede and give the first salvo of peace. The empress was reluctant, but complied nonetheless.

“Felassan,” the name came softly, no different from how she said any other nobleman’s name, “it is always such a pleasure to see you.”

Felassan’s grin was a grimace. “You as well, majesty.”

“Stop calling her that,” Briala insisted as she gestured around them, “we would like some anonymity.”

The corner of Felassan’s mouth twitched, poised to lay some acerbic comment at her feet. Yet, he did not, opting instead to walk silently in front of them, deeper into the city. Celene made to relinquish her waist, but Briala refused, instead walking behind Felassan with Celene firmly in her grasp. There were some stares at the three of them; two elves and a human noble – they’d never be able to disguise that – with the noblewoman being guided by the elves, in the lowest street markets. 

It wasn’t something Tevinter was used to seeing.

“Why is he here?” Celene whispered quietly as Felassan went ahead of them towards the centre of the city, where there they could decide where to go. “I thought you wanted the night for us.”

“I am not an idiot. I am not about to walk about with a disguised empress of Orlais without some protection.” They entered a narrow alleyway and Briala let go of Celene’s waist to hold her hand. “At least he is discreet.”

Celene hummed. “Oh, those look interesting.”

Briala turned to look, and almost rolled her eyes as she saw Celene interested in a local stall that sold traditional Tevinter garbs. “Go.” Celene almost made to protest, but Briala’s chuckle stopped her. “Just go, I know you want to. I will be over there with Felassan waiting.” 

Celene squeezed her hand in thanks and made her way to the stall, backtracking through people who would casually glance to look at her. Briala walked over to Felassan, waiting around the fountain of the large square that doubled as the occasional Minrathous’ night-market.

“She’s buying something.” Celene had not said that, but Briala knew her too well. “Probably a headscarf.”

“Hm. Any idea where to go on this quickly concocted date?”

Briala sat on the rim of the black and white fountain displaying a magister standing over a defeated Qunari. Ironic, considering the situation. Tevinter was as subtle as a brick to the face sometimes. 

“No,” Briala admitted to her lack of planning. “I just needed to get her out. I am sure she could be happy here, talking to some locals or even going to a museum.” Not that they would let them in, Felassan was an elf, Celene was not a mage, and Briala was somehow the wrong combination of both of those things.

“Chariot races, they are all the rage,” Felassan said, casually moving the water in the fountain as Celene stopped to talk to the vendor about a pale-violet headscarf. The vendor woman was grinning and Felassan settled against the railing of the fountain, waiting for her to finish. “But I have a feeling that your empress might not like it.”

Briala sighed. “Could you try to be nice?”

“I am! Far more than I think she deserves.” Felassan turned to look at her, and sighed, exasperated. “But for you, I will try to be more… pleasant.” His nose twisted into disgust. “Ugh, the things I do for you.”

“Thank you for your sacrifice.” Briala watched Celene put the headscarf about her head with the mirror on the vendor, much like some other women had theirs. “But you are right, chariot races would not be something she would enjoy.”

“Snob,” he accused with a snort. Briala did not contest. “There is that underground tavern…”

He let the words hang in the air as Briala grappled with the possibility. It wasn’t exactly what she had in mind, the establishment was more of a speakeasy, a clandestine tavern that was certainly known by the authorities but often ignored for the fact that politicians frequented them as often as the common folk. There was music, food, and drinks. Briala had heard of it before, but had never felt the need to go there herself. 

“It’s not exactly very Tevinter,” Briala lightly protested, “I wanted her to experience some of it before we left.”

Felassan’s voice was soft now. “I think you know that it might be the most Tevinter experience you can give her.” He straightened when Celene started approaching them. “And she might enjoy a taste of home.”

Briala hummed in agreement, nodded her consent for Felassan to take them to where he suggested. Briala greeted Celene with a smile, thumbed the thin but well-made fabric of her new acquisition that went so well with her dress. It was a nice piece, decorated with golden jewels the size of small coins and embroidered with golden thread.

“It is called a dupatta,” the empress said, wrapping the fine piece of cloth about her shoulders more loosely. “It is supposed to mean modesty, but the meaning as evolved. Or so the vendor told me.”

Briala stirred her away from the crowds. “Hm. Into what?”

“Oh, into nothing, really. They just think it is a nice decorative piece.”

“You mean you think it’s pretty.”

Celene straightened and lifted her nose. “Well, it is not unpleasant.” Briala chuckled at her feigned nonchalance and smiled when Celene this time reached for her hand. “Besides, it is a good way to blend in.”

Briala turned back to grin at her, and Celene smiled back. Briala led her through old streets, the cobblestones became more deteriorated the further they came to be away from the centre of the city, and the buildings and houses became ever closer, with ever lower ceilings. Felassan still walked in front of them, guiding them through twisting corridors of numbered houses.

Until they reached an ordinary number. House forty-two of the sixth street of the seventeenth district. It was all other houses, all brick and mortar, two-storied apartment complex with only a small space on the side for a staircase that led to a storeroom — often used as an apartment for landlords to make more money — before another identical house emerged.

Felassan smirked back at them, and descended the steps to the supposed storeroom, knocking on the door.

Celene’s eyes were curious, taking in everything with that single-mindedness that Briala so loved. It was impressive to see her so consumed with something that was so outside her usual habitat, to see her entranced in such common pleasures as the possibility of an hidden establishment.

“What is this place?” Celene asked, tracing the brick on the side of the staircase that displayed a subtle marking.

At the same time, a burly man from inside asked through the small passage of the door, “Pass phrase?” 

Briala answered Celene, “It is a place to be as free as you can in Tevinter.”

“The war stays outside,” Felassan answered the doorman. 

The door opened and a burly elven man rushed them in, his eyes dark and threatening as he reiterated the pass phrase. The war stays outside was not just the pass-phrase, it was the holy decree of the place, the only condition one had to agree to before entering.

The doorman grunted as he led them from the front door into a courtyard to lead them to the actual space where most people were. There were several couples in the courtyard, trading affections or simple conversations nursed by wine. Briala could see people of every race, of every status, all mingling together. They could already hear the music from inside, even away from the actual entrance.

“It is a pleasant tune,” Felassan said as they walked past a Magister — by his ring — and a Qunari dwarf — by his markings — engaged in a passionate embrace. “Seems liven up the blood.” 

Briala rolled her eyes as they entered the large tavern. “It sounds familiar.”

As did everything in this place. 

It was a wealthy place, Briala noted the comfortable cushioned chairs, the drapery hanging down the ceiling, and the quality of the materials they served as well as where they were served, but it held a Southern charm; Briala recognised some Orlesian delicacies and furniture, some people even had masks. There was a mabari statue, and some Ferelden tapestries, Antivan wine and food, Rivaini tea and garb, Orzammar gold and ale. There were even some shrines to Andraste on a corner – worshiped as a bride of the Maker rather than the mere disciple she was in Tevinter. Briala spied the large room, arranged with a large space for dancing, a stage where a band was playing, several small stages with tables almost like the small-booths of a theatre. 

There was one at the very top, covered in red drapery and sporting a balcony that hovered above the stage and dancefloor, where a redheaded woman — scantly clothed, but with rich fabrics — looked down with a smirk on her face; the owner of the establishment, Briala was suddenly sure.

“It is certainly very Southern. Or, rather, not at all like Tevinter’s usual music.”

The instruments all sounded Southern, yes. Briala spied on the band an Antiva guitar, the Navarran trumpet, and even an Orlesian Accordion. 

Briala nodded at Celene’s observation. “Yes. People here, at least, the ones who come to this establishment certainly have… a positive view of the South, often times downright idolising our more progressive” — the word was strange on her tongue, considering all the problems they had — “views on certain matters.” 

Felassan was strangely quiet, his eyes fixed on something in a somewhat hidden corner of the establishment. She and Celene exchanged a look and turned to look at where he was looking, and promptly tensed at seeing the figure on the table, observing as people from all walks of life and of every race mingled in a display that could only be described as festive, affectionate, tolerant, positively infectious.

The man’s grey eyes were partially obscured by distance and the small hood he wore, but Briala would know them anywhere. The way they often looked saddened, often lost in the immense burden he had laid at his own shoulders, often angry as his soldiers for giving in to the brutality he unwillingly inspired. 

There was no doubt about it. 

It was Solas.

Chapter 12: Hellebore II

Summary:

Hellebore:
(Pink) affection, femininity, and gentleness
Blooms in winter, represent hope in darkness.

“Well.”

“How eloquent, majesty.”

“Stop calling me that,” Celene hissed at Felassan, eyes still on the hooded figure in the corner. “Discretion, have you heard of it?”

“What does it matter when he is here?”

“It matters because—”

“ Enough!” Briala let out a whispered yell. “For the love of every god that has walked this bloody earth, get a grip you two.”

Both Celene and Felassan tensed, annoyed at the tone of her words and the interruption. Briala refused to be cowed, this was hardly the time to be antagonistic. Briala turned back at them, eyeing them fully in the eyes.

“Neither of you have dealt with him as I have.” Both Celene and Felassan opened their mouths to protest. Briala would have none of it. “You—” she pointed at Celene, “—spent the whole of five minutes with him. And you—” she pointed to Felassan, “—have not seen him in ten years.”

They remained quiet, ceding to her argument, and the three of them quietly pondered what to do. Entering this establishment had become dangerous, but to leave just as soon as they entered was suspicious. 

“Is there a problem?” a voice from behind them came, low but melodic.

Briala turned to see the redheaded woman, the one that had been on the highest balcony of the tavern, was suddenly on them. She was tall, Briala realised, not nearly as tall as Celene, but she was tall. Which was surprising considering the elven ears that poked through her shiny red-hair. Her eyes — red, Briala was surprised to find — were piercing, travelling each of them with a hint of curiosity that Briala found rather unpleasant. 

When no one spoke, the woman seemed to take it upon herself. 

“I take it you all know the one rule of this place? I hope you are not planning anything nefarious.”

When no one spoke, Celene took the reins of the situation and smiled at the woman. Briala recognised it as the smile she used for dignitaries that often did not understand the depths of the political clusterfuck they had walked into.

“We are aware and we are perfectly all right. Thank you.”

The red eyes were disbelieving, but she did not press. “As you say. Just do not forget where you are.” 

Briala nodded. “We will not.”

“Good, now as for the three of you, I believe your… friend is expecting you,” the woman said, gesturing towards Solas. The three of them could not help the slight cringe that afflicted them. “Unless there is something the matter?” 

The smile on the woman’s face did not even begin to look pleasant, she knew well what she was doing. Briala internally groaned, knowing they would have to comply unless they wanted to be kicked out. Or worse, exposed. She had seen the way the woman was eyeing Celene, she had recognised her, even with her violet scarf— duppata on her head. 

Celene had noticed too, and with a squeeze of her hand, Briala smiled in feigned pleasantly back at the woman.

“There is nothing the matter,” Briala repeated.

The woman grinned. “Excellent, then the first drinks are on the house. Wine for the gentlemen and the rebel—” she pointed to Briala at the word ‘rebel’ and then pointed at Celene, “and, of course, tea for the lady. ” Well, so much for threats being implied rather than explicit. Felassan and Briala both tensed, but Celene hardly even blinked, far too used to threats like these. The empress squeezed her hand again, softly. The woman laughed when she noted. “Worry not, my lady, I haven't the desire to ill wish you." It hardly seemed like a mere warning, but they were not in a position to protest. The woman's red eyes were delighted at having them cornered. "I do not have your favourite tea on hand, my lady, but a sample of the Winter Rose should be quite to your tastes.” Her eyes roamed them, unsettling. “Unless you wish to spurn me?”

“It would not do to cause a scene,” Celene said, eyeing them all, “for all our sakes.”

The grin on the woman’s face somehow grew. “Well put, my lady. Please enjoy your evening. We have several types of entertainment, I would hate to see you leave early.”

The three of them smiled through hidden grimaces. So, they were to be hostages, for a while at least. It was hardly novel, this tactic was often used in Orlais as well, to increase the status of a party. But it was hardly as dangerous as this.

When the woman turned to go back to her balcony, Briala seriously considered turning back and going home, but Celene gentle push forward made her walk towards Solas’ table. It was on the second story of the underground theatre turned tavern, on a secluded balcony. Briala sighed as she felt Felassan’s tense frame at her side, the way he seemed to drag his every step. Celene’s hand in hers was clammy, shaking slightly.

She could not blame them, knowing their last encounters with the man had not gone well and they were, in part, a big reason why he had suffered so many blows in the recent months and the Alliance and Tevinter worked to find him and stop him. 

But Briala knew he would not harm them. This was a neutral place and Solas, despite all of his plans and desires, had no thirst for revenge. 

The door to the sectioned off balcony came and Briala opened the door without knocking, ignoring Celene’s wince and Felassan look of outrage. 

The first thing she saw was Solas’s lifting his head.

When neither Celene nor Felassan talked, Briala took it upon herself to explain. 

“The owner blackmailed us.”

Solas’ eyebrow twitched. “Why?”

“Power, as it often is, I would suspect.”

Solas nodded and, after a second, gestured towards the chairs on his solitary table. Solas was at the head of the rectangular table, the one directly in front of the dancefloor bellow. Briala guided Celene to one side of the table and seated herself between Solas and Celene, who sat the closest to the railing, while Felassan sat himself directly in front of Celene, deliberately leaving Solas’ right side empty.

A server came into the balcony to deliver their pre-chosen drinks, Solas glancing with at Celene’s drink of ‘choice’ with a tilt of his head. But he drank his own, savouring the Antivan wine. Briala took a sip as well, surprised at the quality; it was vintage that she knew well from Celene’s personal stores, a well aged wine, very expensive. Celene for her part, seemed to relax a bit after her first sip of tea and Briala smiled privately; typical . Felassan did not touch his wine, instead he played with the ends of his white braid, until Solas eyed him and Felassan seemed to really need that glass of wine. 

Briala feeling the tension build into what could only be described as an explosive crescendo, let an anecdote six months long loose into the air.

Pointing at Celene, she said to Solas, “She wants to hit you.”

Felassan choked on his first sip of wine, Solas turned to Celene with a glimmer in his eyes, and Celene’s fingers on Briala’s thigh squeezed so tightly Briala was sure she would have winced if she was not busy internally laughing.

“Hypothetically,” Celene quickly added before either Solas or Felassan could pose a question, though their mouths had certainly moved to do so. “In a hypothetical scenario, where I would be a person who succumbs to such type of  base desire, I would — theoretically — enjoy such a thing.”

Felassan let out a snort. “Nice save.”

Solas however, took her words as they came and had an almost smile on his face. “If you were such a woman and I such a man that would admit to error to those who are not my confidants, I am certain that you could land that punch.” He paused. “Not without consequences, I would imagine.”

Celene quirked her eyebrow. “Then, I am certain we are all glad this is all hypothetical and theoretical, yes?”

“Yes.”

A yell from below called their attention, and Briala saw a guard come to take them away. Solas winced as he watched the man savagely beat the dwarven man, making an example of him. Briala watched it with a grimace as did Celene; they both knew that to keep something like this functioning came from the genuine joy it provided, as well as an iron fist to keep people from taking advantage or getting complacent.

“Did you have things like this in Arlathan?”

Solas turned to Celene. “The words you hear of the magnificence of our time are not all exaggerated, but some are. There were as many brutal things in our time as there are here, Madame.”

Celene frowned as Briala and Felassan traded glances. “Why do you call me that? Lady is much more appropriate.”

For the common tongue, at any rate. In Orlesian, the correct term was using Madame , but in the common tongue it was bordering on the insult. 

“Lady is the name have to those women who held slaves in their grasp,” Solas explained. “You hold none. So Madame it is.”

Celene’s eyes turned to Felassan. “So, you have been insulting me this whole time.”

Briala sighed realising that she only ever heard Felassan refer to Celene as empress or ‘lady’. Well, another tally against Felassan from Celene. Briala held Celene’s knee, as if reminding her that she was still here. Celene turned to her, gesturing with her pale blue eyes at Felassan who offered no apology. Briala reinforced her need for cooperation between these two people who she so loved.

Celene turned the Felassan, and grinned, fake. “Well, I suppose it would sting more if you had not jumped in front of an arrow meant for me in Orlais.”

Once again, Briala wondered at what had happened in six months were they prepared for the assault in the catacombs, what history was now between them that led to this intense dislike they seemed to have for one another. Briala was sure that it had to be more than a simple mesh of personalities.  

“Your purpose has been fulfilled, Lady Valmont,” Felassan hissed,  “you can rest assured it will not happen again.”

Briala sighed. “She holds no slaves,” she said, finally. “You don’t have to call her that or to speak of her like that.”

“If we are not ranking on a spectrum, no, I suppose she doesn’t. But if we rank in actuality, then what do you call the fact that most of the elves in Orlais are cornered into cities to live like cattle and work tirelessly for humans. It is barbaric. As is everything in this age.”

Celene blinked, surprised at the sudden vitriol as Briala was. “Certainly not everything is barbaric in this new age, yes?” 

Felassan’s bitter silence came as an answer. Briala was surprised to see him this upset, he had never really been that interested in the current age or in helping those who needed help in the Alienages. Briala wondered if it was because he now knew he was staying in this time for good, provided the god beside them did not succeed. Briala wondered if this spirited accusation of this Age was to sting at Solas; the fact that Felassan had still picked this, even rotten as it was, rather than him.

Solas, surprisingly, came as mediator to relief the tension.

“Well, we did not have those—” Solas gestured with his head at the band playing on stage, at the accordion, “—in Arlathan.”

Felassan seemingly aware that he would not get the argument he so wished, hummed, noting the instrument. “I wonder what it is?”

“Accordion,” Celene answered, her eyes veering towards the player. “Invented in Nevarra in the mid of the Storm Age. Brought over to Orlais when Princesse Sortiria came to wed Etienne I, it quickly became more popular in Orlais than in Nevarra and many famous Orlesian songs were composed with it. Though it is popular in all countries I suppose. It is, conservatively, the…ah, yes, the fifth most produced instrument in Orlais behind the balalaika, the trumpet, the violin, and the harpsichord.” 

Briala looked at her, smiling, though Celene could not see it. “Do you ever wonder what could fit in your head if you did not know these little trivial things?” 

The jerk of Celene’s head to look at her, and the confused look of those eyes almost made Briala chuckle. The owlish blink did not help. 

“No.”

“Wisdom and Knowledge are limitless, Briala,” Solas chided gently, earning himself the snort of Felassan. “Something to add, old friend?”

Thunder seemed to burst behind Felassan’s golden eyes, and the surrounding air suddenly grew thick with the history these two men had between them. Briala sensed a storm coming and only hoped she could hold on to dear life when it exploded in front of her eyes. But before either of them could open their mouths, Celene, always knowing when her welcome had been overstayed, turned to Briala to spirit them away as fast and as far as possible.

“We should give them some space, Bria, no?”

Before she herself could answer, Celene reached for her hand gently dragged her away from the table before Solas and Felassan had even said another word. Their absence, Briala noted as she glanced behind, seemed to have ignited a discussion, a long time coming one, and Briala was suddenly glad for Celene’s quick thinking. 

They were leaning against the full bar, Celene watching the dance-floor with a look of relief on her face, when Briala was struck by an idea. 

“Hey,” she gently called Celene’s attention, grinning when their eyes met, “do you want to dance?”

Celene’s brightly sparkling eyes were answer enough, but her excited whisper of “yes,” brought a small smile to Briala’s lips. She took Celene offered hand and allowed the empress to guide her to the dance-floor. 

Trumpets and accordions began to play, the string of Antivan guitars accompanying them as couples flooded the dance-floor. Celene stopped, just off the side of the dance-floor instead of the centre where the empress of Orlais was always supposed to be, and in that hidden corner she slowly turned and pulled Briala into her arms. 

And they were dancing.

It was hardly novel, really. Celene had always loved to dance, had always loved music and song, and they often danced to hummed songs or the strings of a guitar in the never-sleeping streets of Val Royeaux inside the privacy of Celene’s bedroom. 

Still, it was nice to be among people, with real music that need not be faintly heard through an open window. 

Celene pulled her closer still, slowly twisting about to the tune of the song with her in her arms. Briala’s hand was around her neck while the other was inside Celene’s own. Celene was smiling down at her and they repeated the same movements over and again, the same sway of hips, round and round in a small circle. 

After a few bars of nothing but instruments, the rich velvet voice of woman filled the floor, eliciting a cheer from the crowd and drowning them in her dulcet tones. The words of the Antivan song suddenly became clear, and it told the tale of an arrogant man that had taken his lover for granted and now begged for an hint of affection. 

“Something you want to tell me?” Celene asked dryly, eyes drifting towards the stage as she gestured towards the song and its lyrics.

Briala chuckled, catching her meaning. “Not the most… romantic of songs, is it?”

“Perhaps not,” she whispered, very close to Briala’s ear, making her shudder, “but it is certainly nice to be dancing with you like this.”

Celene turned in place, like the other couples were, swaying her hips in tune with the music with an ease that betrayed years of understanding and enjoyment of music. Briala knew they would not have this in Orlais, certainly not  like this , and let herself — for once in her life — completely follow Celene’s cue in public.

The warm autumn night and the deep chords of the song, mixed with the strange accents of Tevinter made the whole thing feel ethereal, suspended on a single moment that seemed so far removed from reality that left Briala just lazily following Celene’s slow movements to the guitars, trumpets, and accordions. 

The trumpets were louder, crying out in a solo that was reminiscent of something that could be heard in Antiva or Orlais, and they danced the rest of the song together, in silence, just enjoying the rare ability to simply be one of the crowd and hardly merit more an cursory glance from all those assembled. Briala had always known what she was getting into by agreeing to be with Celene, what she was giving up, but it was nice to have anonymity for just one night.

When the song came to an end, they separated to clap and cheer for the singer, coming together again for another song - this time, merely instrumental as the singer could be seen dancing with a dwarven woman herself. 

They were slowly dancing in place when Celene’s face shifted slightly to her left during a right turn. 

“There is a woman looking at you as if you hold the secrets to the meaning of life,” Celene whispered, leaning in to murmur near her ear. “ Definitely her .”

Briala rolled her eyes and turned them around, innocuously and inconspicuously as if nothing was the matter and they were only following the music. Her heart nearly stopped when she saw who it was.

“Jade.”

Celene tensed and discreetly turned to look at the woman Briala had been searching for the past months. Briala could not tell what Celene thought of the woman from the way she acted, though there was something she longed to say, but she refrained.

“She is waiting for you,” Celene murmured and took a small step back. “You should go.”

Briala sighed and nodded, but held on to Celene’s hand as the empress tried to fully step away from her. Briala bounced on the balls of her feet, coming close to her and coming back, as if sheepish. Celene smiled, knowing well her plots to silently ask for affection, and leaned over to lay a single kiss on her forehead. Briala leaned into the press of lips but didn’t say that it was more for Celene’s benefit than her own. Celene might be a master at hiding her emotion for those who did not know her — and even from Briala, at times — but she never could hide her jealousy.

“Go now,” Celene said, “I will go back to the table, maybe they will have finished whatever argument we sparked. My tea is getting cold too.”

Celene took a step back and after a last squeeze of her hand, went back to their table where Felassan and Solas had apparently reached an understanding not to talk. Briala turned from them and walked towards Jade, who was leaning against a wooden column covered with bright red drapery.

The elven woman was clad in her usual style, the breeches for easier movement, hair up in a braid to avoid it getting in the way, a blouse overlapped with faint leathery armour. Even here, it was hard for Jade to let go of who she had become under Solas, Briala remembered a happy woman, content to help others, who believed the best of people.

War and a decade-long constant barrage of Solas’ orders had changed her, as it had them all. 

“You have become less subtle,” Jade’s hard-edge voice came as a greeting, “once you would not have left footprints has big as dragons as you tore through Minrathous looking for me.”

“I have lived almost half-an-Age, I am too old for subtlety.” 

Jade smiled, only a small uptick to her lips. “Hello, Briala.”

“Jade.” Briala exhaled, looking at her and seeing her ragged. “I have taught you too well, it seems.”

“I did evade you for a long while, didn’t I?” Jade chuckled, her lips pursed in distaste. “Though, it was not like you tried to find me until your empress gave you permission.”

Briala took the blow without a flinch, though she admitted that it did stung. She wasn’t exactly wrong, Briala had waited for permission, though it really was more of her own guilty conscience that had stepped in rather than a genuine desire to for Celene to actually have input in her household.

“You are right to be angry,” she said, “but I cannot help think that you knew where I was every day, and you did not try to contact me.”

Jade was not able to hide the flinch. “You are not going to ask me how I know about the permission?”

“Faeron,” Briala answered immediately. “He told me he was still in contact with you but refused to give your location.”

Jade quirked her eyebrow. “And you let him keep working for you?”

“Loyalty is something that cannot be instilled.” Briala meaningfully eyed Jade, who turned her green eyes away from her. “I never got to thank you for what you did.”

“I just did what anyone else would do.” That was a lie. Jade had been far more selfless than anyone had the right to expect. “I just did not think…”

She had just not thought that Celene would have been able to convince her to stay with her. Jade had been partly right, had the assault from the Alliance not come Briala knew she would not have intervened to save Celene, and would have watched her die. 

Briala let her observations go unvoiced; there was no need to drudge it up again.

“Where are you going now?” Briala asked her former second.

“I am leaving Tevinter, I have been just tying up loose ends. Many of my group did not want to follow the sentences that the world leaders set upon them.” Jade’s eyes were accusatory, as if Briala was to blame for the whole thing, but they softened somewhat anyway. “That was supposed be your job.”

“So it was.” And so it had been when she negotiated the original offers down to what they were now, though she doubted that knowing that would change Jade’s opinion. “You could have asked for help.”

“As if your empress would allow it.”

Briala sighed. “She does not control me. You know what she has offered me.”

“A bribe.”

“An opportunity , given the exact same as those merchants that prove themselves enough to be enshrined into nobility.” Briala saw her start to protest. “It is no trick, Jade. I have seen the paperwork, I have been given reign over the Dales. We can build something, instead of tearing it down.”

She saw the hesitation build in her green eyes, the way she mused over the revelation coming from Briala’s own mouth. It was that stare, that initial look of contemplation that had drawn Briala into Jade, the certainty that she would think through every possible angle available to her. Briala did not like to think of how similar it was to Celene’s own wits. 

“Then,” she said, finally, resigned, “I hope it works out for you.”

Jade turned to leave, and Briala realised that she had miscalculated. Jade had not been there to hear her offer, she had been there to dissuade her from going. Briala knew that if she wanted to have Jade, she would have to ask. 

“Wait,” Briala called, waiting until Jade turned back so she could make her offer. “If you want… If you want to belong to something worthwhile again, you know where to find me.”

Jade’s green eyes were steady, looking at her as if trying to gauge her intentions. Briala was sure that Jade already knew what she wanted her for, and was only trying to decide if Briala was desperate enough to beg. She wasn’t. Jade let out a chuckle devoid of humour, as if she could not help herself from laughing. 

“You will have me as soon as you arrive in Orlais, in Halamshiral only, ” Jade said, smiling bitterly. “After all, I have always believed in you.” Jade turned to leave, her golden hair brightly glittering in the candlelight. “You know,” her voice came just the slightest bit strangled, “I am… glad you have her back.”

A ‘thank you’ almost made its way past her throat, but it would have come off as insensitive. She knew Jade had said the words for herself, not for Briala, to put an end to whatever they might have been and squash whatever faint hope she might have still had. Briala had no desire to intrude in whatever it was that she needed to do to move past this, and instead just nodded in understanding.

Briala watched her go, letting the strange pang in her heart linger for only a moment before allowing herself the grace to let go of whatever guilt she might feel for the way she had treated her. Briala walked back to her table, smiling as she realised that Solas and Celene were in a deep conversation about the murals of the late Steel Age that could be seen outside the arena of the chariot races while Felassan looked bored out of his mind. She sat down with a weary sigh, relaxing when Celene, without breaking her conversation, reached out to squeeze her knee in comfort. 

“You always knew how to clear a room, da’len.”

Briala glared and sipped her drink. “Hilarious, Felassan.” She ignored the minor twitch in the corner of Solas’ eyes. “She wanted to leave.”

Felassan snorted. “I wonder why.”

“She will be back,” Briala said, slightly annoyed at his tone. “You will wok closely with her.”

Again, Felassan let out a derisive laugh. “I wonder why she doesn’t want to come with us now. When you are working so closely with your beloved empress.” Felassan rolled his eyes when Briala opened her mouth to protest his continued use of Celene’s title. “Yes, yes, I know; ‘be discreet’. My point stands however, the woman is clearly in love with you and you didn’t exactly turn her down, did you?”

“Of course I did.”

“Ah, yes, but you did feel something for her, didn’t you?”

Briala rolled her eyes. “How would you know, smartass?”

“You have a type.”

Briala turned to stare at Celene, appalled that she would say such a thing aloud. She was even more surprised to see both Solas and Felassan nodding into their wine. She twisted her face towards Felasssan, glaring when he smirked.

“I do not.”

His smirk grew. “Yes, you do.”

“I do not.”

“Blonde,” came the word from both Solas and Felassan.

Briala opened her mouth to declare the whole thing ridiculous when the faces of her affairs came through her mind… It wasn’t exclusively blondes, but… Briala groaned and rubbed her forehead, as she realised that there might be a truth to it. A hand on her arm made her look at Celene, offering her tea for Briala to drown her embarrassment, and whose smile was almost apologetic. The glimmer in her eyes told Briala the truth of it; she thought so, too.

She heard Solas and Felassan talk quietly amongst themselves, the ice broken by the simple joke they had partaken. Briala turned away from them, sipping a bit of the drink Celene had given her. 

It was actually rather nice, Briala savoured the tiny sip of the pink tea. The Winter Rose, was it? The same as that sweet, sticky syrup the vendors put on the sweets. Interesting as the tea was not very strong.

She felt more than saw Celene staring at her, looking at her smiling. Briala rolled her eyes, still feeling slightly slighted at the way she and Felassan had ganged up on her.   “I don’t like you very much right now.” Briala pouted, glaring, when all it did was make Celene chuckle. “How do you even know? We’ve always been together when I’m with you, you wouldn’t be able to know who I sleep with unless it’s you!”

Celene laughed. “It is not like your appreciation for women disappears when you are with me. I have seen you look after women. Besides” — Celene ran her hand through the pale blonde tresses of her hair— “you pout whenever I cut an inch of it.” Briala opened her mouth to protest, but Celene’s playful look of seriousness took the wind from her sails. “An inch , Bria. You know that split ends are the bane of my existence.”

“Well…” she was a bit sheepish, “you have such pretty hair.”

Celene laughed and shook her head. “Yours is far prettier.”

Briala grinned. “Flatterer.”

“I try.”

They traded back light conversation for a while about Tevinter, about the drinks and the food and the music, just watching as more and more people came in as the night wore on, while Solas and Felassan seemed to be trading ever fonder words. Briala smiled as she realised that her plan for a night away from trouble and work had not gone completely to shit, and that they had enjoyed each others company for a long while yet. 

When drinks were low, she went to the bar, asking the server for another order of their drinks - ignoring the lifted eyebrow at the request for tea - and brought over the four glasses of their assorted drinks. When she arrived and sat down she noticed that Celene’s eyes had drifted - as they sometimes had through the night - upwards, towards the balcony where the owner was. 

“You want to go talk to the owner, don’t you?”

Celene nodded, smiling a bit. “She has built something this intricate and intrinsic to Tevinter life, flying in defiance of every law and maintaining a level of success, sustainability, and popularity that is enviable for anyone. It is impressive that is all.”

Briala snorted at Celene’s feigned nonchalance. “Go,” she said, shaking her head at the predictability of Celene working even when she was away from work, “have fun. And be gentle when you question the poor woman.”

Celene leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek, lingering for just a second before rising and heading towards the balcony, where the owner was sitting, observing her domain while her entourage partied around her. 

Briala watched Celene approach the — admittedly — beautiful woman and saw the way the elf responded, the swagger the woman had as she took Celene’s hand and gallantly pressed her lips to the palm, clearly flirting. Celene was gracious, Briala could tell even from her seat, and she displayed her charm to get the owner to talk to her. 

Briala chuckled as she realised that it took less than a minute for the pair of them to be deeply entrenched in their conversation.  

Briala settled down on her chair to watch the people in the tavern; the way they were free of any and all inhibitions, the way they danced and enjoyed life, regardless of race or status. 

There were many happy people here, Briala realised, and she was glad that such a thing existed here. 

Orlais had similar establishments between whorehouses and cabarets, but this felt different. The segregation here was doubly what was back home, and this felt like a different breed of the country altogether. While in Orlais one could frequent any and all establishments one wished, with whomever they might want. Briala roamed her gaze through the dance-floor, and took in the faces of every race, the mixture of colour, the-

Wait. Was that-? No.

A tall elven woman, of a skin as dark as obsidian, suddenly entered the corner of her vision. The woman was resplendent in her white garb, grabbing the attention and double-take of any who dared to look at her. Her hair fell in a straight line, a waterfall of inky black, and she walked with a grace that beguiled any that dared to look at her, like a sun with its golden rays. 

Briala had thought her dead six months ago and, if she had not been, Briala had thought she would have long left Minrathous. 

And yet, here she was. 

Semidra, the woman who had orchestrated the whole spectacle of the execution turned trap, walking into a tavern to sit and watch as elves, humans, dwarves, and Qunari mingled in a harmony that was the antithesis of what they had planned to do.

It seemed like the start of an anecdote.  

Briala stared, willing the woman to turn to look at her. When she did, the woman smiled, white teeth glimmering in the light, and waved her over.

Briala spied Solas and Felassan, still talking and ignoring her, and then turned her gaze towards Celene who was deeply entrenched in the conversation with the owner, now the both of them alone in the balcony, and after a last swig of her drink, rose to walk towards Semidra.

Chapter 13: Hellebore III

Summary:

Hellebore:
Also known as Winter Rose

Notes:

Warning: Non-con elements.

The atmosphere of the tavern had not changed from before Semidra entered the room, but there was a glimmer of something different in the air, a hint of a hidden tension that bordered on the abnormal. Briala kept the frown to herself as she passed through the crowd and ascended up the stairs to Semidra’s booth.

On the way, she heard various of the awed patrons longingly sighing towards the private balcony where Semidra was seated, as if staring at a creature from legend, with a beauty beyond compare. 

Briala had always thought Semidra beautiful - she would have to be blind not to note the simpering lines of her figure, her cunning dark eyes, the elegant way she dressed and talked — but she had never felt this sort of revered awe that these few close speculators seemed to have. Briala would go as far as to describe it as unnatural, but she didn't know where the thought came from beyond what her gut told her. 

On guard, Briala approached the door to the private balcony, ignoring the line of men and women alike lined up to catch a glimpse of Semidra, and merely knocked on the mahogany wood. 

“Come in,” came the faint words from the silvery voice. 

Envious eyes followed her as she entered, and Briala almost allowed a small sigh of relief to leave her lips when she closed the door behind her. 

“They are rather ravenous today, aren’t they?” Semidra said, in greeting. “Perhaps it is something in the food.”

Briala gazed at the woman, taking her in for the first time in months.  

She was as beautiful as ever, siting in the red chair overlooking the dance-floor, much like Solas was when they first found him. Her rich dark skin was on full display tonight, shoulders nearly bare and collarbone exposed, and clothed with in a white gown, Semidra almost seemed to glow in the deep burgundies of the room. Her dark hair was as a river down her exposed back, shimmering in the candlelight. Her smile, small but enchanting, appeared to outshine even the spectacle of the performances. Scars framed her dark eyes, old scars from a wound that should have blinded her, but she could see - Maker, could she ever see! Though elves had an augmented eyesight compared to the other races - save perhaps the dwarves with their eyes used to darkness - it was nothing compared to Semidra, who could see beyond Briala’s comprehension. Semidra had told her of an old injury, healed in such a manner that she had not only survived hale and whole, but enhanced. This Age had no magic like that. It was all but confirmation that Semidra was from a time before, cut from the same cloth as Felassan and Solas.

“Do you think so?”

Semidra hummed at her question. “Mhm. Perhaps. It would not be the first time that illicit, unregulated drugs are found in a place like this. Often enough, addictive ones too.” A smirk tugged at the corner of her dark lips as her eyes travelled the whole of the theatre turned tavern. “After all, one has to keep the clientele loyal.”

Briala snorted. “As if there is another place like this in Minrathous. By virtue of existing it already has a loyal clientele.”

