Chapter Text
The Empress of Orlais knew how to prevent her lip paint smears from notice, or the loss of a layer to dim the tint. She had a practiced hand at re-application, and recognized the feel of smears in her cupid’s bow. A swipe of her nail kept the stain from her fingertips, and employed precision as though penciled to perfection. Though Celene’s lips were swollen and Briala haunted her hallways, the sting was not due to overuse, but from the bristle of some mercenary’s stubble. Not just some mercenary--Gaspard’s man. The thought brought a hint of mirth to her smile, but there was little space for joy in her chest despite the gaping emptiness she felt, so the delight was snuffed out by a familiar ache. The ache branched from her sternum and seeped throughout her limbs, carrying a wave of nausea and a sharp stab to her temple.
This is no time for the decadence of heartache, she reminded herself, my ballroom is a den of snakes.
The Empress lifted her eyes to an approaching courtier, counting out precisely two seconds worth of warmth in her smile before greeting the Lord and Lady in bland but pleasant overtures. The nobles required validation from their Lioness, but never lingering, lest one noble be assumed superior—lest one noble be crowned Emperor. This was a dance she invented the choreography for, so even during exchanges such as this she felt the heat of Briala’s gaze from the balcony approximately twenty meters away.
Too close, Celene thought.
There was a time when her skin against mine was too distant for my liking. There was a time when—the Empress ejected those thoughts from her mind as her eyes began to sting. She averted her gaze once the nobles that left, having found them settled on the subject of her memories. A sliver of panic ran up her spine. Careless, Celene. Orlais cannot afford your distractions. The Empire cannot fall to brutes simply because you seek to staunch a wound.
The Empress squared her shoulders as the Grand Duke was announced, and her lips warmed into a smile… for precisely two seconds.
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She looks thin, Briala thought. It was a job unto itself to force Celene from books, letters, and notes to imbibe anything that wasn’t tea, let alone eat. I told Emeline to—the Elven Ambassador interrupted her mental berating as folded paper was slid into her palm from a passing servant bearing the Valmont heraldry upon his mask.
She turned away from the Empress, standing as the focal point of the ballroom. Celene was bright and beautiful, the sun, gleaming and jeweled; and her subjects, sunflowers. Ripe for the weeding, she chuckled as her fingers hastily smoothed out the creases of the paper. Well-read eyes passed over the lines and her fingers crumpled it a moment later. Her gaze rose, studying the Empress as the secrets of the court were whispered to her by word, or by hand.
From the cut of her gown, Celene had opted for bold. The violet of her silks shimmered in the warmth of candlelight to appear as royal blue instead. Her message clear, unable to be misinterpreted—being Empress meant being Valmont. Briala imagined she smelled of honeysuckle, and if close enough, a bit of Rivaini spice.
She tasted of cinnamon, honey, and clove—it was always present. They could make love for hours in the warmth of a Val Rouyeux summer and still—honeysuckle, cinnamon, and clove clung to the sheets, clung to Briala’s skin. Luckily a handmaiden could afford to smell like her Mistress. For that Rivaini tea lingered on Celene’s lips, and Celene’s lips—Briala took a shuddering breath, cutting her gaze from the Empress.
Briala need not look far to remind herself of the reason behind their parting. Within earshot, an Orlesian noble was making drunken passes at a young elven girl. The blush on her cheeks belied the fear in her eyes.
With a few silent steps around the corner, she moved behind the Lord. Instead of cutting him down to size via barb or by blade, she opted to save the girl without his later retribution. “Marie leave his Lordship be, you nuisance! You are needed in the kitchen!”
Though the Lord sighed in distaste of this outcome, the brief appreciation that flashed in the eyes of Marie soothed the anger that frothed in Briala’s gut. The elven servant curtsied, mumbling her apologies, and scampered off.
Briala, too, curtsied quickly and rounded the corner, returning to her edge of the balcony. One that had a clear shot of the ballroom and its Empress.
