The Game

Eyes and words can pierce far deeper than daggers. To survive politics in Orlais required a wit sharper than all three. Celene had always been possessed of an intellect keen as any blade, forged and honed in the heart of the most elegant battleground of all Thedas. Perhaps that was what made training as a bard feel so natural, the edge of daggers as easy to wield as an extension of herself. The feel of fighting with a short weapon: in close, rapid reflexes, instantly learning an enemy's skill, exploiting weaknesses, danger measured by inches and seconds; that was how she was best. It was how she played the Game.

Briala, though . . . The Empress gazed across the dance floor to the shimmer of green and gold; poised and graceful, the Marquise was effortlessly holding an audience's attention. She was a different weapon altogether. Deliberate and calculated; the elf had a gift for long term strategy, turning up where no one expected and invisible until the moment she struck the fatal blow. Why had it ever surprised Celene to see her lover's natural prowess with a bow? A flash of white caught her attention, the counterfeit smile Briala used to put enemies at ease as she wove her traps. Her victim this evening appeared to be Lord Maurel, confident in himself and utterly oblivious to the glint of danger in the elf's teeth.

She is even better at playing than I. Celene had known as much for years, but each time she was reminded of her love's skills she was buoyed with affectionate pride. It had not been weak or foolish to keep Briala at her side for more than two decades, it was the wisest choice of her reign. Neither could have become what they were alone. Sharp enough when they fought together, sharper still after being honed against each other. The War of the Lions and their own enmity threatened to destroy all of Orlais but instead forged them into an even deadlier alliance. Just in time to face a hole in the sky, a darkspawn that would play god and now an elf that actually had.

"Your Imperial Majesty," a pleasantly low and honeyed tone approached Celene's side, "This evening is truly a delight. I cannot recall the last time I attended festivities without worrying that a spat over Allineas' Third Principle of Derangement would lead to rage demons ruining the canapes."

"I fear you must find our hospitality rather dull in comparison, Lady Tilani." The Empress regarded her guest of honor. It was the political equivalent of balancing on a razor's edge, inviting a representative of the Lucerni to visit Orlais. Half the empire believed it was the first step towards declaring war on Tevinter, the other half thought it was Celene's way of rebelling against the Chantry. None of them knew of the lengths the Empress and Divine had gone to in order to arrange these talks.

"On the contrary! Not an inch of Orlais could be dull with Your Radiance illuminating it as you do." The demurral wasn't even forced, flowing far more naturally than the typically florid admirations that wove around every inch of the Empress. There was even a trace of humor, teasing away any gravity in her words. It was refreshing. Unfortunately, Celene couldn't afford herself the luxury of enjoying it.

"The Empire has certainly been enlightened by your presence." The artful reply was habit, too graceful to deny the praise but too modest to agree.

"Oh, dear. Your Majesty, I had no intention of challenging you to a competitive exchange of compliments. You would most assuredly win and I fear for the perils to your immortal soul should you be forced to create flattery for an Imperium Magister." The Tevinter blonde's smile was open, parting over a roll of laughter.

The protestation sounded completely sincere, mocking herself far more than the manners of her hostess. Maevaris had the calm and poise of one who understood Orlesian games married with the easy confidence of knowing she didn't have to play. She leaned against the balustrade overlooking the dance floor below, hip resting against the ornate wood like she might slide onto it for a seat at any moment. One hand kept her balance on the rail as she leaned to watch the dancers, her other fingers still gently cradling a crystal goblet full of sparkling wine.

The Empress had hardly known what to expect when Magister Tilani accepted her invitation. She had reports from her spies, naturally, as well as all the information Divine Victoria could supply. Widow of Thorold Tethras, gifted mage, reformist. Such intelligence formed only the vaguest outline of the person who would arrive. If asked what she thought a member of the Tevinter Magisterium would be like, Celene would have conjured images from the Chant of Light, perhaps adding details based on the few ambassadors and villains who habitually bled across the border to cause trouble. There were inescapable notions of dark hair and sinister clothing forever associated with the Imperium.

She most certainly would not have predicted the striking blonde that arrived at the palace steps three days ago. Golden hair much darker than Celene's own was cut short into manageable waves, barely gracing the nape of her neck and augmenting every curve and tilt of her face. The only sinister element to her clothing was the fitted style and daring amount of skin left on display. Tevinter fashion clearly felt it had nothing to hide and Maevaris wore it like a weapon.

"As we cannot trade our opinions of each other; what then shall Empire and Imperium discuss?" Celene concluded her private musing, playing hostess once more.