“True, it is remarkable what has been built.” Finally, her eyes returned to Briala, a genuinely fond smile now gracing her face. “Hello, Briala.”

“Semidra.” She nodded back. “Nice to see you here. Alive .”

The woman laughed, silver bells ringing in its wake. “We all had our excellent exits. Now come, come,” she gestured towards the chair on the other side of her table, “sit and we can commiserate on it.”

A glass of white wine was waiting for Briala while Semidra herself sipped a mug of what appeared to be common ale. Briala lifted her brow, surprised at the choice of drink. Semidra always seemed to be upper-class, her mannerism, her clothes, the way she spoke… Briala supposed they always seemed a bit fabricated, but she had assumed that it was the differences between old Arlathan and this old new world. 

Briala took her seat, opposite to Semidra and, with a grace she had learned alongside Celene, she took the white wine and sipped.

“Good, yes?”

“It is adequate.”

The explosion of flavours almost overwhelmed her. It was great wine, excellent even, and Briala wondered where the owner had found such a thing and how anyone managed to buy the surely exorbitant price that a bottle of this calibre fetched. 

“Liar,” Semidra accused playfully. “We both know that this is the best wine you’ve ever tasted.”

A smile made its way to her lips. “Close enough to it, yes.” 

There was a wine in Orlais, coming from a vineyard deep in the Heartlands that would forever be Briala’s favourite despite being of lower quality than this one. Briala couldn’t wait to taste it as soon as they arrived in Orlais, sure that Celene would have it waiting for them. Briala adjusted herself in her chair, willing that picture of the future to come later. 

“Speaking of liars,” she started, “care to tell me how exactly did you manage to escape that explosion unseen?”

Semidra chuckled. “A cleverly hidden trapdoor.” Briala rose her eyebrow, a gnawing feeling at the back of her head. “Perhaps the most boring answer of all, yes.” Semidra’s dark eyes then glimmered. “But tell me of your time since then, I hear it is quite the tale.” 

Briala ignored the warning sirens that sounded in her head at the vague answer, knowing that everyone in Solas’ Inner Circle had secrets to keep, and gladly filled in Semidra in all that had happened behind close doors in the Archon’s Palace. As she spoke, Briala could not help relaxing into the habit of talking with Semidra, who had often been her point of connection to Solas while he was doing his own business. They were not friends, but there was a certain professional courtesy, if nothing else, between them.

Briala told her tale, skipping some private scenes and some machinations she had yet to put in place, enjoying as Semidra listened closely and often gave her input; she appeared to have particularly enjoyed Briala’s scheme to entice Rivain to delay negotiations so she could put some plans in motion. Near the end of the tale, Briala allowed her renewed personal relationship with Celene to take the stage. 

“So your lioness has staked her claim?” Semidra took a classless swig of her drink. “Congratulations are in order, I suppose.”

Briala smirked, relaxing against the chair with a cool grace. “How do you know it’s not the other way around?”

“I know her type, and I know what she expects.”

The bitter tone came as a surprise to Briala. Semidra spoke often of her past, but it was always clouded by mystery, little anecdotes filtering in just enough not to be suspicious but not really informative. This was more than she usually gave, and it led Briala to believe that she might have been a lower-class noble, at best.  

“She is haughty,” Briala admitted, “and demanding, if she wishes to be. But what she asks of me is not the same as she asks of others.”

At least, Briala thought as she toyed with what the future had in store, not yet. Semidra was sceptical and snorted — snorted — into her drink. Golden droplets filled the air as easily as Semidra’s faint crackle of disbelief. 

“I have my doubts.”

“Is that how little you think of me? As a Halla served up to a wolf?”

“The Halla are hardly harmless.” A strange power awakened in the air around the two of them, an almost mythical trace of something that left the skin of her arm raised. “I would know.”

Briala felt a chill race her spine, an icy dread she had rarely felt before. The sharp laugh of a customer startled her from her stupor and set her brain out of its daze. The tone and the power beneath Semidra’s words reminded her of Solas, and even Morrigan who she knew to be Mythal’s daughter had borne a trace of it. There was a faint scar on Semidra’s forehead, like an erased Vallaslin, of an arrow-tip. But Semidra still bore one now, that of Ghilan’nain that suited her much better.

Andraste’s left tit and Mythal’s right one, too.

“You are—

“Yes.”

No pretense, no double-meanings, no confounding words.

How novel.

A thread of disbelief nearly assaulted her senses. It seemed impossible that she was here, again, seated beside a figure of legend that was more real than the thousands of men and women that had once depended upon her. Briala eyed the so-called goddess again; the regal bearing was there, but it was feigned and trained. And that Vallaslin… Briala culled a snort. That damned Ghilain’nain Vallaslin was a clue all along. Curse her.  

“I have read of you.” Briala paused, then added, “Of the real you, I mean. Not of those tales the Dalish tell.”

Semidra grimaced and took a gulp of her ale. “I prefer those.”

They were far more sympathetic than the actual texts. Ghilan’nain was a scientist; it was the only word for her, creator of countless beats that had enthralled both elf and god alike. 

An unethical scientist, to be sure, but a brilliant one nonetheless.

“I can imagine,” Briala said, allowing some compassion to grace her tone. “What I can’t imagine is Solas allowing you to join his movement. Much less his Inner Circle.”

Semidra shrugged into her mug. “People change,” she said, taking another sip. “I can’t rightly say that I have, but I have no wish to either return to my… previous station or practice. It’s why I joined Solas.” She paused, hand cradling the mug as if it was all that held her together, but then she smirked, turning to look right at Briala. “But I also have no desire to die.” 

That was when everything fell into place for Briala. The armed Chevaliers during their supposed execution. The trap that had been mounted in the Colosseum that only the Inner Circle would know about. The fact that neither Felassan nor Celene had had much influence on what the Alliance had decided to do with the elves in Solas’s rebellion, they had said that they had been only inducted into the plan when a pardon was already on the table. Celene likely negotiated Briala’s current position with them, making them sign away any and all chances of arresting her or accusing her of anything, but it was Semidra that had paved the way. 

It was Semidra that had done it all. 

“You were the one who said to spare those in Solas’ movement.” She was certain of that, just as she was towards the reason why. “You were already one of us, you needed to secure a pardon for yourself.”

“Correct. You are quite clever, aren’t you?” The laugh she gave was not mirthful. “You would have been an excellent assistant to me, but alas…”

Briala had so often thought of what it would be like to have been alive during the peak of what Arlathan was; how she would have risen to the highest of positions through her cunning alone, how she would have wielded her power unimpeded by the weight humans had on her people. 

“Though, perhaps not,” Semidra continued, wondering aloud. “I think you enjoy politics too much to be a scientist.” 

“Yes, I don’t think I would enjoy your particular experiments.”

Semidra smiled. “Oh, but I think you would. There is something great about creation, about plunging into the depths of your field, about finding that thrill of a new thing you have made.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Yes, I do. There is much of her in you.” Briala did not need to ask who ‘her’ was, there was only one person recorded to have captured Ghilan’nain’s heart and who else could Ghilain’nain speak of with such a fond, complicated voice. And what Briala would have once taken as a badge of pride now tasted bitter on her tongue. “The better parts, I think.”

The words were melancholic, filled with a hurt that seemed familiar to Briala. 

She knew the story of Andruil and Ghilan’nain; the common girl — likely slave, Briala now knew — made into something Divine through the love—… obsession? — of another god, all the while implications of their dysfunction were sprinkled in various other myths; the halla that fled the hunter, the halla that turned to Pride, the halla that dared to evade fate. 

Briala almost chuckled. 

It was far too prescient and reminiscent of what she knew in her bones.

“Yes,” Semidra’s soft voice came, filled with bitter amusement, “you do see it.”

“I would be a fool not to see the similarities, yes,” she acknowledged, “but it is not the same. The broad strokes of the brush are the same, but the picture they paint is inherently different.”

The elven woman seemed to not believe her, eyeing with those dark eyes that were truly piercing as so few really were, even Celene’s own glare — impressive in its own right — did not even compare. There was a thrill of fear going down her spine, passing through her bones to settle on her marrow. Semidra finally mercifully turned her gaze from her to sip her drink, almost casually as she spoke again. 

“She hunted you all the way here.”

Briala shook her head. “She chased me here, yes, but I chose not to run.”

“Submission?” Semidra snorted the word. “From you?”

Briala smiled. “I never felt the need to run in the first place.” She almost said she was sorry that Ghilan’nain did not have the chance to know what it was like. “And that’s where we differ.”

“Not so,” the dark-skinned woman said, her dark eyes drifting upwards. Briala tried following her gaze, but they quickly returned to her before Briala could see where they had led. “Once I only ran to see her chase. Through the forests of our home, through the deep sea, through to the edge of the known world. And she did, and she would, and she would take me until the next round came again. Round and round it went.”

It sounded miserable.

Briala and Celene were not like that. There was no chasing, merely coming together; reaching an understanding. They had found what they were looking for in one another, there had been no desire to flee or chase. Simply a settling down. Granted, it came with more challenges that they were both not expecting, but there had never been any running. They were both too stubborn to run, preferring to stand their ground and gnaw at each other if needs must, but really never too far apart. 

She could not fathom living as Ghilan’nain and Andruil had.

Though she hardly dared to say it aloud; there was some self-preservation in her, still.

Semidra took her silence as an end to the conversation. “Goodbye, Briala,” Semidra said, and drained her mug as if she was nothing but a commoner. Which, Briala realised, she had been. Once. “Enjoy her while you can. A reckoning will come.”

Briala barely blinked at the warning. All these gods knew to do was to speak in riddles and give ominous predictions about where the future was headed; Briala had come to know that they were, more often than not, wrong. She was done listening to them; it only brought misery and often, in trying to avoid the fate they painted, led to a bitter end. 

There was no design to the world, no fated path to follow, no pattern to be discerned; there were only the choices one made and what they made of it. 

“And you? What will you do?”

“I plan to be as far away from this godsforsaken continent as I can.” Semidra dusted off her dress with a sigh. “I would suggest you do the same, but we both know that you will stand and fight. Even if it is hopeless.”

Briala nodded, well aware of the truth of that. “It’s been months. Why are you still here?”

“I had to see to something before I left.”

This time, when her eyes travelled, Briala followed her softened gaze to the highest balcony of the establishment, where Celene and the elven woman who owned the tavern were still speaking. Briala saw the redheaded woman reach out to touch Celene’s exposed forearm, almost teasing. Briala blinked at the image, bordering on confusion. 

“She used to have the palest blonde hair,” Semidra spoke, a reverent tone to her voice. “Now it has been corrupted red.”

The shiver that went down Briala’s spine seemed to have a mind of its own, burrowing into her nerves to settle on her stomach, twisting it into oblivion. It was as if an abyss erupted within her, and a coldness gripped her bones. It could not be. Not three of them in the same place. 

“Skies, you really are quite clever aren’t you?”

Briala rose quickly, knowing that if that really was- then Celene was in danger. She spared a look at Semidra, almost asking how could she allow this to go on, but she only grinned and raised her cup in a mocking salute. Briala growled and almost leapt over the small balcony in her haste to cross the room to start her climb to the top.

The stairs were filled with people, the theatre-like layout of the establishment making it hard for her to climb the sets of stairs to the highest balcony, through the way she heard laments of how the owner had sent all around her away to be with the blonde woman that had come to talk to her.

Briala moved faster, climbing the steps two at a time, and when she reached the door that led to the private balcony, there were two burly guards at the door. They looked at her, nodded at each other and opened to door. 

The first thing she saw was the redheaded woman, lounging on a cushion, nursing a glass of red wine as the warm wind swept through the drapery hung like a canopy around them. Next, she saw Celene, laid on a cushion on the floor, leaning back on her elbow in a completely relaxed manner that she would never allow anyone but Briala to see. Her long hair was a curtain around her, hiding her eyes from the world. Something was seriously wrong.

“Ah, your… lover is here,” the melodic voice said, an unmistakable note of disappointment shining through. Celene’s head lifted immediately to settle on Briala. “Seems like our fun is over, da’len .”

The word that came so fondly from Felassan’s mouth was dripping with nefarious intent in the woman’s tone. Briala culled the shiver and ignored her, instead stepping forward towards Celene, who was watching her with strangely unfocused eyes. 

“Celene.”

“Hm?” the hum was weak, almost dazed — drunk .

Briala then noted her eyes, the pupils were tiny, and the blue seemed iridescent and too large to be natural. Her fingernails, naked of any polish, were tinged blue and her breathing came so slow that it seemed that she would not breathe the next time. Fear gripped Briala’s heart; she had never seen Celene this out of it, even on the rare occasions that Celene allowed an indulge of wine or other substances. Briala didn’t kneel before her, not while they were alone here with just the redheaded woman, but she extended her hand to Celene, to help her rise. 

“Go,” she said, gently, “go back to our table, now.”

Celene blinked, slowly. “I—

“I will be just here,” she promised, taking Celene’s hand. “You can walk, yes?” she whispered when Celene was on her feet, standing close to her. “Go, please.” 

Celene nodded very slowly, her eyes glazing over with something that sent chills down her spine. She wasn’t all right, she was trashed, absolutely sloshed. Something had happened, someone had made her like that. Someone who was staring at her with a grin on her red painted lips. 

Briala clenched her fist and calmly watched every wobbly step of Celene’s as she slowly made her way down and back to their table. She watched Felassan, his eyes narrowed and dangerous, and he turned to look up at her and nodded. Briala relaxed just slightly knowing that Felassan had her back, even with Celene.

With that assured, she turned back to the other woman, still watching it all with a grotesque grin ripping her lips. 

“I admit,” Briala started, calmly reigning in her temper, “I did not expect to find someone of your reputation here, in this the most urban of settings.”

“Well, forests have long lost their appeal.” Andruil’s smile was wide, infused with a dangerous tint that left shivers over Briala’s spine. “This hunting ground is far more fun, and the prey is all the more… delicious .”

Briala took a deep breath to try to maintain some restraint. It was difficult, an exercise in control unparalleled even for her. The implications of this woman’s words and the implications Semidra had laid at her feet before were vile, unthinkable in any circumstance, but more so now with the woman she loved. 

“Your empress has a strong will… for certain things,” the so-called goddess of the hunt continued, with a smile on her face that Briala did not like. “It took me a considerable amount of power and trickery to compel her to me.” Briala resisted the urge to turn around and make sure Celene was at their table, as she’d been just a second ago. The woman sighed, resigned. “And you had to come and ruin my fun.”

She had noticed Celene’s reaction to her, jumping into the air when she touched her hand. As if Celene would ever be caught off guard in a public situation. Briala cursed herself for not noticing sooner and not having done anything to prevent it. 

“And I do think we would have had fun.”

The words came salacious, dripping with intent that Briala would not have liked on a good day much less after everything that had transpired tonight.

Briala hissed, “Enough. Have a shred of decency, at least.”

“She’s a shemlen .” A shrug. “It didn’t even take that much. Just a little magic after making her open to it with a little bit of this—” Andruil produced a flower of a deep black, with five large petals of star-like shape with a yellowed centre. “Ah! How I love Tevinter and their misguided love for plants they do not understand.”

Briala recognized the plant at once. And where it had been used.

“The tea,” Briala whispered,somewhat amazed despite herself. “It’s not the Winter Rose is it? It’s the Hellebore.” 

The flower that induced a hallucination so potent that it took months for one to get out of it if consumed in large quantities. Briala felt a bit of apprehension take her, though she consoled herself that Celene had appeared in control and had seemed to recognise her, so it was unlikely that she had consumed much. Briala eyed the teapot on the table between the cushions, how full it was, and realised that the distilled essence was likely in the tea, much more diluted than in solid form. 

“You know of it?”

Andruil’s voice was airy and light, as if she had done nothing reprehensible, and a pale hand cupped the dark flower, occasionally thumbing away at the softened edges of the petals. 

Briala stared at the woman, surprised to see her so lighthearted in the face of someone discovering her secret — If, Briala thought , it was indeed a secret  — instead of the hot-headed goddess she expected from Solas’ stories.  

“Solas told us that only he had the plant, that it had gone extinct. Lost along with Arlathan,” Briala said. Much like you and Ghilan’nain are supposed to be locked away , she thought privately. “We diffused it into the bombs to… ease some... accidents.”

The laugh that escaped the woman was strident. It filtered into Briala’s bones and enveloped them like a second skin, bathing in the rivers of her blood and piercing her sensitive nerves. It was unnatural. It had to be magic.  

“It is no such thing. It has merely evolved in the last thousands of years, as things wont do. It does exist in its ancient form, though it is far rarer than its white counterpart; the Winter’s Rose.” The red hair swayed as Andruil shook her head. “He has always thought that he knows better than anyone. Always thought himself so clever, so unable to be tricked. Fool. He never even knew that we got out of his little prison earlier than he ever thought possible.”

The way with which she spoke of such things was as if it was negligible and not something that was legendary to anyone who cared to study history, as if the disappearance of the elven gods was not a fixed point in history, a mark with which one could well define a ‘before’ and ‘after’. 

Briala wondered what Solas would do if he knew.

“You may tell him, if you wish, if he does not know already.” The red hair glowed in the candlelight, but it was an unnatural thing, enhanced by whatever magic she possessed. Her red eyes were wild, dripping with an eager madness. “But know if you do so, it will be the people in here that suffer when he inevitably starts a fight. It will not be him who gets hurt. And certainly not me.”

Briala held her ground. “They already suffer under you. I doubt Celene was your first try.”

She had implied as much with her comments about the boredom that forests inflicted on her now. Andruil shrugged again, and Briala had to shake her head at the image. It was surreal to be here again, talking to this figure from legend who was nothing more than a woman, plagued with depravity and frailty in equal measure as those of mortal lives. 

“She was not,” the redheaded needlessly confirmed, “but are you truly willing to give me — and this whole establishment by association — away?”

She was, she really was. There was a part of her that was already standing, already marching towards Solas to ensure that this woman would not continue to live. And yet—… And yet, she remained seated. There was too much suffering in Tevinter, and everywhere, to deprive the people of something that made them happy- and Briala would give this to Andruil; she had made something that brought joy and freedom to too many without it. 

“You prey on those less unfortunate, on those that decide to take their life into their own hands and try to enjoy a little bit of what best life has to offer,” she said, finally. “It’s vile and loathsome.”

“And?”

It was a hard swallow for her, but she knew the truth of it. “And it is not my fight.”

It was not her place to take this away, to make a moral quandary of this place. Something would have to be done about Andruil, but Briala did not know what. An ambush from Solas would be ideal, but Briala did not know - and realised, did not care - whether or not he had the resources. A penned note would be enough, just for him to know, later.

Andruil smiled, victorious. “Good. I would hate to lose good business. Though I hear you are taking a lot of my clientele with you to Orlais.”

“Stay away from us,” Briala said, stepping closer almost without thinking, her teeth clenching in anger. “Don’t come around, don’t visit, and if you do, don’t you dare stay.”

The red eyes were steady now, hardly as blown wide open as they were before, and they stared deeply and unnervingly right at her, delving in deep as she appraised every lash of her movement. It was the gaze of a Hunter, of course. Briala was hardly bothered. Semidra has been more terrifying, Solas often could be as well, even Celene. This was a wild madness, hardly sustainable for long. 

“And who will stop me?”

Briala grimaced a grin. 

“I am sure we will think of something.”

The words made Andruil blink, but she quickly released a laugh. “Yes, you are quite good at that over there. Hm, well, here’s to your trip back!” Andruil raised her glass rather mockingly and took a swig from it. “Hopefully, you will only hear the fireworks as this whole business ends.”

“And how will it end?”

Andruil chuckled, deep and low and utterly devoid of humour. “I would not know. Though, I am certain that we have not yet seen the last of Mother.”

Mythal was preparing something? Yes, that seemed right, somehow. Briala grimaced as she thought of the possible consequences of two gods fighting it out; though, she had to admit, she wondered if Solas could bring himself to fight her. 

“Well,” Briala raised Celene’s nearby glass, but made a show of not drinking, “here’s hoping for fireworks.”

And the end of this whole damned thing. Andruil smiled and raised her glass again, drinking deeply. Briala hid the grimace that threatened to split her face and with nary a word, turned to leave. She was truly done with this entire night. 

“Ah, Briala!” the woman called just as Briala touched the brass handle of the door. “You and your friends are free to leave, I would hate for you to feel as if you are trapped here. After all” — even without turning, Briala could hear the smirk — “this is a reputable establishment.” 

Briala’s fingers turned white as she gripped the handle and the urge to do something — anything — almost grew strong enough for her to throw caution to the wind. But she could not… there was much she still had to do, and dying in a pointless battle against a god was not part of her plans. 

Taking a final breath, Briala left the balcony, somewhat dazed and sizzling mad still, and noted that only just now Semidra was leaving the room. Her eyes lingered on Andruil and, risking a final glance at the Huntress, Briala spied her red eyes following Semidra out of the room, a glimmer of something Briala would codify as longing if she was forced to. 

It was best to leave them to their own devices.

She was coming up on the dancefloor, fall fuller than when she and Celene had had their dance, and tried to make her way through the crowd without upsetting the balance too much, without letting her energy seep into the jovial mood in the air. She found comfort in the solid floor beneath her feet, in the way the music drowned out the shrill echo of the voice inside her head screaming to retaliate, in the way the bodies moved in a rhythm unaware of the danger they were in. 

A tap on her shoulder pulled her attention, and Briala turned to see Felassan standing beside her.

“Your woman was compelled.”

“I know,” Briala whispered back, continuing to shift between the crowd, “there are some powerful mages at play here.”

Felassan’s eyes drifted up. “The owner?”

“Yes.”

It was all she said, she would not volunteer more of this until the time to go back to Orlais presented itself. It was far too dangerous, and she had no desire to die as collateral damage in a fight between gods. Felassan’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded.

Briala stepped through the crowd, and ascending the one flight of stairs that led to their table she finally saw Celene again. She sat on a chair, against the wall to hold her up, Solas kneeling in front of her, in his hand was a glass of clear liquid - likely water - and his other was glowing faintly. 

Solas looked at them from the corner of his eyes. “She will be fine,” he said, “the water and my magic will help her find her way back to herself faster.”

“It was—

“The Hellebore,” Solas interrupted, voice deeper and lacking warmth. “I know.”

Briala nodded and came to stand before Celene, taking in her now wide eyes, the black of her pupil blowing away the pale-blue. Briala knelt before her, silently thanking Solas when he wordlessly took a step back, and took the pale, shaking hands in hers. They were clammy, and Briala worried over them as they appeared to be almost blue while in the throes of the drug.

“Bria,” the word came as a whisper, tremulous. “What—

Briala squeezed her hands. “It’s fine. It’ll pass soon, just relax.”

“I— I lost focus, she just—

“I know.” The words came like the clash of a sword as anger thundered through her again. Felassan put a hand on her shoulder, centring her, and Briala gentled her tone when she noticed Celene flinch. “I know, my heart.”

Celene blinked and her gaze lost some of the mist. “I begin to mislike Tevinter,” she said, voice stronger but still quiet, “it is the second time someone has tried overriding my desires.”

“It will pass,” Solas said, his voice very soft, before Briala could offer comfort of her own. “It is not uncommon for such things to happen to non-mages in Tevinter. It is a vile thing.”

He said nothing of the fact that it had taken the plant to lay that layer of susceptibility, like a primer for a new coat of paint, before this magic could take place. Briala would tell Celene later once they were safely back in their room. 

Celene sighed, but allowed a grateful smile to pass her lips. “Thank you, I suppose.”

Something passed between Solas and Celene that Briala was not privy to, an understanding that she could not begin to understand. She wondered if it had happened in that cell nearly six months ago, when this all began. But it did not matter. Nothing to do with Solas, or any other damned God that dared to still walk this earth, mattered. Briala was done enabling and abiding by these people; the time had come to fully put whatever notions she had of this rebellion and Solas aside; she had other work to do.  

“We are leaving,” she said to Celene and Felassan both.

Briala left the tavern with Celene’s hand firmly in hers and Felassan firmly behind her while Solas was left festering in the mess he had made, perhaps unaware of the danger he was in or, perhaps, all too aware.

It mattered not to Briala. 

It was best to leave gods to their own designs. 

Notes:

This chapter was written long before we knew what was happening in the game. We have known since like 2022-ish that Ghilain'nain was important - or would be important for the upcoming game.

Of course, this is an incredibly self-indulgent roll out of her character, just a hint of what I thought her character would be. As we've seen in the trailer, she's not all there after all. She - and Andruil - function more as plot devices and mirrors to Celene and Briala than anything, but I am excited to see what their relationship really is like once we have DA4 in our hands.

Anyway hope you all enjoyed it!

Chapter 14: Roses and Honeysuckle

Summary:

Roses:
Love, silence, privacy, conversations held in confidence (general)
I am worthy of you; secrecy (white)
Desire, passion, joy of life, youth, energy; grace (light pink)
Honeysuckle:
Devoted and generous affection
Bonds of love

Notes:

This is probably one of the hardest chapter I ever wrote and also the filthiest thing I ever wrote by a margin probably.

Anyway, if that didn't clue you in: There's smut in the chapter. If you want to skip that then you should only read the third section after the smut part starts.

Celene woke with the sound of rain splattering on the window of her bedchambers in the Archon’s Palace. If she laid very still - and ignored the heat that still lingered in the air, even in late autumn - she could imagine that she was home, high in the imperial bedchambers of her palace, just a few footsteps away from her throne, her son, and her people, just hearing the pre-dawn rain patter against her stained-glass windows. Yet, the air felt fundamentally different, filled with sounds and scents that were just different enough to provoke in her a longing that was beginning to ache.

Celene sighed and reached for the tableside plant, plucking a tasty leaf that always left her feeling refreshed, before putting it in her mouth. Celene sighed at the taste and after a moment reached for a napkin and, almost crudely, spit the leaf into it. Closing the napkin and putting it back on the table, Celene stared at the ceiling, feeling the world close in closer and closer. Until all that remained was her and thoughts of Orlais, of her son, of people back in Val Royeaux, of all she was missing, of all she would have to- 

Before melancholy could fully set in, there was an arm about her waist, reminding her that not all was terrible. 

Briala’s fingers, as they tended to do nowadays, were gently tracing the scar across her navel and caressing the fading stretch-marks that marred her stomach.

“Bria,” she mumbled quietly, gently stirring the air around them. “Are you awake?”

There was a ‘hm’, but nothing more. Briala practically crawled into her, her cold nose very much pushing against her nape, and her arm curled so tightly around her it seemed Briala was afraid she would escape. 

Celene bit her tongue to stop a laugh from escaping, and surrendered to the lull and lure of a good, gentle morning. Burrowing into the soft pillows, and feeling the softness of the silky fabric, she relaxed back into bed and into Briala’s arms.

She must have fallen asleep for a while, because when next she opened her eyes dawn was starting to break over the horizon, painting the endless sea a soft pink. 

Celene took a deep breath, smelling the scent of her and Briala, the rose and honeysuckle mixed with the lavender and lemon, and the intense incense that Briala liked but left Celene dizzy sometimes, and slowly stretched her neck and lower-back.

The dark, freckled arm, still around her waist, tightened further and Celene stilled, afraid she had awakened Briala, but it appeared that her lover had already passed the threshold to wakefulness.  

Slender fingers danced along her scars again, this time with more force than before, and they traced each and every imperfection.

“Bria,” Celene called, very softly.  

“’am awake,” came the mumbled words from behind her, voice muffled by her hair. It barely sounded human, much less awake. “I am ,” Briala bleary protested before Celene could even get a word in. “I am.” 

“If you say so, my love.” Celene smiled, and slowly turned around to face her. 

Briala’s deep dark eyes were closed, serrated shut almost, like she was trying to hold on to whatever dream held her. And her hair! It was tousled and mussed by a hard night’s sleep. It was utterly endearing. 

Celene reached out and swept her thumb across Briala’s cheek, just below her eyes. “Your eyes however, tell an entirely different story.”

Briala groaned and buried her face in Celene’s neck, coming so deep into her arms, legs entwined with hers, that she was almost becoming a second skin. Celene laughed and happily welcomed her into her arms, knowing how tired Briala must be. The late nights had never stopped, even after finding Jade weeks ago and arranging her position in Briala's household. If Celene had had any doubts that Briala had something else up her sleeve… Well, they evaporated in these past weeks as the late nights and disappearances happened as often as before.  

With another groan, Briala reached over her and plucked one of those refreshing leaves, popping it into her mouth for a bit. Briala let out a deep sigh before spitting it out to put it back on the table and her arm returned to Celene’s waist, now caressing her back. Celene rolled Briala’s curls in her fingers, coiling and uncoiling a curl. 

“How did it go yesterday?”

Celene hummed. “The vote passed with a narrow majority and debt slavery is officially over in Tevinter.” A hollow victory, despite all it implied. “And as for chattel slavery, slave families cannot be separated. It was…” Celene searched for a diplomatic word. “…tense.” 

“Erasing debt slavery is only likely to increase the market for chattel slavery,” Briala said, her fingers running the length of Celene’s spine, “which, of course—

“—will mean more raids into foreign lands for more people.” Celene sighed, exasperated at the ignominious conundrum. “We will have to increase patrols and—

“—and re-institute a policy that any slave that sets foot anywhere that is not Tevinter is immediately freed.”

Briala was just reiterating all they had said in their last meetings at the final Senate vote. It seemed to bring her both comfort and unease. Celene knew that Briala despaired at leaving Tevinter like this, with so little in hand. Celene sympathised, but they had pushed to the very edge of reason. 

“It is already in place, Bria, but you know it will not do much.”

Escaping Tevinter would become impossible in the following years, Celene knew that much. And yet, it would still result in a mass exodus, with ever more slaves risking everything to get some place where they could have lives free of the Imperium. Maker only knew what policies the Archons would put in place to maintain an optimum population level.  

Briala sighed and laid a kiss on her collarbone. “It will do something . It is a start they can build upon.” Briala exhaled, truly tired as she rarely allowed herself to be. “It’ll be something to keep them busy while we rebuild alliances too.”

They had not burned bridges while in Tevinter — a miracle, as far Celene was concerned, considering all the Alliance had going against them — but there were some singed marks on the stones. Deals would have to be made and remade, new alliances forged in the dire circumstances of their world rarely lasted. Celene could not imagine how Tevinter’s continued presence would change the landscape. 

“Hey—” Briala bumped her nose against hers, drawing her attention from future conflicts and into Briala’s deep, dark eyes “—what’s going on in that head of yours?”

Celene closed her eyes and groaned into Briala’s wild, bed-wrangled curls. “Things that are not as pleasant as this moment deserves.”

Briala laughed quietly. “It’s hardly a spectacular moment.”

“Hm, yes, but you in bed is always a pleasant thing, my love.” Celene tightened her grip around Briala. “And it is not like this is a regular morning either; it is our last morning in Tevinter.”

They were to leave under the cover of night, through an Eluvian provided by Morrigan that would cut their travel time from a solid month to a day or two, at most. They would have a long, late luncheon with the Magistrate and the Archon and then they would all leave through the Ancient Mirrors to Val Royeaux where they would have another function to signal the end of the Alliance and disband the diplomatic corps.

Celene was very much looking forward to that moment. To be home, finally, with only the concern for her country would be a luxury. One she would soon not forget.

Briala’s growing tiredness with Tevinter and all its current occupants had brought far more needling problems; her lover had become unbearably over-protective. She barely let Celene be alone in any room, much less alone with any other diplomat — of her corps or not. Briala insisted on every food be tasted, twice and then again, and poor Sabran had been through so many lectures that Celene began to worry for their safety and comfort. 

“You're right,” Briala murmured sweetly, lifting herself up to hover over Celene, who allowed herself to coyly lay on her back. Briala’s mouth mapped the pulse point of neck, making her purr. And then, slowly, kissed her check and the corner of mouth, mumbling sweetly, “There are more pleasant things we could be doing.”

Celene leaned up, locking their lips for a simple kiss that she somehow managed to stop from deepening.

 Their noses brushed together and every time Briala tried kissing her again, deeply, but Celene allowed a brush of lips before hovering over Briala’s freckled cheeks. 

It was a game, a dance of control and surrender, one they had played countless times. This morning was no different; every touch was heightened, every breath more urgent. Exactly like it had always been. The softness of Briala's lips, the gentleness of her restraint, it all left Celene aching for more.

Briala's hands moved with deliberate intent, her fingers tracing the curve of Celene's waist, feeling the softness of her skin and letting her touch linger, as if savouring the way Celene's breath hitched with every caress. Briala’s fingertips danced lightly along Celene’s sides, teasingly brushing against the marks on her skin, lavishing attention and eliciting a soft gasp. As Briala's hands travelled further up, Celene shivered, feeling Briala's touch as both a comfort and a tantalising promise of what was to come.

The burning sensation in her gut bloomed, growing deeper and becoming something more. Something primal and savage and altogether brimming with energy that could not be put into words.

Luckily, in this - like in most things - Celene and Briala never needed words to understand one another. 

Briala pushed herself away from Celene, just enough to reach over to the nightstand where a harness lay in waiting. Briala reached for the appendage, dark eyes somehow darker in the early pre-dawn, and Celene watched her set mouth and sure fingers fiddle with the straps of the harness.

“Help me?”

Celene nodded and helped Bria undo the tangled harness, until she could do it by herself. The toy looked ridiculous on its own, likely looked ridiculous on Briala herself from an outsider's perspective, but Celene watched the careful movements Briala made as she readied herself. 

Celene sat in the bed as Briala adjusted the straps to her liking. When the elf was done, she strutted over to Celene, towered over her, making Celene have to look up from the bed to stare her in the eyes. When Briala was close enough, she grabbed Celene by the nape and fused their mouths together in a head-turning, passionate kiss. It was a practised dance, rehearsed a thousand times a thousand, and their tongues knew which paths to take to make the most of time. 

When the kiss came to its natural end, their lips came apart with a dirty, obscene pop. Briala gulped in air matching Celene’s rapid breath, before reaching out to grasp Celene’s chin, making Celene stare up at her and having herself staring down at the empress, and then gestured with her head. 

Celene had a better idea. 

With slow and deliberate movements, the empress let herself fall to her knees before Briala, making sure to keep her eyes trained on the elf who took a faint gulp.

With a deliberate motion, Celene stroked the to- cock, angling it so the base would give Briala some stimulation beyond the mere visual spectacle of it. Briala's hand clenched and unclenched at her side, trying to not grab Celene's hair - a futile exercise in the long run, as Celene knew that there was very little Briala could do to resist the impulse. Celene gave a few more strokes, making sure to keep her eyes on Briala's face, and after using one of her hands to grasp Briala's thigh, steading herself, before taking a larger breath than usual and inching her face forward.

She leaned in closer, breathing in the intoxicating scent of Briala, lavender and lemon mixed with the leather scent from the cock, and let her tongue flick out, teasingly brushing the tip with enough force so it travelled the length.

Briala’s breath hitched, her body instinctively leaning toward Celene, urging her to take more. Celene responded with a low growl, a sound that reverberated through her chest as she enveloped the cock with her mouth, feeling the coolness give way to warmth. Her mouth, warm and wet, took the cock deeper, until she felt it hit the back of her throat. Her gag reflex, used to little this past decade, struggling to keep pace and the need to please. She revelled in the wildness of the moment, the way Briala’s body trembled above her, her soft groans barely noticeable, until the elf could not hold still and pushed herself in an inch more than Celene had been prepared to take then.  

Celene leaned back, coughing for a moment, letting the cock bob free without her pulling it down. Briala looked down at her apologetic, ready to call it off, before Celene shoo-ed Briala’s hand reaching out to comfort her and took a deeper breath before wrapping her lips around the warm leather again.

Celene remembered the first time they had done this. How not long after Celene’s letters to Cailan proposing a more permanent alliance, Briala had come to her bed with the leather appendage. Briala had explained it as a way to prepare Celene, but she had seen through her lover even then: if Celene was to marry, then it would be on Briala’s terms and Celene would have to perpetually compare Briala to whoever shared her bed. 

A ploy as plain as day that part of Celene had been poised to refuse; the idea of it, the mechanical act Briala was asking of her, was something she had dreaded from the moment she had realised what her duty - what the throne - would demand of her. 

Still, Celene had never been able to refuse Briala anything. 

It had been… stilted at first, her panic even making the process mildly painful, but Briala had been so-  She had eased her heart and her panic, quieted the voices of dissent that had shouted at her even during that first thrust. It had been… everything; both bad and good. Almost addictive in its contradictory emotions. Even as the act itself became ever more raw and even morosse as Cailan responded to her letters, Celene could not help but find herself drawn to it; the physicality, the carnality, the sheer mind numbness of it all. 

