Act 2: The part of the story where things don't seem right.
Married life is distinctly different than Celia was expecting, not so much so in the way of duties, she still runs much of what she had initially. But she spends her nights abed with her husband, is called my lady by the servants instead of by her name. Never a lack of sharp words or crude comments, only now arguments end with hurried passions.
Soon the time comes for her presentation to the Landsmeet, a feat Celia is not ready for and decides she'll never be ready for. They leave at the beginning of Kingsway, and the journey takes some two and a half weeks. During which time, Loghain and her spend the majority of in silence, he's going through missives and reports for the Landsmeet. While she simply has nothing to say, the slight terror of meeting the Ferelden court petrifies her.
Denerim just barely escapes her notices, she's so caught up in her own mind, the sounds of city rumblings jar her from her thoughts. What everyone says about the city is true, she is a glittering gem, bursting at the seams with people and culture.
"I've business to attend to with Maric, I'll leave you to get acquainted with the estate and prepare for dinner." Loghain says with not an ounce of interest in the sight of the city. Celia isn't surprised by this, he's come to Denerim before.
"Of course." She responds.
"You're expected at the palace before nightfall, take the smaller carriage."
"I'm sorry?" She asks.
"For dinner, with Maric and Rowan."
She narrows her gaze at him, "Must you always leave me uninformed until the absolute last moment possible?"
He smirks at her, the first bit of interaction between the two all day. "Think of it as I'm testing you, seeing if you'll keep on your toes."
Shaking her head, Celia watches the estate come into view, it's smaller than Castle Gwaren, but that's to be expected in a city such as this. The servants have lined up in front of the entrance and she remembers that she's supposed to be Loghain's wife, a Teyrna. In a way she hasn't had the responsibility yet, she's acted the part of a seneschal back home. Here she has a title, status, and for the first time she realizes how undeserving of both of those things she is.
Loghain steps out first, offers his hand to her as if this is natural, and she follows him with ease.
"Teyrn Loghain, welcome back to Denerim, my lord." An older man smiles, bowing to her husband.
"Master Gavrial, this is my wife, Celia." He presents her, and for a moment she panics. Is she meant to bow to the head steward of the home?
"An honor, my lady." He says with another deep bow, Celia nods in kind, unsure of what else to do.
"I trust you'll show her around the estate, and introduce her to the staff." He says it as if the words are fact, no room for question or doubt. Celia is unsurprised.
"Of course, my lord, preparations have been made just as you've instructed." Celia raises a brow to her husband, uncertain of when he made time to send instructions ahead of them.
"Thank you." He turns to Celia and kisses her with an ounce of roughness, enough to leave her shocked where she stands. "I'll see you tonight." He says before turning and walking away.
She chuckles nervously, being left alone with the servants… such a strange term when used in relation to herself. She looks to Master Gavrial, "He's… quite the character."
"Indeed." He smiles, "Allow me to introduce you to the staff."
"Ah… yes." She returns the smile as he begins rattling off a list of names, each accompanied with a person in the lineup bowing or curtsying. All of this flourish for just Celia feels a bit excessive, alright a lot excessive, yet she keeps her thoughts internal until introductions conclude.
Then she's taken on a tour of the full estate, every corner and crack in the wall (that they haven't quite gotten around to fixing but rest assured they will). Maker's breath it's all too much for her to handle if she's honest. She has her own set of rooms in the estate, just like back home, the ones she never uses.
Despite how overwhelming all of this is she still manages to take it all in, or at the very least as much as she can handle. In her head she runs through all the halls and rooms, trying to keep them all straight, even as Master Gavrial still talks. And the man can talk, as if linens and structure of the estate is the only topic worth knowing anything about. Celia likes him, she thinks, likes the idea of being able to remain of one mind at the very least.
A bath is waiting for her when she's done with the tour, and a few of the serving girls change her for dinner. Despite wanting nothing more than to lie down a sleep off the trip, she's dressed in something far too delicate and fine for just a dinner. A part of her wants to demand to be allowed to dress herself, but the other part keeps her silent. This a world Celia knows nothing about, she needs to follow, at least for a time until she can wrap her head around her new station.
Dinner with the king and queen, an affair she'd never imagined herself partaking in, is quick and relatively painless. Though during the night Celia comes to feel as though she is truly an outsider among them. Her husband, the king, and the queen get on like the closest of friends. The fact that she feels as though she's intruding on their fun does not leave her once she recognizes it.
The very next day an invitation arrives at the estate, requesting Celia's attendance to a luncheon with the other high ladies of the court. Loghain does not give her an option to refuse, making plans for himself the moment she informs him of the notion.
"You'd so easily throw me to the dogs?" Celia can't help but ask him.
He lets out a barking laugh at her words, "Maker's Breath, woman, they're all bark and no bite. It won't be so bad."
"You don't know that." She huffs folding her arms across her chest.
He shakes his head, gathering his coat in his arms, he'll be spending the afternoon with King Maric and Teyrn Cousland. "You'll do just fine, flash them that pretty smile and keep your mouth shut."
"No need to be so cruel." She says as he kisses her, albeit briefly.
"And you needn't be so quick to jump to conclusions." He reminds her. "Play nice with the ladies, will you?"
"I promise nothing." She says as he passes by her.
"I look forward to hearing this tale from all sides, my lady." He says nothing else as he walks out of the estate; although there's already a carriage waiting out front for her, once she's swallowed her pride and decided to go.