"Lord Pavus tells me I missed a most entertaining ceremony at the University last month." Laughter danced in Maeve's dark blue eyes as she brought her gaze back to the Empress, brow tilting in playful challenge.

"A minor confusion over the names of those being honored. It is fortunate that not all academics are completely bereft of humor." The Orlesian's small smile emphasized her easy dismissal of the affair. In truth, she'd been alternately stunned, incensed and then delighted as she realized the trickery that was undermining so solemn an occasion.

Collin Forsecks. The name didn't particularly register with the Empress as she watched another of the seated students rise to receive an honor. Not until she noticed that the man who rose was clearly wearing armor under the University cloak. Dark skinned, scarred and far too rugged for any child of nobility, the man made his way to the dais and nodded respectfully to the Master of Ceremony.

"Collin Forsecks?" The bookish Chancelier who'd been put in charge of today's event cringed as the pseudo-student approached.

"All day." The dark skinned man had a clearly Fereldan accent. He gave a nod and cheeky wink before returning to his seat. The audience was mostly silent but there were a few titters here and there from swifter and more mischievous minds. The ceremony proceeded through half a dozen more innocuous names and fragile-looking academics taking their awards before another name jarred the Empress' ears.

"Helen Bedd." The Chancelier read the name, not even hearing it as his eyes swept the audience for the summoned honoree. The blonde elf that popped up out of the sea of students was instantly familiar to Celene. One of the Inquisitor's people. Naturally. Who else would make light of such an occasion?

It didn't help that the Chancelier had poor vision from years of scholarly pursuit. He was clearly relieved to be able to read the names at all and have someone respond, utterly unaware of the chuckles that rolled through the audience. He hesitated slightly at the sight of the roguish elf standing before him and foolishly did exactly what the pranksters wished: he repeated the name once more.

"That's what I'm told." Sera replied and pranced back off the dais.

Celene cast her eyes over the audience, spying the Inquisitor to one side. The warrior was keeping vigilant watch for danger but couldn't hide the surprised grin that spread over her features as she struggled not to laugh. Clearly, she wasn't privy to her associates' trickery but hardly inclined to stop it either. It was that easy-going acceptance of her allies that had made her such a popular leader and, for now, the Empress decided to follow her example.

One by one, a bedraggled pack of mercenaries inserted themselves into the ceremony under a variety of false names. Amanda Lik, Neil Downe, Myk Oxhard (a dwarf!) all made their way to the increasingly flustered Master of Ceremonies and collected awards. How did they even get their hands on the list to change the names?

The final straw was Harry Balzac. If the Empress hadn't spent a lifetime controlling every twitch and nuance of her face she would've choked on her own horror and then laughed uncontrollably when a Qunari rose from the crowd. Many of the audience weren't so well trained and the gasps were quickly overwhelmed by laughter.

"Harry Balzac? Honors in classic literature and poetry?" The Chancelier had gone so red it edged toward purple, finally understanding his role in the massive hoax.

"I can recite two hundred verses of 'There once was a mage from Qarinus.'" The one-eyed Qunari replied with a wicked grin. The University official stuffed the ceremonial scroll into his giant hand and ushered him off the stage as quickly as possible.

"It certainly seems to me that laughter is as useful a weapon as threats here in Orlais." Maevaris, who'd undoubtedly been informed of the entire debacle, offered empathy with her amusement.

"Indeed. The University staff will undoubtedly go to greater lengths to be familiar with their students and ceremonies from here out." Celene agreed. It might not have been her preferred method of reminding the Chanceliers of their place but the spectacle humbled them greatly. They'd been far more malleable in their eagerness to regain lost favor.

"Pity I missed it. Dorian does a lovely imitation though." Maeve smiled, eyes lighting on her cohort.

The Empress followed her glance, spying the Magister in conversation with a gaggle of courtiers, apparently holding forth on the virtues and vices of Orlesian fashion. He carried himself well in Court and was honored (or at least tolerated) for his past with the Inquisition. The blonde's other companion wasn't quite so simple. A dark haired woman that smiled easily with everything except her eyes. Even now, Celene spotted the stranger not far away; she was engaged in shallow banter with a minor lord, her eyes constantly moving around the audience with a vigilance too paranoid for politics. It would be the height of rudeness to inquire, of course, but Celene was certain that this woman was the reason Baron du Prise was found dead in his bed the morning after hurling insults at Magister Tilani.

