A/N: This was originally written to fill a prompt on Tumblr, but it grew into something else. This falls into the same continuity as Venara's story, which is chronicled in The Tempest's Shadow.

Thanks for reading!

Farewell to the Lioness

The sun was bright and the sky was clear on the day of the funeral. If Varric had been there, Venara was certain he would have said something about the appropriately thematic nature of the Empress of Fire being entombed on a particularly sunny day. Then again, perhaps he would have kept his witty remarks to himself out of respect for the dead queen. Despite the sun, the nobles who had gathered for the royal farewell were sheathed in heavy sable velvets, their faces concealed by black silk veils or onyx masks.

Venara had never attended a human funeral of this magnitude before. At the Battle of Haven, there had been no time to recover the bodies of the fallen and, consequently, they had been left to the mercy of the snows and wildlife. When their soldiers fell at Adamant, Venara had witnessed the mass funeral pyre and the words Cullen had spoken to commemorate the sacrifice of those brave men and women. They had lost lieutenants and knight-captains, smiths and merchants, horse masters and aides, mages and templars. But they had never lost someone of a comparable status to Celene Valmont, the Lioness, Empress of Orlais.

At first, it was uncertain if the Inquisition would have been invited to the funeral. Certainly Gaspard did not want the organization represented. Though he had no kind feelings for his cousin, he was fully aware of the political machinations that had led to him and his allies being outmanoeuvred on the night of the peace talks. Venara had outplayed him, and it outraged him that he had been beaten by an elf. But Gaspard did not have the final say anymore. He was a puppet, Marquise Briala's puppet, and he danced to her tune now. She instructed him on what to say and when to say it, and he had no choice but to follow through or face the dire consequences.

And Briala had said that Venara and three of her attendants would be at Celene's funeral.

"They need to remember that you are the one who protected them from Florianne's assassins," Briala said. "You need to remind them that you could have saved the Empress' life, but you chose not to. You chose to give Orlais the future it needed, rather than the one it wanted. They need to hear your name and see your face and remember exactly who you are and the power you hold. Otherwise, they will forget and return to thinking that the Inquisition is nothing more than the singular blemish on Orlais' perfect skin."

And so they went. Venara was accompanied by Josephine (who, as their diplomat, could put out any fires, if they did occur), Leliana (who, as a spymaster and a player of the Game, could divert unwanted attention away from Venara) and Solas (who was there both to offer emotional support and to scandalize the Orlesian aristocracy for being an elven "manservant" at an Empress' funeral).

Empress Celene's body had been returned to Val Royeaux and was to be buried in the House Valmont mausoleum with her royal ancestors. Her family's obsession with the occult had led to them incorporating Nevarran burial practices for centuries, much to chagrin of the nobility. The mausoleum lay on the Valmont Palace grounds, some miles away from the vast outer gardens. It resembled a palace more than anything else, with its sculptured white marble architecture and gilded walls. Venara frowned when her carriage pulled up. To be entombed in such a building, rotting away under the ground in a stone case… the idea made her skin crawl.

"Are you all right?" Solas asked, his hand resting gently on her knee.

Venara sat back from the window, a furrow still on her brow. "I don't like this," she said.

"It is ideal that you make an appearance," Solas said. "But if you are concerned about an attempt on your life—"

"It's not that!" Venara exclaimed. "This place is… uncanny. I don't like it. Your spirit be free after death. How can it, when you're placed underground in a building that cares more about the gold on its walls than the souls it carries?"

"I can't answer that," Solas said. "House Valmont has its practices for a reason. I'm sure they believe in the value of what they do here."

"Maybe they're until their bloody Maker decides to turn up again," Venara said.

Solas raised an eyebrow. "Anything else? It would be wise to get your insults out now rather than later."

Venara snorted. "Of course. Wouldn't want to risk upsetting already upset aristocrats."

"You may not have liked her," Solas said, "but the Empress is dead. You are attending her funeral, she deserves your respect—in this moment, at least."