Climbing into a carriage alone feels strange and out of place, despite having done it once the day previous. Even stranger still when she notices people on the streets trying to see in to the carriage, to catch a glimpse of the woman who married Teyrn within the first year of his title.
She'd been told by her husband that the wedding was a very hot topic of gossip among the nobility, practically none had remembered her from their introduction at Loghain's ball. Many assume she's a long-lost love of the Teyrn, that perhaps they met on the field of battle and he vowed to return to her as soon as he could. Some thought perhaps she must be the most beautiful woman in Thedas and thus bewitched him the moment their eyes met, or in fact that she's an apostate and is trying to overthrow Ferelden's new rule. Celia is both amused and a bit upset to ruin their fun, the truth is rather dull in comparison to the lavish tales gossip breeds.
The Arlessa of Denerim is holding the affair, and Celia can already tell by the cluster of fine carriages nearly every lady in Denerim is in attendance. In her mind, Celia runs through as many social graces as she can before entering the estate. The servants usher her to the large sun room, all decorated with finery and the like, food sprawled out on every open surface. Some of the windows have been left open, fall air tumbling in and rustling the center pieces.
Not a single lady acknowledges her presence at first, which Celia happens to prefer. It allows her the opportunity to observe the ladies' dresses, the way they wear their hair, how each of them has their nose firmly placed in the air.
"Celia, dear! When did you arrive?" It's Eleanor Cousland with a baby in one arm and the other wrapping around Celia's shoulders.
"I haven't been here long, I assure you, my-…" It might not be proper to call Eleanor, my lady anymore. What in the void is she to call her?
"None of that." Eleanor chuckles, "You'll call me by my name, yes?"
"Yes, of course." Celia feels the heat of embarrassment settle in. "Who's this?" She asks directing the question to the child in Eleanor's arms. The babe has taken to suckling on his fist as he stares with wide eyes at everything around him.
"This is my son, Fergus." The Teyrna smiles brightly at the boy, "Bryce insisted I leave him at the estate, but I do hate being away from him. Aside from that he's a very well-behaved boy."
Celia tickles the boy's stomach eliciting a gurgling laugh from him, "He's darling."
"I also love an excuse to leave these events early." Eleanor whispers to Celia in confidence, Celia snorts at the confession. "Come, you should be meeting our hostess."
Truth be told she has 'met' all of the ladies of the court, at least most of them, at her wedding. However, her mind was elsewhere at the time and it has been six months since then. Aside from those things, this is a formal introduction, done as a courtesy to all the nobility.
Eleanor takes her to a particularly large group of women all chattering and giggling; their attention quickly diverts to the approaching pair. "Ladies, it's my honor to formally introduce you to the lady Mac Tir." Celia hears the name and feels taken aback, she has scarcely been called by her new name.
"So, this is the woman who's captured the Teyrn's heart." One of the particularly vocal women says. "It is an honor to meet you, your ladyship, I am Ginevra Kendells Arlessa of Denerim."
"A pleasure." Celia says as the group of ladies briefly curtsy to her.
"I hope your stay in Denerim has treated you well thus far, it must be quite different from Gwaren."
"Very much so, but the city is quite nice thank you."
"Torin, bring us some wine, would you." Ginevra snaps for a servant. "Please sit, your ladyship, we've all been dying to hear how you romanced our dear Loghain."
Celia smiles through her breathy laughter, taking a seat on one of the many plush couches. "I'm afraid it's not such a grand tale."
"Of course, you might think so, but the rest of us have been very intrigued by it all, and by you."
Suddenly Celia feels surrounded, like the mingling crowd has stopped the moment Ginevra snapped her fingers. But Celia keeps her chin up and her smile easy, "What do you want to know?"
"How you met, that's a good enough place to start."
Celia laughs, trying to pass her nerves off as fond remembrance, "He'd been at Castle Gwaren for a month without having done anything at all, so I yelled at him."
"Did you really?" One of the ladies, Celia vaguely remembers as a Bann's wife laughs.
"The man was living in a pitched tent inside a rotting castle, of course I did."
"Men." Eleanor chuckles bouncing Fergus a bit more.
Celia is presented a glass of wine, which she takes despite her hesitation; drinking during the day seems odd for fine ladies, but denying hospitality might be even worse. Especially because it seems the other ladies have already been drinking.
"So, it's true then, you're a commoner." Another lady Celia doesn't recognize asks.
"I am."
"Loghain was born common too, if you'll recall." Eleanor says, an edge infiltrating her tone.
"Eleanor, she didn't mean it like that, I think it's rather romantic." Ginevra snickers from behind her wine glass. "You were probably the first sight he'd seen since arriving."
"I told you it's not such a grand tale." Celia responds.
"Oh, but it is, the new Teyrn comes to Gwaren and finds love in the first woman he meets. You do love him, don't you?"
"Of course, I love him." Celia narrows her gaze at the Arlessa, "What are you implying?"
"My apologies, I wasn't implying anything. It just seems strange that Loghain, a very impartial sardonic man announces his betrothal after two months of knowing her. A bit out of character no?"
"Perhaps you don't know him as well as you think." Celia allows the words to fly before her thoughts can censor her. At the realization of what she's said she takes another drink, hoping to hide behind something. But there is no hiding in a lady's salon, and Ginevra laughs with a hint of cruelty.