Thinking of insults. The Empress noticed a familiar foe making her way over. Lady Eustace Richelieu. The noblewoman had proven her power and connections through alliance with the Inquisition, fortifying her stature with implied gratitude. While Ambassador Montilyet had been pleased to accept the Lady's reports and advice, it was ever the Inquisitor who turned the tide of political fates in Orlais and Richelieu was still stung from being ignored. Though possessed of great assets and respectable influence, she was forever estimating herself too highly.

"Your Radiance," Lady Eustace executed a flawless curtsy, "A lovely evening's entertainment. Your guests match the charm Orlais has come to expect of you."

It was a mild barb at best. Little more than an opening volley and Celene let it pass.

"It is ever the position of sacrifice to play host, Orlais has always won allegiance with her delights rather than demands." The Empress kindly accepted the double-edged praise and returned in kind. Richelieu was far too practiced to show any hint of wince or irritation at the veiled accusation. That she was snubbed by the Inquisition for getting too assertive in her advice was still a point of soreness.

"And Orlais is gifted with so many delights," Lady Eustace flowed easily into her next line of attack, "The University and Theatre alike are unparalleled in all Thedas. Have you seen the latest offering at the Grande Royeaux?"

Ah. There it is. Celene's iron control refused to allow a tick of smile to cross her features. She had expected just such a play. Though, in honesty, it would have been more natural coming from a member of the Remache family or Bencour, but she was prepared in any event.

"L'Or et Noir? Naturellement. It is always a pleasure to see the resilience of Orlesians in their views of history." The Empress' praise threaded between sarcasm and admiration, impossible to differentiate or accuse. The latest play at the notoriously uncensored theatre was based in the War of the Lions, gold and black being the colors of Celene and Gaspard's crests. But rather than falling into the predictable clichés of heroism and tragedy, the writer had set out a love story to be enacted on the bloody and controversial background.

"I doubt they were overly preoccupied with historical accuracy." Richelieu's expression had begun to sour like a grape left in the sun.

"Likely not. However, it was most entertaining, no?" The Empress kept her face a perfect carving of placid contentment.

Entertaining was an understatement. The first act started as a tragic romance: two lovers separated by the politics of their families and then accidentally reunited on the battlefield, warring for opposite sides. The second act took all the dramatics and agony of that prelude and threw it violently out the window, devolving to unapologetic comedy as the couple went to ever more improbable lengths to keep from killing each other or being discovered by their allies. The most uproarious moment was when the soldier of L'Or narrowly hid his lover and convinced a patrol that they'd seen a demon, sending them running back to camp in a panic. The third act was epic, both lovers caught in the heat of a battle between the full force of both armies and expected at any moment to cut one another down. The miraculous deliverance of a rift opening over the battlefield poured demons over the soldiers and the armies turned from fighting each other to unite against a greater threat. The Inquisitor rode in at the crucial moment and sealed the rift. The lovers recognized a chance for escape and both volunteered for the army of the faithful. The happy ending had them whisked away to bask in their love and the protection of the Herald of Andraste.

"Entertaining perhaps," Lady Eustace's barely kept the distaste from her tone, "Do you not think it overly bold to spread such messages now? To make heroes of traitors and trivialize the loyalty and honor of our armies?"

Celene was glad her mask covered from her eyes to hair, hiding the twitch of eyebrow that was smug victory as she recognized the trap. The play was as controversial as every other public statement dared in Orlais and the cultured of Val Royeaux were quickly divided in their views. Indeed, put any two Royans in a room and four opinions would emerge. Lady Richelieu expected the Empress to side with the romantics, defending the heroes and arguing that love transcended loyalty to crown or kingdom. Alternately, she might hope Celene would be foolish enough to agree with her, condemning the lovers to praise the rest of the loyal armies and thus making a hypocrite of herself and her efforts at peace.

"Theatre is like all other artistic form of Orlais: open to personal interpretation, sûrement," Celene gently wove the placating words into a net, "We, however, found it refreshing in upholding the true ideals of what makes Orlesian warriors rightly legendary. We not only cherish honor and loyalty, we pledge them to the service of more than ego. It is a pity when such virtues are wasted in death, is it not?"

"Well said, Your Radiance." Magister Tilani broke her patient silence to weigh in, lifting her glass in an appreciative toast. A faint line appeared above Richelieu's mask, the frustration of knowing she'd been outplayed once more. Agree or disagree, in either case she would alienate allies. Not to mention that disagreeing would make her look calloused and militant to a roomful of nobles who'd sacrificed sons and daughters to the war. Her only choice was to modestly surrender the subject.

"By the Maker's Graces, you have spared Orlais from anymore of such wastes." The feigned praise accompanied another graceful curtsy and Lady Eustace turned to depart and lick her wounded pride.