Venara sighed. "I know," she said, gazing out the window again at the looming mausoleum. "But it's our fault she died. We let her die."

"She wasn't a good woman."

"No, she wasn't," Venara agreed. "She was a politician. A player of the Game. You can ask the elves of Halamshiral what that meant to them." Venara ran her fingers over the smooth silk of her black uniform. Josephine's work, once again—she had commissioned a seamstress repurpose the uniforms worn at Halamshiral for the funeral. No sense in wasting time, money and material. "Even so," she continued, "I still don't know if I made the right choice."

"And yet you made it," Solas said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "You cannot turn back the clock. Now you must live with it."

The door to the carriage swung open to reveal a House Valmont footman, dressed in black and deep violet. Solas retreated immediately. The footman bowed politely.

"Inquisitor Lavellan," he said, coming up from his bow. He glanced at Solas, noting his elven ears, and chose to ignore him.

The footman proffered his arm to Venara to help her out of the carriage. With a deep breath, she took it and stepped back into the world of the Orlesian aristocracy.

The service began outside. The attendees gathered in two lines. A Grand Cleric led the procession, a torch in hand as she sung the appropriate stanzas from the Chant of Light. Several Chantry Mothers followed, harmonizing with the Grand Cleric, their heads bowed in reverence, their red and white robes the only colour amongst the field of black silk. Then came Celene's coffin—engraved and gilded red oak, polished so much it shone in the sunlight—carried by Chantry sisters and brothers. The Valmont family—Celene's remaining cousins and distant relatives—followed, heads bowed, tears in their eyes.

The Inquisition had been asked to stand near the back. Due to her short height, Venara had difficulty seeing the procession, but she caught glimpses through the gaps in the crowd. She stood with her back straight, hands clasped behind her, chin held high. Josephine and Leliana were on either side of her. Solas, as her "manservant", stood behind them. Venara noticed that Leliana was barely paying attention to the service—her keen eyes were darting around the crowd, watching the aristocrats' reactions as Celene's coffin made its way into the mausoleum. No doubt there was a wealth of useful information here, hidden in gestures and glances and who chose to weep, who did not and who could not help but weep.

I don't see Briala, Venara thought, glancing quickly about the crowd. Is she here or did she choose not to come? If the latter, was it a statement or did House Valmont prevent her from attending?

The coffin had entered the mausoleum, signalling that it was time for the crowd to move indoors. As they filed in, Venara was awestruck by the size and grandeur of the hall. Grand buttresses of white marble stretched up in graceful arcs, supporting a ceiling that was almost too high to see. A mural of Andraste, with sword and fire, had been painted on the far wall, across from the entrance, illuminated by the sunlight that shone through the arcing, stain-glass windows ran along either side of the hall. A deep violet carpet ran along the stone floor, down the centre. Lined on either side were the tombs of the previous Valmont rulers, each accompanied by an effigy of their likeness, carved in marble. No doubt only the emperors and empresses were given the honour of being displayed in the hall—there were wide doors that led further into the mausoleum, where less important family members were entombed.

The Grand Cleric reached Celene's tomb. Her chant had been steady, her voice clear and strong. She continued to sing, raising her torch high as Celene's coffin was placed within its tomb. Then the sisters and brothers drew back, clasped their hands behind their backs and the Grand Cleric brought her chant to a close. She passed her torch to one of the Mothers and turned to address the crowd.

"We are gathered here today," the Grand Cleric began, "on the grounds of House Valmont, to honour the untimely passing of our most royal and noble lady, Celene, Empress of Orlais."