---
Out of the corner of her eye she spied Briala depart. There were days past when Celene felt safer when her handmaiden was out of sight. It meant she was solving mysteries that Celene feared would be the one and only mistake she made as Empress.
An empty laugh was stifled in Celene’s gut. One mistake? Perhaps the one mistake to cut my throat. I’ve made a lion’s share of mistakes—Briala’s parents, Halamshiral, Gaspard, Remache, Cailan, Mantillon, Teagan and… the list seems endless. When Briala reappeared, there was a hint of relief in the ache. As though every moment she could see her was another moment she did not come for her.
One day, Celene believed, if the Game did not bury her, it would be Briala that did. She envisioned it dozens of times throughout most days. A creak in the wall, a hidden dagger—no, Briala could not counter Celene’s skills with a dagger. A bow, though, felt too detached. Briala would murder her up close, a masked servant bearing a poisoned pastry. She would unmask herself when all hope had fled. She was chivalrous in the ways that Orlesian bards were. Briala would hold her in her arms for those brief moments when death was certain and Orlais would stand on the brink of collapse. In that quiet moment, Briala would carry Celene gently to death.
Some might consider such fantasizing a death wish, but those individuals knew nothing of love so forbidden, so hopeless, you would gladly lose the Game for a moment in her arms.
But losing the Game was not something Celene would allow so long as she drew breath. From the Swaggering Lion, to the first Emperor; the Valmonts were not without ambition. Celene was no different. She envisioned an Orlais ripe with enlightenment. Orlesians of every race building a better empire to the envy of all the world. It may not occur in her lifetime, but she would build the foundation stone by stone.
And she would do it with or without Briala.
The Empress’s eyes lingered on the Elven Ambassador for not a second longer than necessary, cutting toward her guests and appearing to marvel as her subjects danced for her pleasure. Her mind, though, reconstructed the image of Briala and picked apart her choices.
She glows. Though Briala was lithe, she looked strong. It was evident from the way the dress, as verdant green as the Dales midsummer, had kept up her training. Her body was chiseled and efficient. Briala had always been fair of face. Celene had a number of confused Lords fall out of her favor for lingering around her handmaiden too long. But even now, the Elven Ambassador’s olive skin brought fond memories to the forefront of Celene’s thoughts.
Has she found love, I wonder? Celene cut off that thought as a sharp pain stabbed beneath her. Jealousy always felt like a successful assassination attempt. She’d been on the other end of a dagger—she knew the pain well. When the Game is afoot, such thoughts are intolerable distractions.
In Orlais, you can live without a heart. The Empress was testament to that. Best to forego the heart in favor of more crucial organs.
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Try as she might to suppress the torrent of emotions that threatened to spill behind masks, powders, and impassive, empty smiles, Briala knew the flash of jealousy from twenty meters away. The elven Ambassador allowed her lips to curl into a cold smile, visible just beneath her half-mask. Amidst a ballroom that could decide the end of your Empire, your legacy, you find time to sharpen your blades. Such a privilege to bare your fangs so openly. I recall evenings I passively watched you write love letters to the dog-King in Ferelden. It surprises me I still have a tongue left to bite.
The Orlesian Empress did not lack suitors. Be it hungry for her body; svelte and elegant, or desire her power; absolute, the empire ached to see a swell of her belly. She was a glorious Empress, not mad like her predecessor, but graceful and beautiful. She was what Orlais thought fondly of itself.
Briala’s jaw stung for the tension. She dismissed notions of jealousy or regret in favor of studying the Empress. She was lucky that none noticed the linger in her gaze, but luck is not something that Empires could endure on.
But even now, she looked lovely. Like the girl of sixteen, bearing a crown and robe with all the poise and grace of an Empress while the weight of it all formed knots along her spine.
There was a time Briala thought the world of her. A time when she believed that her beautiful childhood mademoiselle would change the Empire. The kiss upon her lips delivered in anguish, and fear steps away from her dead family, would haunt Briala’s memories for years. Despite Felassan’s skepticism, she believed Celene would bring Orlais to its powdered knees.