"Does that happen often?" Maevaris asked curiously, watching the noble storm away with as much dignity as possible.

"Constantly." Celene admitted, more of a smile gaining ground on her lips than she would usually allow. The victory meant she could relax a fraction for a few minutes. No one else would be brave enough to challenge her for a while, not after seeing that bout.

"The Imperium is full of sinister schemes and power plays but I must say: I've never seen a Court held hostage by courtesy. Doesn't it get tiresome to play these games when you could just wipe all the pieces off the board?" Magister Tilani's brow was knit with genuine puzzlement and even a trace of concern. It was touching; a Tevinter mage worried for the Empress of Orlais.

"As magisters do?" Celene kept her tone measured, trying to prevent the logic from sounding like an accusation, "We trade in favor rather than blood magic but the motive is assuredly the same: pride and control. A noble whose name has been destroyed would likely prefer to have become an abomination. Our empires have developed very different weapons for wielding power but let us harbor no illusions, both have ruined countless lives."

"Very true, Your Majesty," Maevaris mulled the words, taking a thoughtful sip of her wine, "But I think I prefer the demons that attack from the front, not the back."

Celene didn't reply to the quip beyond a charming, enigmatic smile.


It was nearing midnight before the celebrations ended and the many guests returned to their homes or retired to spare rooms in the palace. Celene's typical headache throbbed but being free of the corset and finally able to take a deep breath had rejuvenated her enough to deal with the piles of correspondence on her desk. The Empress' bed chamber had a few oil lamps casting shadows across the room, barely augmenting the moonlight that bled in from the windows. Occasional noise from below announced yet another departing carriage full of inebriated guests but otherwise the air was still aside from the scratching of a quill moving across paper.

Most honored . . . delighted to meet . . . inexcusable lapse of etiquette . . . Beautiful workmanship . . . pardoned on condition. Words poured effortlessly from Celene's fingertips as she replied to the mountain of letters, setting aside those that required more than sweet flattery or a firm hand. Those she would deal with in the morning when her head wasn't fogged with the pain that inevitably bled into her temples before any evening ended.

"You should have been resting hours ago." The low voice that purred into the silence wrapped around Celene like a silken caress. The very sound had muscles through the length of her body melting into familiar relaxation and coiling with anticipation all at once.

"Some of these petitions could not be left waiting." The Empress replied, keeping her voice and hand steady despite the thrill that raced along her spine.

"Such as?" Briala's temptation whispered directly into Celene's ear, tan fingers gently stilling her own pale hand.

"The Court of Nevarra is most persistent. If unchecked they would likely persuade many of my own nobles that a marital alliance is the wisest course." The Empress tapped the feathered end of her quill against the letter she was addressing, turning her face just enough to watch her lover's eyes narrow at the mention of marriage. There was a familiar twitch in Briala's throat when such subjects arose, a tension of muscle swallowing words. The elf stayed silent but teased away the piece of paper to review for herself. Celene let out a small breath of relief when she didn't step further away, trailing a hand up the Empress' arm to rest comfortingly on her shoulder even as a frown marred her perfect lips.

"They make a valid point. Orlais and Nevarra united would form a solid border against any possible threat from Tevinter." Briala admitted, begrudging but objective as always.

"It is not an option." Celene shook her head, rising from her chair as if to render official judgment.

"Not with this prince they're suggesting, certainly," the elf, rather than being intimidated by her lover's assertion of power, smiled as she recognized the passion behind it, "It's only a pity Seeker Pentaghast isn't available. She is, after all, far more attractive a choice of royalty."

"She is quite low in the ranks of succession." The Empress argued back, failing to suppress her own smile as Briala stepped closer.

"A minor issue. One explosion made a lay sister the Divine, arranging something similar for the Nevarran Court wouldn't be too difficult." The Marquise replied, hands drifting to roam the pale skin exposed by Celene's scant night dress.

"The Lady Seeker would never be party to such treason. She is a warrior of honor and has served Orlais as much as the Chantry and Inquisition," the blonde pointed out, fighting the sigh out of her words when fingers graced the edge of her neck, "But then, that is what would make her such an excellent choice, is it not? Honorable, pure, valiant, faithful. She embodies much of what Orlais might wish in hero and ruler."

"Then it truly is a pity," Briala's hand cupped Celene's cheek, gently tilting her face down, "That she is very, very unavailable, no?"