"Perhaps I don't, enlighten me then about your dashing husband."
"He's a good man, not traditionally kind or sweet… but he cares greatly for me."
"I see, and what of you, Celia?" The usage of her name feels like a jab, but she does not give in.
"What about me?"
"Why do you think he fell in love with you?"
Celia wants to answer and doesn't, she wants to name the traits that drew Loghain to her but does not know them herself. She wants to meet Ginevra with biting remarks and callous answers, all the while knowing she can't.
Celia finally responds with, "I haven't a clue."
"Come now, you're being far too humble, at the very least he must have thought you were beautiful." Being called beautiful has never felt like such an insult. "Maybe it's because you are vastly different from the Queen, that would make sense really."
"Bite your tongue Ginevra you'll remember whom you are speaking to." Ginevra sips her wine innocently as Eleanor reprimands her. Yet Celia feels her brows draw together, her mind rushes through the obvious before Ginevra chuckles.
"I thought everyone knew that Loghain fancies the queen, who wouldn't? She's beautiful and talented, the perfect queen really."
"They were lovers during the war, that's what I've heard at least." Another lady says with a giggle.
"Are you accusing not only my husband but your queen as well of infidelity?" Celia asks, voice tense, anger rising in her gut quickly.
"Maker's Breath no, of course not." Ginevra places a hand on her chest as if she's surprised by the notion and not the cause. "It just makes sense doesn't it?"
"To you perhaps." Celia says griping the stem of her empty glass trying to keep calm.
"That you're the exact opposite of our queen, it's obvious why he chose you."
"That's enough!" Eleanor stands up, "You best learn to respect your superiors, Ginevra, all that talk will come back to bite you. I swear it."
"Eleanor, you're taking things to the extreme, Celia and I are having a friendly conversation."
"She did not give you permission to call her by her name. You will address her by her station until granted permission otherwise."
Celia wants to contribute, to defend not only herself, but her husband as well. However, she can't manage a thought that isn't keeping her anger at bay. She wants to knock this Arlessa's teeth in, wants to rip her to shreds for even insinuating that her husband could be adulterous.
Growing up with brothers, Celia is familiar with fist fighting, even when her mother insisted she be a lady. Every inch of her wants to punch Ginevra's smirk off her face, but she has to refrain for her sake and that of her husband.
"I doubt the Teyrn would swallow your words half as well as she. Remember that." Eleanor turns to Celia, who is still holding back her fuming rage. Celia feels as though she should say something, a hot retort that burns as soon as the words leave her body. But she knows she can't, so she bites her lips and swallows every harsh word.
Fergus has started to make a fuss in the silence, to which Eleanor immediately walks away. Celia finally manages to speak, "It seems we must be leaving."
"I completely understand." Ginevra says, "Allow me to see you out." But she makes no move to do so.
"No need, thank you." Celia dips her head and follows after Eleanor. The Teyrna in question is not far down the hall, she doesn't have much catching up to do.
"Eleanor, I-… I'm sorry." Celia says once she reaches the other woman.
"No, don't apologize, that woman wouldn't know subtlety or humility if they stood right in front of her and clubbed her to death. Which she would deserve mind you." Eleanor sighs taking Celia's hand, "She was far out of line, I should have never let it escalate to that."
"You did just fine… At the very least I didn't start a brawl…" Celia chuckles nervously.
"Thank the Maker for that." Eleanor chuckles.
"Was… Was there any merit to what she said? Be honest with me."
Eleanor sighs and Celia knows, at least some of what was said is true. "Come to the Highever estate, we can talk there."
Celia nods once and the two are headed towards their respective carriages, left alone with her thoughts she begins to over analyze. Perhaps Loghain did choose her for being so vastly different from Rowan, beautiful, dark, soft spoken, noble Rowan. Why else would he have picked a woman such as herself? Was she really so stupid as to believe the man was in love with her? Just like that? It all happened so fast, the wedding, the courtship, was it all to hide his feelings for the queen? Is she merely a scapegoat?
The Highever estate is just as fine as Gwaren's, though the colors are blues and golds, as opposed to Gwaren's greys and reds. Eleanor is waiting in the front hall for Celia before bringing her to a small parlor, she assumes this is Eleanor's personal parlor. Celia has one just like it.
"You don't mind if I feed him, do you?" Eleanor asks.
"Of course not." Celia says softly. The serving girls have already begun setting up tea as Eleanor feeds the babe.
"Ginevra is a sniveling wretch, always has been, it befits her considering her husband." Eleanor shakes her head.
"I assume that means Arl Kendells is not a gentle man." Celia quirks her lips just a touch, the wine from earlier is beginning to get to her head.
"Oh no, quite the opposite in fact, perhaps he needed a little bite to his rule, it's quite an unfortunate affair that she was the result of that." In the silence Celia wonders how to ask Eleanor about Loghain and the queen, but Eleanor is quick to pick up on what is unspoken. "She was mostly trying to get under your skin, Celia, really she enjoys getting a rise out of people. But you should be aware that Loghain and Rowan did have… previous relations."
"Serious relations?" Celia feels dreadfully juvenile, like a teenaged girl trying to find out everything about the boy she fancies this week.
"It's only a rumor that they… bedded one another, and if you want my personal opinion I doubt they did. Rowan has always loved Maric, ever since they were children, and Loghain is Maric's dearest friend he would not betray him like that. Even if he was the type of man to do such a thing, his sense of duty is far too strong to allow for such a breach of character."