She continued to speak, her voice echoing in the grand size of the mausoleum hall. Venara listened silently as Celene's life was laid out in excruciating detail, from her days as a youth to her parents' death to her rise to empress at age sixteen. She listened as Celene was praised as a visionary, an honourable leader in dark times, an advocate for peace, a peace that got her killed. Venara glanced at Gaspard, desperately wishing she could see through his mask and know what he was thinking—was he proud, of what his sister Florianne had accomplished? She supposed it didn't matter. The Orlesian royalty were all corrupt—one family scrambling and backstabbing each other in a race for power, not caring who they crushed in the process. There was, of course, no mention of the Orlesian peasantry or the elven communities that populated the slums of their cities. Why would the Grand Cleric think to mention what Celene's rule had done for them? It didn't matter. Not to the nobility gathered here to honour her life and mourn her death.

Many of the women were visibly weeping—impressive, considering the masks and veils they wore to hide their faces.

How many of you are sincere? Venara wondered. How much of this is for show? Is this like the opera, where you attend not for the opera's sake, but to see and be seen?

But wasn't that exactly what she was doing herself? The Inquisition was here to be seen, and nothing more. A reminder of their power—of Venara's power—just as Briala had said.

Venara felt sick to her stomach.

She felt someone brush her arm. She glanced to her side and saw that Solas had squeezed in between her and Leliana. No one had noticed—the nobility were too engaged with the Grand Cleric's speech to realize that that Solas was standing exactly where he shouldn't be. He caught her eye and nodded, taking her hand comfortingly in his. She gripped it tightly.

"Ma serannas," Venara murmured.

They watched the rest of the service in silence, the Grand Cleric droning on and on until the sun had shifted and the light no longer shone through the mausoleum's stained glass in such a spectacular way. By the end, the nobility's tears had dried up. Yawns were being stifled and feet were shifting uncomfortably to and fro. The façade was beginning to crack.

The Grand Cleric raised her hands high, lifting her head and intoning to the heavens. "I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade. For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's light. And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost." She lowered her hands and placed them reverently above Celene's coffin. "Watch over our Empress, O Maker, for her time in this world has come to an end. May she find the peace she deserves."

The Grand Cleric stepped back and gestured for the Chantry sisters and brothers to approach. They slid Celene's effigy over her tomb, locking it in place before stepping back and bowing reverently.

It didn't take long for the hall to empty. Most of the nobles wanted to begin the long ride back to their homes and mansions in Val Royeaux. Gaspard and his cousins were among the first to leave, Venara couldn't help but notice that.

"Inquisitor," Josephine said. "We should go. We should not be the last ones seen to leave, it would be improper."

"Go without me," Venara said. "I want to wait a bit longer."

Josephine frowned. "But Inquisitor—"

"Don't worry," Venara said. "I'm not going to cut ties between the Inquisition and the Orlesian throne by paying respects to the previous Empress."

Josephine opened her mouth to protest.

"Let her stay, Josie," Leliana said. "No serious harm will come of it."

"You don't know that for certain," Josephine muttered, but regardless, she acquiesced.

The hall was almost empty, save for the Chantry sisters. Venara approached the tomb, staring at Celene's effigy. The cold marble captured her likeness with eerie accuracy, as if her body had been turned stone. She wasn't sure how long she stood there. She felt odd, uncertain in what her reaction to this should be. There had been so much death in this war already, Celene was just another casualty. What made her different? What made the death of an Empress so different from the death of anyone else?

You watched her die. You saw Florianne stab her while you were inches away. You made it personal. You could have intervened. You could have stopped her death. But you chose not to, because Celene could never be Briala's puppet. And Briala is what Orlais needs if it is ever going to change. You put the needs of your people above anything else and a woman died for it.

It's your fault Celene is dead. Not the Inquisition's, not Gaspard's, not Florianne's—yours. And now you have to live with it.

Venara sighed, lowering her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Solas waiting for her in the shadows. He nodded to her, his expression grave.

He had stayed.

Of course he had stayed.

She should know by now not to doubt him, not after everything they had been through together.

Venara turned back to the effigy. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "For my part in this. Farewell."

Then she spun on her heel and walked out of the Valmont mausoleum without a backwards glance.

It was time to move on in this war.

the end