Then, Cailan had died and it seemed like a dam burst; suddenly, there was no holding back, and where before Briala had been raw, yes, but almost possessed with the need to invisibly mark her somehow, now there was playfulness and Celene remembered how hard at it they had been for the months after - perhaps a side effect of desperation as a Blight approached. 

They had become innovative, daring more and perhaps for the first time since they started, had almost not dared to care about who found that Celene had, at least, a lover. 

The sudden feel of Briala’s hands tangling in Celene's hair, fingers gripping tightly to the blonde hair on top of her head as if grounding herself in the overwhelming sensations. It broke Celene’s concentration completely and she found herself taking Briala even deeper, her nose almost hitting Briala’s navel.

 “Good girl,” the elf gasped, the urgency in her voice driving Celene to push further.

As always, embarrassingly, the words warmed all the way down her gut, stoking the pounding heat into a wildfire. 

Briala’s hands gripping the hair at the top of her head now guided her movements, and Celene, feeling the reins of control slipping away from her, gave an encumbered sigh of pleasurable relief. 

Moving under Briala’s instruction gave Celene the freedom to reach below her navel, to let her fingers feel the coarse hair of her blond curls and the wetness of her folds. With a far too practised hand, Celene curled her fingers inside of herself, grounding and thrusting into the heel of her hand. 

It relieved the pressure, but did little else. Briala’s hand on her hair, pulling and demanding did more to her than her own fingers were doing at the moment. 

With a pop, Celene pulled away at Briala’s behest with a strangled gasp and a panting breath. Her jaw hurt with a delicious pain, her fingers were wet from her own pleasure, and Briala was looking at her with those big, dark eyes of hers, her freckled face flushed a lovely red.

“Get up,” Briala’s voice was hoarse and thick with desire. “Lie on the bed.” She did as Briala asked, her head was about to lay against the pillow when Briala’s voice came again. “Turn around.”

Celene shuddered and trembled, in pleasure - in desire and anticipation - and did exactly as Briala bid, lying prone on her stomach, facing the headboard.

Freckled hands pulled at her hair, gentle but demanding, forcing her head back. Celene felt the brush of Briala’s lips on the pulse of her neck, Briala’s bottom lip dragging against the throbbing veins, and then she felt the tip lining up against her slick entrance.

Celene shuddered forward, overstimulated, and then arched back against Briala. Wanting to feel more, wanting-

Briala’s mouthed words against her ear, “So wet, and I haven’t even done anything yet.”

---

“So wet, and I haven’t even done anything yet.”

Briala thought that having Celene like this wouldn’t be something Celene would like again. That whatever ease and playfulness they had would be over when in the shadow of Celene’s marriage. She had been wrong; somehow Celene had grown more responsive, more willing to submit to Briala.

Pressing her lips to the side of her neck, softly and gently so as to not leave a mark whilst they still lingered in Tevinter, Briala inhaled the scent of rose and honeysuckle. Briala smiled into the familiar scent, the way it was the same as before but so different too. Her lips pressed open-mouthed kisses along the slim shoulders, down the arched back and curved spine, before Briala sat back in her heels looking at Celene’s prone form for a moment before positioning and angling herself just so she could press against Celene’s entrance. 

Celene gave a small twitch, and tried to urge her to enter her fully and all at once, but Briala had other plans. 

Leaning back so she could thrust only half in, back and forth, Briala ran her fingers along the spikes of Celne’s back, enjoying each and every twitch her empress gave. 

“Slow, yes?” Briala murmured, keeping the slow pace.

Celene didn’t respond, merely continued to move in time with Briala’s thrusts. Briala allowed herself to move forward inch by unbearable inch, going as slow as their desire allowed. Hips moving back and forth in a simple, slow rhythm, like the movements of a lazy river. Briala watched the faint arch of Celene’s back, the way twitched forward or not, judging and adjusting the pace as she felt needed. 

There was a sheen layer of sweat pooling at her back due to keeping the slow, controlled movements of her body. The strain of control exerted itself on muscles, the spasm of one of her thighs, the delicious pain of extending and distending muscles. Briala gave soft hums, adjusting and fiddling with the pace and the angle - enjoying the trial and error of it. 

Celene reached for the harness at Briala’s waist, seemingly to try and hold herself steady for Briala’s slow and stea- 

Before Briala could do anything, Celene lurched Briala closer by the straps with a force so great that Briala, all at once, found herself buried to the hilt. Celene let out a satisfied moan, her short nails piercing her soft skin of Briala’s thighs, and Briala, having braced herself against the headboard to not fall completely on top of Celene’s back, let out a surprised yelp that was masked by the groan of the bed. 

Dizzy at the sudden change of pace, Briala righted herself after a moment, just as Celene adjusted fully to the length inside of her. Briala leaned back, the toy moving with her and making Celene give a muffled moan.

 Briala let out a bit of a strangled laugh. “Eager are we?”

“We are on a schedule,” Celene answered, choked and panting and with a rough voice, but still remarkably coherent despite all of Briala’s efforts. “Do get a move on, yes?” 

Their lovemaking was usually tender, full of gentle caresses rather than biting hunger.

Usually. 

Briala’s hips snapped forcefully, the angle perfectly aligned to extract pleasure for the both of them at once - an action they had perfected in the countless times they had been together. Celene’s breath hitched to gasp, having demanded but not entirely ready for Briala’s thrust, and Briala, feeling the toy scrape the swollen bundle of nerves at her entrance, rasped a groan. They stilled for a moment, getting their bearings, before Briala started a punishing pace. The slap of their bodies was familiar and the dawn broke with the muffled sounds of their moans. 

Briala felt the pressure building, and saw the trembling of Celene’s shoulders, and slowed the pace. She let the mewl of disapproval from Celene wash over her with satisfaction, pleased to have worked her into a state. So obviously displeased, Celene leaned back against her, urging her to return to the pace Briala had pushed them through before. 

Briala leaned back, grinning as she watched Celene arch her back into her, moving back and forth against her. Briala leaned back to see exactly how far Celene would go. She noted Celene’s long, pale, blonde hair was sticking to her nape, slick with building sweat, that white-gold hair that so often refused to curl for Ballrooms and Throne Rooms now naturally coiling itself like its mistress’ back, curling and rippling against the smooth back, and doing Briala’s unspoken bid. 

Unable to stop herself, Briala leaned down and swiped her tongue against the pale skin before taking a fistful of the hair. Briala used that leverage to snap her hips again, and again, and again - setting an even more brutal pace than before.

Celene gave a muffled cry, half-from-victory and half-from-pleasure, hands ripping the sheets from the corners of the bed. Briala, even if she felt the exertion start to get to her, wouldn’t have stopped for anything in the world.

They were panting, breaths came in shorter and shorter bursts and their moans were chest-deep, but even the rapid snap of their hips wasn’t quite yet enough.

Letting go of the hair, Briala perched herself completely over Celene’s back, the space between them growing negligible, so only Briala could move without restrain - allowing her to stop the rapid pace and opt for a deeper trust. Celene’s gasping for air grew and Briala could see her trying to find some purchase against the headboard to keep pushing against Briala and force a faster pace. Having none of that, Briala struggled to capture both of Celene’s wrists and lock them against the headboard, all without stopping her deep, hilted trusts. 

She leaned over, using her other hand to move Celene’s hair from her cheek. Briala mouthed the shell of the ear, teeth grazing on cartilage. “Don’t move these,” Briala said, giving a squeeze to Celene’s wrists.

Celene tried to lean back to kiss her, to distract her, to do something but all Briala did was tighten the grip. Celene bit her lip, still not giving an answer, and Briala jolted her hips exactly once before stopping, 

“Do not move these,” Briala repeated, voice soft and rough, and demanding an answer.

Celene nodded against her, and Briala was happy enough to take that. 

The pace Briala set was slow - but it went deep. Ensuring Celene’s arms stayed where they were, gave Briala little margin for manoeuvring - she could only move her hips, raising them almost to the point of fully pulling out before driving down to the hilt. Celene shifted and twisted, trying to find relief from the pleasure without release, but Briala’s hand on her wrists impeded her from moving. 

The thrusts grew more fragmented as the angle became harder to maintain, and Briala started rolling her hips in an effort to keep the pace going slow - all it did was making them both more desperate. 

Celene moaned and groaned, but could do little else. What Celene couldn’t do, Briala did in excess. 

The strength of her movements, the physicality it required, had her grasping the sheets, had the bed creak against itself. Celene bucked back against her, trying to find whatever she needed to reach her release, and Briala, feeling her endurance start to reach its end, relented and picked up the page - letting go of Celene’s wrists to lean back, find purchase and move with renewed purpose.

Celene arched back, relief and desperation twinning in that moment, and seeing an opening, Briala sneaked her hand against Celene’s stomach. 

Down Celene’s scared navel, until Briala was touching the swollen bundle of nerves with fast and flickering motions. Celene stiffened, letting out a soft cry muffled by the tangled bedsheets, before relaxing for a moment. Release didn’t last long, but the spasms and wild and uncoordinated movements spurred Briala.

Briala didn’t stop thrusting- couldn’t stop thrusting and the harness at her hips was almost pinching her skin. Celene twitched beneath her, arms still shaking and clutching the headboard as she came down from her high, keening a pinched whine. Briala held Celene’s wrists in one of her hands, keeping Celene in place but pressing herself forwards and down into the bed, and though she usually would have smiled when the empress entwined their fingers, Briala’s mind was well beyond anything but the need to find release. The angle was all too perfect now, the pace just as well, all she needed was-

When Celene’s arched her back, Briala’s world narrowed to the tiniest pinprick of light, her hips stuttered and lost all coordination and Briala collapsed on top of Celene’s back with a grunt.

They were panting, slick with sweat and drowsy from pleasure. They staggered to a halt, the up and down of their rib cages the only movement they seemed to be able to make.

Briala gulped air back into her lungs with large intakes and allowed herself to rest, pressing her forehead against the top of Celene’s back. She noted that Celene too was slowly regaining her breath, though her hands were still holding on to the headboard… even if Briala’s had long abandoned her wrists. 

Feeling in some indescribable way, Briala inched herself up Celene’s back, the toy between them shifting and overstimulating them to the exact point between pleasure and pain. They groaned together, but Briala managed to pull herself up to press her cheek against Celene’s. 

Damp skin touching, the slight breeze from the window cooling their burning skin and aching muscles, and Briala would later blame her drowsiness, but pressed her lips against Celene’s cheek, unable to stop herself from this one indulgence. 

“I love touching you,” she murmured against Celene’s damp cheek.

Celene reached behind and threaded through the length of Briala’s hair, fingers slightly pulling up the tangled loose curls of Briala’s hair towards the air. Celene twisted her head back to look up at Briala, the blue of her eyes almost eclipsed by the black swirls of lust that clouded her gaze, a look Briala could not imagine was anything less than what she could clearly see. 

Reverence. 

Celene’s whispered words made her lips brush against Briala’s freckles, “And I love being touched by you.”

---

Later, after a bath, they dressed in a comfortable silence. Celene slipped into one of her Orlesian dresses, the heavy skirts and silky blue fabrics a comfort after months of white robes of Tevinter design. 

Celene applied her own makeup; far more Orlesian than it had been through her stay. Her hair was up in a simple braid adorned with jewellery. 

Celene went through the motions of her dressing, almost like a ritual. The ring of the sovereign of Orlais, she put on without a thought, while she always hesitated on the ring Mantillon had given her. Her mask — blue and golden, like her mother’s crest — would come later, once she left, and right now Celene stood — mask-less and shoe-less — in front of a full-length mirror, trying to fix her hair into perfection.

Celene was just putting the finishing touches on the hairdo when Briala’s arms came around her waist, as they did so often recently. Celene welcomed the caress as she did every time, spying a smile in the mirror when they began to sway to an inaudible music, or a music that was just theirs; perfectly in harmony, though likely hearing different songs. 

When she felt Briala’s lips pressing against her nape, Celene stopped and tensed as she felt the tension of Briala’s still unspoken, but forthcoming, words.

“I have something to tell you.”

For a single second, Celene felt the world stop spinning. 

So, it was all coming ahead.

Celene had known that Briala would come with something that would rock the foundations of their world the moment she figured out something else was happening with all of those late nights. Celene had watched the elf agonise over something for weeks after they had decided that it really was, finally, time to leave. Briala had stolen glances her way when she thought Celene was not looking.

Outwardly, the empress kept calm, but part of her was already placing contingency plans in place. 

Celene arranged the last bit of her hair and slowly turned her back to the mirror to face Briala. She said nothing and merely stared, impassive. Just waiting, for whatever Briala was about to lay on her.  

“The meeting I said I arranged… It does not exist.” Celene frowned at Briala’s fidgeting hands; Briala never fidgeted. “You know that I am… absent some nights a week… And well—“ Briala sighed. “The story doesn’t start there.”

Celene noticed Briala’s hesitation and slowly took her hand and led her to a small chaise where they sat together, facing each other. Celene reached out to tuck a curl of Briala’s behind her ear, exposing the appendage to the world. Briala smiled, and brought their joined hands to their lips, laying a kiss atop Celene’s.

“Two years ago, when Solas told me of his plan, I stopped being a strong presence in his plan.” Celene nodded at Briala’s words, she knew that much, yes. “You also know that I went into the service of Magister Aurelius; outwardly as a slave, but really as a spy. It was… not unlike being your spymistress—” Briala smiled at her until her disposition darkened and lightened all at once. “Everything was going fine until…”

“Until…” Celene prompted carefully. 

“There is a child.”

An arctic chill flooded her veins, a feeling so sudden it left her dizzy. A cold, burning rage of frostbite chilled her to her core. Her hands reached to grip Briala’s shoulders, a bruising grip that made Briala wince, but Celene could not seem to control her thoughts or actions. It could not be. Celene refused to believe it. But had someone— had anyone—

“Bria. If someone- if anyone has dared—,” she paused, choked on her words as she was unable to grasp the possible implications. Yet, she swallowed the hole that tore open her throat. Compassion, instead of anger, should guide her. “Briala. Are you—Did he—

“Nothing of the sort has happened.” Briala touched her cheek, gently, noticing her either anger or panic. “Easy there.”

If anything her heart beat faster, trying to get a regular rhythm again after so many stuttered beats.

“Bria,” her voice shook, “are you certain?”

“Yes,” her lover said, squeezing her hand tightly. “I believe he thinks himself too far above elves to dally with us.”

Celene scoffed, reaching out to touch Briala’s cheek. “Something to be thankful at least.” Briala reached for her hand and kissed the top, lips grazing her skin. “You said that there is a child.”

“I met this elven girl when I was first stationed there, two years ago, she is ten years old, recently orphaned.” Briala shrugged sheepishly, as if embarrassed at the depth of feelings she felt for this girl. “I started just by looking out for her, but then—…

“Then you started caring for the girl.” 

Briala hung her head. “Yes.”

Celene could not help the smile that split her face. It gladdened her to see that Briala had done the best for her life here, away from her, that she had found friends and love, and people to be with her. And that this little girl had taken her heart. It boded well too, for Leon’s relationship with her and the future of Briala’s new title. 

“Where is she now?” 

Why is she not with us, she wanted to ask. She would have liked to have acquainted herself with the girl before they arrived in Orlais, to allow herself to see the girl’s demeanour to protect her. Wherever she was, Briala would have had to—… Oh. 

“That is where Felassan is, then?” Celene asked then. “He is staying with her when you are not.”

“Yes. He’s the only one I trusted to do right by her.”

Celene blinked once and then twice. ‘The only one she trusted’. Well, then—

Briala sighed, likely seeing her anger. “Celene—

“You could have brought her here,” she protested, unwilling to hear whatever excuse Briala had for her. “Do you think I would harm her? Or that I would allow any harm to come to her?”

“Of course not, but—

“Then help me understand,” her voice was perhaps a touch too harsh but- there was a child! “Because if you do not trust me with this girl Briala, we have a problem. This girl… she will be part of your life. And, ultimately, of mine. Keeping us apart cannot be how things are done. You cannot separate the two of us, not for long, not if this—” she gestured between them “—is going to work. And…” she swallowed, “and if you do not trust me, then we should cut our losses and—

“Wait a minute now—

“Briala,” she sighed, “you know I am right. Keeping us apart—

“Celene, she’s still a slave!” Briala interrupted, face flushing. “She is still a slave and I couldn’t bring her here. No matter how much I wanted to.”

Celene’s head jerked back, flabbergasted by the words. “What? Why have you not—

Briala’s face was the picture of anger, pinched with a rage so deep it threatened to consume the whole of Tevinter and raze it to the ground. Celene felt her entire body clench in response; she knew what Briala was going to say; she knew it, and a sudden surge of protectiveness for this girl she had never met filled her to the brim, threatening the spilling over into a wave that would decimate anything in its path.

“Elves cannot free any slave,” Celene said when Briala could not bring herself to speak. Celene sneered. “Maker, you are not even allowed to buy her.” 

 Celene shook her head, feeling the tendrils of displeasure spread through her spine. 

“I am not,” Briala admitted, a deadly calm that hid unspeakable outrage, “and I can’t steal her away because Aurelius has a model of some sort of phylactery with his slaves’ bloods; ready to follow them at any moment.” Briala looked up at her, those sharp eyes conveying so much. “Celene… I know what I ask, but you must go get her. Through,” Briala sucked in her teeth, “the legal means Tevinter has.”

Celene seized. Her instinct was to say no. To vehemently deny any participation in an act as heinous as buying someone to own them; Orlais had had the clause of any slave setting foot in its borders being freed for a long time, since Freyan Valmont all those centuries ago, and every piece of literature and text that spoke of this type of practice spoke only of it in the harshest of terms. It was vile to her blood, bile to her head, visceral to her very upbringing.

And yet, leaving this little girl — who would be loved by Briala, by her, by those who would know her, and who would rise to one of the highest of seats in Orlais when she took over for Briala — behind to the wolves…. 

It was simply not an option.

Celene felt a thrill race down her spine, one that always echoed in her bloodstream whenever there was something she knew she had to do. Something she could do. She reached out and held Briala’s freckled cheeks, making sure to look deeply into her eyes as she made what might be the most important promise she would ever make.

“I will find this child, Bria,” Briala’s eyes delved into her, hopefully seeing the truth of her, “and I will bring her to you.” 

She leaned down and sealed her promise with a kiss.

Chapter 15: White Lilac I

Summary:

White Lilac:
Youthful innocence,
Humility,

Notes:

I wanted to finish this before DA4 came out, but well... It just aint happening. As it is, we're so close to the game! It's going to be awesome.

Hope you guys enjoy this chapter, and see you after da4!

Celene spun the black-stoned ring on her finger again. It was a strange comfort, a habit she had not really been able to break in the thirty years she had been on the throne. 

“You are doing it again.”

The voice made her gaze return to focus as it had gazed over for the countless time in the last hour. 

Celene looked up at the profile of her Champion; the stern lines, the dark hair, the impeccable posture. They stood strong, impenetrable, staring ahead as the elevator descended from the Archon’s Palace’s Island into the busy streets of Minrathous, and there were times when even Celene felt unsure if she appeared as implacable as her Champion did.

“So I am,” she easily agreed, dipping into the familiar camaraderie. “Thoughts?”

Sabran’s mouth dipped, a small tick of anger. “You did not think to ask me my thoughts when you last came to the city.”

It had been three weeks and Sabran had not forgiven her or Briala, holding them both in contempt for their escapade. Celene should have known that Sabran would figure it out, they knew her too well at this point in their ten-year history. 

“Sabran,” she sighed. “I have apologised. Briala has… well, somewhat apologised. What more do you want from us?”

They turned their face towards her, eyes brightly fuming. “You were drugged . And I did not even know you had gone.” Not her finest moment to be sure, but certainly— “What I want, Majesty, is a little respect and some warning.”

Celene winced, knowing that her Champion was right; it really was the least she could do in the face of all Sabran had to face as her sworn protector. They had done a marvellous job these past ten years and deserved more than her blatant disregard for their earliest understandings and compromises. 

“I understand; you are right,” she admitted to that much. “However, you must understand that with Briala around, things are going to change and my… private hours are going to be more… eclectic than before.”

Not that it would take much to be more eclectic; all she had done before coming to Tevinter was either be with Leon or sit in her private chambers reading some tome or another. Hardly the things for any Chevalier to brave themselves against. 

“I know,” they sounded resigned. “Do not mistake me, Majesty, it gladdens me to see you content, but I cannot help but think that my job was much easier without the Marquise around.”

Celene laughed and dared touch Sabran’s arm gently. “On that, Champion, there are no arguments I can give.” 

The elevator came to a stop and Celene was plunged once again into a Tevinter market - this time a morning one - full of brighter things that left her itching to explore, but she had a mission. One that would take her well into the streets of the Capital of Tevinter. This time, there was an entire retinue with her, her Champion and a dozen or so Chevaliers accompanying them.

“This way, Majesty,” Sabran murmured, discreetly leading in a way that made it seem like they were following Celene’s instructions, “the Marquise’s description pointed to the southwest.”

Celene allowed Sabran to lead the way, fully, and simply slipped her arm through theirs, as if they were going on a stroll. She knew that the news of her… purchase would likely make rounds in the city - especially considering how much they had pushed their agenda - and that there were already enough people out for her blood.

“Close, Majesty, close,” Sabran’s words came without urgency, but Celene knew them to be worried. “You must trust nobody in this city, not with so many mages about.”

Celene almost said that an assassin was just as likely to get her as a mage, but she refrained when she noted the clenched jaw Sabran was sporting; she did not think her Champion would enjoy her observation. 

They weaved through the crowd and market, the smell so distinctively Northern and Tevene that it seeped right into her skin and hair, and felt her guard close to an ever tighter circle around her. 

Walking through the streets by daylight, Celene really finally found just how different it all was from Orlais and it came in something as simple as fire.

Celene had always loved fire; its brilliance, the way it danced along the walls of her estates, the warmth it brought, the way it made shadows play on Briala’s freckled face as they slept. She had loved to bask in it, in the fireshows that Val Royeaux often put on, in how often she and Briala had made love in front of a fireplace during the cold winters in the Winter Palace, in the way the Heartlands celebrated the harvest with bonfires lighting up the countryside. 

Yet, fire was ultimately different in Minrathous; it came from so many places, for too many reasons. The street vendors lighting their meats with a flick of the wrist, the lampposts casually going in and out of light, the occasional magic duel that mirrored the sword duels back home. It was too much, too sudden. And, as fire had for the past decade, it always made her flinch. 

Celene huddled closer to her guard when she passed a flaming cart selling some sort of spicy food. It smelled delicious, but she did not have the courage to taste it without Briala at her side. Her Chevaliers twitched closer too, and Celene saw their eyes narrow and distrusting, their hands coming around the hilts of their swords, making everyone in the markets covertly stare at them through the corner of their eyes. 

She could only hope that this would all be over quickly and no one would start a diplomatic incident. 

They turned right, then left, then after a few more minutes, another right and a house appeared that was just as Briala described. 

It was not the mansions of the elite, there were no floating buildings surrounding it and no waterfall feature embedded into the property like many Magisters had in Minrathous, but it was far from modest. 

The façade was of a black stone, the same that lined the streets of Kirkwall, gleaming in the mid-morning sun to the point that it could very well blind someone not used to seeing a shining stone. Grandiose columns lined the front face of the mansion, they were embedded into the stone, enhanced with decorating swirls of a green stone; Celene did not know if it was expensive emerald or cheaper jade. Arches and sharp conferred the building with a menacing look, and Celene wondered how many armies had this house seen pass beneath its balconies. An awe-inspiring architecture that not just resembled an Ancient Empire, but that was part of an Ancient Empire; and that was where the cracks began to show. The facade was decaying, creaking by some providence of a higher power, collapsing to dust before their very eyes.

Celene and Sabran traded a look, and her Champion knocked on the door, the creaking wood making one of her retinue wince beneath her helmet. 

They waited a minute and then two until the door opened and the face that appeared was not what she was expecting.

“Ah! I had been expecting you! I was surprised when your people contacted me, I admit, but I am always willing to do business!”

He was a somewhat young man, ambitious by his bright grey eyes, and new to this seat of power of his house. It made sense why he was involved in so many schemes — from Solas’ rebellion to slave trading — as he likely was merely looking for ways to thrive and elevate his house, never mind what consequences might arise from his allegiances and plays in the game that was played everywhere. 

Celene had once been like that, too. 

It was an uncomfortable parallel.

He hushed her and her entourage in pressing and bowing for her in a show that left uncomfortable. His overly decorated townhouse made her eyes ache with how busy it all was. He grinned at her, not sensing her discomfort at being here. To do this .

“Here to indulge in the culture?”

Her teeth ground against each other and her mouth suddenly tasted rotten; yet she smiled. “You could say that.”

“Ah, a woman after my own heart.” His grey eyes were brightly glimmering. “But first, we must have tea!” 

He was… really very jovial. Celene held back her confused, owl-ish blink as the man led her to his sitting room, where a tea set was already hot and waiting. His eyes turned back to her, and Celene quirked her brow when she caught him staring at her hair as if trying to discern something. He had the decency to flush. 

“Ah, apologies, my lady, but I cannot help but note the resemblance.”

The man pointed to a painting that portrayed a rendition of a woman wielding magic. Celene had to admit that the mage in the painting did bear a strange resemblance to her and it made her know who the mage was at once. She had only met her mother’s sister once but she knew her all the same. Servanna de Montfort shared that same pale hair that Celene had, the same pale blue eyes, the same impressive height. The resemblance was uncanny, as it had always been.

Celene allowed a smile to show on her face as she sat on the chaise closest to the exit. “An old family trait.”

“No chance for magical blood?” Celene shook her head at his question, and he sighed, disappointed. “Such a shame.”

It still jarred Celene to hear such a thing, even nearly six months on in Tevinter. To have been born a mage would have been… strange, she thought, as she understood how different her life would be. How different Orlais as a whole would be. She shook the thought from her head and focused on the issue at hand. 

“I admit to some curiosity, Aurelius. How did you come by this painting?”

Aurelius quirked his brow. “You know the stories, yes?”

“Of how my maternal grandparents, in their desperation for an heir, sought a Tevinter blood ritual to conceive a child? Yes. I do know of it.” And how likely it is to be true, Celene thought as she remembered Prosper’s distant stare when she asked her questions. At least no such rumours surrounded her mother. “It is an interesting tale.”

“Hm, yes, whatever the story, Servanna de Montfort was an interesting figure and a mage of considerable talent who grew to gain fame even here. Especially her paramour.” Aurelius traced his moustache absent-minded, and Celene wondered what happened behind those eyes. “In fact, I have always been quite fascinated by their tales and I’ve even acquired something of an expert.”

He gestured towards his left, towards the library, and Celene made the show of following his instructions to look inside the rather small room; who she saw almost made her snort. Felassan was leaning against a bookcase, a considerate smile on his face for Aurelius that Celene knew to be as fake as whatever story he sold this man in front of her. 

Aurelius positively gushed over him as he turned his back to Felassan to stare at her. 

“He knew them in person,” — Celene very much doubted that — “and he has been of exemplary manners despite his background,” — Celene rolled over the casual racism and also very much doubted that — “and he has offered his expertise for nearly nothing, almost quite out of nowhere,” — this man was an absolute fool — “and it has truly been an intense experience with an incredibly interesting individual.”

Maker’s breath. One would think Felassan personally hung the sun each morning for Aurelius. 

“He does sound fascinating.”

Celene did not think that Aurelius heard the sarcasm in her voice, but Felassan rolled his eyes behind the man’s back. She merely took a sip of her tea, pleased when Felassan rolled his eyes at her. For all their mislike of one another, she knew he had her back here; for Briala, if for nothing else. 

“Well, we have blabbered long enough. To business, then!”

He clapped his hands and Celene was almost surprised to see the servants around them scramble to inform the rest of the household that they were about to present themselves to her. From her understanding, she would be introduced to all the slaves and she would pick the ones she wished and they would haggle over the price.

Monstrosity made mundane.

She waited until all arrived, in small groups, all displaying themselves in an almost dance that seemed too well practised for this not to be a recurring show. 

Not all were underfed, Celene noted further, and some even looked better than some servants back home — and was that not a striking thing to find… — but their eyes told a different story. Suddenly, Celene was sure none of these people would be affected by new laws that would be put in place; these were no slaves that had sold themselves. Celene’s spoon ground against the bottom of her porcelain cup.

She arranged herself completely on the chaise, putting the tea on the table full of vases of white lilac that was the only thing that resembled some sort of comfort in this place, making sure to eye each one of the people that entered the room until a small child, among many, appeared and Celene was just confused. 

It did seem-… but-? She gave a casual look behind her, to see Sabran’s reaction. 

It was obvious that Sabran had also clocked the child. 

It was Briala’s description come to life; the dark eyes, so expressive, the curly auburn hair, the sunstone skin, the small little scar on the chin from a fall last year. Yet, she lacked the long coils Briala had described; she lacked the pretty earrings Briala had said she bought for her; she lacked… Celene settled on the truth of it; she looked like a boy. But it was the child that Briala had described almost to a ‘T’, minus the chosen gender. Was it possible that Aurelius had forced— Celene bit her tongue, sure of an unspoken suspicion she already knew to be true.

Still, she wanted to be sure. 

“What are your names?” she asked the people gathered. They shifted on their feet as Aurelius frowned and Celene made sure to smile reassuringly at the Magister. “You must indulge me, it is an Orlesian quirk.”  

Celene sat primly on the chaise as each of the people gathered stepped forward to say their name, nodding at each of them and taking notice of how choreographed it all really was. It was truly not unlike a showcase from an aspiring trade partner showing off his wares; only, this time, the ‘wares’ were able to talk. When the turn for Briala’s girl, Violet, came, Celene made sure to keep her position relaxed, but she leaned forward just a smidgen. 

The girl stepped forward, head high and voice poised to ring. “Vio—” the child trembled from head to toe when Aurelius slowly turned his gaze to her. In a very soft voice, the girl said, “Victor.”

Well.

Briala had told her that Tevinter usually did not have much of an issue with changing genders, unless someone was in the higher echelons of the Senate, like Maevaris, or military-adjacent, Sabran had received many looks for their ambivalence towards conforming to a single gender. 

Aurelius was certainly part of that crowd, Celene could see the objects of conquest on his mantle, the old armours, the way every slave stood at attention. 

Perhaps, charitably, Violet had simply been encouraged to act this way because of Celene’s intentions.

“As you can see,” Aurelius spoke when all were finished, a strange pride in his voice, “they are all, more or less, in good condition. They will be good workers for you. I assume you wish to do as your fellow countrymen and set up merely a preliminary workforce for whatever business you wish to do.”

Indeed? Celene gripped her tea cup almost hard enough to snap. 

Well, she would have work to do when she got home. A culling the likes of which had not been seen since Gaspard’s war for the throne would ensue soon enough, and she would purge the nobility of all that benefited from this… arrangement. 

Aurelius, unaware of her thoughts, snapped his fingers as he continued his… showcase; four people stepped forward. 

Celene was being swindled; she recognised that well. These four were the worst off of the bunch, but she hardly cared, she would still take them, take them all if he wished; he just needed to add Violet to the list. Celene made a show of casually looking at each child until she appeared to make a decision and pointed to Violet.

“Add the child to the mix and we have a deal.”

“Why so interested in a boy? He is not very good at anything in particular, yet.” He was frowning, confused at her lack of demand for ‘quality,’ not unlike any merchant who would sell subpar merchandise in a market. “Unless you wish to train him? I, myself, was training him to become a soldier, the boy has potential.”

Every word out of Aurelius’ mouth made Violet flinch, and a feeling grew in Celene that bordered on madness; she itched to walk towards Violet and simply take her away from here. Just as she opened her mouth, she felt her Champion’s presence behind her, irradiating an aura that made even Celene stand at attention.

The empress was always glad for her Champion; Sabran was competent, uncomplicated, and devoted. They had saved her life many times before, often putting themselves in danger to ensure Celene’s survival, and Sabran endured much - Celene knew how stubborn she could be, how her tricks often were as dangerous for her opponent as they were for her. Yes, Sabran was company Celene was glad to keep.

But never more than today.

Sabran looked murderous, their eyes flashing a deep blue that would have sent demons scouring away from them, and their already tall figure seemed to grow into impossible heights. 

“You will give—…” she saw Sabran almost say ‘her’ and saw them swallow the word. “You will give the child to the empress for the agreed amount.”

“Control your lapdog, my lady,” he sneered, and suddenly Celene saw the man that these people surely saw, “I will not be spoken to like that in my own house.”

Tension rose, and Celene heard the hiss of swords being pulled from their scabbards as Aurelius looked thunderous as her entourage tried to attack him in his home. Celene wanted nothing more for a fight to break out, strip this man of his life, but she knew where the ire would go first, where the fist would first fall. She privately took a deep breath for all of them and turned to her Champion.

“Enough, Sabran.” The Chevalier looked ready to protest, ready to scoop the child and any other they could carry and run, but Celene gave a stern look and Sabran relented, indicating for Celene’s entourage to sheath their swords. Then, she turned to Aurelius. “Take another look at the paperwork, at what we offer” — Celene gestured to the folder, and all the details of the purchase — “take a deep breath, and then we can speak.”

Aurelius appeared to settle, though his eyes still screamed outrage, and reached for the more than generous deal she offered them. Celene turned to the slaves, passively waiting to know their fate; she wished she could free them all, but she knew the futility of such a thing when they were already forcing the line to the very edge of reason. 

She twisted her ring again, and Aurelius’ gaze was drawn from the papers to her hands. Celene was stunned to see his eyes grow wide, the black eclipsing the grey, and he swallowed like he was in the presence of all he had ever wanted in the world.

She almost took a step back, but held her ground, waiting for him to speak.

“That ring— That ring is from the Black Fox.”

Mantillon’s ring, given to her the same night she had murdered her entire household. She remembered how her mouth had still been tainted by vomit, from losing her dinner as soon as Briala had been on her way and Celene could show the true face of what she felt. She remembered standing in the middle of her parents’ foyer, in a pool of blood, a guard gently asking her questions that she had answered by lying through her teeth. She remembered his face as he reached the wrong conclusion that someone had tried to kill her; a sixteen-year-old, recently orphaned, and her first real supporter for the throne had been born. She remembered, most of all, Mantillon, staying behind the Chevalier, looking as proud as Celene had never seen her, a look she reserved only for her from that moment on. She remembered the Chevalier and his large entourage leaving, a sworn oath to her on all their eyes, and Mantillon reaching out, proud black eyes, to cradle her face. She barely remembered recoiling, but remembered Mantillon’s slap that had turned her head, and she remembered Mantillon gathering her stiff frame in her frail arms, in pantomime of a hug that had been cold as winter’s morning. She remembered a “Well done, Celene,” and how that had, despite all, made her feel warm and proud. And she remembered the ring, given to her for a job well done. 

It had been with her throughout her entire reign; both a gruesome reminder of the people she had so easily discarded and a grim reassurance of the power she held. 

“So it is.”

So little said for something that held so much.

“It is of particular interest to me,” the words came casually, but his eyes told his hunger for it, “do you know the legend?”

“Ten gathered in one place will lead you to greatness.” 

Celene easily said the words often laid at her and Gaspard’s feet for the rings they possessed. Words that entranced Briala once, as a private project. Words that had in part made Briala realise what exactly Celene had done to get her throne.  

“It is a personal interest of mine.” 

He licked his lips and Celene knew his intention at once when he almost made to grab it, right then and there, from her very hand. Celene coiled over the ring. 

It was the last true thing she had of her childhood, of Mantillon for all her faults, and of the reminder of how cruel she could really be if she forgot where her ambition could lead her. It was special, yes, and it had protected more than once, in more ways than one. 

She would not be giving it away.

“It is valuable,” he continued. And it was, but its sentimental value was more than whatever story or purpose this ring might have. His eyes flashed. “All six of them for the ring” — he jerked his thumb at the farthest group — “plus the boy you asked for before. It is quite the deal.”

It was, suddenly, no choice at all. 

Celene immediately reached for the ring and, as it slid off her finger, she realised that it was a burden she had carried with her all of this time. 

Lives had hung on this ring, black from the blood of the countless she had ordered to die — first to have it, then as a consequence of all that came after she got the throne — and willingly gave it and its bloody history over to Aurelius; a burden was lifted from her shoulders. 

The six — and Violet — were moving to her side at once, and Celene’s stomach turned as realised the weight of what she had truly done; and a heavier thing now rested at her feet, dragging her down.