"But he does love her… So, the rumors say?"
"You've nothing to worry about, he does love you."
"This isn't about me I'm afraid." Celia's voice is hushed and the worry she's been casting aside floods her senses.
"Listen to me, Loghain is nothing if not a smart man, he would never bed a married woman let alone the woman married to his best friend. You've absolutely nothing to fear."
"But she could be right, couldn't she? I'm the exact opposite of Rowan-"
"I won't hear of that, you're more alike than you think."
"Somehow that doesn't make me feel better."
"Celia, you mustn't think like that." Celia shakes her head as Eleanor continues, "Do you want to know what I think?"
"Haven't you been telling me what you think?" Celia manages a chuckle.
"I think he chose you because you remind him of a lot of things, not just Rowan. You remind him of what he lost to the war, what he was fighting for, and all that he gained from it." Eleanor adjusts Fergus as she continues, "You are passionate and bold, yet you have as humble beginnings as he does. You survived the war and kept your wits about you, I think he admires you greatly."
Celia closes her eyes, "I want to say I didn't sign up for this, but I suppose I did."
"Yes, but you're handling it all gracefully if I may say so."
"Ha, yes my very first ladies function and I left early due to my husband being accused of infidelity… I didn't even stay for two hours." Celia covers her face embarrassed.
Eleanor tilts her head back with a cackle, "Perhaps you need more to drink."
"Ugh." Celia shakes her head, a small smile forming on her lips. Sure enough a servant soon appears with an open bottle of wine and two full glasses.
"If it makes you feel any better, my first ladies luncheon was spent attempting to explain why exactly I deserved to be married to a Teyrn when I was a pirate."
Celia and Eleanor share a bemused smile, Celia taking the wine glass and sipping tentatively. "And how exactly did that go over?"
"Oh perfectly, I scared the ever-living piss out of them, and all has been well since."
Celia laughs, "I wish I had such a tale to tell, perhaps then I wouldn't feel like such rubbish."
"They don't deserve your time. Well, that's not fair to some of them, a few of the banns are quite lovely, they tend to get lost among the general chaos, however."
"Ah…" Celia finishes her wine and Eleanor's who explains that she shouldn't be drinking spirits while she's still feeding Fergus.
Celia already a lightweight, is thoroughly tipsy by the time she leaves the estate, her heart still aching from the day's revelations. The ride back to her own estate allots her time to recall the bitterness of the afternoon, and allow it to simmer.
Master Gavrial informs her that her husband is in his office and she practically storms up to the room. She throws the door open and stares at her husband, wonders if he loves her or if she is just a distraction from Rowan.
"Good evening Celia, how was your lunch?" He asks without even a glance in her direction.
"Shit." She says closing the door behind her and approaching his desk.
"You're surprisingly cheery for such words." Loghain looks up at her usage of a curse, amusement melts across his features.
"Eleanor had me drink." Celia says smiling at her husband.
He sighs, "Do I want to know why?"
"Perhaps." She halfway says the word before kissing him, breath harsh against his lips.
He laughs, hand reaching up to her cheek pulling her away. "I don't think I've ever seen you drunk, and in the middle of the day no less."
She leans into his hand humming as she does so, content with the contact, "I don't usually drink, but I was apparently unbearable."
"Now I think I really don't want to know what happened." Loghain shakes his head, running his thumb along her cheek.
"Will you take me to bed husband?" She asks, eyes scanning his features, for what she isn't sure.
"It's a bit early to sleep, Celia." He laughs, she must look so ridiculous he can't remain serious.
"No, I mean take me as in lie with me. Please?" She chuckles as she asks, her hands reaching up to his shirt, finally lifting her head from his hand.
"You're serious." He shakes his head, "Maker you are gone."
"I am not." She pouts at him receiving another laugh as she does so. She leans forward and kisses his jaw, though she was hoping to kiss his cheek.
"You are, and you're quite adorable drunk." His hands have traveled to her back, she doesn't register this as him trying to ensure she doesn't fall over, but she manages the thought when she suddenly stops swaying.
"I'm furious, tipsy, and in need of proper distraction, now take me to our chambers and have me." She demands, as much as she's able in her state. In an attempt to stand upright and march him to their room he pulls on her wrist, sending her tumbling into his lap.
"You might not make it to our chambers at this rate, my dear wife." He laughs, grasping her face so that he can kiss her properly.
"Will you take me here then?" She asks, a light in her eye.
"You really want me to?"
"Don't make me beg, I've already said please." She snorts placing her head in the crook of his neck, his breath is warm on the top of her head.
"That you have." He agrees with a laugh, glancing down to see her eyes closed. She's already halfway to the fade, and she's never been more comfortable. He kisses the top of her head, "Are you sure you don't want to go to bed to sleep, dear?"
"Mhm." She puts her face right against his neck leaving a kiss on the skin beneath, and falls asleep waiting for him to say something.
She wakes up in their bed the next morning, alone and still exhausted, damn her inability to hold her liquor. Upon waking up a bit more, she realizes that it is not so late as she thought, just that her husband is an early riser, especially with the Landsmeet tomorrow. Dressing quickly, she heads immediately back to her husband's office, and sure enough she finds him in practically the same spot.
"You're up early." She says, watching him jump out of his own skin as she does so.
"Maker's Breath, do you ever knock?" He sighs when he realizes it's merely her.