The Empress smiled as warmth finally met her lips, allowing the sigh trapped in her throat a sweet but silent release. These evenings had become luxuriously frequent, the business and needs of the Dales requiring the Marquise to fight for her people in the political cesspool of Val Royeaux as often as the battlefields of the Emerald Graves. It was becoming habit, this familiar indulgence and Celene could feel, in the swells and ache between each heartbeat, how desperately broken she had been without it. As Empress she had given everything of herself for Orlais; her life, her energy, her resources, every last shred of her mind and heart save for this one tiny corner that she could not give up. She would not sacrifice this last shred of her true self.

The feeling of fingers deftly moving along the twists and ties of her hair broke Celene's reverie and she pulled away.

"You are not my handmaiden anymore, Bria." The Empress gently stilled the hand in her hair. She had left it tied in braids to stay out of her face at the desk, the long strands not only distracting but inevitably trailing through wet ink when she didn't watch.

"No, I'm not," the elf agreed, freeing herself from Celene's grip to resume her task, "I am simply the woman that loves touching you."

The affectionate assurance, coupled with fingers threading deep into the loosening strands, silenced any protestation. Celene surrendered to the touch, teeth biting her lower lip to stifle the murmur of emotion that threatened to escape. It was only right, fitting in so many ways. After so many years of combing and braiding her Empress' hair, Briala alone was allowed to undo it and rake her fingers through the knotted tresses. A playful touch teased a few pale strands forward, framing her face in the tousled look that Celene knew her lover adored; the unguarded, unpolished manner that allowed woman to take the place of empire.

"Did you notice Baroness Niquette this evening?" The Empress slid her hands down Briala's back, fingers playing along the ties until she found the knot securing her dress and began to tease it free.

"Her gown was at least two seasons out of fashion." The Marquise confirmed, leaning in closer and allowing Celene more reach even as she turned her attention to exploring the pale skin of a shoulder with her lips.

"Suspicious for a woman so obsessed with style, no? But the high collar would be most useful in hiding the evidence of a new lover." Celene chuckled, the sound rolling into a purr when Briala's mouth found the sensitive spot below her ear.

"Someone very recent, then. Or at least very young. They haven't yet learned to not leave a mark." The elf agreed, emphasizing her point by moving away long before the Empress' delicate skin could be marred.

"And Lord Pierre, he did not eat or drink a single thing all night." Celene struggled to concentrate on the seemingly innocent conversation and the task of her fingers fumbling with ties. They had been playing this game almost as long as any other, challenging each other to stay sharp.

"A man that afraid of poison must have reason to believe someone wants him dead." Briala's observation faded into a hum of approval as her dress loosened and slid away, allowing her to step free.

"He must have succeeded in securing the estate in Churneau. The Duchess is not known to suffer losses kindly." The Empress savored the taste of skin beneath her lips, the scent of her love warm and spiced from the festivities.

"You saw Ser Philippe, yes? Wearing the colors of House Boisvert." The Marquise's fingers tensed, digging slightly into the soft skin of Celene's shoulders when teeth grazed her ear.

"He is courting a marriage alliance with the youngest daughter." The Empress' didn't dare speak above a whisper, not with her lips so close to such a sensitive area but even so the brush of air made the elf in her arms shudder.

"He is an upstart and an ass," Briala's tongue felt thick but she strained for words, focusing on threads of irritation over the idiot noble she'd investigated, "And his mistress is already three months pregnant."

"Lady Caprina? I had wondered at her absence of late," Celene's breath hitched for a moment when hands trailed ever lower along her spine, "Let them get engaged. When the time is right we will expose the mistress and bastard and all three houses will be desperate to avoid shame."

"And Your Radiance will undoubtedly have a plan for helping them in their hour of need, yes?" Briala's laugh was low in her throat, a pleasant chuckle like the deep roll of waves.

"Allying with Gaspard cost many nobles their wealth and name. I believe a few well-arranged marriages could swiftly balance fortunes and create a more," The Empress paused, struggling for words as lips moved deliberately down the neckline of her chemise, "Grateful attitude in the future."

"Celene," Briala drew back to meet a darkened sapphire gaze, lips curling up into a mischievously predatory smirk, "You are truly wicked."

"You would know, my love." The Empress, faced with eyes that turned almost black as they devoured her, surrendered her last vestiges of control. With one hand tangled in cinnamon curls she guided her lover back into a long and heated kiss. For tonight, with each other, all games were forgotten.


Never having worked with this couple before, thoughts and feedback are naturally appreciated. It was wonderful of Bioware to provide a canon F/F couple in the Dragon Age universe but I prefer them with a little less angst. Hopefully that choice doesn't make them seem OoC