Aurelius was unaware of her turmoil, and his grin was enormous. “It was a pleasure doing business with you, my lady.”

Celene took his offered hand, almost dazed at the rapid turn of events, and she signed the deal almost out of it, socked in the gut at the simplicity of it all, of how easy it had all been, of how quickly and efficiently it had all been done. 

She left Aurelius' house and walked back through the streets of Minrathous, through the ancient walkways she would likely never see again, amongst the floating buildings that gave shade and were impressively built, through the markets where everyone seemed to be looking at her as slaves walked in her wake. Her mind was nearly blank for the first time in her life as she tried to process it all.

She was aware of Sabran beside her, Violet in their arms as they walked, and they chatted briefly about something that Celene could not discern. In the back of her head, she knew she had made a terrible impression on these people she now owned; she owned them . 

The words kept repeating in her head as the elevator took them again to the Archon’s floating island, where it would come to rest on the edge of the ocean for the night in a couple of hours as the party for their departure would soon start. She was vaguely aware of entering her chambers, of the passing of her delegation that had watched her pass them by with narrowed eyes and wide, speechless mouths. 

She knew she would need to have a word with the rest of the delegation, to let them know why she had broken the silent agreement that the South had held for nigh a thousand years. There was no slavery in Orlais… and yet. 

And yet .

“What happens now?” an old woman asked when they were all finally alone in her private chambers, the elf woman’s eyes finding hers, defiant though her every limb trembled. “What will you do?”

Celene knew what she wanted to do; she wanted to burn every trace of what she had just done, erase this entire morning from existence. A knot had formed in her stomach, a great heavy thing that dared to chain her down to this bloodied land, another tally on the column of all the horrible things she had done. She looked at the people her ring had bought, the terrified old woman who stood in front of the three young children, the two thin women waxen from blood loss, and Violet in Sabran’s strong arms. 

“Don’t.”

Celene blinked at the old woman’s vitriol. “Pardon?”

“Don’t pity us, Orlesian,” the old woman sneered, “you have done your business and now you own us.”

Celene wet her lips, suddenly dry at the accusation. “There is no slavery in Orlais,” she said, but clung to the deed of purchase. It looked so easy- it had been so frighteningly easy, there was no resistance at all. The papers crumpled in her hand, and she looked at the old woman, her deep green eyes unchanged. She offered her the papers. “What do you wish to do with it?”

The woman looked at the papers she offered, stoic. The two thin women behind her tilted their faces, blinking owlishly as they processed the information. The children and Violet, their eyes grew three sizes each, wondering if she truly was serious.

“You can’t possibly mean it. It’s a trick.”

“There is no slavery in Orlais,” she repeated, with more conviction. She would make it true. She would . “You are… you are free to choose what you wish to do. If you wish to stay in Tevinter or if you wish to go somewhere else in Thedas, I will see it done and that you are taken care of. And, if you wish to come to Orlais, we will leave today. I am certain that Briala-

Everyone’s eyes grew wide, recognition passing through them at lightning speed. The mere name seemed to invigorate them, make them taller. Celene eyed Violet, the little girl that had won Briala’s heart, and saw the longing hidden deep within her dark, black eyes and was glad to see her turn her head about her chambers, as if to catch a glimpse of Briala.

“You work for Briala?” 

Celene almost laughed. Instead, she merely smiled kindly. “You could say that, yes.”

The old woman approached, staring her down even though she was smaller by a wide margin. “No tricks?”

Celene shook her head. “No tricks,” she promised, offering the papers again.

The old woman took the papers from her hands, and looked them over, as if seeing if they were authentic - though Celene knew she likely could not read or write - and then distributed them between her fellows. The two thin girls supported each other as they walked, the three children clambered over each other, and the old woman picked Violet from Sabran’s arms. Celene watched them take careful steps, as if they trusted not a word she had said, and approach a torch. 

Suddenly, the empress held her breath, the moment too precious for her breathing to interrupt, and she watched as the people burned the deeds of their lives on the torch hanging on the wall.

Celene had always loved fire; its brilliance, the way it danced along the walls of her estates, the warmth it brought, the way it made shadows play on Briala’s freckled face as they slept. She had loved to bask in it, in the fire shows that Val Royeaux often put on, in how often she and Briala had made love in front of a fireplace during the cold winters at the Winter Palace, in the way the Heartlands celebrated the harvest with bonfires lighting up the countryside. 

Until that fateful night in Halamshiral. After that, fire had another far darker connotation. 

For a long time smoke had clung on her, for too long every crackle of a fireplace had only brought her misery and agony as she remembered that night at Halamshiral where she had burned three thousand men, women, and children alive because Gaspard had beaten her. 

It would never go away, Celene had known that from the moment the first torch had touched the meagre house, spreading brightly across the streets and deep into the barricaded section of the city, as the cries of rebellious elves who had only done what they thought had to be done. It was forever a singe on her soul, an eternal mark that would follow her every step and mar her every epitaph.

But right now, watching the papers burn in air, the smoke filtering into her hair like it had that night at Halamshiral, Celene could not help but feel a small chance at finding comfort in the fire again. 

---

The empress tried to stir the new members of Briala’s household gently, instructing rather than directing, and made sure they understood that their departure was imminent. Only half a day until the Eluvian opened for the first time in six months and the entire delegation, plus all their attendants and guards would be on their way. 

Celene was just making sure that the two very thin women were aware enough of where they were and where they would go when a hand tugged at her skirts. Well used to children’s demand for attention, Celene patted the hand that demanded her attention as an acknowledgement, and finished her business. 

Only when they were finally alone, the girl tensing when Sabran insisted they accompanied the two women, did Celene her head towards Violet.

“Bria is coming here?” the child asked, big dark eyes staring at her.

Celene nodded as she walked towards the vanity where her things were still displayed, waiting for her to return so she could get ready for the luncheon celebrating their departure. Celene gestured for the girl to sit in the chair, at which she only stared. Celene kept a sigh of frustration to herself, knowing that it would take time for the girl to trust her. 

“Yes. She was so very eager to see you, I am certain that she will try to make time to come see you before we have to leave.”

That seemed to convince Violet, and she hopped on the chair, always with an eye on her. Celene gestured towards the brush, and Violet slowly nodded. Celene’s long fingers ran and tangled in Violet’s short curls, relaxing a smidgen when she found them easy enough to style without overwhelming Violet too much. She would arrange them and curl them enough that they could, perhaps, disguise the shoddy work done to the girl’s hair. She reached for the brush, and threaded the brush gently, knowing this brush was not quite appropriate for the job but would have to do.

“I understand that you had longer curls.”

Violet’s mouth turned into a thin line. “Yes.”

When nothing else was forthcoming, Celene knew that the girl would not talk to her very much; certainly not about that. Celene instead focused on the curls, they were not many and they were choppily cut, but she could make something out of them. Reaching for a bit of water, she wet the hair and began styling it gently. The girl slowly loosened the tension on her back and  began to relax back into the chair. Celene privately smiled.

Violet’s legs started to swing back and forward on the chair; she was bouncing. “Do you really work for Bria?”

“I work with her, you could say.” Celene gently untangled the knot that her hands had created. “Well, we work closely together. In fact, she is likely going to be at the party we are going to have just before we leave; she had things to do this morning that could not wait and likely will only be able to meet you again when we are all at the luncheon.” The girl, for the first time, averted her eyes. “Is something the matter?”

“I don’t wanna go.”

Celene blinked; in her experience, children were always eager to go where the adults went. It was certainly true of her boy. “Why not?” she asked, she made the last twist to a curl, and that made Violet’s lip quiver. “Ah.”

It was the hair. 

Well, not just the hair.

“It isn’t fair!”

Celene shook her head. “No, it is not.” She threaded her hands through the short curls, styling them gently, but with a quick and knowing hand. “You know I had a short hair once. I cut it in a fit of rebellion,” she said, smiling as she remembered how close to her nape her hair had been cut when she took the crown, “I quite liked it, admittedly, but the style of the time was for long hair.” She made sure to look into the girl’s eyes through the mirror. “I needed to get these hair extensions that would allow my hair to get big and long enough to be styled.”

“So… when we get to Orlais…”

Celene smiled reassuringly. “It will take some time to find extensions that match your hair colour, but no more than a week or so.” She would make sure of it. “And when you feel like your hair is long enough, we can do away with them.”

Violet nodded, slowly. “Then I won’t have to—”

“Not unless you wish it. You have seen Sabran, yes?” Violet nodded very quickly, eyes shifting away from her again. “You can be whatever it is you wish to be. Now or later.”

“And this afternoon?”

“If you do not wish to go, then you do not have to,” Celene assured her. “We will leave when the festivities are over, however. So, you will have to get ready regardless. A bath is in order, since you will not have a chance of it until we are in Orlais.”

Violet stared at her very intensely through the mirror. “You talk funny.”

Celene tilted her head, a smile stretching her lips. “Is that so?”

“Yes.” Violet hopped off the chair, turning her head to see her hair on the vanity mirror. And with a nod turned to her. “I’ll take a bath, then.”  

Celene laughed. “Shall we go then?”

She reached out and touched the girl, much like she would with her boy, and the girl flinched, actually flinched. Celene winced at the blunder that she had made and withdrew her touch, putting herself at a distance from the child.

“I will get Sabran.”

The girl’s shoulders relaxed, and she nodded, going straight for the bathroom without nary a word to her. As if summoned by her words. Celene looked at her Champion, perhaps too harshly by being stung by the girl’s rejection, and Sabran nearly took a step back. The empress made sure to cull her anger and gentle her stare, knowing that she would need Sabran’s help. 

“You will have to aid Violet.”

Sabran looked wide-eyed at her. “Celene-

It was so rare that Sabran used her name, but when they did- It usually meant trouble. Celene knew that Sabran did not have experience with many children, even from Leon they kept a careful distance. But that would not do here, not with Violet on the line.

“It will be fine, Champion.” She made sure to sound reassuring, reaching out to touch Sabran’s arm. “You will be fine.”

“I do not-

“She needs someone to help her, and she trusts you.” Celene lowered her gaze, hiding the pang in her chest at not having the girl trust her. “I cannot be there, but you can. And you can… relate.”

Sabran exhaled, long fingers rubbing their forehead. “Our experiences are strikingly different.”

“True, you are a noble and until an hour ago she was a slave, but you have a point of commonality. I remember how some nobles reacted to you and how some wanted to force you to conform. Besides, she has clearly bonded with you.” 

“Sharing a trauma might not be the best way to bond.”

“It is better than having her flinch away from your touch.” It would have to change. It would. But Celene would not force it today of all days. “She needs to feel supported and cared for. And until Briala arrives… you are the next best choice.”

Sabran’s eyes told of their reluctance, but with a deep breath the Chevalier crossed the threshold to the bathroom, looking as if they were about to face a dragon and not a little girl. Celene shook her head and switched masks, allowing herself to become the Empress of Orlais with the simple gesture. 

The door to the chambers opened and Celene watched Briala step through the room.

“Cassia told me what happened with Aurelius,” Briala said in the form of a greeting, sweeping into the bedroom with purpose, hands filled with a variety of dresses that Violet would not be able to use once they were in Orlais in a matter of days. “Is she okay? Where is she?”

“She is fine. Taking a bath with Sabran to watch her.” Celene reached out to take half her load, depositing the Tevinter-like dresses on the bed. She turned to Briala, smiling a bit sheepish. “I do not think I made a good impression, however.” 

“So I heard.” Briala reached out and touched her arm. “But it went well, yes? You gave your sigil ring to-

“No,” Celene interrupted, showing off her hand that still held the ring that marked her as sovereign of Orlais. “It was not that one.”

Briala took her hand harshly, almost yanking her arm off its socket with her haste to see her hand. Celene culled an indelicate yelp and winced instead. What on earth was the matter with her? Celene watched her look at the ring, an indecipherable look on her face. 

“You gave away Mantillon’s ring?”

Briala’s voice had lost whatever warmth it had before and Celene could not fathom what she had done to provoke such a reaction. Surely, Briala was glad to see her whole and hale and happy that they had not given Aurelius enough land to nearly grant him a title in Orlais. 

“Yes. He wanted it and,” Celene took a deep breath before allowing a smile to stretch her lips, “it felt good to have it been put to use for something that turned out to be better. Bria,” her smile grew, “they burned the deed, and it was-

Briala’s eyes had grown colder at each word, and Celene found herself nearly flinching from her. “So, you’ve found something to clear your conscience.”

“What? No. I just-

Briala approached, a menacing look in her eyes. “That ring and watching those people burn away the deed to their lives should not be about you. You shouldn’t have-” Briala shook her head, clearly upset. “I can’t believe it.”

Celene blinked, surprised at the sudden shift in Briala’s attitude. She reached out to soothe the anxiety she saw in Briala’s eyes, the way she almost vibrated with a deep sentiment that appeared to border on rage. Celene retracted her hand when Briala took a step back from her, recoiling at her touch. Confused at the outburst, Celene tried to speak.

“Bria, I-

The elf turned around before she could even get a word out, slamming the door on the way out. Celene was left staring after her, wondering what on Earth had happened. 

---

Celene paced the now stripped bedroom that had been hers for nearly six months. It had never been home or offered her much warmth, but it was strange to see it bare without even the smallest indication of her presence.

The late luncheon had come and gone, with nary an incident to report beyond her talk with the corps about Briala’s plan to release the slaves. There had been no ruffled feathers, but Celene could tell that something had shifted; perhaps it was the fact they were going home and alliances were bound to become more complicated.

It did not help that Briala had not come to the luncheon, creating more rumours that Celene’s impeccable facade could not dispel. Frankly, she did not know if those rumours had or not basis; she was still unsure of what had happened. 

Near the end of the party, an elf had given her a note in Briala’s hand telling her to come to the stripped bedroom so they could talk. 

So, now, while the others bounded together to the Eluvian in another wing of the palace, here Celene was, pacing the length of the bedroom, going from side to the other, her fingers teasing the chain that held Briala’s necklace to her, a link that tied them together. Whatever had happened… it could not be their worst fight, it would not be their worst infraction against one another, and it did soothe her heart even as her mind continued to spiral and linger across scenarios. 

The unquiet of her mind was stopped when the door opened behind her and Briala stepped in. Before she could say anything, before the elf could even come to a full stop, Briala tossed something at her. Her reflexes acted quickly, and she caught it in mid-air, frowning when she felt the outline of a ring.

It was- Celene blinked, completely at a loss for words. It was Mantillon’s ring that she had given away just this morning.

“How?”

Briala’s jaw was clenched. “You don’t want to know. Just put it on.” 

“I—…” The burden was not on her shoulders again, but there was an uncomfortable weight on her chest. “I gave it away for more than one reason, Briala. I do not want it back.”

Briala’s eyes flashed and her words came in a hiss. “Shut up.” She was trembling from head to toe. “Put. It. On.”

Or else… She heard it in the words lingering in the air. Celene’s temper just about peaked. Her words came in the same hiss that Briala’s had come, “Briala-

The elf stepped closer, pointing at her. “You will listen to me.”

“And you will not speak to me as if I am one of your subordinates!” Her voice rose, as it so rarely did, and Celene watched Briala withstand her temper, as so few could. “I have no idea what has got into you, whatever made you think that you can just up and leave in the middle of an international diplomatic event to steal something, but, at the very least, I will not be spoken to like that!” 

Briala’s eyes were implacable, cold, and brokering no dissent or argument. She looked like a snake; poised to strike back, poison coating her fangs. Celene readied herself for the blow. 

“First, this thing I ‘stole’ was given to that man in exchange for slaves; he had no right to have it when that was the trade. Second, you know how you got that ring… what you did to get that ring.” Celene’s mind inevitably thought back to the blood at her feet, her household’s eyes staring blankly at her as their blood coated the floor and the crown that would go on her head. “The truth of the matter, Celene, is that if I do not get to forget, then neither do you.”

Whatever preparations she had made came crumbling down, not nearly strong enough to withstand the words levied at her. It was almost a physical blow, hitting her most vulnerable spot. The anger that assaulted her before took leave her as breath fled from her lungs as if Briala had tackled her to the ground. Her eyes immediately watered and her vision became blurry.

“Bria, it was never my intention to forget. I just-

Briala stepped closer and grasped her arms, shaking her and stilling her words. 

“I love you.” 

The whiplash made her almost gag on air, and she trembled from head to toe. Her tongue hit the roof of her mouth, a way to control the tears that threatened to overwhelm her, though she could not control a dry sob that heaved through her chest. Briala held tighter to her arms, holding her securely in place, and forcing her to look into her deep, dark eyes.

They had not said those words yet, not this time around, and Briala seemed determined to make it unbearably memorable. 

Briala continued, sure and resolute, “We are going home and, Gods help me, despite everything I do love you. I know you, and what you are capable of, I know what we are walking into. But I need you to remember, to not sweep it away. I love you-”

“-and we are going home,” she finished, whispering the rest of the sentence, reading between the lines and knowing that whatever happened, whatever came, there was this truth. And all they would need to do to keep it thus, especially in a place like Orlais. “I know. I will remember.”

Briala stood on the tips of her toes, making their foreheads touch in an intimate embrace. Celene relaxed, closed her eyes in unison with Briala, simply enjoying the moment; knowing that the soil beneath their feet was a steady one, with all out in the open, with a clear path ahead. It would not be easy, but it was what they wanted.  

“Good,” Briala whispered, “that is all I wanted.”

So it did not happen again. 

Yes, Celene could see why she had been angry. Briala leaned up and brushed her lips against Celene in a simple peck, sealing their argument away with the kiss. 

When Briala appeared to take a step back, Celene gently grabbed her waist, not wanting to her to leave her embrace or end the kiss. Briala gripped her nape and the side of her neck as she pulled her closer, while Celene buried her hand in her deep curls, free of their customary braid. Their lips traded affection between long exhales for breath, but just as Celene’s tongue started to move the door to their bedroom slammed open, stilling them in their embrace.

They separated, hearts beating wildly because there was knowing they were together and there was seeing , and turned to see just who had entered without being announced. 

It should not come as a surprise that it was Violet.

“’M sorry,” the little girl shook, staring at Celene. “I’m sorry, I didn’t-

Celene took a step back from Briala, slowly because she had nothing to hide from this girl, and with a look gestured for Briala to take care of Violet. Briala approached Violet and knelt before her, gently taking her hand and soothing whatever panic the girl had been about to go through.

“It’s fine, Violet.” That tone of voice - so soft and tender… Celene had never heard Briala sound like that, nor had she ever really seen the gentle way she employed to brush some invisible lint on Violet’s dress. “We were just-

“I know what kissing is, Bria.”

Celene smiled at the look in Violet’s eyes; defiant, mischievous, so incredibly clever. Violet became animated in Briala’s presence, crossing her arms with rolling eyes and a grin - a genuine, fun smile - crossing her lips. The girl was Briala’s, no matter where she had come from, and Celene could see that Violet had snagged Briala with an efficiency that put fishermen to shame.

“Alright, smartass. What are you doing here?”

Violet bounced on the balls of her feet. “I came to see you! I know that yesterday you said you’d come for me, but-...” Violet’s eyes blinked away the tears.

Briala nodded and her grip tightened on Violet’s shoulders. “I won’t always be able to keep my promises, but this one I will always try to keep true. I will come to find you, should you ever need me.”

A burning sting from the back of Celene’s eyes made them water, and she had to turn away and clear her throat so the tears would not fall. The little sound called Briala and Violet’s attention, and both elves turned to her. 

“Is that all, Violet?” Celene asked, trying to mask the emotional response Briala’s, simple but convicted, devotion had wrought from her. 

“Sabran said it’s time to leave.” The girl frowned then, looking at the ring on Celene’s finger. “Is that ring Celene gave to Aurelius?” 

Celene took a breath before exchanging glances with Briala. An understanding passed between them and Celene smiled, taking Briala’s hand and putting Mantillon’s ring on her palm. Briala closed her fist around it and Celene’s hand.

“It need not be far from my sight, yes,” Celene murmured, “but perhaps it can be put to better use.”

Briala tightened the grip she had on the ring and on Celene’s hand and slowly turned towards Violet. Briala took the ring and offered it to the child.

Violet frowned and looked at the ring, shrugging. “It’s pretty I guess.”

Briala closed Violet’s hands around the ring, imparting to her without words how precious that one ring really was. 

“It will protect you, Violet,” Briala said, voice coming off gentle but almost lecturing. “It is an old ring, passed on through many hands, and they will help you when we get hom- When we get to Orlais. Not everyone will be kind to you there, not everyone will enjoy the fact that I-…” Briala licked her lips, suddenly embarrassed. “The fact that I am taking care of you. This, combined with all the training we are going to give you, it will help you see and block whatever physical attack comes your way.”

Violet’s eyes were shining, eager. “What do I need to do to get it?”

“Nothing,” Celene quickly said, perhaps harsher than she meant to. She winced and lowered herself to kneel at Violet’s feet, slowly reaching for the hands and adding her own. “You do not have to do anything for it, Violet. It is yours, simply because you exist.”

The girl seemed confused, like she did not understand what Celene was saying. There might be a reason for that, but Celene could not help but make the distinction, to delineate that if she had the power to help this girl, she would, no strings or demands attached. Celene dared to touch Violet’s lapel, where a white lilac sprig was pinned to the fabric, and allowed herself a sliver of happiness when the girl did not recoil. It boded well. Violet’s dark eyes turned to Briala, who nodded away for Violet to go ahead of them. 

“Go on, darling,” Celene said, in concert, “we will be right behind you.”

Violet smiled, a small, shy thing that was mostly directed at Briala than her, and went on to talk with Sabran. Celene gave a final once over to the room, bare of anything personal to her, and smiled. She would never forget this room that had given her many joys in these last months as she and Briala found each other again, where the lines of their relationship were redrawn.

“Your heart is as butter.” Briala’s teasing voice came from beside her. “Almost crying because you are leaving a place you don’t like, melting when a child doesn’t flinch at you.” 

Celene sighed. “Must you tease me so?”

“Yes. Otherwise you would get a bigger head.” Briala took a step back and looked up at her, expectantly. “Aren’t you going to say it back?”

It was not like they needed it. Words had always been the last way they communicated; words were too frail, too easy to mislead, too temporary. Touch always suited them better, and action better still. There had never been any need to say the words, not when words in Orlais meant so little. 

Still, it was always nice to have confirmation, and they had revelled in the words when they were said. And Celene had been planning how and when to say it again for months.

“I had something else planned for when I would get to say it again.” Somewhere secluded by the warmth of a fireplace, with some of that wine that Briala liked. “Something much more pleasant.” 

“I know,” Briala chuckled, “but I can’t exactly let you always have the last word.”

Celene scoffed. “You must tell whenever that happens, my memory must be failing me.” Briala poked her in her diaphragm, making her contort just a bit. Celene playfully glared at her and crossed her arms, smirking. “I am not so sure you deserve to hear it.”

“ Celene. ”

“So bossy,” Celene complained playfully, but gently wrapped her arms about Briala’s waist. 

Briala’s eyes were already softened, as they always were when Celene actually said the words. And Celene took her time, pressing her lips on Briala’s forehead, a lingering gentle kiss that she hoped conveyed all she would say with words. Her lips travelled the length of her forehead with small kisses, a stronger press at the temple and then a press on Briala’s ear.

Finally, she whispered just about her ear, her lips softly touching the appendage with the shape of each word, “ Je t’aime. ”

Briala shuddered in her arms and Celene smiled into her hair, hiding the pleasure she felt at having the words freed from her chest for the first time in a decade.

“That was very mean of you,” Briala said, her nails now digging into Celene’s arm as if she was trying to control herself. “You know what touching my ears does to me.”

Celene grinned into her curls, letting her lips touch Briala’s scalp and descend to nudge her nose against the cartilage of the elongated ear. “I love you and I have loved you all along,” she whispered again as her lips brushed Briala’s ear, then dragged softly to her freckled cheekbone, “I love you and I have loved you for all the minutes you have been away from my side,” and lowered again to her cheek where she pressed her lips into a lingering kiss. “I love you,” she gave the last whisper before taking Briala’s mouth into her own, kissing her with a reckless abandon. 

It was Briala that put an end to the kiss, taking a step away from her with a small grin, her eyes drifting towards the bed in a way that left no doubts as to what she wanted to do with her, if they had the time. 

Celene rolled her eyes and after one last look, to ensure save the room to memory and to ensure that nothing of hers stayed, she shared a look with Briala and let herself be led from the room into the corridor, for their final journey through the palace before they went home.

They chatted amicably during the way, nodding at Magisters and other officials that came to see them off, and just at the last turn before their destination, a commotion came from behind them. Archon Maevaris and a large entourage coming behind her. Celene and Briala stayed in place, waiting until the Archon was close enough so her voice would carry.

“An altus came to me about stolen goods.” Maevaris’ blue eyes were unamused. “Something you want to tell me?”

“No,” Briala said, very quickly and obviously suspicious.

Maevaris rolled her eyes. “You are lucky he is a minor lord… and an ass. I will deal with him.” Maevaris smiled at her Celene, which she returned, and then turned to Briala, whom she had not seen at their luncheon. “Marquise Briala, am I to assume you have more aces up your sleeve that you will use later?”

“Yes.”

“Meaning she will likely use it to get something from me when I want something from you.” Celene turned her eyes to Maevaris, a smirk on her lips when the Archon’s eye twitched. “Welcome to Orlesian politics.”

“I look forward to partaking, it does not seem too different from ours.” The woman approached, and took Briala’s hand, shaking it in the same manner as she had all other diplomats. “It was… interesting to have you, Marquise. We look forward to making business.”

“Thank you, Archon.” Briala bowed her head, a sign of respect. “And we look forward to watching you dance on the world stage.” 

Maevaris smiled. “Safe journeys, Marquise.”

“Safe stayings, Archon.”

Maevaris then turned to Celene, and reached out for her hand just as she had done during the luncheon. Celene gladly took it, once again cementing the agreement that they had reached in these last months. It would be difficult, there was bound to be some sort of double dealing and backstabbing to go along with their alliance, but Thedas would stand together now. Whatever came. For however long it lasted.

“It was a pleasure, Your Radiance.”

“Likewise, Archon.”

Maevaris smiled and, with nary a look to her entourage of supporters and detractors, the Archon left the room, leading her delegation with a poise that had taken Celene years to perfect. Briala reached for her hand and pulled at her sleeve as they started their walk to the Eluvian where everyone was waiting. 

“She will be fine,” the elf said, soothing some hidden worry that Celene had not even been aware she had. “She is far too clever to fall for any of those magisters.”

“Cleverness can be both a protection and detriment.”

Briala hummed and nodded, conceding to her point. They walked through somewhat familiar hallways, the black stone from Kirkwall in full display here, as the cold breeze of the sea blundered through the open archways and tall columns. Celene nearly shivered and felt glad to be on her way. Home would be colder, yes, but there Celene knew where to find warmth. 

The storage room they had for the Eluvian was in sight, and Sabran was eyeing them with a disapproving stare; in fairness, they were late. Celene gave a slight smile in apology, that did not impress Sabran, and jerked her head, commanding Sabran to go on, and her Champion gave them one last warning look before opening the door to the storage room and showing them the large, imposing Eluvian that was under Morrigan’s protection. 

Celene was about to follow Sabran through the magical barrier when she felt Briala pull at her sleeve, drawing her back to look at her.

Briala was looking down, avoiding her eyes. “No more lies?”

There were many promises that they had refused to make, knowing how easy it was to break them, but this one came easy. Celene shook her head, every sinew of her body sewing the oath into her skin. 

“No more lies.”

Briala exhaled, nodded, and then turned back to see the city beyond the balcony. Celene saw her taking the last breath of Tevinter, of the place she had called home for a decade, the way her eyes closed as if it were to easier memorise each smell and each clash of the sea against the shore. Celene waited patiently and allowed Briala to say her private goodbyes. When the elf opened her deep dark eyes again, Celene saw nothing but determination tempered with the slightest bit of fondness when she turned to look at her; Celene’s heart skipped a beat, as it often did when she caught herself lost in her love for this woman.

Briala held out her small hand, rough and coarse from years of dagger-work, but that would soon soften when the pen took hold of her. Briala looked up, expectantly, at her. 

“Let us go, then.”

Celene smiled, took her hand, and they walked together into the Eluvian, starting their journey home. 

Notes:

So. Celene's obvious abhorrence towards slavery while, yes, it is a bit exaggerated considering the setting and how rife slavery is and just how Orlesians treat their servants, it comes more from history than anything else.

In France, in the early 14th century it was decreed that any slave who set foot in France was to be considered a free man. So, that is where the whole of her characterization comes from, Freyan Valmont decreed the same thing (headcanon) and Celene (and pretty much everyone else in the nobility) is immensely proud of that.

Now, I just have to say that the history of slavery is France is complicated and as vile as any other. Serfdom was abolished in 1314, but slavery continued nonetheless. And then there was something called the Code Noire, which was like a code that Louis XIV did when it came to slavery in France and the places they colonialized (it was also, as many things seemed to be in this time period, not only racist but also deeply antisemitic). Anyway, France's colonial history is as brutal, if not more so, than any other in the world, but one thing remained true until Napoleon; any slave who set foot in France was considered freed.

Without any colonies in DA, I decided to focus on the first part. That said, there IS still slavery in Orlais - we have Fiona, as an example. Celene's POV is just that; flawed and with far too much belief in the power of the law and the common decency of people. Rip.

Chapter 16: Daffodil I

Summary:

Daffodil:
regard,
respect;
chivalry

After three days of travelling through the Eluvian, Briala was glad to see them arriving at the Eluvian that would take them to Val Royeaux. The huge party was tired, sore after a couple of incidents with undead and other monsters delayed their journey through this other realm, and ready to be amongst some thick city walls again. 

Briala spied Celene, who already donned the mask of an empress, and the perfect poise was only tarnished by the scuffs and dirtied leathers she had donned after they had first been attacked. Still she fared better than most, and the chevaliers who accompanied their empress had puffed chests as their empress protected them as they did her. 

It had not exactly felt good to fight, but after six months of nothing but talks and her extraneous activities at night; and, well… Briala might be a little out of practice. She made a vow to find some time, no matter how busy she got, to actually train with her daggers or bow, not just languish in her new position. 

Sabran, standing at a pace from her, had kept a close eye on the empress, but their attention had often revolved around Violet, and often times when Briala had aimed her bow to dispatch an enemy close to Violet, Sabran had already been there. Violet, who had been bouncing at all the different things, who had slept next to Sabran - well within Briala’s field of vision, of course - during the two nights they had spent in the Eluvians had now grown shier. But she was right there, between Celene and Briala. 

Sabran made sure the Chevaliers of Celene’s entourage were the first through the Eluvian and then the rest of The Alliance made its way through, allowing the rest of Celene’s and Briala’s retinue to be the last ones. With Violet between them, each of their hands on one of the girl’s shoulders, they nodded at each passing party, already splitting into their own confidences.

“Ready?” Celene murmured quietly as Annamaria and her entourage slipped through the thin shimmering magic. “You know it will be different, yes?”

“I do.” Briala smiled and lifted her gaze to Celene, who was staring impassively at the dissolving entourage. “Are you ready?”

Celene smiled and her long and slender finger reached and discreetly touched Briala’s. “I can barely wait.”

“Your Radiance, it is time.”

Celene shared one last smile with Briala and took Sabran’s arm, swaying forward, she passed through the Eluvian with her back straight and never looking back. Briala gently led Violet to the fading mirror and, knowing that Celene and Sabran were on the other side, allowed her to go. 

She felt the tall-tale shiver as she approached the Eluvian, and after a final look at the realm that had been her people’s once, at the thing that had been hers once, at the possibility of what the future could have held for her, Briala passed through the thin, shimmering veil for the last time, knowing that from now on her life would be different from what it had been until then.

A nausea overwhelmed her as she left what was once her people’s realm and she appeared again in this realm. When her feet found themselves again, she straightened her back and took in her first glimpse of Val Royeaux.

Well, of a warehouse in Val Royeaux. 

Behind her she felt her entourage enter the building, all of them adequately coming out of the Eluvian with as much grace as they could, but her focus was on the people in the warehouse.

It was full, almost to burst.

It was like a ball de masque was about to take place. The Alliance was in full force with diplomats conferring with their compatriots in the city, guards all around them to protect the arrival of the empress, and, of course, the Council of Heralds and Celene’s Cabinet, all of them in full, waiting eagerly for Celene.

She heard Alexandra murmur, “They are really all here.”

“You know what it means?” Annamaria said, approaching from behind, smirking, looking at Celene and her council. “That they are all up her ass.”

Briala snorted and nodded sideways at Annamaria. It boded well, truly, that they were all hanging on Celene’s word; it meant that their plans would have very little resistance, and if there were resistance then they would have enough armour to throw off any attack. The Council’s continued support would be instrumental for Briala’s plans, and the Cabinet’s begrudging respect of her would be enough to work in their favour.  

Briala could hear some faint cries from outside the warehouse, clamouring for Celene and the Council. The entirety of Val Royeaux should be outside, waiting for a glimpse of its empress returned - victorious, or so they would see - from a war centuries in the making.

It should buy them some months of relative peace. 

Briala let Celene do her work and mingled herself with the countries from The Alliance, setting up more formal alliances to spread her influence in The Dales to more international venues; she would have time to deal with Orlesians later.

Violet seemed to be content to stand by Sabran’s side, occasionally coming to stand by Briala whenever both Sabran and Celene seemed to be occupied. 

It took one hour or so until everything was organised so that every delegation could leave safely; except Celene and Briala’s. Theirs would be last to go, and they would go together, to show an united front and to calm whatever tempers there might have been raised. The Council and the Cabinet left with the rest of the diplomats in the corps, heading to the palace to get ready for the banquet and party that would ensue. 

It left only their guards, Cyril, Sabran, and Celene’s two Ladies-In-Waiting plus Briala and her closest people.

As soon as the door closed behind them, the air lightened, and Cyril practically ran to Celene - taking her in his arms. Celene stumbled a bit backwards when they collided, but soon enough was laughing in her cousin’s embrace. Cyril kissed her temple, a comfort to which Celene leaned into rather than turn away. Briala was stunned. In her time it was rare that the cousins touched even though she knew that their love for each other was always present, but that seemed to have changed. And it seemed to break whatever lingering doubt there was between the parties. Sabran and the Ladies-In-Waiting fondly embraced as well, and Briala could see how close they all were. 

It was all rather… strange, really, considering how isolated Celene had made sure to be when they had been together a decade ago. ‘To prevent betrayal’ , Celene had said, though Briala knew that what she had meant was that; ‘ So it does not hurt too much when we clash’ . Briala had expected it to continue, frankly. And she had expected that a bit for their relationship as well, but-… She watched Celene’s arm wrapped around Cyril - and his around her - as they walked toward where Sabran and the Ladies were. But it seemed like she had been wrong to expect that.

Alexandra’s nose was twitching. “Is it usually like this?”

“No. It isn’t.”

“Oh.” Alexandra gave a once over to the room, where Celene and her Ladies were now talking while Cyril and Sabran embraced and clapped each other on the back. Her nose crinkled further. “Are we going to-

“We are not.”

“Oh, thank the Creators.”

Adrien snorted and gestured towards the rest of Briala’s entourage to move to select zones of the warehouse to match Celene’s own guard, giving them privacy and allowing Briala to insert herself first before they took a dip into this world as well. Adrien, Alexandra, and Jade were huddled behind her, somewhat timid. Cyril, however, appeared to have all the world's audacity. He started towards her. 

“Marquise Briala.”

There was no derision in his voice, but the way he said it… Well, she did not like it.

“Duke Cyril.”

Cyril’s nose twitched, a signal of repressed snarl. Briala suppressed a smirk. He approached her, not using his height to intimidate her, but close enough. She saw her entourage stiffen, but with a wave of her hand, she dismissed them. Cyril watched them go, passively, until he turned his stare — so like and unlike Celene — to her. 

“Know that you stand here only because I will it.”

“ You will it? Not your cousin? Not me ?” Briala approached him, staring him down. “She gave me a choice, Cyril. Had I said no, you wouldn’t be seeing me.”

“I gave her the idea to go in the first place. And allowed her to give you the Marquisate.”

Briala stared at him. “Why did you tell her to go?”

Cyril closed his mouth and refused to answer, his frown so deep Briala thought that his face would be permanently stuck like that. He looked so much like Prosper…

“Tell me,” he said, finally, “had she not offered you the title would you have returned?”

Briala took a page out of his book and kept her mouth shut. They traded glares as they came to an impasse. 