"I've been known to knock on occasion." She closes the door behind her but stays in the doorway, "Should I apologize for yesterday?"
"I'm surprised you remember yesterday at all. How much did you drink?" A bemused smile stretches across his face.
"Believe it or not I only had three glasses of wine, thank you very much." She says defensively folding her arms over her chest.
He shakes his head, "I've never seen you like that, Celia, it was enlightening and terrifying in a way."
"I avoid spirits for a reason." She says nervously fidgeting where she stands. "You were gone when I woke up."
"Truth be told I didn't know what you'd be like upon waking."
"I'm so glad I can rely on my husband to be with me through thick and thin."
"Don't be like that Celia."
As a silence slips between the two of them, Celia approaches her husband a small smile forming on her face. "I believe you still owe me. After all, I did ask nicely."
"I was not about to take advantage of you in the state you were in." Loghain shakes his head.
"Yes, how very chivalrous of you, who knows I might have fallen asleep during the act. But why not take me now?" She asks, feeling positively foolish, practically begging him to have her.
He stands up from his desk and leans in close to her, "Who said I wouldn't take you now."
Celia watches him walk around the desk and her heartbeat quickens with his pace, "Perhaps you shouldn't imply disinterest then."
Just as she's about the lead the way back to their chambers, he grasps her arm and pulls her back into his grasp. The shock of which leaves her breathless in his arms, his hands already pushing the fabric of her dress off her shoulder, so he can suck the tender skin beneath.
"I believe you had a very specific request yesterday. Or at the very least, you ached for me so deeply you couldn't wait to be abed." He's whispers the words into her ear, his nose pressed against her temple. One hand drawing a line down her arm until their hands are clasped, the other wrapped around her waist.
"And here I thought you of all people would be aghast at the idea of satisfaction outside the bedroom." Managing a chuckle through the sudden heat of the moment, Celia turns to face her husband.
Loghain is quick and decisive with his movements, in seconds she laid on the desk, arms well above her head as he grips her wrists. His lips are harsh on hers, the crumpling of parchment beneath her body is the only sound outside of their heavy breathing. There's not an inch of space between their two bodies, each of them craving skin and contact as fervently as the young lovers they are.
"You were desperate for me last night, are you as desperate for me now?" A hot flush fills her cheeks and she can only nod to him. "Tell me."
He's barely a breath away, just above her with dark eyes and a tantalizing smile that sends waves of anticipation through her. Swallowing thickly, she manages to speak, "I'm desperate for you… I need… I need you."
He releases his harsh grip on her wrists, lifts her just enough off the desk to flip her over on her stomach. Wanders his touch down the length of her spine before hoisting her skirts up, leaving kisses behind her ears and the back of her neck. Her breath is heavy, drenched in soft moans when his fingers graze her thighs.
Gripping the desk as he removes her smallclothes, she breathes out his name and listens to the way he laughs. It's a heavy sound, possessive in way, perhaps in the wrong context even cruel. He enjoys seeing her this way, bent over for him, only able to process his name. It's moments like these that remind her just how much he owns of her, how much she has given him.
When he asks her to, "Tell me you're mine." while he's two fingers deep inside of her, she isn't surprised. He always asks her this, always wants to hear her say those coveted words.
"I'm yours." She responds breathlessly, listening to the way he shudders before retracting his hand and entering her shortly after. There's a part of her that wants him to declare her ownership of him, but knows that isn't the case. Celia is his, through and through, the same cannot be said the other way around.
He lays on top of her, the pressure and weight of him keeps her engaged in the moment, yearning to touch him. The way he moves inside of her evokes soft sounds of pleasure, and he loves when she's vocal during intimacy.
They're soon nothing but puddles of satisfaction, him still on top of her leaving little kisses on the side of her head. "I did want you last night." He admits, "I hope you'll always want me as desperately as you do now."
She chuckles softly, "I reserve the right to cast you off should I feel the need."
"As long as you'll always welcome me home, I'll settle for that." He laces their fingers together and kisses the back of her hand, lifting his weight off of her just a bit.
"I will, always and forever."
"I love you, Celia." These last words are spoken into the back of her neck, his face poised just above.
That's when the blaringly loud knock at the door startles them both. "Can we come in yet or are you two still having a moment?" The snide comment sounds pleased and amused, as Celia and Loghain startle.
"Andraste's tits, Maric, what the fuck is wrong with you!?" Loghain practically springs off of Celia and begins to re dress himself.
"Watch your tongue in front of our Celia she may still leave you yet." Maric laughs behind the door.
Celia tries not to laugh; the absolute embarrassment of the situation threatens to send her into fits of giggling.
"I'm… I'm sorry about the mess, perhaps you should go change." Loghain says helping her stand upright; a feat that's awkward given the twinges between her legs and the fact that his seed still leaks out of her ever so slightly.
"Where did you toss my smallclothes?" She asks, flustered and unsteady on her legs.
"Shit." He looks around the room for a moment before she puts a hand on his shoulder.
"It's alright, we'll find them later." She kisses his cheek before calling for Maric to enter the room.
"Might I suggest installing locks on this door? Perhaps all of them?" Maric has a shit eating grin if Celia's ever seen one, Teyrn Cousland directly behind him covering his mouth with a fist to keep the chuckling at bay.
"Maker's Breath don't tell me you saw-"
"He saw nothing at all, he's the perfect gentleman, right Maric?" Celia smirks at the king who returns the look with a laugh.