Yet as she skimmed the periphery of the ballroom, she saw elves serving their human betters. Her gaze found Gaspard among such betters—and she absently wondered how the elves would have suffered under the heavy boot of the warmongering Grand Duke.
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Her anger had yet to abate, Celene noted the muscle prominent across the length of Briala’s jaw. Taking a slow breath in, and twice as long to exhale, her pounding heart began to slow. It was temporary a reprieve. For just as Briala’s line of sight settled on her treasonous cousin, her mind filled with worry. What has he promised you? Do you truly believe him to keep his word? Bria, they make sport of murdering elves, you cannot believe he’s better than me. Celene’s mind wandered towards the memory that began it all--honeysuckle was ripe in the air, the scent of the late Prince Reynaud’s summer home. Elven blood splattered upon fine Nevarran rugs. Celene tried to hide the sight of Briala’s dead parents behind the layers of silk gown from her childhood companion—no, servant. A kiss that still burned her lips from decades ago, and a desperate plea to flee for her life.
Non, none of us have clean hands.
Celene swallowed down the guilt and her belly felt thick with it.
---
Briala desired restitution for the suffering of her people. It was doubtful to happen, but certainly owed in the Elven Ambassador’s mind. And yet despite this fact, there was no pleasure she drew from spotting the subtle tells Celene could not mask from her past lover. Briala could read every tell the Empress had spent her life hiding.
Just as her eyes had left the Grand Duke, she saw the ache of guilt staring back at her. She could imagine the things running through Celene’s mind, and honestly, she hoped it hurt. With the death of her parents, the death of her people, there was not enough in Thedas to settle the debt Celene had levied against her people, against Briala herself.
But try as she might, she carried as much guilt. For even as she demanded the Empress suffer for her crimes, she hurt to see it.
I am a lovely ribbon you wind around your fingers, taut, and tangled. My heart sputters and gasps for you, suffocating. But for the sake of my people, Celene, I cannot give in. The elves of Thedas need a voice that does not waver, does not stutter.
Briala felt her eyes burn, and the familiar ache of emptiness settle heavily in her gut. She refused to let a single tear fall as her gaze bore into the Empress, but the heart does as the heart will. The silverite half-mask obfuscated any signs of her pain, disappearing.
I will do this with or without you.
---
The Empress had known Briala would be in attendance. She had penned the invitation herself. It was an olive branch as much as a ploy. Celene had feared Gaspard may have noticed elven fingerprints upon several failed campaigns in their civil war. It was only a matter of time before the warmonger sought to barter for Briala’s loyalty. On the one hand, she doubted that Briala would seek a new master, preferring to prosper in their fog of war. It was equally as likely Gaspard was desperate and would promise her beyond his power to grant. Celene needed to court her carefully.
The strategy she’d laid out was delicate, and in the face of any other individual she would execute flawlessly. But across the ballroom Celene spied a hint of pain in the gaps of Briala’s half-mask. Her resolve wavered, but only for a moment. The next steps must play out without incident, Celene thought.
Expelling the fear in her gut, the Empress caught the gaze of the elven Ambassador with a look unmistaken. Unmistaken because she had given it a thousand times. Celene left the balcony, obscured behind thick royal blue curtains.
---
Wordlessly, Briala’s feet began to move.
She had seen that look a thousand times. It spoke of promise. Stolen kisses, stolen words, stolen reprieve. In the darkest corners of Orlais, Briala had pilfered from the Empire. She had stolen away their radiant Empress and took precious moments they would never have returned.
Her feet slowed and her breath caught in her throat. Briala’s heart was flooded with a wound she had the audacity to believe had scarred over. That Celene dared such a glance was foul play. It set the tone, though. Come to me, you say? She rolled her wrists, keeping them flexible. Oui, Your Radiance. At once.
After all, she had been practicing her dagger play.