“Ten minutes,” a cool voice interrupted them, making them turn. Celene was there, having finished her talk with her Ladies who were now talking with Alexandra and Adrien. The empress’ hands were on her hips and her eyes took turns glaring at them like they were children. “We have been here, alone, ten minutes . Would the two of you hold the animosity until we get to the palace, at least?”

Briala opened her mouth to retort, but Celene’s chilled stare made her snap her mouth shut. She heard Cyril’s, also poised to argue, do the same. 

“Thank you.” Celene reached out and touched both of their forearms, drawing a scowl from Cyril that Briala had to control to mimic in similar distaste for their yielding to the empress. “Now, Cyril, where is Damodar?”

Cyril let out a laugh, his mouth crinkling in delight. “I think you will find that your dear husband has nearly stolen your thunder.”

Celene blinked. “What?”

“Let us just say that dragging an elf home to be your mistress will hardly be the things that the people will talk about.” He paused, scratching his chin. “Well, perhaps, the title will make them talk, but still I doubt it.”

“ What ?” Celene asked again, this time truly confused.

“You’ll see when you get to the palace. And who is she?” Cyril asked, gently, Briala would give him that, especially because Violet really did look more like a boy than girl at the moment. “Is she a servant or—

“She’s my daughter.” Briala interrupted, though it was not really— Violet had never— “She is my daughter,” she repeated, knowing that even if Violet did not feel it, it was true in Briala’s heart. 

“Violet,” was all that Celene added.

Cyril looked at Violet once, and then back to Celene and Briala, and nodded his head. Nothing more would be forthcoming about Violet and her place in Briala’s life — or where she stood in terms of succession to her title — and, if nothing else, Cyril would see it done in the Council of Heralds. Even if it was only because Celene hadn’t given him any room to dispute it.

“Majesty,” Colombe’s voice came from behind them, “you should get ready. And, you should get an update before you go into the palace.” Colombe gestured towards a sectioned off space in the back, covered by a curtain where Celene could change. “Shall we?”

“Of course.” Celene turned towards her Lady in Waiting, and then just before she left, towards Briala. “Would you join us, Bria?”

It was like a lighting bolt had hit the room and electrified all present. Cyril recoiled into himself, truly struck by the confidence and officialism Celene was bestowing on her with the simple question and use of her name. Colombe looked like she had eaten something sour and Couteau let out an audible gasp. Adrien and Alexandra were staring, mouths agape and wide eyes, and Jade… Briala thought it best not to look at Jade, who had only agreed to be here at her insistence. Only Sabran and Violet seemed unaffected by it, standing closely to the side, talking and pointing at Cyril.  

Briala nodded. “Of course, Majesty.”

There was a glimmer of delight spreading through her when Cyril swallowed heavily whatever comment he had been about to make. 

“I will tend to Violet,” he said, voice catching as he tried for gentility. “See to it that she understands what goes on in Orlais.”

Briala allowed her gratitude to show itself on her face, even as she hid her surprise. She had not expected Cyril to be so considerate of a small, elven girl; he certainly never had been before. Briala watched out of the corner of her eye and he approached Violet, who was grinning up at him. 

Colombe parted a curtain allowing both Celene and Briala to pass into the sectioned off area. 

It was not very large, but it had a space for a dress, some travelling cases that Briala would guess was makeup, and a mirror. 

Colombe did not waste time with pleasantries and got to work, stripping Celene off her leathers and cheap mask with a clipped pace as she spoke of all the important things Celene needed to know since their last correspondence. 

It was mind numbing, but more important than ever. 

Briala forced herself to listen as well, filling off names she could use for her plans. 

Colombe then did Celene’s hair and then applied the stark white makeup, talking while Celene gave off some occasional recommendations. Colombe started doing her lips and Briala watched her reactions - for the first time the Lady-in-Waiting flinched. 

Briala smirked as she realised that Colombe had picked a moment Celene could not talk to tell bad news. 

It was exactly what Briala used to do. 

“Gratien has started his campaign, Majesty. The whole of the northern section near the border is in agreement with him. They will not abide by the new law of forced schooling.”

Briala winced, knowing that an opposition from such a force was a heavy thing to deal with. She expected the news to come with an expression of anger or worry in Celene’s face, instead it was remarkably passive. Briala even thought she saw Celene roll her eyes at the whole ordeal. 

Briala noted Colombe was distracted looking for something in the bag and closed in on Celene. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned with that?”

“Leon.”

Briala quirked her eyebrow at the answer, surprised by the simplicity. Celene chuckled, ridding herself of her outer layer with ease and slipping into the slip. It smoothed out her waist and when Celene gestured for Colombe to bring over the corset, Briala stopped the Lady-in-Waiting with a simple lift of her hand. Colombe looked ready to argue, but Celene cleared her throat - as if to remind her of something - and Colombe bowed her head to both her and Briala, and left them alone to get dressed.

Briala picked the white fabric of the dress Celene would wear, and thumbing the very warm cloth she privately approved, and held out the corset for Celene to step into. 

“You do not have to do this.”

“I know, but I want to.” Briala pressed her lips to Celene’s nape, gently tightening the laces of the corset, not knowing if the Celene’s caught breath was from her lips or the corset. “I like dressing you,” she whispered, close to Celene’s ear.

Celene leaned back and grabbed her hands to lace them about her waist. “Liar,” she accused, and Briala heard the smile in her voice. “You just like to give yourself shortcuts for when you get to undress me.”

Briala smirked and forwent an answer, knowing that even if she denied it Celene would know it to be a lie. She tightened the strings of the corset with a familiar hand, wincing in sympathy when Celene let out a pained breath when the sides hit a particular sore spot.  

“Is it really that simple?” Briala asked, finally. At Celene’s confused stare, that she saw when the empress turned her head, Briala elaborated, “Leon being enough to cull your anger at someone trying to usurp your will.”

“I know what comes after me.” Finally , she heard in Celene’s voice as a problem was off her shoulders. “I know what the future holds, what I am heralding, who I am raising. It is freeing to know where it will all end, that whatever my efforts are will be pushed by him when the time comes.”

Briala shook her head, smiling fondly. “I’m sure I could have told you that. Or anyone in court would have volunteered to say it to you.”

“More like shout it at me.”

“Maybe if you hadn’t taken so long to take a husband...”

Celene glared, annoyed, and poked at Briala’s diaphragm, making her clench and then release a quiet laugh. Briala helped her slip into the bright, white dress and helped her with her jewellery and with a large white fur ruff that would protect her shoulders. 

“Thank you, Bria. I—

Couteau interrupted, slipping through the curtain shamelessly. “Majesty, there is a—” the Lady-in-Waiting flushed red, quickly bowing her head. “I apologise, Majesty, Marquise. I did not know—

“It’s fine, Couteau. What is the matter?”

Couteau appeared wince. “For her Majesty's ears only, Marquise. The Inquisitor has said so herself.”

Before Celene could say anything, Briala stepped in, curling her hand around Celene’s wrist. Couteau’s eyes narrowed but she said nothing. 

“I will go and tend to Violet.”

Briala made to leave, after squeezing Celene’s wrist once, and just as was about to let go, Celene reached out and grabbed her wrist as well, pulling her close. Briala was suddenly close to her, and smelled the perfume of roses and honeysuckle that was always clinging to Celene. 

“There is a dress for you, too.” Celene’s eyes gentled. “If you wish to wear it.”

Briala nodded, unsure of what to make of it, and left the small private room to go into another, just to the side. There was another one on the end of the warehouse that was currently being occupied by Sabran, Cyril, and Violet. Briala sneaked a deeper look, and sensing that nothing was wrong turned to her Lady-In-Waiting. Alexandra was just beside the squared off space, eyes darting about looking for her until they did see her and Alexandra finally seemed to relax. 

“There you are!” she whispered. “Please tell me you need my help, that woman is staring at me and I—

“Stay close by. I might need help, yes.” She did not know what type of dress Celene had ordered made for her. “And don’t concern yourself with Colombe. She’s a dove really.”

Alexandra glared. “Ha-ha. Very funny, Briala.”

Briala smirked as she slipped into the space reserved for her and closed the curtains behind her. Looking around, Briala saw two packages, neatly arranged and just the size of a dress. Briala culled a sigh, knowing that from now on her clothes would speak for her as well. She hoped that the mask she had ordered to be made would be waiting for her at the palace as she’d instructed, but for now she would see what Celene had made. 

Reaching for the packages, Briala picked the first one, noting that that one had Celene’s handwriting on it. It made Briala wonder just how long Celene had planned this. She took the dress from the package. 

It was red with some very fine spots of white, Briala noted, and laughed. 

There was another dress too, as well tailored as the one in her hands was, but it was in other colours that would not associate her with Celene. Briala ignored it. 

She slipped into her dress easily, enjoying how warm the dress actually was and how warm it made her feel. It felt snug against the swell of her chest, and hung beautifully about her. The red brought out her complexion and the highlights of her hair while hiding her freckles — something she knew Celene knew she disliked — and it was, despite all, distinctively elven. The dress stopped just at her ankles and Briala was happy to see that it was not as big as Celene’s, which trailed behind her. The mask that came with the dress was simple, light too - not real gold, obviously, even though it shined like it was - encrusted with small pearls and rubies. Perfectly acceptable for a first outing - combined well with her outfit, did not associate her with Celene's Valmont mask and was generic enough for people to know this would not be the final form of her mask. 

Briala adjusted herself in the mirror and, after a last look, opened the curtains to the main warehouse again. Celene was already out too, talking to Colombe and Couteau, while Alexandra and Adrien were in a corner speaking with Jade. Violet, Cyril and Sabran were off to the side, also talking, and Briala’s heart warmed when Violet waved her over.

Violet bounced next to her, and twirled about, showing her the dress that they had put her on. It was a faint blue, sprinkled with just the tiniest bit of sea-green. 

It was— It looked very well on her skin, and it made her so happy that Briala did not have the heart to say anything against it. But it did not combine very well with the theme they appeared to be going for. 

“We didn’t have much warning as we did with you,” Cyril explained quietly as Violet also twirled for Sabran. “The dress was hastily made with some old fabrics laying around.” Briala opened her mouth to protest when Cyril gave her a look that silenced her. “I know. I know. It is… inexcusable. New dresses are being made as we speak, but it is probably a good idea for her not to attend tonight’s party.”

Briala nodded, knowing that delaying telling Celene about Violet had somewhat contributed to this. “I know. At least during the parade they will be too distracted to notice.”

“Yes, at least that.” Cyril’s eyes veered off in the direction of Celene and her Ladies, and Briala noticed Sabran approaching them as well. “Go to your daughter, Marquise, she has been excited to see the outside. But—,” there was a small smile on his face, “—but I think you should be one to see her through this.”

Briala frowned, but before she could say anything there was a pair of hands about her waist and Cyril was already gone. Looking down, Briala saw Violet grinning up at her. Holding out her hand, which Violet took bouncing next to her, Briala walked towards the side door of the warehouse. Briala smiled and, with a nod to Cahir, let him know to open the door outside. 

“He seems nice,” Violet said, shyly nodding at Cyril, and Briala made sure that she was well dressed for the cold weather of the season, “said that he would help me find the best tailor and that he knows where the best wigs are! He said that he would speak to—,” Violet coughed, deep, preparing herself for an impression of Cyril, “— his people , about my hair.”

Briala chuckled; it was a pretty good impression. With her free hand, she pushed the side-door to the warehouse open, making sure that it was far away from the main street where people were already waiting for the main party to leave to go to the palace.

When she pushed the door open, she closed her eyes as a smell filtered into her nose. Daffodils. Tevinter had no daffodils to speak of, and Briala could have well wept at the smell again. 

It struck her, suddenly; she really was home. 

Briala opened her eyes and blinked, twice and then again as she came face to face with something she had not seen in years. When she spoke, her breath was like shattered diamonds in the air. “Snow.”

Violet held out her ungloved hand, and a flake fell on her skin. Her nose crinkled. “It’s cold. Oh! It’s wet!” That seemed to revitalise her energy, and she was out, going to the side of the building where a bundle of snow had accumulated.

The path in front of them was almost all clear of snow, but the sides of the building were positively white, and the cold air was biting against her ears in bittersweet pain. Tears, unbidden, build up in her eyes. 

Oh, it had been so long .

Violet took big footsteps, lifting her leg too much to rid herself of the attrition of the ice, then accidentally plunging it deep in the snow, stumbling all the way. Her face was a wonder, flushed from the cold, and bright with excitement. Briala watched her every step, heart tugging when she fell but quickly forgotten when the little girl just laughed, delighted. 

Briala left the girl in the snow and walked over to the edge of the steep hill.

Val Royeaux was within sight, finally, after all these months of waiting, just below them. Surrounded by small mountains on all sides but for the mouth that opened to the sea, the city was cradled in the protective embrace of hills. Below them, it seemed to go on for an eternity, the valley full to the brim of houses and narrow streets, the sprawling buildings, the ivory towers of the Grand Cathedral, the sea and harbour spreading out to the horizon; a warmth seemed to filter into the air from the simple abundance of people that populated the streets, more than half-a-million of them. Almost nearly as many as Minrathous, but much more concentrated. 

Briala spied the river that curved along the mountains, and the little island it had once reached near the mouth of the Sea. There was a glint in the distance on this cold, winter midday coming from that island; the Imperial Palace, standing defiant of the soil it was built on, an imposing spire reigning tall over the skyline of the city. 

Briala took a deep, deep breath, willing the memories to dissipate but the smell of the city burrowed through her nose; spices from all over the continent were prevalent in the air, so different from the mainly Tevene wares of the Minrathous’ market, the perfumes even this far away from the centre of the city spread through the atmosphere, all of it mixing with the brine of the nearby sea, it too far different from the more acrid ocean smell of Tevinter. 

There were times when she thought that she would die — there had been far too many close calls — and that she would never feel snow again, would never get to remember what it was like to be home and would only die with the poor imitation of it in her mind. 

Though the scars remain and the tears would never dry… Briala raised her eyes to the far Eastern hill, the hill that held the estate where she had grown—… the hill her parents died. Briala took a deep breath, the smells of Val Royeaux once again filtering into her, and snow fell on her curls and flushed her face. She and Celene had not talked more about it, but Briala would like to do something to honour their passing eventually.

“Sabran!” Violet cried and Briala heard the stumbling of footsteps on the snow, and Violet rushed to embrace the Champion, who was quickly becoming her favourite person. “Are we going with Cyril?”

Briala culled a wet snort. She almost hoped that Cyril and Violet didn’t bond, but she wished no ill will on them, not truly; if Cyril was fond of her girl, then it would be another layer of protection they would have. 

It did probably mean that she would have to be nice to Cyril. Briala twisted her nose.

“Talk with the Captain,” she heard Celene murmur to Sabran, “and ensure that everything is ready for when Morrigan comes for her Eluvian.”

“Yes, Your Radiance. Shall we go then, Miss Violet?” Violet’s answer faded into nothing as the door to the warehouse was closed behind them.

Then Briala heard the crunch of heels hitting the faint flocks of snow on the mostly-cleared pavement and tried to hide her tears, but she knew it was in vain. She readied herself for the teasing that would come in Celene’s fond murmurs. Briala felt her come up behind her, a hand gently touching her back — in the exact way that an empress was not supposed to with anyone in public — as if to ensure that Briala felt her presence, as if to ensure that Briala did not feel alone. 

“Who has a tender heart now?”

Briala snorted, ignoring the way the tears still stung her eyes. “Shut up. If you had been away for ten years—…” she let the words hang in the air, far too embarrassed at the depth of her feelings.

“Or two years, never knowing if you would return, and when you did, everything was different.” Celene said when Briala refused to elaborate, smiling softly when Briala turned to her. “After you sent me to Halamshiral, I never returned to Val Royeaux, not until the Civil War was over. I wept like a child when I returned, alone in my carriage.” 

Celene’s hand reached for hers and Briala took the gloved hand, using her free hand to clean the trail left behind by her tears, glad that Celene filled the stilted silence. 

“You thought you’d never return?”

“I thought that there was a strong possibility that you or Gaspard would get me. I thought—… Florianne’s knife on my back made things move at a snail’s pace.” Briala closed her eyes as she recalled that night, the quiet fear she had felt when she saw Florianne so close to Celene. When she opened them again, Celene’s gaze now overlooked the city, a wistful expression on her face, a fondness unmatched, and her words came as a reverent whisper, “I thought I would never see it again.”

Much as Celene lauded her love for her or even her son, it was Val Royeaux that held her heart; Briala had known that from the moment she returned to Celene the first time. Maker, she had known it from when they were girls, sneaking into the city to experience all it had to offer, and the look on Celene’s face then was the same as it was now. 

“I never held much love for the city.”

“Of course, of course.” Celene chuckled, turning to look at her; the look in her eyes didn’t waver, and the fondness remained in its fullness. Briala felt content knowing where she stood. “You are just really happy to see snow again.”

Briala crossed her arms and refused to look at Celene. “Maybe I missed it a little bit,” she mumbled in a tiny whisper.

Celene laughed now, her laughter a warm thing on this cold winter day. And Briala couldn’t help but smile at seeing Celene so happy, bundled in white furs and framed by the snow Briala had so missed in that unbearably tropical country for the past ten years. At her heart skipping a beat, Briala privately cursed at her emotional state; first with Violet, then with this bloody city, and now with just seeing Celene happy. 

Eyebrow quirking at her glare into nothingness, Celene reached for her hand, her laughter turning to a smile, and gestured towards the warehouse, where their party was waiting for them to start the procession.

“Come on,” Celene said, her gloved hand hanging waiting for hers. “We should get started soon if we want to make it to the palace before it goes dark.”

Briala shook her head and hung back as the cries from the city filled the air. They were calling for Celene, as their empress; Val Royeaux would never be content with anyone less than their empress addressing them, tending to them and their needs.

“They are waiting for you .”

“You think I went all the way to Tevinter so you could ride back with the rest of the rabble?” Celene shook head, a tiny smile curling her lip. She wriggled her long fingers, waiting for her hand. “Come on, now. Let us go home.”

Briala let out a smothered laugh - more of nerves than anything else - and took Celene’s hand.

Notes:

how about those agin' dragons, amiright? hope you guys had some amazing weeks with DAV being released! Won't bore you with what I thought of the game tho, but suffice to say I was hollerin' at some points.

anyway, this series should now proceed as before, there are no spoilers here for DAV and any resemblance or lack thereof is all fault of my stupid mind.

Chapter 17: Arborvitae II

Summary:

Arborvitae:
live for me;
thine till death

It took them five hours to traverse the city. Five . Briala was ready to throw the whole damned circus down the river, hoping it would wash away on some distant shore and cease to be their problem. The animal beneath her gave a neigh and a large snort, making a nearby child giggle. Briala rolled her eyes, glad that her mask obscured it, and quietly cursed the universe for putting her in this position in the first place.

She bloody hated horses.

Perhaps that was the source of all her irritation. 

“You know, you are supposed to wave at these things.”

Well, the horse was a solid seventy-per-cent of her irritation. The other was just how damned chipper Celene was ever since they entered the city proper. One would think the woman had single-handed won the war with the way Royans were reacting, and Celene just ate it up. Which, fine , it was expected, but it did not mean that Briala had to be on board. Especially not if it required her to ride a horse.

“When they are here to see me, I will.”

Celene kicked her horse closer. “They are here for you, for what you represent.” Celene waved with one hand at the crowd, and when she lowered it, it settled on Briala’s thigh for a second, but it was enough that it would spread through the city. “We are almost home, it is just the bridge now.”

While the Golden Gates of Val Royeaux were famed throughout the continent, the marble white bridge that led to the island where the palace stood was a marvel itself. The bridge had been built by Alphonse Valmont when he’d decided to build an enormous palace smack dab in the middle of the city, appropriating the large island in the middle of the river that bathed Val Royeaux’ shores; and in doing so, transferred the alienage, which had had ample space to grow, to the damp and dark corner it was today… A classy move in those days apparently. 

At least the bridge itself was not very long but it was wide, now filled to the brim with people to see them pass, and was decorated by marbled statues of the Valmonts or figures of Divine ancestry. 

Briala had passed this bridge a thousand times and she would do so again. 

Even as they neared the Palace, standing in its gold and white glory in defiance to those who tried to find fault in the extravagant design, the music and the festival did not stop, instead it became more intricate and bold as they neared the epicentre of all the extravagance of the Orlesian Empire. 

Once they set foot on the island proper — L’ile Royale — and the portcullis closed behind them, only then could they slightly lower their shoulders to an acceptable posture rather than perfect posture. Celene descended from her horse with the aid of an attendant and Briala allowed Adrien to help her down - though, she would have to instruct him not to in the future, as he was above that now - and as a whole they all walked the courtyard to enter the palace. 

It was a marvel of gold and marble, and it was full to the brim of dignitaries and servants ready to welcome them home. Celene smiled as she passed almost every hall on the way to her private chambers, Sabran, Cyril, and Briala following her closely behind. Briala spotted new and old faces, and was surprised to see some of her former colleagues nodding and bowing at her.

The trees of friendship that had been mirrored in Tevinter lined their path and Briala almost snorted. They were welcoming her home, into the nest of vipers she had grown up in. It almost made it worth being back, to rid herself of the nostalgia that lingered despite her best efforts. 

Though Briala supposed that she was back with friends this time. A vocation built, a support network that went beyond their borders. Perhaps the trees were not that odd an omen. 

Finally, after another hour, they were at Celene’s wing of the palace; evident by the lack of garish colours as Celene’s headaches favoured neutral pastels and less ostentatious decor.

“Sabran,” Celene called as soon as they entered her private sitting area, “go with Violet, and settle her in. Stay with her tonight- Do not argue with me.” Sabran’s face was indestructible, but Briala spotted a curled lip. “She is young and she needs protection, I will be fine with just a guard.”

Sabran bowed, tersely. “As you say, Your Radiance.” 

Violet, with whom Briala had spoken to about her not going to the party later that night, waved them off and went with Sabran. Violet should have been staying in the wing of the palace that belonged to The Dales, but while Briala’s entourage would be there, Briala herself would be staying here, in the Empress’s wing and so would she. 

Finally alone with just Briala and Cyril, Celene let her mask fall completely. Figuratively and literally as she tossed her mask to the side and sat on the large chaise in the middle of the private sitting room. Cyril followed suit on a single chaise while Briala sat on the side of the small table between them and, for the first time, Briala really took stock of the room.

It was, essentially, the same it had always been; the same understated colours to dull out the permanent headaches the empress suffered from, the same comfortable couches that Celene had sparingly used to entertain the more intimate members of her family or if she had wanted to intimidate her more courteous enemies by showing them somewhere more private, the same ivory table that always had a bouquet of pink daisies, and the same antique cabinets filled with trinkets instead of books. 

Yet, there were signs of Celene's new role as a mother. There was a controlled chaos to the room, in a way that never was before, with the slightly crooked carpet and a grey blanket thrown over the creme long chaise. Two old and well-loved books on the small ivory table, and Briala recognised them both as tales of daring adventures to spark the imagination of a young mind — it was the exact same ones Celene's parents had read to her. The room felt different too, lived in, while during Briala's time it was barely even used as Celene always preferred the privacy of her bedroom. 

Celene took her sip of tea, piping hot and already waiting for her, and her shoulders immediately dropped, finally fully at ease. Cyril took a cup as well, while Briala declined and merely adjusted herself on the very nice chaise.

“So,” Celene started, “where is Damodar?”

“Your husband decided to let you enjoy tonight,” Cyril said, and Briala thought she saw him eye her when he uttered the word ‘husband’ as if to gauge her reaction. Briala kept herself steady. “He is spending the night in his workshop. I suspect he will be here by tomorrow.”

Celene set her teacup on the saucer, blinking. “Maker,” she said. “What has he done to avoid me as if he is afflicted with the plague?” Cyril winced and Celene’s eyes grew three sizes. “ Cyril . Is he—

“Nothing of the sort,” he assured her, and Briala was surprised to see genuine relief cross Celene’s eyes. “But I have been sworn to secrecy, cousin, and I am afraid that you will have to wait until tomorrow to know exactly what has happened in the meantime.”

“Fine.” Celene did not sound fine. “I will wait.” Impatiently , Briala added in her head as she watched Celene do the equivalent of fidgeting. “But, now, tell me, cousin, where is my son?”

This time, Cyril contorted into himself, almost warding off a blow. “About that… You see, uh, Damodar didn’t arrive with him.” The room grew five degrees colder. “He is fine!” Cyril rushed to add. “He is fine. He is just in the same place he has been for the past six months.”

Celene’s mood curdled, and her lips twisted to a thin line. “Ah.”

So much, in so little a sound. Briala did not want to be in Damodar’s place when Celene got her hands on him; she would be scathing , tearing off whatever armour the man could build. Briala could only hope to be there to see it. 

“And where has he been, exactly?” Celene asked, coolly, her voice as warm as the snow outside. “Surely now , you can tell me.”

Yet again, Cyril winced and when he spoke, they could barely hear him. “Ferelden.”

“He is where ?”

If the room had been cold before, now it was glacial. Briala nearly shivered, while Cyril fully shuddered. Celene’s anger always manifested itself in cold frostbite, or rather it had ever since she had become Empress and it was no different right now. Briala couldn’t even say that she blamed her. To have sent the heir to the Orlesian throne to the place where Orlais had exercised its military might not that long ago was… bold , to say the least. It was secluded, yes, and unimportant, and perhaps most important of all, unlikely to be the first place anyone would look.

“You know it was the right thing to do.” Cyril might have trembled, but he did not back down. Perhaps there was something to admire there. Perhaps. “You know it is the last place anyone would look for him.”

Celene conceded to nothing, and her eyes were as piercing as her silverite daggers. “And where exactly was he staying? Because I traded letters with King Alistair, and he made no mention of him and I doubt that he would be able to hide such a thing.”

Cyril relaxed, minutely. “Queen Anora sheltered him and the noble children of some of Ferelden’s highest nobility in Gwaren. Outwardly, to pick an heir amongst prominent families, but mostly because of how isolated Gwaren is.”

It did add up, Briala had to admit, and so did Celene. Briala could see the moment Celene’s wits prevailed over her heart: the way her lip twitched and she ran a finger over thumb as if to soothe herself of the conclusion she reached. 

Exactly as Briala had remembered. 

“Well,” Celene surrendered to the facts, however reluctantly, “I suppose there are worse choices.”

“She sent letters of him.” Cyril smiled coyly, a delighted glimmer in his Montfort eyes. “The underline is that Queen Anora believes that there is no chance that he is Orlesian nor that he came from you at all.” Celene quirked her eyebrow. “Almost word for word, I swear.”

“My my,” Briala chuckled, stepping in, “that is high praise from a Ferelden Queen. The daughter of Loghain Mac Tir, no less.”

“Shame she does not have a daughter,” Cyril sighed. “That would have been a good match.”

“Leon is seven,” Celene reminded him sternly. “Let us give him some to develop before betrothing him to anyone, yes?”

Cyril chuckled. “As you say, cousin.” He rose from his seat, putting his empty cup of tea on the table. “Ah, by the way… Speaking of affairs of the heart, I have received word that the Admiral is here.” Cyril sneaked a look at Briala again, this time much more pointedly than before, like this would bother her. Why…? “Apparently, there is an issue that she needs you to oversee. Her arrival at the same time as yours has stirred some gossip-” Cyril coughed, uncomfortable. “Especially considering your, er,” he looked at Briala again, curious and frightened before Celene’s pointed gaze forced him to duck his head, embarrassed, “considering your history .”

So, this woman who Celene had dallied with… It was known. This time the urge to twist her lips into a snarl couldn’t be avoided and Briala felt her lip curl at the thought of having to face whoever it was, knowing that this woman had-

“I see.” Celene did not sound concerned. In fact, she sounded nothing at all. “Well, tell her I will see to it as soon as possible.”

Cyril nodded and then gestured towards the door. “If there’s nothing else, Your Radiance…”

“You may take your leave, Duke Cyril.”

He made a bow, deep and respectful, towards Celene and lowered his head at Briala, also respectful... Utterly natural, even, which was the most surprising of all. 

Briala wondered how he had brought himself to do that much. 

When the door closed softly behind him, Briala heard the sigh of relief that escaped Celene. Turning to look at her, the empress was now resting against the back of the chaise, a look of utter contentment on her face, her eyes closed and chest falling deeply as if she were asleep. 

Briala smiled and willed whatever ugly thing had taken hold of her at the mention of that woman’s presence to vacate her mind. It didn’t, but neither did it consume her. 

Silence stretched for a while, a comfortable one, unhurried now that they were home. Briala could have happily continued to live in this liminal moment in time, just enjoying the feeling of being home, of being here again, when everything was so different. Yet, she was never one to stay silent for long.  

“You know,” she started, smiling when Celene uttered a hum of acknowledgement, "you have become much less subtle.”

“I have lived half-an-age,” the words came softly, “I have little patience for subtlety in certain things these days.” Celene opened one eye to look at her. “But to what exactly are you referring to?”

Briala pointed to her outfit; red and white, and then to Celene’s white with a slash of red rubies. Wedding colours. Anyone, even with only partial possession of their wits, would be able to figure out the meaning of that .

“Ah. Well, do you object?”

Briala smiled, leaning back and stretching her legs on the table. “No. I wouldn’t have worn the dress if I did.”

Celene smiled back and arranged herself again on the chaise, closing her eyes again. “Good,” she sighed, happily.

“We still have the banquet to go to, you know?.” 

Celene huffed. “I know.” She rubbed her forehead. “Maker, that is going to be tedious.”

“Come now,” Briala smirked, “you live for that sort of stuff, it’s when people make the most mistakes and you know it.”

Celene smiled back. “Too true, my love.”

Rising from her seat, Briala walked towards Celene and pressed a kiss to her temple, privately smiling when Celene seemed to melt at her touch. She threaded her hand through Celene’s loose hair, smirking when she purred like a kitten.

“I have to go,” she whispered, pressing her lips together to stifle a laugh when Celene let out a disapproving mewl. “I do need to set up my things, you realise? Besides, I need to get ready and see if the mask I ordered arrived.”

Celene sighed and moved to sit on the edge of the sofa, knowing the truth of Briala’s words. 

“Will you come back here, so we can go together?” Celene then frowned. “Well, not together together . Not yet.” Celene looked her in the eyes, suddenly worried. “You understand, yes? An unofficial announcement like the dress is fine, but we need—

“More time to actually prepare a statement. Perhaps even after Leon arrives.” Briala rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes. I know. I remember how things work in Orlais, Celene.”

The empress nodded. “Good. Now go, we will meet in a few minutes. Oh, and send Fleur in, please.”

Pressing a last lingering kiss to Celene’s temple, Briala left the private sitting room and walked to the nearby corridor that would lead her to the wing where The Dales had a standing, though often empty in her time, suite of rooms. The corridors were long and would grow ever more colourful and psychedelic as she ventured in. For now, however, only Fleur already waiting to go in Celene's chambers, clad in bright colours  contrasted starkly against the soft beiges of Imperial Wing.

“Marquise Briala.” The Lady-in-Waiting bowed deep, dress pooling on the floor so deep was her courtesy. Strange. “Welcome back.”

“Fleur,” she said, nothing more and nothing less. They both knew that Fleur’s title was sham, even if the Lady-in-Waiting had earned it a dozen times over. “How pleasant to see you again.”

Fleur rose with an easy grace. “Likewise,” she said, dark eyes that always reminded Briala of Mantillon running over her. “Her Imperial Majesty is-

“- waiting for you,” Briala finished, unwilling to let Fleur voice her concerns.

The Lady-In-Waiting grimaced a smile, bowing her head again. “As you say.”

As Fleur retreated to Celene’s chambers, Briala was left staring after her. It was rare that any of the Ladies-In-Waiting ever really acknowledged her — a deliberate strategy by herself and Celene, no matter how much the Empress might trust them — and, if they did, they were hardly differential. Colombe had not been, earlier. Neither had Couteau. However, Cyril and Fleur in quick succession was... suspect.

Fleur had always been something of a mystery, far too private for Briala’s tastes, but she was acting… strangely. Briala wondered if Celene had said something. 

Down the hall, the clock chimed, making Briala check the time. It was nearing the time for when it would be appropriate for her and Celene to show up, and Briala still needed to get to her personal chambers and get ready.

The corridors felt familiar, though they had changed in colours and décor, and Briala navigated herself perfectly.

Her entourage was already waiting and Alexandra filled her in on the status of her mask; it was still pending, but should be soon forthcoming. While she bathed, Jade filled her in on Felassan; he had arrived in Halamshiral just the other day, having split from their party a day earlier in the Eluvians, and had set about to build a recruitment line for her household. Adrien talked her ear off about the recruits they had in waiting while Alexandra helped into her dress. And Cahir, required to be at her side, chimed in occasionally about safety concerns. Despite all, despite the games and delays, it was all still going according to plan. 

Briala wondered for how long, however. 

Once she was ready — a dress of green and golds, of loose elven design that allowed her to move more freely than even Celene’s more slack dresses, and a mask reserved for new nobles until they had their own — she instructed her people to go to the ballroom and mingle while she went to Celene. 

She ignored the look on Jade’s face as she left and walked back to Celene’s private apartments.

The Chevaliers at the door opened it without a fuss, a surprise considering they had never done that when she was Celene’s handmaid, and allowed her to pass without a second look. 

Briala took in the differences again, this time much more accustomed to it and far more pleased about the ease of the room. She walked to the side, to an innocuous door, and pushed it open without knocking.

The bedroom was almost exactly the same as it had been before. Large windows on two sides, with a bay window in between, both with large balconies to match — one that oversaw the city and another, more private, that looked out towards the river and to the sea — three full bookshelves, a desk to the side, a vanity for Celene’s more private pieces and a large, canopied bed of reds and golds. 

Briala breathed in the scent — roses and honeysuckle, from Celene and the bath just to the side — and smiled. So very little had changed, and yet it was enough to set a new rhythm to her heartbeat. 

Celene was at the centre of the room, already dressed in violet and white in a large dress that made her appear larger than life, pearls were sown into the dress and amethysts were woven into her hair. She looked regal, like the empress Briala remembered. Briala smiled, it was nice to see her like this again, and Briala almost longed to touch her, despite knowing how futile it was to want that.   

Besides, they weren’t really alone. A whine pulled at her attention, and Briala barely had the time to hold herself steady as a large dog came almost crashing down at her. Louis… She hadn’t—

“Is it still alive?” Briala asked, and dodged the old greyhound’s excited nudges for affection. Her heart had been broken when she left him, she had never thought-… “I suppose he was still young when I left.”

It was off-blue, a colour that Briala always liked. Celene preferred cats, but she had given this one dog to Briala, not long before their trip through the Eluvians. Briala could have taken it back when the war started, could have come to the palace and taken it from its room to go with her to Tevinter, but… 

It would not be fair; this was all the pup had known. 

Its nose burrowed into her thigh, cracking her resolve. Only when Celene turned to the mirror to arrange the feather in her hair, did Briala give in and patted its pretty fur. 

“He was, yes,” Celene answered without really looking at her. “And stop pretending to be indifferent, I know you care for him. He is more your dog than mine.”

Never mind the fact that Celene had taken care of him longer than Briala ever had. Briala finally knelt down, convinced as always by his cries. “And you have never raced him?”

It had been part of the plan. Well, it had been Briala’s whole plan, frankly. A dog like this — well trained, well taken care of — could make a lot of money on races. It would have been a good way to play The Game and win some extra coin. Which had been something that Briala had never been comfortable with asking from Celene. And well, though she would not need coin now with all the plans she had in mind,… Perhaps Louis had had pups and she could race them, instead. Participating in court life often meant playing their games and catering to their hobbies. 

“No. If anything, that dog has been pampered to an inch of his life.”

Briala raised her eyes from Louis and his excited attempts to lick her face to look at Celene through the mirror. The empress had the decency to flush at her scrutiny, though hidden as it was by the heavy makeup. Briala blinked once, and rose to her feet, ignoring the whining from Louis.

“ How pampered, exactly?” she asked, resigned. Celene licked her lips once, a tell that the answer would be embarrassing. When she said nothing else, Briala pinned her with a look. “ Celene .”

“He may have slept in my bed. Some nights.” Briala lifted her eyebrow and Celene sighed, caught. “Most nights, for a time.” Briala stared still, unimpressed. Celene winced. “For a couple of years.”

Well, then.

Briala sighed and frowned when the dog nudged her leg. She ignored it this time. “That is going to stop.”