Maric stands up a bit straighter, "Of course my lady, your virtue and your dignity are well intact."
Celia shakes her head and turns to Loghain, his face bright red and clearly trying not to lash out at Maric. "I'll leave you to discuss the Landsmeet, dear." Again, she kisses his cheek and walks out of the office curtsying to the two noblemen before her exit. The door is closed just as she passes the threshold, she rolls her eyes and walks down the corridor, back to her chambers.
After redressing into new smallclothes, she passes her husband's office and hears the very breathless voice of the king.
"Balls deep in you wife, on the desk no less! These papers are important!" She hears laughter within the room and continues on her way.
Celia takes her lunch and dinner alone that night, and finds herself staying up late awaiting her husband.
When he finally enters their chambers, looking tired and spent, he merely says. "You should be asleep." Casting off his clothes in order to change for comfort.
"And you should have come to bed hours ago." She says placing her book on the bedside table.
Loghain says nothing as he flops on the bed, falling instantly asleep. Celia chuckles running her fingers through the tangled locks of his hair; whispering a quick I love you she pulls the covers up to his neck. Snuffing out the candle beside her she settles in next to him.
Loghain is not a graceful sleeper, she notes, the instant he lies down his hair is a jumble of tangles and he sleeps with his mouth open. Celia predicts in their old age he'll snore like a sleeping dragon, he's also graceless in his positions, flopping about in his sleep like a dead fish. The man falls asleep quickly, but once in the fade he's unable to rest.
Usually, Celia takes precaution when sleeping beside him, their first night lying together he'd pushed her out of bed after punching her. Having always shared a bed with her siblings, she doesn't move an inch, and doesn't wake up for just anything. Although being pushed out of bed, while still naked from her first night of sex was a rather apt reason to wake.
This night however, she looks at her husband and recalls Ginevra's cruel words, that Loghain loves the queen and how she can hardly blame him for it. In his sleep she examines the soft lines of his face, the shape of his lips and the dark circles beneath his eyes. Her heart thrums painfully in her chest, like it's trying to break loose of her body, and she can't help but ache for him.
There remains a part of her that recalls their first meeting, and thinks she should still dislike the man. He's rude, standoffish, and cold, he still slings insults at her as if they're continued players of the cruel game from their courtship. Yes, there are days where she thinks she shouldn't love the man she's wed, questions if she should have allowed his impulsive question to offend her.
Perhaps this is the path the Maker meant for her, the thought calms her. Mothers always tell their children that the Maker has a plan, for everyone. She must wait to see what he meant by putting her on this path.
The morning comes, and Celia feels like she hasn't slept a second, she blinked and the sun is streaming in through the curtains. Loghain is half dressed, with an uneaten breakfast before him, reading a missive of some kind. She rises from their bed, draws her dressing gown tight and sits beside him.
"Are you worried, dear?" She asks softly.
"Not worried, Celia, I just like to be prepared that's all." He answers with a sigh.
"Then eat something, the Landsmeet isn't until one." She says grabbing a slice of bread, spreading butter and marmalade over it before holding it out to her husband.
He rolls his eyes, but takes her offering anyway. "I can make my own toast, wife."
"Apparently not, it's getting cold." She comments taking a bit of food for herself. Finally, he puts the missive down and begins to eat, Celia nearly has a heart attack, he never gives in so easily. "Is something the matter?"
"No." He says and that's the end of that conversation.
The two eat their breakfast in silence before heading their separate ways to ready for the Landsmeet. Celia feels the dread settle in, for some reason she hasn't been worried about the Landsmeet until exactly now. The panic comes quickly, she does not want to see those women again, doesn't want to face the scrutiny from before.
Despite the sickening fear, she puts on a façade of complacency and follows her husband to the palace. All at once she is relieved that she's come to the palace before; she is not shocked nor daunted by the enormity and grandeur it exudes.
Once inside, Celia spots a few familiar faces mingling with some unfamiliar ones, she is shocked by the waves of fear still rolling around inside of her. Loghain leads her around the parlor, introducing her to the noblemen and discussing a few of the issues to be addressed in a little under an hour, then promptly leaving. Loghain is a very brief man, leaves no room for argument or continuation, once he's left a conversation it will stay as such.
The Landsmeet itself is far more tolerable than she had anticipated, she is expected to do nothing more than sit in her seat and watch the happenings. The Banns and the Arls stand in the balconies above, she and her husband sit across the room from the Couslands, Maric and Rowan sit in their thrones presiding over the court with a dignity worthy of storybooks.
Loghain is very vocal during the hearings, nearly every issue he gives a well thought out, well spoken opinion. Teyrn Cousland speaks in half the time that her husband does, but when Bryce speaks he has a more compelling genuine tone. Celia's husband is an abrupt man and it seeps into his arguments.
"You're being an ass." She whispers to him as the next agenda is read out.
"I am giving honest criticism." He nearly snarls at her, perhaps all of this political talk is getting to him.
"No one will ever listen to you with a tone like that, be nice and behave." She suggests.
"I am behaving, you're the one who is speaking out of turn."
"And you wonder why I think you're being an ass." She rolls her eyes and turns back to the proceedings. Most of the talk is about trade, renewing contracts, and political territories, trivial things Celia can't follow, nor does she care to.
Then the final announcement is made, Ferelden is hosting a ball to thank their allies during the restoration. Free Marchers, Antivians, and Nevarrans, apparently a small number of unimportant Orlesian nobles will also be in attendance. Celia's heart drops at the very mention of Orlais, but understands immediately the politics at play.
Not inviting the world's largest super power to what is essentially a peace ball, would be inviting trouble in her wake. As much as their other guests will probably loath to have Orlesians in their presence, no one is stupid enough to believe they can survive without the gilded empire.
Maric sounds utterly defeated at the notion of allowing even the lowest of Orlesians to cross their borders; looks tired and angry at the thought of them being allowed in their country ever again. As resigned as he is, Celia sees the same begrudging acceptance that raced through her own mind. Loghain on the other hand looks downright furious at the announcement, gripping the armrest until his knuckles are white, face pinched and crimson.
Celia places a gentle hand on his, and watches as his tense gaze falls to her, she shakes her head at him. His eyes fall instantly back down, if he could look any more livid she's certain he'd become a demon before her very eyes. The pin pricks of tears burn in her eyes, as the announcement concludes, when the war ended Celia thought she'd never have to see another damned Orlesian again. She supposes this is the sacrifice she'll make for her country's wellbeing; nearly three years have passed since the occupation it's time that Ferelden return to her rightful place as a player in the political game of Thedas.
The Landsmeet ends with what Celia can only imagine as typical courtesy's and gestures, as soon as it's all concluded, Loghain practically snatches her hand and storms them out of the grand hall. Not out of the palace, to her surprise, instead up to the empty guest wing, he yanks her into a random room and shuts the door.
Celia doesn't even have a second to take in the room before he's on her, kissing her and clawing at the dress separating the two of them.
She yelps from behind his lips, tries to ask a, "What are you doing?" but can't form the words with him on her so.
"Please Celia, just don't say anything." He says quickly smashing his lips back onto hers.
"Loghain." She manages to say turning her head so he's now assaulting her jaw, "I know you're upset-"
"I said, don't-"
"So, you intend to fuck me because you're angry, and not allow me to have my voice?" She asks harshly.
He groans angrily tilting his head back until it touches the door. "Damn you woman, would you just… ugh."
"Listen to me, I'm just as upset about this as you are, though I'll bet you've had more time than I to let it fester. But there's no reason in being angry, this is out of our hands."
"No, it wasn't, Maric should have just sent our thanks in any other way than this."
"That's not realistic and you know it."
"To the void it's not!" He raises his voice, yet it does not startle her back. "They have taken more from us than they will ever be able to repay! They have taken the lives of our men, orphaned our children, raped our women, and even the damned skin off your back they took! And we're just going to allow them back in like it's nothing!"
"This isn't nothing, this is survival!" She retorts hotly, tears that she'd gracefully held back previously now fall down her cheeks. "None of us want them back here, not Maric, not you, and especially not me, but what choice do we have? This is for Ferelden, not for us, it's for every farmer who can feed their family, and- and- and every bleeding craftsman who can sell their wares abroad! So Ferelden can stay free, for them!"
His hand is on her chin, eyes still burning with rage and something else entirely. "I promised you on our wedding night I'd never let another one of those fat bastards back in our country."
"A promise I never asked for nor expected you to keep." She keeps crying, she wishes she weren't crying. "This isn't about any of us, Loghain darling, this is bigger than us."
He shakes his head, "It's too soon."
"I agree, but we have to make sacrifices." She holds in her sob, tries her very hardest to keep the shuddering at bay.
"I'm tired of making sacrifices… but at the very least they won't have us… they won't have you, Celia." He pulls her in so close she feels like she'll stop breathing in his arms, and a part of her wouldn't mind if she did.
"I'm yours, Loghain, I love you." He sighs at her words kissing the top of her head as he does.
"And I love you." He replies, soft and sweet.
"Orlais may have bled us dry, but she will never have our hearts." Celia says, her father used to say these things to her.
He used to shout from the streets that Orlais was a parasite killing them all, would then come home roughed up by chevaliers on multiple occasions. She prays for her father's strength now, for the strength to stay standing firm in her beliefs even at the expense of herself.
"I won't give her a chance." His voice is back to wicked and sharp, he's told her of his mother, well not exactly. He mentions things sometimes, offhanded comments that start and stop conversations the moment they're spoken. Sometimes his statements are so brief that it leaves her imagination running rampant with despicable deeds committed by those vile people. Celia wonders how active his imagination has gone with her own story of abuse by Orlesians hands.
Her hands wander up the fabric of his dress shirt, looking up to kiss his neck as she does so. "I still want you." He says.
"Okay." She agrees, a bit reluctantly, "But I don't want to be a mess, like the last time we-"
"I'd rather not discuss that, thank you." His kisses are far less aggressive, almost lazy and reckless. Lips falling from hers down to her exposed collarbone. Hands falling down her body like a tired stream, even his breathing sounds exhausted.
She puts a stop to it, quickly, "I've a better idea, actually." Pushing him back against the door as she speaks, she falls down before him.
"What are you doing?" He asks.
She doesn't say a word, tying up her fingers in the laces of his breeches, leaving kisses on the barrier between them. Pushing the fabric down enough to expose him to her, she hears him gasp, seeming to realize what she intends to do.
It takes little teasing to have him pulsing and ready for her, she's never performed the act before only read about it in raunchy novels that she hadn't been seeking out before her wedding night… Judging by his surprise he's never had the act performed either, he's quivering like a teenaged boy about to have his first romp.