Celene chuckled and whistled a complicated tune that had the dog coming around to sit beside her. It was regal, Briala admitted, when standing next to Celene and not moving. And yet, it was not something she wanted in her bed. No matter how much he whined, or looked at her with those caramel eyes or—

“He has slept with Leon since he was born, he will still sleep there,” Celene soothed her worry. It did not work; not with that sly smile on her face. “I assure you, Bria, nothing could replace you.”

Briala ignored the pang of anger that rose in her. Damn Cyril and his damned need to say everything to Celene, couldn’t he just have said that to her privately?

“Oh, ha- ah, ” she feigned levity, “you’re hilarious today.” 

With another set of whistles, the dog lazily made its way to a sunny spot in the corner, enjoying the last rays of the late autumn's sun. 

Celene grabbed the mask of the Empress with one hand and put it over her face, smoothing the yellow and purple feathers back into a slick style that went with her loose, amethyst-woven hair. As it always did, it transformed her; her posture was even straighter than before, her eyes seemingly like diamonds, and just the slightest tint of a strut to her stride. 

There was a tingle racing down Briala’s spine; she always loved when Celene was like this, looked this powerful, and she could not help but feel the slightest bit of anger that someone in that ballroom had seen the woman behind the mask. 

“Although,” Celene continued, unaware of her turmoil, voice pondering aloud, “that thing, when it stands, is almost your height.”

Briala groaned and closed the door behind her. “Oh, shut up.”

The empress laughed, head thrown back in a display of obvious delight that Celene would never do but was a trademark of the empress who had to be loud and ravenous and everything that Orlesians loved. 

The guards, however, stared, surprised; they were not used to seeing her revel in anything but a good play in the game, and certainly never from enjoying a telling off from a Marquise. 

Briala allowed a small smirk to uptick her lips, letting the guards know that she was unto them as they were to her, and quietly followed the empress to the ballroom.

There was work to be done. 

 

---

 

Hours later, they walked back to the empress’s chambers in silence. 

Celene was in front of her, as she always should be in public, but Briala was but a mere pace behind, as any mistress would be. Briala noted her empress’s stride — the clipped pace, the heels hitting the ground with every step — and her face — closed off, almost wounded as she hid something — and winced, knowing she was the cause.

Celene had been staring at her all evening. Watching her as she put in motion the plans she spent months concocting — a whisper here, a handshake there, an implied secret over there, some bragging in the gardens. At first, Briala thought Celene proud. Then, she thought her worried, as the empress’s eyes rarely let her be. Then, Briala thought her angry. In the end, finally fed up, Briala had made her angry; never mind what Celene was feeling, Briala purposefully started an argument with a woman who had insisted on all sorts of things about Celene.

Perhaps it had not been her who Celene dallied with, Briala conceded, or perhaps it had been and that had been partly the cause of Briala’s anger and need to needle. The truth of the matter was, Briala had started a fight and she had won , resulting in several people complaining to Celene.

Reaching the Empress’— their chambers, Briala supposed, Celene dismissed the guards to allow them to roam her private wing rather than stand guard at her door. The man smiled while the woman opened the door, wishing them a ‘good night’.

Fat chance of it, with the look on Celene’s face. 

“Look—” Briala started as soon as the door to Celene’s bedroom closed behind them, dawn already threatening to break through the hills of the city, “— I know I was argumentative, but the woman made some comments that—

Her words never materialised. Celene pushed her against a wall, her arm knocking over a vase older than them both combined, and crushed their lips together in a manic kiss, stealing Briala’s breath alongside her wits. Briala could only hold on to the pearls embroidered on Celene’s dress, bringing her closer as Celene  deepened the kiss, tongue demanding entrance with an intensity that left Briala no recourse but to surrender. Celene only released her lips when air became an issue, but her mouth didn’t go far, the plush lips  travelling through her cheekbones, her temple so her teeth could come gently rake the shell of her long ears. 

“I am such a fool,” Celene mouthed against her ear, her lips dragging across the delicate flesh making Briala shudder. “I am such a fool,” she repeated, this time burying her nose in Briala’s curls.

“Celene—

It went unheard; perhaps because it came breathlessly, quietly, too afraid to break what spell had overcome Celene, or perhaps simply because Celene appeared to be too far gone, a wild, dark look in her eyes that burned right through Briala.

The empress seemed almost delirious. “I should have done that long ago.” Celene’s fingers gripped Briala’s dress, her flesh beneath the dress. She was frantic. Briala’s head hit the wall behind her, a moan ripped from her throat. “You were magnificent tonight.” Celene pulled her dress up, sliding the fabric up her legs. “I could not tear my eyes off of you,” she muttered against her mouth, each word crushing her lips. “They must think me mad,” it came desperately — a cross between desire and resignation — as her hands gripped Briala’s naked thighs beneath the dress. “And, perhaps,” Celene took a step back, just a small one but Briala chased her mouth anyway, to no avail, “they are right.”  

And then, the Empress knelt.

There was always a delineation with Celene, an argument that Briala had thought would be eternal. Celene was with Briala, not the empress. It had been obvious every second they were together, Celene insisted on taking off her makeup, her mask, her rings, and her jewellery when she reached the bedroom, and never allowed Briala near her whenever there was a physical hint of the role she played. But now-

The white makeup of the Empress was being smeared across her thigh, staining her sunstone skin with the stark paint. The cold metal of the Empress’s mask pressed against her navel, making her shiver at every movement that the head made against her. And Briala’s hand, buried in the amethyst-laden white-gold hair fluffed with multicoloured feathers that tickled her fingers… There was no denying this; it was the Empress of Orlais, on her knees before her. 

Like everything the empress did, even this was done with a single-minded focus that bordered on the obsession. Head pressed against the front of her thighs, lips pressing long caresses into her skin, pale hands gripped the back of her thighs, fingers digging into her muscles; mapping worship, plain and simple, beautifully complex in all its intricacies into her flesh.  

And suddenly everything was gone—… and Celene was running.

Dazed, Briala blinked twice to dispel the confusion and heavy blanket of desire that afflicted her. When her mind became clearer, not even a second later, she finally understood what had set Celene off running. There was a cry echoing in this wing of the palace.

Violet.

Briala set off on a run, lowering her skirt as she went, going faster when she heard grunts, and the sound of a scuffle. Her mind conjuring thoughts of assassins or a disgruntled noble that had decided not to wait a single night before attacking her — her line, her title, the child who belonged to her . The door to the room was just ahead, pushed open all the way back, and Briala saw three Chevaliers approaching, weapons at their side, ready to attack. Briala hushed them back with a wave, gestured for them to wait lest they provoke whoever was inside, and entered the room.

There was no assassin in the room, but the scuffle was real.

Struck cold at the scene, Briala found herself unable to move or think as the image realised itself in her mind. Celene sat on the edge of the bed while Violet flung herself at shadows, at nothing, and finally, at Celene. 

“Shhh, shh, darling-” Celene fought Violet’s trashing arms, the girl's eyes were serrated shut in the throes of her nightmare. “Violet!” Celene grabbed her biceps and held her still. “Violet, wake up!”

Violet’s dark eyes snapped open, wet and red with tears, and the cry she let out was bloodcurdling, it was painful; it was raw and terrified . It tore at Briala’s very being, snapped something inside of her that had run towards the bed, pushing Celene away.

Perhaps it was a mistake, perhaps . Violet had almost put her arms around Celene, letting her in for the first time since they met, but when she felt Briala’s presence, whatever the girl had been about to do changed and she threw herself at Briala instead, burying her face in her stomach. Even if it was a mistake, Briala couldn’t bring herself to care; all that mattered was Violet’s arms around her and the way her sobs slowly receded into sniffles as she patted her hair and rocked her back and forth.

Celene rose from the bed and walked to the door, dismissing the Chevaliers with assurances and polite smiles. Violet was still clinging to her when Celene returned, putting a soothing hand on Briala’s shoulder. 

“Come.” Celene jerked her head towards their bedroom. “She can sleep with us tonight. Would you like that, Violet?”

Violet nodded against Briala’s stomach, though she still refused to let go of her. And she still refused to look at Celene, much less let her touch her. It was part of embarrassment, Briala was sure, and part of it was because Violet still didn’t completely trust Celene. Briala could not blame her; Celene may have given her her freedom, but she had bought her first. It would take time to really let go of the image Celene had first painted. Briala moved to rise, wincing when Violet’s grip barely let her breath.

“Come on, then,” Celene soothed gently, and Violet’s grip was a little looser as they rose, “the corridors are free, no one is watching.”

“You promise?”

The voice came muffled, as Violet’s face was still pressed against Briala. It was a shame, because if Violet could see the look in Celene’s eyes — vulnerable, determined, and oh, so gentle — Briala was sure that Violet would have known the truth of Celene’s feelings. 

“I promise,” came the solemn words. 

The three of them walked together, Celene in the front, constantly checking the corner to see if they were really free; she had made a promise, and she would be keeping it. 

They all huddled into bed together, Briala and Celene stripping themselves of their clothes in turns so that Violet would not be alone. It was light outside when Violet finally relaxed into a deep sleep, and Celene rose to close the curtains, shrouding the room in darkness. They would have to be awake by lunchtime, at the latest, it almost did not merit going to sleep.

Celene climbed back into the bed, and only when the empress was settled did Briala ask her question, her worry barely contained.

“What do you think it was?”

Celene rubbed Violet’s back. “I do not know. Perhaps it was simply too many changes in so little time, or perhaps someone said something to her.” Her face was pinched; she too was distressed. “Whatever it was, we need to give her time to acclimatise herself.”

Briala nodded. It did make sense; for all her maturity, Violet was a sensitive girl, and all she had been through would have been hard on an adult, much less a child. And Briala had frozen. If it had not been for Celene-

“What is it, Bria?”

Briala huffed against her teeth. “I didn’t even-

Celene soothed away the worry in her brow with a sweet caress. “Has she done this before?”

“No, but—…” Briala sighed. “I’m not used to you having quicker reflexes than I.”

“Oh, Bria.” Celene shook her head, stilling when Violet let out a mumble, and then relaxing when she remained asleep. “It took me months to get used to Leon’s cries. You know how I get when I am working,” — a single-minded focus that bordered on the obsession — “and it was never more apparent when Leon was a baby. I— he cried for me for hours, to eat, to sleep, to cuddle,… it took me months to attune myself to him, to know how to be there for him and not rely on nursemaids.” Celene coiled one of Briala’s curls in her fingers, playing with her hair and smiling at her. “I think you did just fine tonight.”

Briala relaxed, minutely relieved. “Thank you.” 

Briala reached out above Violet and curled her stretched fingers about Celene’s hair, creating small tangles with her caresses. Briala smiled when Celene mewled, like she always did when someone played with her hair. They laid beside one another for a moment, again in a place they had once been before but felt so different. 

“You were jealous tonight.” Celene observed, quietly. “When Cyril mentioned Odette. You were jealous.”

“I was curious ,” Briala corrected. 

Celene hummed. “I see.” Her pale hands reached for Briala’s neck, gently thumbing away at the vein in her throat. “Do you wish to have your curiosity stated?”

“No, I had wanted another thing stated tonight,” Briala answered coyly.  “You know, we were heading somewhere quite fine tonight, too.” 

“Mmm. Indeed.”

Briala heard the tiniest shade in her voice, a sentiment that for all her acumen Celene could not hide. It was disappointment, pure and simple, tainted with just a sliver of entitlement of someone who did not get what they wanted. In short, the empress was pouting. 

Smiling in the dark, Briala asked, “Are you mad?”

“Oh, je suis tellement fou ,” she sighed, frustrated, but she was stroking Violet’s back and there was a smile cornering her lips, “but I think I can live with the disappointment.”

Briala chuckled and, leaning over Violet, brought her and Celene’s lips together; a kiss to seal away their first night back home, hoping that in the nights to come they could come to their bed, alone, and could finish what they had started tonight. 

Briala laid back down, the mattress was both foreign and familiar — a comfort that she couldn’t help but enjoy — and, with Celene’s hand gently thumbing the curve of her hip, the sounds of rain splattering against the window, Violet right next to her, Briala fell into a deep sleep; doubtlessly sure she was where she was meant to be.  

Chapter 18: Daffodil II

Summary:

Daffodil:
Regard;
Unequalled love

It was early afternoon and Celene just about managed to make it to the palace before her first meeting of the day was due. Last night’s Ball had been a send off for most diplomats and her courtyard was full of carriages and servants preparing themselves for a long journey back to their countries. Celene talked with a few as she went on inside, receiving wishes and niceties from the dignitaries. Her boots — coated with mud from the ride — stained her carpets as she walked in, and her wind-swept hair gave away the ride she had taken to her estate. 

Celene’s head was throbbing when she reached her chambers, still dark from the curtains she had closed not a few hours ago. Violet was still on her stomach, sprawled out just as when Celene had left the bed this morning. Briala, however, was awake and stretching her arms above her head, Celene went to her, longing for comfort.

“Where were you?”

Celene leaned down and kissed Briala’s cheek. “I went to see… the children,” she murmured, noting Violet’s eyes blinking awake. “I did not wish to wake you,” she added when she saw Briala opening her mouth to speak.

“I would have gone with you, regardless.” Briala reached for her hand as Violet stretched. “Are you… well?”

Celene sat at the edge of the bed. “Yes, I am well. Everything was… as usual. I laid flowers at their urns, I prayed for a time. I—…” Celene shook her head. “Well, it went as it usually goes.”

“Hm.” Briala looked at Violet, who was rubbing sleep from her eyes. “Go to your rooms, Violet, someone will be there to see to you. And then you will come to Celene’s office when you are ready, yes?”

“Sabran is waiting for you just at the door,” Celene rapidly said when she saw the girl’s dark eyes grow wide with fear, “they will stay with you today. Along with someone else to oversee you. Is that all right?”

Violet nodded slowly, clearly still groggy, and after giving Briala a cuddle and Celene a wave, the girl jumped off the bed and went to the door, opening it with a violent pull, and leaping into Sabran’s waiting arms. The duo left towards Violet’s room, chatting all the way.

“I have to go meet with the leaders of the alienage,” Briala said as soon as they were out of sight, reaching for her robe, “that should take me the whole day considering all we have to go through. Probably all of tomorrow, too. The next day will be the merchants — what few there are — to prepare our plans.” Briala struggled with the clasp on her back, which Celene happily did for her, before taking her in her arms. Finally, Briala relaxed. “You will look after Violet, yes? I will be back later, but…” she let the words linger in the air,

“Of course.”

Briala then frowned. “Wait. We had a meeting and—

“It is with Damodar,” Celene completed it, and soothed away Briala’s wince. “I will deal with it. We will not require your input, I just wanted you to meet him before he left to gather Leon.”

Briala tried, “I could postpone, or—

“No.” Celene was adamant. “That is not the best way to start your new responsibilities, and you know it. Go to the meetings, Bria.”

“You are certain?”

“Yes.” Celene insisted, pressing a kiss to Briala’s hair. “Now go, you still need to get ready.”

The empress watched her lover go, slipping out of her bedchambers through the front door and with her head held high, and readied herself for the day ahead as well. Damodar would be waiting for her in an hour. She allowed her servants to dress her and rid her of her clothes to put her in her traditional Orlesian cut dresses that left her back hurting but offered warmth on this cold autumn day. 

In her office, relaxed and content with work for the first time in six months, Celene started the task of getting caught up on everything that had gone on in her absence. She was ten reports deep when a knock on the door called to her attention. Celene glanced at the clock, letting out a somewhat found chuckle. 

He was late, of course. Artists, Celene privately mused with a roll of her eyes.

“Come,” she called, rising from her seat.

“ Priya !” the cry of the Rivaini ‘dear’ came, and her husband was jovial as he entered. “Long time, no see.”

He came to embrace her, much like Cyril had done yesterday when they arrived, and he pressed a kiss to her temple, again much like Cyril. It was fonder than she was with many people, but there was a lingering awkwardness there. After all, their marriage bed had not been exactly the most comfortable of places for either of them. 

They separated and Celene, finally, took stock of him.

Damodar was as he had always been; as tall as he was handsome and eyes as dark as he was talented. He had the bulging muscles he used to make his famed statues that nearly everyone in her court had swooned over, inky black hair with eyes to match that was a trait of the royal family of Rivain. His features were always smiling, his wide mouth always grinning and dark eyes glimmering with a mischief that Celene often saw in their son. Yet, there was something different to him. He was tan, much more so than even his usual tan skin was, and he had obviously spent time in the sun. Celene kept a rebuke to herself, wondering where he had been and why had he not brought Leon with him. 

She caught the glint of gold from his finger. 

A ring that was not theirs.

Celene frowned. She knew he had been… well, ‘married’ before her, to a Qunari agent — a Ben-Hassrath named Asala — that he had given up when she had turned from her people and in retaliation the Qunari threatened one of the villages in the North of Rivain unless Asala was returned to them; Damodar had personally delivered Asala to them, heartbroken as he might have been. Celene knew that he still loved her, knew that he considered Asala to be his real wife and not her, but he had never worn her ring before. 

“That is new,” she said, gently. “Damodar, I know that my getting Briala back is-

“I don’t care about that.”

Celene blinked at the interruption and the words behind it. “Oh.”

He was grinning, elated, as she had only seen him when around their son. “I found her, Celene.”

“What?” 

“Asala, I thought her dead, but I found her! You inspired me really, when you went to Tevinter for your elf, so I searched about for her. And I found her, and I brought her back.” He shrugged, and it was strange to see Leon again in this, when she missed him so. “It was hard, there were so many things we had to go through to get here, so much to undo qamek , but she is home.”

This is what Cyril had meant. 

Oh.

Oh. Sweet Maker.

Celene felt faint, her mind drawing a blank as what he said washed over her. Various scenarios came to her mind, lightning quick, all of them worse than the ones before. And here he was, grinning at her, expecting her to understand. 

Celene stalked closer to him. “Damodar, that is an incredib-

“I know!”

“-ly idiotic thing to do,” she finished, stunning him into silence. “That woman could ruin everything!”

“ That woman ? She is my—!”

Celene reached for him, covering his mouth with her hand in almost a slap. “You cannot say that out loud!” she hissed, “Are you out of your mind, Damodar? This is—

His eyes were as stone and he loomed over her, the sweet artist she knew nowhere to be found, and she very nearly flinched from him. “You know that our marriage is a farce, Celene. I will not be leaving her behind, I will not give her up. Not again. You do not get to have your affair while I wallow and she is left abandoned.”

Celene stepped closer to him, pointing at him. “You do not have to leave her behind. You do not even have to keep her hidden, Damodar, but the situation is different. You were—” she glanced around, then whispered, “the two of you were technically married before we were, this could make Leon a bastard if the right claims were made. We cannot allow that to happen. It could lead to war.”

He winced and turned away from her, his hand running through his long hair in frustration. “I know. I know.”

Celene reached out and touched his back, gently. “I understand that this is hard… that you never expected to find her again, that you would not have married me if there had even been a possibility of her being alive and free. But things have changed. I am sorry Damodar.” 

He turned to her again, eyes drenched in tears. “I love her, Celene. I cannot be without her. I would make me less, as it would her. And it did you when— when .” His gaze was a stone, implying all her misery in a simple stare. “Leon deserves to have two happy parents, four happy people to raise him.”

Celene licked her lips and turned away from him, thinking. He was right to an extent. To expect him to not do what she had done, what she longed to do with Briala, would be unfair. And he deserved more from her, especially considering how much he put up with in court and the gossip of Val Royeaux about her… preferences. Most of all, he did have a point; Celene had been raised by two people who had loved each other, had been happy together, to deny Leon would be cruel.

“If you renounce all your previous engagements, fully and without reservation,” Celene stopped his protest, “and then anoint Asala as your mistress, then they will have no recourse to attack Leon’s legitimacy. I would suggest hiding her identity altogether, but I fear that might complicate matters too much in the future without necessity.”

“She is not my mistress.” It came resigned but Celene knew he would do it. “She is so much more than that.”

“So is Briala,” Celene said, remembering the red orchid that had bound their wrists. “But this is the life we must have to ensure a future. It is not fair, but it must be done. And it could be a lot worse.”

“Worse?” His face twisting into an expression that so resembled their son when he was upset. “She will be reduced to-

“I know, I know only too well.” Celene took a breath, trying to see past Leon and stare at Damodar, but she only saw her son in everything Damodar did. “Briala will follow that same fate, a name tied to mine only as an anecdote, perhaps the only mention of her name in history. It is not fair; for them or us, but I would see worse done to protect Leon and Orlais.”

He had known that when he married her.

Damodar nodded, head down and biting his tongue all the way, but he did it. 

“Now, go get our boy,” Celene pleaded, tears building in her eyes as she only saw their son in him, and the gnawing hole in chest grew to encompass all she was. “Please, Damodar. I cannot go and it had been so long, I—

Her breath shuddered as tears pricked her eyes and Damodar was suddenly upon her, his arms around her. Whatever reserve there had been in their first embrace, whatever tension there was between them as people, disappeared when Leon was involved. He was theirs, something out of them both, and that made them closer than they ever wished to be.

“I will, priya, ” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “The horses are ready, we leave right now.”

Celene nodded against his chest, feeling his warmth that had been so suffocating at times but at others had brought her comfort and reminded her of shared pain. He pressed one last kiss to her temple, an intimacy that they both dreaded to share, and left her alone. 

It took her a few minutes and a couple of cups of tea to find calm, but she did. Staring out of her window, she saw Damodar and a very tall Qunari, her horns that curled just right, set about their horses and rode on. They quickly disappeared from her sight, deep into her city, but Celene was comforted by seeing them both go. 

Celene was about to sit at her desk when a knock came at her door. Frowning, as she expected no one for a couple of hours more, she opened the door herself, surprised when Violet shot past her to go glare out the window. Sabran was there too, looking at Violet with an awkward look in their eyes.

“Something is the matter,” Sabran said, “I do not know what, Majesty. I tried to find out but she will not talk to me, and says that ‘I will not understand’.”

Celene nodded and gestured for Sabran to leave them be, and the Champion closed the door behind them. Wanting to approach but knowing it was futile if the girl proved half as stubborn as Briala, Celene sat back down at her desk and let Violet unwind by herself. Eventually, after responding to her fifth or sixth letter, the girl was relaxed, barely. She was pouting and kicking her legs back and forth, hitting the wood behind the bench with each turn, but there was an opening.

“What is it, darling?”

The word and sentiment it implied had come easily to her, frighteningly so. She knew it would take some time for them to get comfortable, but—… in her heart, she could not fathom letting the little girl go. Not to mention the fact that Briala doted upon the girl; for that alone, and for the obvious care Briala showed Violet, Celene would have endured her. She had never much liked children, but Leon had opened the floodgates of her heart, and Violet was obviously so... defiant, so like Briala in that, that Celene could not help but be charmed by the little girl.

“Bria is not my mother,” Violet said, very seriously. “I heard one of the elves call her my mother and she is not that! I had a mother, I remember her; she was very kind and very warm, and she loved me a lot. Bria does too! But Bria is… Bria, not ‘mother’.”

Celene nearly cursed herself for asking, knowing that this was really an issue for Briala to solve. On the other hand, perhaps it was better that she was here gently stirring Violet towards a more… gentle point of view. 

“You know,” she started, getting up from her chair to kneel in front of Violet, “maybe she is not your mother, but you could be her daughter.” Perhaps that was too vague for a child , she thought as Violet’s eyes grew distant. “Do you understand what I mean?”

“I— I think so.” Violet’s eyes grew focused again. “She can take care of me and be there for me and I won’t have to call her mother, even though I will feel like her daughter.” 

“Exactly,” Celene smiled at her, her heart going fond when she saw Violet set against the large sprawl of Val Royeaux. “The feelings are there, darling, I promise you that, should you ever wish to call her that, but it need not be so official.”

Violet nodded and breathed out an exhale, almost a weight off her shoulders. “Then, I will call her Bria,” she said with a nod to herself, as it was all decided. Celene smiled at her, she really was so very precocious. “And you?”

“Pardon?”

“What do I call you?”

Celene blinked, surprised that she asked. “What do you want to call me?”

“I mean,” Violet twisted a bit, uncomfortably, “I know people call you by your title, but— I’ve known you as Celene.”

“I think that will be just fine.” 

It was, frankly, an infraction of every protocol. Even Leon sometimes had to address more formally than Maman and Briala would have to call her by her title in public, but she would make an exception for Violet, at least for now, until she could understand when to call her by title, like Leon did. 

“Good,” Violet said, nodding again to herself. Then, she shifted her eyes to Celene’s, an almost glare shining on its edges, Celene straightened, reading herself for whatever this child was about to lay at her feet. “Do you promise not to tell Briala about this?”

The girl extended her hand, looking at her expectantly. Celene took Violet’s small, darker hand in her own, holding it with all the care and gentility she could give.

“I promise.”

Her word was solemn in this. It was not her place and… and she did not think that Briala would have particularly liked being called that. Violet nodded at their handshake, satisfied, and her gaze returned to that faraway stare, thinking. 

“Do you—…” The girl kicked her legs around, a nervous tick that would have to be corrected for the public. Violet then bit her lip, her freckles twisting into a frown. “Do you think Bria will feel sad? That I don’t call her mom, I mean.”

Celene smiled as she rose and gently pushed Violet into a corner of the bay window so they could sit together. Violet’s hands were wringing together, another sign of distress which made Celene wonder if perhaps the nightmares were not simply just about the stress of her new station, and reached out to cover them. The girl’s eyes lifted to her, black and deep, and Celene reached out to thumb her cheek. Violet did not lean into the touch, but neither did she recoil. It was a small victory that could have made Celene weep.

“No, darling, I do not think she will be sad,” she said, “as long as you are honest with her, I believe she would forgive you every infraction, possible or imagined. Besides—” she leaned in, putting an arm around Violet’s shoulders and pulling her close, as if she was sharing the deepest secret “—I think she likes it when we call her Bria.”

Violet giggled against her sides. “She is like an egg, isn’t she?” At Celene’s confused stare, the girl elaborated, “Hard on the outside, soft on the inside.” 

Celene let out a laugh, loud and impossibly fond, unable to stop herself, especially when Violet joined in the fun. She caressed the collar of Violet’s white dress, feeling the lace on top, and the way her back was relaxed even in proximity to her. When their laughter died down, Violet’s arms were still about her waist, loosely holding her in place. 

“To us only, my darling,” she muttered, pressing a single kiss on top of Violet’s curls. “To us only.”

  

---

 

It had taken almost two days to organise this little lunch but at least, against all hopes, it was sunny out this morning. The weather was still cold, but at midday one could feel the warmth of the sun if they spent some time outside. Celene nodded her head at Sabran as they opened the door to one of the private balconies in her wing. 

There, in the middle of the balcony, was a small table filled to the brim with all the delicacies Celene could not be bothered to care about but were all the rage in Orlais. Sited at the table was a woman, comfortably and coolly, waiting for her. Celene knew the woman to be as tall as she was, perhaps only a hair shorter, and she had a stocky built, with large arms and a complexion that was just a shade or two darker than her own. Her dark brown hair was coarse, Celene had run her hands through its length enough times to know, and smelled of the salt of the sea. The woman was in uniform, yellow and blue, and a hat rested on a chair that would serve as a buffer between them. 

Celene made sure the step of her heels could be heard when she walked on the marbled ground. The sound was enough for the woman to lift her head, to stare at her with those sharp green eyes. Once upon a time Celene would have rid herself of her mask to dine with this woman, but now her mask of moonstone and amethysts stayed on.

“ Madame L’Imperatrice .” Odette rose and bowed her head, her face as severe as her tone, though her voice was just as rough and low as always. “I understand that you wished to see me.”

Celene graciously accepted Odette’s hand to help her sit, fixing herself on the chair while Odette returned to her seat to settle herself. The empress saw her open her mouth to speak, but raised her hand to stop whatever pleasantry her admiral wished with her.

“Just a moment, Odette, we are just waiting on someone else to join us.”

The use of her name made the hard woman relax, and it shifted her entire posture. “Ah, private matter then?”

Celene blinked slowly as this face of Odette she had not seen in years appeared in an instance. Odette was not a friend, and these days she would not even call her an acquaintance, and they more often than not met only to deal with Odette’s duties to the nation. As an Admiral in her navy, Odette also spent time away often, which had, admittedly, been an appeal to Celene when they had first started their dalliance.

“I am afraid so. I understand you had some concerns you needed me to oversee, but-

Odette poured Celene her tea, like she always did when they were alone. “It can wait, Majesty.” Even alone, Odette refused to call her otherwise. Only when they were— well, otherwise engaged did her name slip out. “I may have exaggerated my concerns to your cousin.”

Celene laughed, quietly. “You always did know how to use Cyril’s flair for the dramatic to your advantage.”

“Your cousin is easy enough to manipulate when he wishes to be. I believe he had some concerns about the company you now keep and— Ah .” Odette must have seen the look in her eyes, now as she poured tea for herself. “This is about the Marquise of the Dales then, and our dalliance.”

Celene nearly winced. “I know we parted ways, quite a few years ago at this point, but the Marquise is… curious.”

“I heard she made quite a scene with Anais on your return, tore her down to nothing.” Odette seemed pleased despite herself, she had never quite liked Anais either. “Should I expect a dagger through my heart? Or, ah, is poison more her speed?” Odette eyed the tea for a beat too long before deciding that even if it was tainted, it would be worth it, and took a sip anyway. “I trust you have explained the… brevity of our affair.”

Odette had not been particularly happy to end it. They had found each other at interesting points in their lives; Celene, right after the desolation of her first pregnancy and trying her second, and Odette, just as her own children were grown enough to wed and a shift was occurring in her career. A turbulent time for the both of them, they had clung to each other in different ways. Odette’s desire had been for something more permanent, something that would endure even if it could only be when she returned from the sea, someone that waited for her every return. Celene, meanwhile, had been just going through the motions, until Leon had been born, and her world focused again as things became clear once more. 

The termination of their affair had not been very pretty.

They had resolved whatever lingering animosity there might remain, Celene believed, but Odette was a proud woman; she did not like losing.

“I did, yes.” Celene allowed herself to shrug, trying to look at something on the table that appealed to her fancy. “Or, tried to.”

Odette lifted her eyebrow. “You trying and not succeeding? That does not sound like you, Lioness.” Celene watched her pick up a croissant, plain and unadorned, to present it to her. “This?”

Celene smiled, part in gratitude and part in amusement. Odette knew her well, despite it all, and she was always very considerate of her and her position. Perhaps, in another world, they could have made it work; a passionate affair of the heart despite their respective husbands. Here and now, however, they belonged to the sea and land, separate and only meeting in a liminal space that had run its course. Celene chewed the pastry, reliving a pang of a headache she had not noticed before.

“You are,” Celene stared after cleaning her mouth, “very… friendly today.”

“You mean I am not being a raging bitch of a sore loser?” Odette laughed, and Celene had forgotten how it shifted her, how lighter and freer she seemed. “I suppose it is because I finally know.”

“Know what?”

“What I was competing against. That, and the fact that in your heart I never had a chance.” The chuckle was not bitter, it was resigned. “Not against a memory and, surprisingly, not against the real thing, either.”

Celene laughed too, almost sheepishly, as Odette saw the truth of her. “I— No, you did not have a chance.” 

She offered no apologies; it would sound conceited and vain. And truthfully, she had never expected or expressed any desire to have Odette compete with anyone; it had never been her intent to actually and fully give herself to this woman.

“I will be sure to tell her that, then.”

“Do not,” Celene warned. “Briala is likely to read into it. Just… answer her questions, whatever they are, as truthfully as you would to me, and it will all be fine.”

Odette sipped her tea. “Bold of you to assume I would not lie to you.”

“Oh, ha-ah.” Celene threw a crumb at her, growing desolated when Odette simply tilted her head to escape her assault. “You think you are so clever,” she accused.

Odette leaned in, a grin stretching her face. “That is because I am.”

“Hm.”

The sound of the door opening stopped the retort that Celene had readied for Odette. Briala stepped into the balcony, dressed in her cool elven dresses that should not — and probably did not, considering how freezing Briala was last night when she climbed into bed with her and Violet —  withstand the cold. Briala was radiant, as she often was to her eyes, though there was a frown on her face. Perhaps the meeting with the merchants in the alienage had not gone well. Celene rose to greet her, something she should never do to anyone but her son, but Briala — and Violet — was to be the exception to every rule. 

“I thought it would be just us and Violet,” Briala murmured when Celene was close enough to hear it. They exchanged air kisses, masks touching instead of their cheeks. “And certainly not with this woman I do not know—… No, wait.” Briala’s eyes were bright and cunning. “She was at the Ball.”

“Violet is with her tutor. And, this is Odette,” she said, sure to keep her face and Briala hidden from Odette’s gaze, “she… knows me.”

She had been right to hide Briala because the fast way the elf’s face closed off to any and all potential avenues Celene had to read her told her that she was not very happy. Celene comforted her, allowing a caress to be seen by anyone who dared to look at them. Briala relaxed, slightly. 

“I said I didn’t want to know anything about this.”

“I know,” Celene said, “but you would always wonder. This way, you know . No more secrets, remember?”

Briala looked up at her, surprised to see the promise she had exacted from her said to her face again. She exhaled and nodded, accepting Celene’s reasoning. 

“Good,” Celene whispered, pressing her lips to Briala’s ear, making her struggle to not show the shudder. Celene kept a small smile hidden. “Well,” she said, loudly now, to Odette too, “I hope you two have a pleasant lunch.”

Briala tensed and Odette rose from her chair, clearly both in protest.

“Majesty—

They echoed each other, and Celene very nearly cackled at the look of pure horror on their faces. Controlling herself just by a hair, Celene gestured for Briala to take a seat.

Dark eyes starkly glaring at her, Briala complied, but not before committing the cardinal sin of sitting in the chair the empress had just occupied; worse, she actually finished drinking her cup of tea. Odette stared at the elf from the other side of the table, mouth in a thin line as Briala dared to do what no one else would. 

Celene hummed. “Play nice, yes?”

The two women glared at her and then at one another, tight-lipped, a battle of wills that was too delicious to pass up. Unfortunately, Celene had the feeling that if she stayed, the whole affair would be stilted with thinly veiled comments about her, instead of a proper conversation she was sure would happen as soon as she left. 

Sabran’s lips, when she closed the door to the balcony behind her, were also a thin line. But theirs were holding back laughter, shaking with the effort.

“Come, Champion,” Celene called, “let us at least be far away from the scene of whatever crime is about to be committed on that balcony.”

Sabran cleared their throat. “Quite right, Your Radiance. The assumption of innocence is very important.” They paused for a beat. “Even if you set the bomb.”

“Preposterous. I merely… facilitated it.”

Sabran murmured, “Maker preserve us.”

“What was that?”

Sabran turned from her, opening the door to the Cabinet room for her, and their eyes were laughing even as they blatantly lied to her face. 

“Nothing.”

Celene lips twisted to a small smile. “So, I thought.” 

Her afternoon was to be filled to the brim with countless meetings. Things near the border had settled somewhat, and the nobles appeared to be only recruiting at the moment. With Celene back in plain sight - rather than entire countries away - it was bound that whatever resistance they were mounting was to go nowhere, especially because Celene had already arranged to meet with the key nobles, sapping whatever coalition her enemies might pull together of a bolstering, contiguous segment of allies.

Sitting back on her chair, Celene rolled her shoulders into position and, after checking that everything on her desk was arranged just perfectly, she nodded at Fleur and Colombe, letting them know that she was ready to receive the first guest.

Her Ladies opened the door, and a small man entered the room, his dark eyes trembling as he clearly had never been inside her office - his title too small to ever really garner her attention - and he was shaking when he bowed. 

“Ah, Niquet, welcome! Come sit.” Celene gestured towards the chair. “We have much to talk about.”

As the man carefully sat on her chair, deeply uncomfortable with her presence as she knew how she looked with the whole of the city at her back in a way that landed no doubts as to who really ruled here, Celene allowed herself a smile. 

It was a long afternoon and, hours later, Celene felt her head swim. After so many hours of meetings and people wanting to find her, the empress had felt her headache throb and grow into something that was nearly incapacitating. More, the pain now came with a flushed skin and hot flashes that were most unpleasant. 

She had managed to escape to her garden — such as it was now, mid-winter — and had settled inside a warm greenhouse, that was mostly obscured by shrubbery, Daffodils littered the pavement between the various plants of the greenhouse, filling the air with its characteristic smell that allowed Celene to lean back in a wooden chaise, relaxed with a small treatise in hand. 

“Here you are,” Briala’s voice came from behind her, almost making her jump. She had forgotten the order she gave her Chevaliers to always allow her passage, no matter where she was. “People have turned the palace inside out looking for you.”

“There is a literal procession of guards everywhere I go.” Celene turned the page of her work. “I cannot be that hard to find.” 

Briala chuckled and leaned against a column. “So I have a surprise lunch with the woman who fucked you for nearly two years, and you are the one pouting. How is that fair?”

That wit earned Briala a feeble throw of a nearby thorn that the elf dodged with an ease and grace of a dancer. Celene muttered a curse darkly, and returned to her work, very much ignoring how Briala’s answering laugh made her flush hotter still. 

The laughter lasted for a second before silence settled in, growing in each measure, and Briala’s eyes were firmly focused on her, prickling Celene’s skin no matter how she tried to concentrate on the words of the contract in her hands.

“My head was killing me and I felt hot,” Celene explained, exasperated when the silence became insistent. “I think I may be coming down with something. At least here, if anyone finds me, I can explain away my flushed face.” Briala was suddenly upon her, her cool hands pressing against her forehead. “Bria,” she whined, “why are your hands always so cold? I am fine.”

“You are hot,” she conceded with a frown. “Are you sure—

“I am fine,” she insisted. “It must be something I ate, you know how delicate my constitution can be sometimes. Now tell me,” she smiled up at her, “what do you think of my garden? It is the first time you see it.”

Briala looked around, eyes roving over the large expansion of plants that spanned her greenhouse. It was on the smaller side, this one, but it had a fine view of the city lights in the distance. The slope they had built it on lending itself very nicely to a good view. Briala appeared not to be impressed.  

“It is a very pretty garden, I suppose.” Briala blinked owlishly. “You lauded it when you told me of it, but… Perhaps once it is in bloom I will see what you see.”

Celene shook her head, feeling her heart tremble fondly. “I doubt it, but thank you for trying.”

Briala sat on the bench nearby, and framed by the flowers that were in bloom inside the heat of the greenhouse, she was like a painting; beautiful and eternal, an image that would stay with her until Celene could remember nothing else. Celene put her work down, just taking her in. 

“So,” Celene extended the syllable, “how was the lunch?”

The elf leaned back, settling against the trunk of the tree that grew just tall enough to provide shade. She looked pensive, hand rubbing her chin in thought as she tried to organise whatever had happened during that lunch. Nothing had been reported broken, so Celene took that as a good sign. When Briala finally spoke, it came with a slight hint of surprise.

“She is so… normal.”

Celene quirked her eyebrow. “Were you expecting something otherworldly?”

“I was expecting… spectacle. A performer, perhaps, or a foreign dignitary. A witch, even, maybe. Instead, she is merely… banal; a simple officer in the navy.”

It was curious that Briala saw Odette as that when, in a sense, the woman had always reminded Celene of Briala. 

There was a no-nonsense attitude to them both that was very charming, a practical side that eclipsed their land’s extravagant demands, a deep and burning passion for the things they loved, steady and unmovable, protective and vulnerable all at once, and they both suffered no fools. There was certainly a glow about Briala that Odette could not claim, something that called deep to some part of Celene’s that lay dormant to anyone but her.

Celene shook her head, smiling. “Bria… Where is this coming from?”

“I don’t know.” Briala rose and Celene followed suit. There may have been a pout to Briala’s lips, just shy of petulant. It was darling. “I just— I don’t like it.”

More than likely, she also saw some resemblance when they talked and was coming to terms with it. Celene privately rolled her eyes, knowing she had been right to not let this issue drag on. 

“Maker,” she breathed quietly, very nearly exasperated. She reached out for her love, uncaring for the eyes of the gardeners or the sudden sharp intake of breath for the guards, an arm around her waist, holding her steady, looking her in the eyes. “Bria, you are extraordinary. Whatever dalliance I have or had would always pale in comparison to you.”

Briala’s mouth twisted. “ Have ?”

Celene laughed. “Poor choice of words, that. You know that I would not dare, would seldom want even a glance when you are here, with me.” She gently caressed Briala’s arm. “Are you truly jealous?”

“No.” Celene could see that Briala had exaggerated the affair in her head, and she could see her accepting the truth of it. “This was all very silly wasn’t it? I have no right to be jealous of this.”

“You do have a right. You have every right.” Celene reached for her chin, lifting her face so she could look into those big, dark eyes. “You just have no reason.”

Briala exhaled, knowing the truth of it. Celene, after pressing another kiss to her temple, returned to the chaise, dragging Briala to sit next to her on the edge of the comfortable beige cushions. The empress had just picked up the folder with the treatise when Briala’s voice could be heard again.

“One more thing.”

“Hm?”

“That thing you do with your tongue now… Did she—” 

Celene kept her eyes on her treatise, not giving room for Briala to even see her expression. Briala did not need to. 

Briala groaned, quietly, letting out a prolonged, “ Nooo .”

Celene chuckled when she felt Briala press her forehead into her arm, clearly — playfully — despondent. Feeling no sympathy whatsoever, but because Celene was a good and caring partner, she still patted Briala’s head to comfort her… well, more mocking and patronising than comfort. Briala grunted, not liking her jest very much, and poked her collarbone accusingly. 

“I can’t believe you would do this to me.”

Celene’s eyebrow rose, unimpressed by the hypocrisy on display. “Right, because that thing you do now, you learned from…” 

She let it linger in the air, waiting for Briala to fill with the name of some woman she had slept with in the last ten years. Briala glared, again unamused by Celene’s turning of the tables, and crossed her arms.

“A book,” Briala gave instead the dead-panned answer.

Celene let out a short laugh at the obvious, blatant lie and leaned back on her chaise, shaking her head to herself. 

Briala also snorted, knowing that the jest had come to an end, and propped herself up beside her, a little notebook she carried with her for the affairs of state in her hand. 

They enjoyed the scant few warm hours of winter inside the greenhouse, leaned against each other in a garden that would bloom again come spring. 

Notes:

I based Rivain off of India, therefore Damodar uses Hindu as a language - priya does mean 'dear' in hindu, but the most common use i've found is in given names. However google translate does tell me that that is how you say 'dear'.... so??? If anyone is aware please do correct me, lmao.

Anyway, especially the part with the Chantry and the Queen of Rivain was based on 'Portuguese' Goa, in which Portugal had significant influence in India in places they 'conquered' (only in quotes because I don't believe that is the correct term, but make no mistake, Portugal exploited the hell out of India) but not much elsewhere, which seems to be how the Chantry operates in Rivain.

Chapter 19: Lavander and Lemon

Summary:

Lavender and Lemon:
Love, devotion, loyalty, distrust;
and,
Unexpected meeting

Notes:

i honestly don't even have an excuse besides being busy and writer's block. Like, this chapter has been fully plotted for months, but I couldn't get the words out. Hopefully the length helps a bit. The next chapter is being edited right now and barring major rewriters should be coming out sooner - god, please, I hope so.

The sun was not quite shining when Briala stepped away from the Imperial Palace. The wintery weather did allow for a sliver of the early sunshine to steep through the clouds, but no more than that. Briala rubbed her hands together as her breath misted in front of her into the already foggy dawn. The streets of Val Royeaux were almost entirely empty early in the morning, but even so there was a constant hum of song from somewhere in the city, the strum of a lute from some hidden corner of the capital, the ever present intonation of the Chant of Light if one was of particular sharp hearing. 

Soon enough the bakers' apprentices would go to their posts, the stalls would open, and the lamplighters would go about the city to put the streetlamps out, and life would return to these empty streets, filling the air with the unmistakable rhythm of the city. 

Briala allowed herself to smile a bit.

It was strange to be back home, to travel these well-known paths again. Tevinter — Minrathous, specifically — was as bustling a city as Val Royeaux, but it was deeper and older; an Empire made and unmade by the time that Jeshavis disposed herself of the first and third sons of Maferath to build herself a country that would be the bulwark against the North.

Having spent her fair share of time in Tevinter, she found that where Minrathous groaned under the weight of its own past, Val Royeaux glittered in defiance of it, as if determined to outshine the ruins beneath its surface. 

Nevermind the rot that lay beneath the gold.

Now almost as old as Tevinter was when Andraste marched to their doorstep, Val Royeaux was a mixture of contradictions.

Opulence and poverty battled daily. Here, a wine merchant’s villa bloomed with orchids imported from the Anderfels; across the street, a dying tenement leaned on its neighbor like a drunk at the end of his luck. Gilded carriages rolled past beggars wrapped in threadbare cloaks. Gold flakes dusted the ceilings of salons where the nobility debated philosophy and flirtation, while mould crept beneath the boards of the bakeries that fed them.

She let her hand brush against a carved stone railing as she and her companion turned up a narrow slope — one of many stairwells leading into the higher districts of the city. Her fingers caught on the groove in the middle of the rail, worn smooth by centuries of others making the same ascent; Val Royeaux did not forget, even when it pretended to.

Reaching the peak of the eastern hilltop — where the theatre district had made its home — Briala allowed herself to wander deeper into the city, her feet pressing lightly on the cobblestones. 

Like much of the city, the buildings here were multicoloured — bold terracotta reds, striking Orlesian blues, and even some shocking shades of green. The buildings connected in between mismatched, complicated multi-storied hallways and arches of every size and distance, gold and white tying the city together like thread to fabric. 

This particular hill amongst many, for Val Royeaux was a hilly city, was fairly small and it slopped down almost as soon as it reached its peak, with many buildings filling the sides of the hill like strange decorations. The slope wasn’t particularly steep, allowing houses, shops, and a wide avenue to line its sides.

That wasn’t always the case. 

She looked west toward another hill, where bright rooftops clung to a slope far steeper than this one. A frown tugged at her lips. It hadn’t always been so full. Briala recalled a particularly bad landslide during Celene’s seventh year as Empress; hundreds had died, thousands had been left homeless, but the next year the slopes of the hill were once again filled with houses. Celene had tried to disincentivise the constructions, but Orlesians were a stubborn breed whose pride could not be dissuaded by something as silly as common sense… or the law, in most cases. 

Maker, if Briala recalled correctly, the practice had become a trend too in the following years to build there. Some of the merchant class had made particularly large investments in the steeper slopes, hoping to develop. 

Briala chuckled to herself, drawing the attention of her silent companion.

“Madam?”

Briala shook her head. “Nothing, Cahir. Just reminding myself where exactly we are.”

“Ah.” Her Champion hummed, and looked west as well. “Remembering the landslide of 9:27?”

“Yes,” she said. “Were you in Val Royeaux at the time?”

“No. Louis was taking a holiday from court, we were back in Val Blanchard, but Miss Elodie was here. She was gravely upset,” Cahir recalled, “I remember her asking for her father’s purse to give some money to those affected.” He grunted as they passed a man passed out in a gutter, a shattered bottle of wine near his hand — someone had enjoyed their night, apparently. “It must have been something awful if Miss Elodie was driven to charity.”

Cahir didn’t like talking about his past with the Chevalier Blanchard and his family, but the glimpses of it were enough for Briala to know that whatever complicated feelings Cahir felt for the man, there was an underlying layer of hurt that couldn’t be ignored. 

They remained in silence and started the walk down the slope.

In the distance, in the lowest corner of the city, hidden away in darkness even as the sun rose high, Briala could see her destination; the Alienage. 

Even from where she stood, Briala could see that there was a definite delineation as where the Alienage started; its walls were surrounded by impoverished houses on the outside, the poorest area of the city congregating like ants to a dragon. 

The Alienage stood on a lonely corner of the valley where Val Royeaux had rooted itself like a thorny rose, more beautiful for its cruelty. It was surrounded on all sides but one by steep hills and the remaining side, where the entrance was, was crowded by impoverished humans; simply put, the Alienage had no room to grow outward. It grew inward instead — vertically, tightly, defiantly. Forgotten by the city’s architects save for the one who’d designed its separation; Alphonse Valmont, the First. Briala had read his diaries and knew he had been the one to make the decision to move the alienage to that forgotten corner of the city, and where once the Alienage had stood on that vast isle between the banks of the river where the Imperial Palace now stood, now it was here; with no room to grow but inward — vertically, tightly, defiantly. 

Briala cracked her neck in the last moments of solitude before the city opened its curtains and life returned to that daily grind; one last relief before starting her day. 

Since her arrival a two weeks back, Briala had climbed out of Celene’s bed each morning and made the trek to the Alienage intent on both catching up with all the new developments that Celene had hinted at when they had been in Tevinter — they were surprisingly focused, even if not as comprehensive as Briala would’ve liked — and to figure out the next steps to capitalize on her elevation to nobility. 

She and Cahir started making their way down the slope of the Theatre district, walking softly amongst the artistic warehouses that had sprouted in the last twenty years. Before Celene’s reign, this part of the city was quite abandoned — dangerous and dilapidated from neglect and Florian’s disdain for the theatre — but the Theatre doing so well had managed to revitalise the district and now workshops banked the winding street. Seamstresses, stages, sculptures, music and dancing all coalesced in this district where every night was a live performance for any who wished to see it, until the morning when they would spread out to the city and fill Val Royeaux with their craft. 

This, beyond the alienage, was the single district beyond alienages where elven population was highest; the arts were the lifeblood of the city, and it didn’t matter one’s background if there was talent to be displayed. 

Briala remembered the tale of Victor Boyet; the elf so talented in his craft and who had risen so high that his wealth at the end of his life, when Briala had been young, had eclipsed Comte’s. 

A woman cleaning the stoop of her dressmaking store, stared deeply at Cahir and the sword he casually carried. Elves weren’t usually permitted to do so, but when she looked at Briala, and saw the still common but undeniably expensive mask on her face, the shopkeeper’s eyes widened. 

Briala kept a smirk down and nodded at the woman, who flushed a deep red before going back to hide inside her shop. Cahir shared a conspiratory smile with her, and they both let out a little chuckle over the woman’s obvious panic.

There was an echo of smattering of laughter from the other side of the street. 

Turning to see who was laughing alongside them — because they were laughing alongside Briala and Cahir — Briala found herself staring at four older men sitting at a table of a cafe that was just opening its doors. Two men were human; they were laughing the loudest, the one that still had a hint of his dark hair wheezing as he held his chest, while the white-haired one had his hand over his eyes wiping off tears. The other two men were more contained. One was an elf, well-dressed and well-fed, clearly part of this artistic sphere but he was cleaning a hint of water from his jacket, from when he spilled his drink. The last man was a dwarf; his white beard pristine, and in front of him a pouch of gold, reaching over to clean the spilled tea. Briala then noted the cards— this was clearly a ritual for these men, well ingrained, and recurrent. 

Briala approached them with a small hint of a smile on her face, Cahir not far behind her. 

“Gentlemen.”

The dark-haired human, more composed now, snorted. “Been a while since anyone has accused me of that , my lady.” No hesitation on the title— a promising start. “Name’s Peter.”

“Peter,” she repeated before looking at the others. “And you?”

“Emile,” said the other human. “This—” he put his hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “— is Milos. And he’s Lou.”

Briala raised her eyebrow. “Lou? Unusual name for an elf.”

“Elouan,” the elf clarified, his voice high and perfect. A singer, clearly. Suddenly, he rose and bowed at the waist in a perfectly smooth movement. “Marquise Briala, it is an honour to meet you.” 

An actor, obviously. 

The others didn’t rise to do the same, but Briala didn’t find it too strange; people didn’t usually bow to nobles in the street unless the noble was particularly adamant they did so. Briala wasn’t — likely would never be. It was obvious that they respected her enough; which was all she needed. For now. 

“The honour is mine, Elouan.” She leaned against the table just as the man sat back down, leaning in in mock conspiratorial fashion and nodding her head back to the rude shopkeeper’s store. “But clearly the sentiment isn’t shared by everyone here.”

The men laughed, as if she said something particularly funny. 

“Don’t worry, Marquise,” the dwarf said, “Madame Fontaine has never found anything she couldn’t complain about.” 

Peter snorted. “Tis true, Marquise, but there aren’t many like her here, I would recon. I bet you find more like her near the palace.” The man shrugged. “Here? We don’t care. Been livin’ with too many elves here lately, anyway.”

“That supposed to mean something, Pete?” Elouan asked, dry but playful — clearly an old jest between them.

“Ha! ‘Tis true that if you weren’t allowed here, I’d be ten times richer for all you cleaned me out these past seven years.” Peter looked at his cards with a wince. “It just ain’t my lucky day.”

“Try his unlucky decade , Marquise,” Emile quipped. 

Briala laughed. “I bet.”

“If you do gamble, Marquise, then I hope you have better luck than his,” Milos fired back, gesturing to Peter who glared at him. “Just sayin’, Petey. You wouldn’t last three hours back in Orzammar.”

Interesting. “You’ve left your home behind then?”

“Fifteen years ago. Wife died, I had no sons or daughters, my House was over. I thought—” he gave a small chuckle. “I always wanted to see the sky. And then— and then I wanted to see everything.” He combed his beard with his fingers. “I arrived in Val Royeaux three years ago, caught a performance not far from here, helped a bit with a fire troubles at Emile’s company was having with their scenery, and then I was helping around and I just—”

“He loves us,” jested Emile when his friend seemed too choked up to continue, clearly covering for something. 

Milos snorted. “Sure do.”

Briala gave a small smile. “So, I know how you two met—”

“And Pete and I have been friends since we were small,” said Emile, clapping his friend on the back. “Where I go he goes, and vice-versa.” His smile then got bigger. “And Lou here is a lifesaver!”

“ Au contraire , mon ami, ” Elouan said with a soft rise in his voice. “You are the lifesaver for giving me a job.”

Emile waved his hand. “With your talent? I’m surprised someone didn’t snatch you up sooner. The fact that you spent so many years doin’ odd jobs instead of singin’ is a real travesty, Lou.” 

Just because elves could join a theatre didn’t mean it was easy; their talent had to be undeniable. 

“Do you still perform?” Briala asked, curious. Perhaps she could come watch them, maybe sponsor some play or another. 

Elouan shook his head. “Not anymore, Marquise. I— we made enough to live comfortably for the rest of our lives.” He let out a chuckle. “And it’s all thanks to the Prince Consort.”

“Damodar?”

The name slipped out before Briala could stop it.

“Well, we can’t very well call the man that, can we?” Emile murmured then, “No matter how much His Imperial Highness insists we do.”

Briala supposed that they couldn’t call the Prince Consort that — that very few could — and if they believed that Briala could then it likely meant that her affair with Celene, though not yet entirely official, was well known even to the masses by this point.

“I simply didn’t know he cared for the theatre.” She realized, belatedly, how little she knew of him. Briala had never asked Celene for many details of the man. “How did he help?”

“Well, he was in his workshop over there—”

Emile pointed to the other side of the street and a few ways down the slope of the hill; there, a large building stood with a newish plaque read Le Rideau Rouge , clearly a theatre company if the theatre masks in the sign were anything to go by, and further down from the troop’s place there was a little warehouse with jade statues at the door. Briala blinked. Celene had mentioned in passing that Damodar was a sculptor, hadn’t she?

“— when he heard me complain that we were short a singer for that night’s show,” Emile continued. “Elouan here was running some odd jobs for His Imperial Highness—

“— just transporting some materials,” Elouan said, shrugging. “He was kind and paid nicely, that’s all I cared about.”

“Right,” Emile resumed. “So, he heard us complainin’ and presented Lou here as an alternative.” Emile’s eyes crinkled. “I was quite reluctant to hire him, but his voice, Marquise— Like the Maker Himself came down and blessed his vocal cords personally.” Emile then snorted. “I never let him go after that.”

“— Caught ourselves some trouble over it too,” Elouan said, shaking his head. “Some people tried to burn down our building.”

Briala hummed, keeping her opinions to herself. Anyone with the talent for the arts was respected, but never let it be said that there were no naysayers. 

“His Imperial Highness was not amused.” Emile’s stare was implacable, like he was remembering something awful. “If for no other reason than the fact that his workshop was in danger of blowin’ up alongside us too.”

“He helped us put out the fire too, before it spread,” Elouan said, looking down. Him too lost in the memories. “And then—” he chuckled as if he couldn’t believe it.

“After some time,” Emile continued, smiling now too. “Damned man shows up to one of our performances himself. His wife on his arm.” He laughed now. “ I hear my husband has found himself fond of you and your troop, Monsieur Pelicot .” Emile’s eyes were bright. “Madam, when I tell you we sold out for years after that visit— A damned miracle, that was. The Empress herself in my theatre.” 

Briala almost laughed too. Just like Celene to show up and cause trouble. Talking without that royal ‘we’ as well, if Emile was telling the truth— Well, Briala didn’t doubt he was; this did have Celene written all over it. 

“Pretty woman,” Peter said casually, truthfully, before staring at Briala with a pointed look. She gave a small smirk, taking the compliment as if it was to herself. Peter laughed. “So, ‘tis true. Good on you.” 

That was casual. Briala felt her eyes narrow. Far too casual.

“Careful,” Cahir murmured, humourlessly, saving her from having to do so herself. 

Peter’s eyes widened and he raised his hands. “Désolé. Meant nothin’ by it, I swear.”

Briala let herself soften a smidgen, visible enough for them all to see. “Be more careful in the future,” she said, finally, not reprimanding Peter but not indulging him either. 

“Yes, madam, of course, madam.”

”Hm.” To soften the blow even further she pressed her hand against his shoulder, before directing herself at Emile. “You might not work there anymore, but you still own the Theatre?”

”Yes, madam,” Emile too was a little more formal, though still affable enough for her to know they were not afraid of her. 

“And do you still employ elven artists?”

Elouan nodded. “When there’s talent, my lady, we do not squander it.”

Briala nodded slowly, wondering if a visit to their theatre would be possible with her current schedule. Part of her, the part who had led an empire-wide rebellion not that long ago, reminded herself that there was such a thing as pacing. She needn’t do everything all at once, but the itching bug didn’t seem to be wanting her to stop. She made a point to talk to her new — potential — Lady-In-Waiting and have her schedule something. Perhaps she could come with Violet, after vetting whatever the play would be. Orlesian plays were not for the faint of heart, or children most of the time. 

“Excellent,” she murmured softly, and after sparing a glass at the sun now well in its place in the sky, before saying her goodbyes. “I will send someone to collect your playbill, if you have one?”

Emile nodded, and gave her a small, polite smile. “We’ll keep an eye out, Marquise.”

Briala nodded to the other men, and after a look exchanged with Cahir, rejoined her usual path to the Alienage, now with a lot more people crossing the streets to go to their jobs.

The streets were crowded now; both with people on both sides of the street and with carriages or horses that trotted along the cobblestoned streets of the Theatre district. By the unvoiced rule, Briala put herself on the left side of the street to descend into the nook of the Alienage, while the elves and poorer humans, on the right side,  who lived near (if not inside) the Alienage had to climb to the top of the hill. 

On their way down, Briala passed right by Damodar’s workshop, and she let her eyes linger on Celene’s husband’s work. It was exquisite; intricate and delicate in equal measures, either small statues and busts or marble adored with jade. Some depicted animals; Briala saw lions, dragons, small birds, some sort of gigantic fish, and so on. Some depicted people; there was a Qunari woman, recurrent in his work, and a little boy that Briala could only assume was Leon, there were even some depictions of Celene. He was obviously talented.

And he must have the people’s affection, if no one dared to steal his work which was full on display. 

Not for the first time, Briala wondered at the man Celene had married.

“I saw him, you know.” Briala looked up at Cahir, arching a questioning eyebrow, prompting him to explain, “The Empress’s husband. I saw him.”

Briala rubbed her hands together, trying to bring some warmth to her cold hands. “When he was here, yes?”

She couldn’t say that she was incredibly upset to not have met Celene’s husband. Though she had often tried to convince Celene to accept anyone’s suit, Briala could admit that the thought of Celene’s potential marriage wasn’t amongst her favourites — the thought of the woman she loved being forced into a situation she didn’t want, was… Well, Briala had always been sympathetic to that side of Celene’s struggle with marriage. Even if the part of her that was Orlesian and had been around royalty her whole life shuddered at those long years without an heir to the throne.

Cahir shook his head gently, his wrist resting gently on the hilt of his sword as her sworn Champion. 

The streetlamps were all out by now, the dawn giving way to an early morning just as they entered the poorest part of the city. They were nearing the Alienage, the sun already struggling to reach them even as it rose high in the sky.

“No, madam. Years ago, when you asked—

His words petered out suddenly, as if he was afraid to speak aloud and bring forth that particular time in their lives.

But Briala remembered. Briala remembered it well.

On the eve of Celene’s wedding to Damodar, Briala had already been halfway regretting joining Solas’s rebellion in the North, even if part of her had believed in the plans that Solas had first sold to her and her people right after Celene had ‘exiled’ her from Orlais — exile in name only, since they both knew that with the Eluvians there was little Celene could do to enforce it — when, the night before Celene’s wedding, she had snapped somehow. Had grown dejected, despite knowing that it was inevitable that Celene would secure her throne post resolving the Civil War and crippling the Inquisition (one way or another). Had given in to the sentiment she had tried to bury for years by then, to the point they boiled over and she acted recklessly. 

She had approached Cahir, who had always seemed to know, always seemed to judge the least, had always had the cold calculus of one who knew how the play The Game at the highest level, and had asked him to deliver a message to Damodar; to intimidate the would-be consort, to emphasis just how little leeway he would have should one hair of Celene’s head be marred. 

Briala didn’t remember what poor excuse she had given Cahir to spin this as a vital act for their new employer, but she hadn’t doubted that Cahir had followed through; Cahir never failed to meet her exact expectations. 

Briala groaned. “Maker. Cahir, I had not meant for you to come personally to Val Royeaux.”

“It seemed important, Madam,” he returned, voice soft as it often was. “I could not trust such a thing to anyone else, for your sake.”

“So, you didn’t find my interest in threatening the future consort of Orlais… peculiar?”

Orlesian understatement; ‘peculiar’ was only another word for entirely inappropriate — damning , even  

“No,” he answered with a small smile. “Because that is not what you wanted.” His certainty was curious, as not ever she had known exactly what she had wanted. “You didn’t want to threaten the future consort of Orlais, but rather the man that would lay with the woman you love.”

Briala gave a small humourless chuckle. “Is that not worse, considering the woman in question?”  

They had reached the end of the hill, the sun while high in the sky now was hiding behind the other many hills that surrounded Val Royeaux. Around them, the cobblestones became more cracked, the houses less colourful with wood more exposed, and with each step more and more elves appeared around them. 

Briala breathed in the smell of this part of town; the secondary docks, just a few streets to the left of the predominant smell, as well as the food markets that were just beside the fisheries that littered this more humble dock of the Capital. The primary dock was used by the Imperial Navy, while the little karrs and other small boats that sustained the city were forced to come to this part of L’ichor river.

“You know my past,” Cahir said, shrugging. “You know I served a Chevalier, you know I cared for him until the war took him.” His dark eyes closed for a moment, perhaps trying to recall the face of his Chevalier almost fifteen years gone. “I understand what it is like to love someone, even when all says you shouldn’t.” 

Briala turned to look at Cahir, his eyes now focused ahead as if trying to leave the past behind, and let the silence linger. Briala wondered, often, if Louis Blanchard had lived meant that Cahir would have never looked to her and her rebellion all those years ago. She wondered too, what he would do if he knew of her role in starting the Civil War in earnest. Would he denounce her? Would he understand? Briala didn’t know; part of her thought them too much alike, yet there was a strange strength in him that Briala didn’t know if she possessed.

Finally at the end of the street there was the Alienage; existing vertically, tightly and defiantly against all odds.

The Alienage rose like a stubborn vine clinging to crumbling stone — stacked dwellings leaning inward as if sharing secrets no one else could hear. Rickety balconies jutted over narrow lanes, patched with mismatched wood and laundry lines strung like prayer threads. Lanterns swung gently in the breeze, the sun had not yet lightened any corner of this yet despite reaching midmorning and lanterns were necessary to see anything around here sometimes, sending flickers of soft light over faces that turned, curious but cautious, toward the Marquise in their midst.

Briala paused just inside the threshold where the cobbles cracked underfoot and the air tasted of hearth smoke, tallow, and spices brought up from the docks. She once knew every corner of this place, had ventured here almost every day during Celene’s reign to find any secrets for the Empress, but it had been ten years since and it felt as if everything was new now — seen through the eyes of who she had become and who she might dare to bring here. Construction had taken place as well; more houses, more streets closed down to open a way for another, more tight corners, more and more and more with no place to grow but up and yet it grew .

Violet should see this. Not the squalor people liked to whisper about in court, but the spine of it — the breath and grit that refused to bow. Maybe if Violet stood here in the maze of walkways and heard the soft clatter of families surviving on nothing but will, she’d understand why Briala clung so fiercely to what others wanted her to shed.

One day, perhaps, but not now. It was still too soon. 

Briala adjusted her gloves and stepped forward, chin lifted under the weight of every watchful gaze.

Few people didn’t know who she was and, in fact, she seemed to be something of a show. Every day there were new faces in the unobstructive crowd that discreetly formed to see her every day for the past week since she’d arrived.   

Cahir blended to her side, and if he was quiet before now he became silent, her shadow and mark of status — to be seen and not heard, not until she asked it of him… If she asked it of him. 

Deliberate movement in the corner of her eyes made her turn toward it. Jade was waiting near an old pillar draped in flowering vines, pretending she hadn’t been there long enough to be annoyed. She fell in beside Briala, Cahir falling silently behind, without greeting, their footsteps muffled by the close walls of the Alienage.

“You’re late,” Jade said eventually, flicking her eyes over Briala’s fine sleeves, the new brooch at her throat. “New pin?”

“Gift,” Briala said lightly, refusing to explain who from. They both knew anyway.

Jade hummed. “But no mask yet?”

Briala sighed. “It isn’t that easy—

“—didn’t she know you were coming?” Jade interrupted, giving her a pointed look with those piercing green eyes. “I mean, if I knew you were coming I’d have made you a mask.”

“Which would then rob me of my ability to create one,” Briala explained, gently but with a firm undertone. “I would rather it take a time before I let her pick it for me.”

Celene had arranged for her to meet with the famous mask maker Jean Amiens, and they had the two — three sometimes, as Briala asked Celene’s input for her expertise to what the Council of Heralds would and would not allow — 

Jade’s mouth tightened, then softened — it always did, before giving a reluctant nod. Her fondness was a bruise neither of them pressed too hard. “The princes have met.” Jade maneuvered them through the streets, and though she was from Halamshiral originally, it seemed she knew the alienage better than Briala did nowadays. “They should be here within the month.” Jade bit her lower lip. “Any idea on how to deal with the child?” 

Briala exhaled through her nose. “I’m sure he’s a sweet boy.”

Celene had not been a sweet girl, that was for certain. Yet, everything she heard of Leon Valmont was almost… tender, spelling a child rather than the heir to an empire. She was well aware that perceptions weren’t always the truth; Celene had purposefully used her youthfulness and feigned innocence when she was young to commit the gods knew how many assignments for Mantillion. Perception was a carefully maintained dance between truth and fiction, sometimes more fiction than truth. In this case, Briala wasn’t sure what was true or not; Celene was bias, naturally, and everyone else had a skewed view of what was going on inside the royal household. 

“He’s Celene’s boy,” Jade said sharply, her tone cutting through the warmth like a blade. “Which makes him the Empire’s boy. And you — you think you can be part of that? Both of you?”

It wasn’t a question. It was a wound laid bare: that Briala’s heart was a closed garden, half-tended for a woman who would never choose her over throne or blood. And Violet — bright, sharp, fragile Violet — would only ever get half the sun.

Briala sighed. “I can’t exactly fault Celene for assuring her succession.”

“You don’t pain her in the loveliest picture, if that’s all you think he is to her,” Jade’s sharpness remained until she let out a resigned sigh. “Just… be careful.”

Whatever reply Briala might have found — some hollow jest, some deflection — was cut off by Cahir’s discreet cough behind them. She turned as he tilted his head toward the far side of the bridge, where two figures were waving them over.

Solange stood with her arms folded, a slim figure in a travelling cloak patched at the elbows but worn with quiet pride — her sharp eyes missing nothing as she surveyed the street. An elf from Val Chevin who had travelled to Val Royeaux as soon as word of Briala’s noble title had reached her city, Solange was young but ambitious. Briala liked her, so far; the woman was poised to become part of her entourage should everything align just right. Beside Solange, Lucas fussed with a crate, sleeves rolled up, his earring catching the morning lanternlight through the curls of his brown hair. He looked up at Jade and beamed as if they were old friends reunited at a festival. Beside her, her Seneshal tensed and averted her eyes — Briala pressed her lips together, culling a laugh.

“Jade!” Lucas greeted, loudly, before taking a bow. “Oh, and Marquise Briala, of course!”

Briala remained quiet, though she normally wouldn’t, and let Jade lead the conversation. Her friend looked like she had sucked on a particular bitter lemon, but there was no denying the delighted glint in her eyes when faced with Lucas.

“Solange,” Jade said, first. Then, her voice softened, almost imperceptibly. “Lucas.”

The man grinned like he’d won a new estate on the Heartlands, while Solange, standing to the side of Jade, rolled her eyes behind the two. 

Briala allowed a smile to stretch her lips. “Lucas. Solange.”

“We had to change the place,” Solange murmured as she led them to a house Briala was unfamiliar with, “ Monsieur Frederick has his little girl sick and couldn’t host.”

Briala allowed herself to be led. “Is there anything we can do?”

“Simple sickness, ma’am,” Lucas chimed from her other side. “At least for now.”

“Excellent. Tell me if he does require anything, in the future.”

Lucas grinned, always with a sunny disposition. “Of course, Madam!” He pulled some chairs and offered tea; Briala accepted, though personally she thought it was nothing more than water with a little flavour. “Shame we’ll need to have the meeting without him.”

Briala hummed around her warm cup of tea. “The others are coming, yes?”

The small merchant class in the alienage was her current target; she wanted to move them around, put them in more relevant places, and make them seen . First, however, she needed to figure out what exactly they could offer and were best to put them, cut margins, arrange logistics. It was hard work… but it was good work. 

She set her half-empty cup down, listening to the soft clatter as it settled on the battered table — Solange and Cahir exchanged information, while Lucas appeared to be trying to covertly ask Jade to go the tavern (or anywhere else, if the conversation was any indication) with him. Beyond the thin walls, the Alienage murmured its mid-morning stories — children’s laughter in the narrow lanes, the distant rasp of a knife against wood, a seller calling out the price of river fish. It was a fragile hum of survival she meant to amplify, thread by careful thread.

Before she could shape her next question about supply routes and price points, she caught the end of Lucas’ comment. 

“... the Chant is reaching its end next weekend.”

Briala hummed, a bit louder than before. It usually took three weeks to finish a complete turn of the Chant of Light; the ever present, ever flowing song that enveloped the Capital of the Empire in endless, eternal hushed whispers. Once the chanters reached the final pages of the Canticle of Trials, the nobility gathered itself in the Grand Cathedral for a large ceremony, where the Divine often gave a sermon to those present, before the chanters would start the whole process again. 

Though Briala had never gone — servants usually stayed outside during the sermon, as were elves, generally speaking, though no law prohibited their participation — and yet Celene’s endless complaints about it when they were young had painted the picture quite well; the ceremony was unbearably tedious. 

Briala knew the preparations for the ceremony in two weeks’ time had already started, though it hadn’t changed since Briala could remember. She wondered what was meant to happen then; Briala was an elf, yes, but now she was a noble and while not all nobles attended the ceremony, it would be… unusual for any noble above a Comte to miss it. 

Another potential barrier to cross.

“Oh, Marquise!” Lucas never called her anything other than that, no matter how many times she’d told him to. Briala looked at him, attentive. “You haven’t caught the tail end of the Chant since you returned, have you?”

Briala shook her head at the question. “No, we arrived last week. There hasn’t been time yet to complete a turn.”

“Oh, you’re in for a treat!” Lucas’ eyes were bright. “I’m sure we’ll see each other there, then!”

Wha-

Before she could put words to her lips, the rest of the merchants and other Alienage personnel arrived and her question was swallowed by the impending talk of business and the best way to capitalise on her new title. 

Briala blinked away her surprise as she shook the hands of now familiar faces. 

Well, then… what exactly had she missed?

---

It was only weeks later after their arrival that Celene was finally able to say that she was all caught up on the matters of the Empire for the months she had missed. 

Her Empire was still standing as she knew it would — as she no longer feared it would not in her absence. It had been what reassured her when she went to Tevinter, that she knew that her presence was not necessary to the continued existence of the Empire. Cyril and her Cabinet of warring, but ultimately practical, people had things well in hand and needed not her interference to competently rule in her stead for a few months. Even if they were not the most innovative players of their Grand Game, nor did they have her care to advance the arts and education of her city and university, they were… sufficient. The fact that Celene’s active presence in Tevinter had stifled the need for diplomatic endeavours was likely a boon; her minister of foreign affairs was a warhawk, a deliberate compromise Celene allowed as concession for Gaspard’s loss all those years ago. Celene would never admit it but she was glad to have Rene at her side; even as she disagreed with the woman more often than she agreed. 

Leaning back on her high chair, Celene adjusted the papers with a steady hand; trading the treaties for the stack of notes Fleur had brought her that detailed the goings on in the palace and the nobles currently staying.

Though her head ached — had ached intermittently for a good week or so now — she forced herself to focus on the papers in front of her, blinking away the pain behind her eyes. 

Louise Point-du-Vale had gotten a hefty bump in her taxes, which was entirely too suspect considering the woman had started a new costly endeavour — and with Aurelius’ words fresh in her mind, Celene had sent some of her people to verify if the woman was not using slaves to prop her new business. Odette’s issue had finally come to a head, and Celene had already scheduled a meeting with her and the rest of the admirals — it was nothing more than a little turf war, but she was determined to stomp it out before it caught fire. Cyril’s province in Montsimmard was flourishing after a few years of deficient crop yield, and his wife — dear Francesca — was currently strengthening her ties to her homeland of the Anderfels. The University was enrolling three additional commoners this week, one of them an elf, all without Celene having to force their hands — it was perhaps possible that she could start implementing the next step of her plan and set aside funds for those with merit to enroll but without noble sponsorships. The theatre was flourishing as well, with more vigorous competition than it had had in years, the Grand Royeaux only seemed to go from strength to strength and Celene needed not even raise a hand to aid the once struggling art. 

Celene leaned back in the chair, and let out a breath.

It seemed that, for once, everything was marching on without issue. 

And, as Celene took stock of the goings on, so was Briala. 

Her lover was currently deep in meetings with the Alienage leadership, trying to find a consensus on how to approach visits to the alienage, the involvement of others outside their small community. How to engage with the other sects of the population now that restrictions were being slowly, but surely, lifted. 

Celene very much hoped that Briala was having a good time, that she was proud of the work she was doing, that she was aware of how important and foundational it would be for generations to come. She did not doubt that Briala did, but Celene fervently hoped that her lover truly understood it, no matter how inconsequential and sometimes pointless it all seemed.

A knock interrupted her already spoiled reading and, minding the sleeping child in her bed, Celene bid them in. 

It was Fleur, eyes dark and fixed on Celene and she bowed her head. “Majesty,” she said, “the Marquise has arrived safely in the Palace. Do you wish for her presence?”

Celene almost rolled her eyes. It was a needless tradition that Fleur was submitting both of them through. Usually the mistress to the emperor came only to the royal bedroom — if the dalliance was not spent in the mistress’ quarters — when and only when the ruler desired. 

To think that Celene would ever not want Briala’s company was astoundingly absurd. 

“Yes, Fleur, I do wish for her presence.” If her tone was a bit dry, only the mild twitching of Fleur’s eyes told the tale. “Now, make sure that the guards at the door know, yes?”

Fleur inclined her head. “Majesty.”

Alone once again, Celene leaned against the back of her chair and resumed her reading. 

Reports told of the other ambassadors in the Alliance arriving back in their home countries and how the reception had gone. Celene was pleased that Ferelden and Nevarra had not objected much with the way things had gone, not beyond the first retaliation where they kept Celene’s son away from her, and that it appeared to be a return to business as usual in the rest of the world as Tevinter slowly built itself back up.

Of more concern was Antiva, who was still deep in the struggles of a Qunari invasion, but the reinforcements from Tevinter alongside those from Orlais would bolster their lines. If the time ever came for an all out war that was. As for now the Antivan Crows seemed eager to defend their nation through subterfuge. 

Celene massaged her temples, the parchment’s words blurring into gray streaks. The ache had settled like a vice—too many nights squinting by candlelight, too many mornings parsing petty grievances

She was in the middle of a report from Annamaria, the words blurry to her vision, when the door creaked open—no knock this time, but there was hardly any need for it at all. 

Briala’s silhouette filled the threshold, backlit by the corridor’s torchlight.

Celene breathed in the sudden new — old, familiar, cherished, but new in all sorts of new ways — scent of Briala’s entrance. Lemon and lavender, no matter how many times they bathed together — though they had not since they arrived in Val Royeaux — Briala never lost that intrinsic scent that accompanied her. It was both refreshing and common, lemon and lavender twined in comfort. 

The sound of metal hitting wood drew Celene’s attention to Briala herself, and Celene watched her lover place her ring alongside the mask she had just put in the vanity. 

It had taken too long and only Celene’s pressing with Cyril had hastened the Council of Herald’s decision, but Briala finally had her mask approved and ready to be used in any and all manner that the Marquise of the Dales wished to employ it. The mask was a work of art; adorned with precious metals of the Dales, it glimmered in the night. Rich silverite carved into the facsimile of wolf and deep bloodstone to give the appearance of bloodied teeth. 

Orlais may claim it loved intrigue and whispers but, in truth, her beloved empire loved nothing more than spectacle.

And Briala was extremely competent in providing it. 

And yet, Briala had been… strange as of late. Not unlike when that Chantry in Kirkwall had exploded and things had become very busy; but there was an undercurrent of something that Celene could not quite place.

“Celene.” Briala pressed her lips fully to Celene’s cheek, affectionate as ever despite whatever afflicted her. “It feels like it’s been ages since I last saw you.”

It was true; Briala was arriving later and later in the evening these past few weeks, and though they often had a moment to themselves, it was not very long. The mornings were usually filled with preparing for the day or having breakfast with Violet. 

The ache behind her eyes throbbed, but Celene pushed it down — willing herself to remain awake and alert for Briala.

“You have been busy,” she said, without reproach. 

Celene knew very well what it took to rule an empire and just how many duties a noble had under their belt.

Briala breathed out and exhaustion passed through in that moment. “Yes, true.” Briala slowly twisted her neck, relieving tension, letting the faint sound of popping fill the bedchambers. “I now finally understand why you need so many people,” her lover admitted, a faint frown on her face, “if it weren’t for Jade organizing half my schedule, I would be drowning.”

Celene hummed, pleased that Briala found that she had things as in hand as one could. “It pleases me that you find your household to be competent in helping you.” Celene blinked then, trying to fill in the gaps of the people closest to Briala. “Strange that I have not met Jade, yet,” she wondered aloud. 

Briala tensed. “You met her,” Briala defended.

Celene laughed, gently, though she was confused by Briala’s sudden curtness. “I saw her across a crowded floor before I even knew who she was. I do not think we have even been introduced, even in the Eluvian she did not approach us.”

”So? Do you need to meet her?”

Celene blinked. “I— Well, no, of course not. I was just making an observation.” She reached out and held Briala’s hand. “Bria, what is going on?”

Her lover opened her mouth to speak but quickly closed it. Celene could see Briala running through whatever words she wanted to speak. Celene let her, though there was an ache on the pit of her stomach. 

“She is to be mine,” Briala said, shaking her head, “I would have her be impartial, even antagonist, towards you.”

Celene’s gaze turned back to her reports. “Very well, Bria. If that is what you want.”

The urge to shrug overtook her control for a second, and Celene felt more than heard Briala approaching her. 

“You have Cyril,” her lover said, ever so softly and drenched in fondness, “and your ladies-in-waiting to advise you against me. I would even say you have most of the court on your side should we come to any disagreement.” Briala’s hands curled around her shoulders. “Let me have her untainted by knowing you.”

Bitterness curdled something inside of Celene and felt herself grow tired and prickly, as her headache grew and grew.

“Am I something that would spoil her now, Briala?”

“You are a very charming woman,” Briala countered with a fond smile. “I have no doubt you could turn her to your side.”

Not a vain woman most times, Briala’s praise — though always loved — did nothing to appease her.

“You overestimate my allure, my love.” Celene sighed and leaned back into Briala’s hands, feeling slightly better. “And undermine your own,” she finished, breathless.

“I know you,” Briala countered, lips brushing Celene’s ear. “And even Felassan has a… Well, fondness is too much, but he seems to understand you and what you do, even if he does not approve.” Briala shook her head, chuckling. “Despite your quite antagonistic interactions.”

“So does Cyril of you, Bria,” she said, reaching out to touch Briala’s hand on her shoulder. 

“Yes, but there voices from all your sides telling you what a terrible influence I am—

“Do you really believe that I would listen to them about you?”

“You are unlikely to heed them, yes, just as I am unlikely to heed any advice when it comes to you.” Briala took her hand, and brought it close to her face. “But it is good to have an objective view, not mired by understanding the logic behind your actions, to ground me in what I wish to do rather than how I feel for you and your position.”

Celene felt her lip dip and sighed. “You do not have to convince me, Bria, I understand.”

“You were being jealous.”

“No.” Yes. “Perhaps.”

Briala smiled before  pressing a kiss to her pale palm. “You have no reason.”

Her own words, fired back at her. Celene smiled. 

“I know.” She did. “I know that, Bria.” 

It did not mean that it eased her head, much as her heart might be fluttering at the reassurance. 

In her head, she was certain that one day Briala would wake and see the truth: that Celene’s heart was a divided country, its borders drawn by duty. If Leon had been a province annexed, a bloody conquest Celene had personally weathered to see it through then Briala would always be a treasured estate— an intrinsic part of her, endlessly loved, but not worth more than the whole.

Celene looked at Briala’s mask again — silverite and bloodstone, glimmering in the night — and thought of how well it suited her lover; how it framed her face, how showed just how fierce and powerful she could be, how it drew attention to her large beautiful eyes, and how excellently skirted tradition without mocking centuries of history. How Celene’s pressure on the Council of Heralds had made them rush the process and to accept the controversial mask, how her introducing Briala to famous mask-welder Amiens had led to them creating the mask together, how Celene had made sure that Briala’s most ardent detractors were present the first time her lover walked with that mask in public. 

It was the perfect balance between new and old, tradition and progress, a marriage between Briala’s sheer presence and Celene’s undeniable influence.

There was so much they could accomplish together, if only Briala would deign to use Celene’s influence more often; Celene didn’t dare do more without Briala’s express permission, the boundaries between them were mending, but this new dynamic was still new, still fragile, and Celene wished nothing more than to build a solid foundation to use in decades to come. 

Briala’s questioning hum drew attention, making her shake her head and look at her lover. “What are you thinking of?”

Celene sighed and, tired enough to not wish to come up with a half-truth, decided to simply say what was on her mind. “That we are still—... that we still thread as if the ground were spun glass, sometimes.”

“Oh?”

Celene frowned. “Do you disagree?”

“Depends.” Briala shrugged. “What exactly are you talking about?”

Celene privately rolled her eyes; it was just like Briala to avoid the conversation by giving Celene enough space to talk and twist herself into something silly. It was a dynamic as old as the time they had met; Briala had learned well from Celene herself, and… Mantillon, as well. Still, Celene had promised to never lie to Briala again, for all there would be times when it would be hard to trust the Marquise side of Briala that she could never discard, no matter how Briala wished she could. 

“You know you are reluctant to talk to me about what you are doing,” Celene started, willing herself to stir the conversation away from accusation. “I do not need to know everything, Bria, but you know that if you need help—

“What?” Briala scoffed, more fondly than irritated. “Am I supposed to run to you every time I reach an impasse?”

The Empress wrinkled her nose at Briala’s pointed — and true — accusation. It would not do for Briala to be seen as so utterly dependent on Celene; any player of The Game worth their salt would turn such a blatant mistake to their advantage and Briala’s loss. However, there was no denying that there were ways for Briala to use her influence in a more active manner, in cases when bureaucracy was simply a cumbersome obstacle that was easily solvable.

“Of course not,” she admitted, finally, however reluctantly.“That said, you are supposed to use me when you need it.”. 

“I would love to use you. Unfortunately, it seems we keep getting interrupted.” Her beautiful eyes veered off towards the bed and Violet; and though they softened, there was a hint of disappointment that the girl would not yet sleep alone. “Or otherwise have our bed invaded.” 

Rolling her eyes, Celene said, “do not twist my words, you very well that was not my meaning,” Sighing, she reached out to squeeze Briala’s hand on her arm. Then, softened. “You do have me in your corner, you know? You need only ask for my help if you wish it.”

“I don’t wish it.” Briala’s words came down easy, but unshakable. “It’s our fight, Celene, not yours. If there’s anything I learned in the last decade is that we cannot simply rely on those that could easily take away everything we’ve gained.” 

“I would not.” Celene frowned. “You know I would not. I cannot change hearts or minds overnight, but I—

Briala squeezed her hand and gave a small smile. “Perhaps not you, but who knows what will happen tomorrow?”

The elf leaned down, her lips pressing against the top of Celene’s head before she could issue a protest. The empress leaned against the affection, raising her head so she could be in fuller contact with Briala’s lips, and privately frowned. 

There were not many different ways to interpret that.

---

“Commerce is all well and good, Marquise,” said the man at her side as they filtered between the crowd of nobles at the entrance for the Grand Cathedral. 

Briala tried to pay attention to Julien, but the uncharacteristically warm winter sun was beating down on them; this was they got for scheduling Chantry services at the zenith of sun’s influence in the sky. She felt herself grow warmer with each passing second, her heavy mask doing her no favours.

Julien continued talking at her side, blabbering on about his business in particular and not how the rest of the alienage was fairing. Though Julien was only a minor merchant compared to those whose stores lined the capital’s boulevards, he had been invited to the service alongside the other more important members of the Alienage. 

Briala had learned that the invites were on rotation, of a sort, ebbing and flowing like waves that bathed the banks of their city, and that, oftentimes, there were deliberate delays to the invitations unless Divine Victoria forced her way through the red tape that permeated this new — old, really, as Briala had learned it was ongoing for about seven years now with various degrees of success — tradition. 

It was obvious that Julien had been asked to attend before, because, after a small smile from her, he went to join some other human merchants. Them too were invited on a rotation basis, as only nobles were offered carte blanche by the Grand Cathedral to attend the service. 

Feeling a drop of sweat descend her nape, Briala controlled her expression to mask her discomfort before looking to her left. 

To her side, Violet didn’t seem to be bothered at least, though the girl wore a facsimile of Briala’s mask. Her mask was made of lighter materials, yes, far more suited to a child who was more likely to lose a mask than an adult, but it was still heavy for one not used to wearing it.

Briala leaned forward to whisper against Violet’s ear. “Are you well?” 

Her girl nodded, the long curls of her wig bouncing softly against her back. “Yes, Bria.” 

“Mm.” Briala reached out to adjust the girl’s hair, to brush it away from her face, and was reminded of how much she hated it when her mother did the same and refrained. “The heat—

“—you know it was much worse in Minrathous,” Violet said, scrunching her nose in a way that lifted her mask before settling on a more pleasant expression. “I much prefer Val Royeaux.”

Briala had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. She didn’t think that either Celene or Violet were aware of it, but it was obvious to Briala that Violet was starting to adopt some of Celene’s mannerisms; the way Violet had moved her expressive face just then reminded Briala of a young Celene, of a carefree Celene who appeared more often these days than ever before, always so annoyed at petty little things that Briala had not cared to know about. And the way Violet spoke— Briala shook her head, fondly. It was not yet quite like Celene, who spoke without contractions and was always measured, but it was closer than any noble would ever be comfortable with. 

“So you say,” Briala conceded, before adding a question, “but have you seen much of Val Royeaux?”

Her question appeared to have stomped Violet, whose dark eyes blinked twice and then again before narrowing. Briala knew the answer to her question, after all, despite all the hours she had spent away from Violet these past three weeks since her return Briala had made sure to know what her ward was doing all day. 

And Violet had not left the Palace since she arrived… at least, not until this morning to come to the Grand Cathedral.

Violet pondered her question, eye flickering with momentary doubt before settling. “I haven’t,” the little girl admitted, “but the palace isn’t that far from Val Royeaux.”

Compared to the Magesterium, which ruled over the Minrathous’ skyline in what might be the most on the nose metaphor Briala had ever seen in her life? Briala supposed that the Imperial Palace was positively integrated into the city. Yet, for as geographically close as it might be to the city proper, separated as it was by being on an island, the Palace was still incredibly insular — might as well be on the clouds as well. 

That was something that Violet would have to learn eventually, to tell the truth between what seemed to be true and what really was true.

Briala looked down at Violet and smiled; she was quite sure her ward was already well aware of that, Violet just needed to learn how to spot it.

“And it isn’t like you’ve taken me anywhere since we’ve been here!” Violet said, quietly but with heat. “I’ve been with my tutors and Celene while you’ve been at the Alienage.”

Briala hummed. “You’re quite right,” she said, having anticipated the accusation, “which is why I have tickets for us to go to the theatre in a couple of days.”

Violet turned to look at her, her dark eyes wide and glimmering with hope. “Really?”

“Really,” Briala answered, chuckling when Violet grabbed her arm excitedly.

“Yes! Thank you, Bria!” Violet now bounced on the balls of her feet, back and forth. Her teeth chewed her bottom lip, as if thinking about something. “Is Celene coming with us?” 

Part of Briala cringed at Violet naming Celene so casually; there was a delineation that no one should be able to cross, in public Celene was owed any and all decorum. Crossing that line… it aligned Celene and Violet (and by extension, Briala) too much. Yet.. part of her couldn’t help but be glad that Violet was warming to her lover.

Not resisting the urge, Brialal brushed Violet’s curls back. “No, da’len ,” she forced herself to use the word, though it did sound strange to her still. “It will be just the two of us.”

Violet smiled a bright smile, clearly happy with the answer. However better her relationship with Celene was growing to be, it was obvious that Violet appreciated it when it was just the two of them. Briala made a mental note to put something in her calendar to make it a recurring appointment. 

Before either she or Violet could say anything else, there was a voice parting the crowd. Briala blinked, surprised to see Fleur walking towards them. 

“Marquise Briala,” the Lady-In-Waiting said, bowing her head and curtseying low, her skirts pooling on the dirty floor, “and Miss Violet.” 

“Lady Fleur,” Briala greeted back, merely nodding her head. 

Fleur rose to her full, small as it was, height. “Madam, Her Radiance has sent me to collect Miss Violet.” Fleur's dark eyes behind the Valmont mask of moonstone and amethysts glimmered slightly at Briala’s ward. “I believe they had a prior arrangement?”

Violet nodded eagerly, before letting go of Briala’s hand to take Fleur’s. “Celene said she wanted me with her on the altar,” the bouncing had stopped, but Violet’s dark eyes were shining, “may I go?”

Briala gave a small nod. “Of course, your commitment to Her Radiance is to be commended.”

Violet gave a bright grin while Fleur gave her a tight smile before both turned away to go deeper into the cathedral, cutting the line of people waiting to enter. Though no one grumbled at the line being cut — Fleur was the voice and mask of the empress after all — Briala still kept her eyes and ears peeled to what people would say  

The space at her side didn’t stay empty for long, as Solange — now fully integrated into her entourage as of last week — took Violet’s place. 

Being alone in Orlais was never a good look. 

Solange started talking quietly beside her, and while Briala would nod in consent as they slowly filtered into the cathedral, her ears were focused elsewhere a while ahead on two nobles. 

“The Empress plays a dangerous game, taking that… elf under her wing.” 

Elf had always sounded like a slur and this time was no different. Briala let the word wash over her, all too used to the implied insult, and allowed them to keep talking.

The man — Arnou de Arlsans — shrugged. “It’s an exotic child, you know our empress is a learned woman. I don’t believe she would pass the opportunity.”

The woman — Jacqueline Fournau — laughed. “That may be true, mon amie ,” Jacqueline purred, “however, do you see who remained. ”

Both of the nobles turned slightly towards her, not overtly — if Briala had not been paying attention she would not have noticed — but enough . Briala ignored the urge to press her lips together or to come out with a scathing comment. 

“It does seem like the honeymoon is over,” she heard de Arlsans speak a few paces ahead, a far too pleased tone. “I heard the empress has been afflicted with horrible bouts of regret; sleeps day and night if there is nothing more pressing for her to take care of.”

Briala clenched her teeth, and forced herself to stay still. 

The man clearly knew nothing of what he spoke, but Briala knew that that was the perception of how things were going. Celene had tried to hide her increasingly debilitating headaches, but it clearly wasn’t working. The fact that Celene had not had a Ball commemorating the success of her trip to Tevinter was only adding fuel to the fire; it didn’t matter that Celene was obviously waiting for her son and consort to return, it didn’t matter that she spent every lunch with powerful nobles or her Cabinet as she reacclimatized herself back with Orlais, it didn’t matter that she had culled a rebellion in the North by her sheer presence. 

Orlais valued one thing and that was appearances. 

And Celene looked pained, despite her best efforts. 

“I heard that the empress went to see her former paramour,” Jacqueline attempted to feign a whisper, though it was obvious she wanted everyone to hear her. “Can you imagine how badly things are going?”

The Swan, Odette's ship, was still marooned in the harbour and while the woman herself had not been back to the palace, Celene’s visit to the higher levels of the Navy had only made the nobles ever more certain that Briala and Celene were on the outs, despite the tale they wished to sell to the masses. 

”Is it true, Madam?” 

Solange asked quietly when they were further ahead, just about to enter and no one could hear her with the commotion, but Briala still silenced her with a stare. 

The man at the door — a Templar, by the looks of him, what remained of the order at any case — looked them over with a disgruntled, before grunting out.

“Invitations.”

Biting her tongue not to curse him out, Briala handed him the invitations for herself and three of her other people — she had brought Solange, Alexandra and Cahir since Jade had decided to spend time in the Alienage with Lucas and Altair was still canvasing around for people to join her household. 

The man looked at the paper with careful eyes, going over each detail as if to detect a fake. Her teeth ground together to keep from exploding at the man. 

“Everything seems to be in order,” he finally said, none too happy. Then, he sighed. “Marquise, you’re up top — only your…” his eyes looked at Cahir from head to toe, a barely pinched frown of disgust showing in the Templar’s face, “... champion may go with you. The rest will stay with the other attendants.”

Briala nodded and took the invitations back, distributing them just in case someone bothered Alexandra or Solange, and started the climb to her seat.

Ornate as everything was in high Orlesian life the Grand Cathedral was bathed in a headache-inducing amount of gold, the white of its limestone walls only enhancing the gilded statues of the Annoited and other religious figures that adorned the walls of the cathedral. And the Serrault glasswork on so many colours bathed the marble seats in a rainbow of colours as the sun hit them just right. 

The Grand Royeaux might boast of the best theatre in Val Royeaux, but here was the greatest stage in Thedas.     

Her entourage was led to somewhere else, closer to the back of the cathedral — far worse seats than Briala herself would get — while she was led to a private balcony on the most high of levels. 

It was a better seat than what Solange and Alexandra had, but it was obvious she had been put with the newest noble families; there was Tremanier, recently elevated right across the other side of her, and there was Rosier a few balconies over. Briala allowed herself a smidgen of satisfaction; yes, it wasn’t the best seat in the house, but it wouldn’t be — not unless Celene had pulled strings, and Briala was content to see that her lover had not.

Leaving Cahir at the arch behind the curtain, Briala managed to sit down before the Chanter started the last Canticle of the Chant, fulfilling his job before starting all over again as soon as the ceremony ended. The man had an awful voice, too strident and unsuited for chanting, but he said the words with such fervor that it was undeniable that he felt each stanza of the Chant. 

Briala, however, was unsurprised to find that young Celene had been right; this was tedious. 

She mouthed the words with the audience—monotone, detached, bored beyond words. 

The Chant had become familiar in her youth, twisting and binding and tongue-heavy, and the variations of Orlesian and Common alike had mingled in her head like a strange Ferelden stew; the delicate Orlesian tongue, the heavy common, the unrhyming verses of Orlais and carefully crafted structure of the Continent. Briala had never found particular comfort in the Chant of Light, no, but she knew it all the same. 

Divine Victoria guided them all like a conductor to her orchestra, her steely gaze watching all with keen interest, seeing who was or wasn’t chanting along with the verses. 

Briala finished the last stanza of the Canticle of Trials with the rest of the nobles and the considerable amount of elven folk in the audience, then sank back into her seat. Traditionally, the Divine would take an issue from a supplicant and go from there, giving almost a lesson in theology as she went— at least, Divine Beatrix and Divine Justinia had done so, Briala imagined it was precedent. 

Divine Victoria, it seemed, had other methods of guiding her flock. 

Unerringly Orlesian, Divine Victoria instead got on the podium and started to sing; in perfect Orlesian, as one would expect, one of the county’s oldest songs. If her voice shook, no one dared mention it, as it filled the great ceilings of the Grand Cathedral.

Forgé par le feu, dans de l’ombre moule,

[By fire forged, in shadow cast,]

Nous restons fiers face l’immense.

[We stand unbowed before the vast.]

The rest of the nobility, even those who had remained sitting during the last stanzas of the Canticle of Trials, rose as one, Briala among them despite having just sat, and started to sing along with the Divine. The old song was etched into their memory from childhood, recanted and performed a thousand times a thousand. 

The old song, composed by Drakon’s men as they marched to the aid of the Anderfels during the Second Blight, was akin to a national refrain. The tune had taken many forms during the ages, and that today seemed more a hymn than a battle cry. 

Briala sang along, each beat a known and familiar drum from a time long ago; Briala remembered a young Celene humming it quietly sometimes, as if to sow the song into her very bones. 

La volonté du Créateur, notre flambeau, notre rempart,

[The Maker’s will, our torch, our shield,]

Dans la nuit la plus noire, nous tenons notre part.

[Through blackest night, we shall not yield.]

Briala looked at the altar, where Celene had sat but now stood, and watched her Empress mouth along with the rest of the nobles. Here, in this one moment, nothing more than part of the crowd, disappearing behind the grand show the Divine instructed her flock to perform. 

Pas à pas, les justes avancent,

[ Step by step, the righteous tread,. ]

Là où jadis les soldats versèrent leur souffrance.

[ Where soldiers of old once fought and bled. ]

Par la grâce de Notre Dame, nous portons la flamme,

[ By Our Lady’s grace, we bear the flame, ]

Pour qu’aucun genou ne ploie sous l’infâme.

[That none may kneel in chains again.]

Briala opened her mouth for the next stanza—and faltered.

Athim banal’ras, tel’nal daere

[The crawling dark, the gnawing tide, ]

Vallas houarn solas

[Breaks upon our iron pride.]

It wasn’t Orlesian anymore.

The tones that spilled from the choir weren’t just a dialectal flourish or bardic ornament—they were Elvish. Stilted Elvish, yes, combined together from the scant words they remembered and the dialect that built in the Alienage of the city, but it was not the perfumed, court-mimicry of nobles seeking novelty. It was something older . Something theirs . Something Briala had only heard in dark corners all her life, now sung in light.

Her throat tightened.

Dre’mougan poultr la di’nan elgara

[Through choking dust and dying light,]

Vir   faoutan ghilan, vir dalc'hit al linenn

[We carve the path, we hold the line.]

Around her, Briala watched.

The elves sang—unhesitant, proud. Their voices didn’t tremble. They knew the words. How many nights had this been practiced? How many had dared hope this would come to pass? How long ago had this become commonplace? No one seemed surprised, save Briala. Had it happened during her exile? How long into it? How long had the elves been inducted into this ritual that not that long ago had been only for those who claimed noble blood. 

Even some of the nobles—more than she would have imagined—joined in. Celene, of course, standing behind the Divine was mouthing along as seamlessly as she had done in Orlesian — and Briala watched her, her heart quietly fluttering despite itself and their old, familiar love. Violet, sitting beside Celene, but now standing in front of her as Celene held her shoulders gently, was singing along as well. There were also few of the Empress’ most loyal houses singing along — Cyril amongst them, Briala was shaken to note — and even a few of those who Briala knew had chafed under Celene’s reforms.  A smattering of others. Not all, no. Not even most, perhaps. But enough to mark it as deliberate.

Briala’s throat was dry, bereft of moisture as it all fled to her eyes. 

Never had she been more glad to wear a mask as she was now. 

Pazenn ha pazenn, an dud reizh a vale,

[Step by step, the righteous tread,]

Iras soudarded ir sa hellathen.

[Where soldiers of old once fought and bled.]

Dre Var Itronezed gras, vir dalc'hit tennan

[By Our Lady’s grace, we bear the flame,]

Evit vir revas  

[That none may kneel in chains again.]

A pulse beat through the cathedral floor—like marching feet in memory.

Dir adc'hervel

[Steel remembers,]

Durgen suledin

[Stone endures,]

Lin halani 

[Blood redeems,]

Glandival surentez

[Faith secures.]

Briala watched as the rest of the nobility — those who had refused to sing the verses in Elvish — rose anew, and this time the song followed a familiar rhythm back to the fine Orlesian tongue, the swell more powerful perhaps than the last stanzas but the meaning could not be undone, to finish out the old hymn made new yet again. 

L’acier se souvient,

[Steel remembers,]

La pierre endure,

[Stone endures,]

Le sang rachète,

[Blood redeems,]

La foi assure.

[Faith secures]

Lève les yeux vers l’éclat du matin !

[ Lift your eyes to morning’s glow! ]

La terre brisée renaît enfin.

[ The broken land begins to grow. ]

Plus de cor, plus de cri —

[ No more the horn, no more the cry— ]

Seulement la paix sous le ciel infini.

[Only peace beneath the sky.]

The song came to a soft end and the service along with it. And Briala was suddenly back into her own body, the breath she was holding was burning her lungs, and her eyes prickled with unshed tears. 

Her mouth opened, letting air in for the first time in who knew how many minutes, and when she exhaled it seemed that the whole world went along with it. A pressure she had not known was on her shoulders loosened for the first time in… years. Decades, maybe. A singular shot through her spine that told her she was not alone. 

Yes, Celene had been her ally before, there were her people that had been with her since 9:40 Dragon, but— 

This was different.

This was… 

For once, Briala didn’t think she had the words. 

Alone in her little corner of the Grand Cathedral, Briala sat down and tried to understand what she had just seen. Below her, the people rose from their seats and went on about their business, exchanging goodbyes and promises to see each other again, to go patronize each other’s business, to meet for tea.

Briala, for her part, existed in the moment. 

“Eh,” the sudden voice behind her made her almost jump, but she recognized it at once, “some grammatical aberrations, but overall?” Felassan shrugged and shook his hand in a so-so manner. “Not bad.”

Briala shook her head, almost smiling. “Felassan. Welcome to the Grand Cathedral.”

His yellow eyes ran over the thick curtains, narrowing in distaste and all along the most impressive stage in Thedas; all handworked, all enhanced through the magic of the White Spire, deep red and the blinding white adorned with polished gold. Briala had heard it was a dedicated speciality in the hallowed halls of the magical study, to find ways to make the spectacular Cathedral even more the shining beacon of the largest faith in Thedas. 

“You will forgive me,” he said, finally, “if I don’t find the spectacle all that impressive. In Arlathan, religious services were something of a touch… different.”

Considering the wrangle of Gods that had existed in those ancient times, Briala assumed it substantially more… bloody. Perhaps rife with politics as it was here, but perhaps not. Solas had intimated much about his time as Mythal’s champion and Briala couldn’t really say that she had liked much of what the Dread Wolf had implied about the state of the Ancient Elves in his stories. Granted, he had been more open with her than most. 

Sometimes Briala was sure that he had only seen Felassan when he looked at her. 

“I can imagine, Harhen,” she conceded. “Now, what are you doing here?”

“I came at your Seneschal's request. It seems you are not heeding her words on an important matter.”

Briala groaned and slumped back into the chair, arms folding in irritation. This high up on the Cathedral she had no fear that anyone would find her being so petulant. Felassan chuckled, and sat beside her while the people in the lower levels of the Cathedral started filtering out of the building. Briala kept an eye on Celene and Violet, the both of them speaking with the Divine; Violet bouncing on the balls of her feet while Celene’s hands remained tenderly on the girl’s shoulders, holding her steady and daring anyone to call it to attention. 

“Just because she is kind to your girl doesn’t mean she’s holding her higher up than her own son.”

So, that is what he meant by Jade’s warnings. 

Briala sighed. “Why must you ruin my good moods?”

“Why does the sun rise every morning, Briala?” He was smirking. She could hear it. “Because it is its nature.”

Briala chuckled and shook her head before leaning back in the comfortable chair. He was in fine form today, that was for certain. She had missed him these past few weeks; having him cooped up in Halamshiral was not ideal, she valued his counsel too much, but since she was such a new noble, consolidating her powerbase was crucial and— she trusted him implicitly. 

Even if he did ruin her mood. 

“Seriously now,” he did sound ever so serious, and Briala straightened despite herself. “You must know that neither you — or Violet, for that matter — are Celene’s priority. First and foremost, will come her Empire and its future, of which the brat is the most obvious symbol.”

“Despite what you must think of me, Felassan, I do know that.” Briala rubbed her chin, eyes on Celene’s hands still gently holding Violet steady. “I am aware that Celene would throw every single person in Val Royeaux down to the depths of the river that bathes its banks if it meant that it would save her Empire. I’m not foolish.”

Felassan exhaled, shoulders loosening. “I am glad of it.” He shifted, uncomfortably comfortable. “Especially because you have to be vigilant, if the boy presses too much against her — if his demeanour becomes lesser, if he shows any signs of distress as the new dynamics between you, your Violet, and Celene start to incorporate him as well... She might fold. And if things come to a head, she will always pick him over you.”

“It won’t come to—

“It might.” He eyed her. “And you know it.”

Briala pressed her lips together but refused to say another word. 

The fact was, she did know it.

She just didn’t know what she would do when it came to it. 

Notes:

Couple of notes:

- this chapter is basically a love letter to Val Royeaux as you can probably see. It goes into all the intricacies of the city as I imagined it. A combination of Paris (the Imperial Palace on an island, is directly taken from where Notre Dame de Paris is, for example) but also a hidden valley somewhere, surrounded by four hills which all have important meaning to the city itself. After DA’s untimely demise, or what appears to be, I wanted to really put my vision of Val Royeaux out in the world, I guess.
- The river’s name has a funny story that I might put in the other fic, but basically it’s called The Ichor, which for anyone who knows greek myth knows is the blood of the gods; very much a clue of what I think the river was named after.
- So obviously the hymn was made in English, because ‘composing’ a song is already hard enough and I'm not about to do it in french, much less elvish, lmao. I tried to do translations, but man elven translations are a BITCH, but I did it by basically putting together things that might mean something similar with existing words from the wikia page about the language. Like The Crawling Dark, became the Athim (Humility) Banal’ras (shadow). The words that don’t have translations or similar phrases (like tide; which I tried to find something like water, sea, movement with no luck) I changed them to Breton words (daere, for tide), because, well, you know celtic language suppressed by the French… it seemed appropriate, lol; which is something of an headcanon of mine, that the elves of Orlais speak ‘Breton’, but that’s for another fic probably. The grammar is ASS actually, because I used the words as a cipher, basically just replacing words with no other modifications, and it’s probably nonsensical, but honestly? It’s in character so fuck it, we ball. But it’s supposed to be in French and Elvish. If anyone finds any French errors please @me in the comments, lmao.
- I tried to make the song vague enough and to have various interpretations (if the correct substitutions are made), and although the official backstory is that this version was written by Drakon’s men, official doesn’t mean it’s true, after all.
- Divine Victoria is Leliana, though I didn’t name her so if you want to headcanon that it’s Viv or Cass, I suppose you can lmao. There was an earlier mention of her being a bard, but I removed it because if there’s anything I hate it’s putting canon choices in my stories besides the Wicked Eyes, Wicked Hearts outcomes that I use as I see fit lmao.
- The idea for the hymn being in two languages came from something I saw years ago; a traditionally French song being performed in a synagogue, and then parts of it were in Hebrew. It really touched me and I wanted to do the same here. Of course, here it’s still performed in a Chantry and all of that, and I don’t want it to seem like everything is solved — because obviously with Briala’s other POVs it really isn’t — but it is improving. So, of course, to that end, there are still the naysayers and the horrible nobles because it wouldn’t be Orlais without them lmao. 

Notes:

Hello everyone! So, a new fic, let's see how this one fares.

A little housekeeping: my other fic, the collection of one-shots will keep being updated, at the same schedule. The intent is for this one to update in between, meaning this one will also be updated every two weeks give or take. This fic is about 85% written, though it is going through some revisions in some places to make a more cohesive narrative, so some time between updates might be longer than I expect.
Anyway, hopefully, you all enjoy it!
Thanks for reading!