She's gentle at first, feather light kisses that could almost be called timid, her hands firmly on his hips. Until she feels him curl his fingers into her hair, looking up at him she notices just how lost he already is.
She cups her hands around him, licks the length of him as she recalls from her… source material. Finds she can't take him fully, but that hardly matters, he's gasping and groaning for her to continue. Moans her name like it's an intimate word, and she can't believe she adores him like this. It feels sick and wrong, but irresistible all at the same time.
He doesn't last nearly as long as she's come to expect, apparently as both have come to expect because he hardly warns her at all of his finality. Not a drop of seed lands on either of their clothing, just as she'd hoped, and he is at her mercy; shaking, sated, and stuttering unfinished words.
She stands upright and kisses his lips, knowing she still tastes of him, but needing a moment of selfishness. "Are you satisfied, husband?"
"Where did you learn to do that?" He asks, a weak hand raising to her cheek.
"I did some research before our wedding through literature… as silly as it sounds." She chuckles, blushing slightly.
"Maker's Breath… You're good to me, Celia." He says leaning his head into the crook of her neck. She says nothing, curling her fingers into his hair and kissing his forehead.
"I love you." She tells him and for a moment isn't sure if he's going to remain awake. He does, and once he's fully recovered she helps him redress, the two depart for home, not a single interaction with the other mingling nobles.
The young couple stays in Denerim for the ball, winter has come as bitterly cold as ever, Celia actually finds it quite mild in Denerim as compared to Gwaren. But she cannot deny how she longs for home, it will be a relief to return, once the frost has gone.
With the winter comes the Peace Ball, and the city is bursting with representatives from all over Thedas. Celia's husband has been helping the king host the event, and she sees the stress of this weigh on him. Loghain isn't particularly social to begin with, to be thrust into politics like this is draining. While trying to be a supportive and gentle wife, she finds that sometimes the best thing to do is leave him be.
She dawns a fine dress commissioned for this very occasion, skirts heavy and full, pure white fabric that reminds her of surrender, and when she greets her husband he merely sighs.
"Don't mind me." He says with a shake of the head. Celia is able to fit the pieces together, he doesn't want to go to this ball, nor does he want any of those Orlesians looking at her like this. Though from what she's heard, Orlais sent the lowest lords they could, insulting bitter men. She hasn't met these men and she dislikes them already.
The ball is lavish in every sense of the word, everyone dressed in their finest, every kind of food imaginable available. It seems that only she and her husband are horrifically uncomfortable with the idea of this ball. Even Maric has put on his bravest face, smiles at her like it hurts but he will not submit, she remembers what he told her. When he told her how people will do ridiculous things for those they care for, Celia hopes her countrymen know all the thing their king will sacrifice for them.
Maric speaks with Loghain in hushed tones, and Celia turns her attention to the other Ferelden's, mostly Arls and of course the Couslands. Eleanor looks invested in a conversation with Rowan, one that Celia is hesitant to join. After all, she and Rowan have barely discussed trivial things. A part of her thinks the queen dislikes her, and perhaps she does. Celia is married to the man who supposedly used to be her lover, supposedly.
"Are you alright dear?"
"Hm?" She asks looking at her husband.
"You look lost in thought."
"And perhaps I was, nothing so important I assure you." She dismisses him with a graceful smile.
He shakes his head turning back to the king, allowing Celia to glance around again, Ginevra is here clinging to a man that must be her husband. A few of the other Arlessa's seem engaged in conversation and from her view, it seems like everyone is ignoring the dragon in the room. That of the foreign dignitaries cannot be ignored for very long, when the dancing begins all bets are off. As of right now, the ambassadors seem to be mingling among each other and themselves, partaking in the feast and drink.
Teyrn Cousland approaches the king and her husband, looking merry and melancholy at the exact same time. "Should we be going?" He asks.
"Damn, already?" Maric looks at the empty dance floor, "Why don't we I suppose."
Maric and Bryce head down towards the thrones and Loghain starts to follow. Celia feels the panic rise inside of her, "Where are you going?"
Loghain looks at her sadly, "We're to make introductions with the ambassadors, stay with Eleanor I'll come get you as soon as I'm able."
"Loghain-"
"I'm sorry, Celia, I'll be right back." He promises following the King and Teyrn.
Celia doesn't allow herself time to be put out, rather she approaches Eleanor and Rowan.
"Ah, Celia I was wondering when you'd join us." Eleanor puts a gentle hand on her shoulder, "You look lovely."
"As do you." Celia returns with a smile, "You as well Rowan."
"Thank you." Rowan lifts a hand to fidget with her necklace and says nothing else.
"How are you feeling about all of this?" Eleanor asks, "I must admit I'm not so anxious to dance with these dignitaries."
"We're what?" Celia asks.
"Didn't Loghain tell you? We're meant to dance with the ambassadors, simply a courtesy of course. But I do loath the thought of dancing with any Orlesian." Eleanor explains.
"I will kill that man. He never tells me anything." Celia says a blush creeping up her neck.
"It's not so bad, you get used to small talk very quickly." Rowan chuckles. Celia wishes she didn't find the queen to be such a distraction, with grey eyes and hair the color of rich fine leather. A voice like velvet and a truly poised disposition, even her deep purple dress exudes an elegance women all over the world could only ever dream of. A wave of insecurity passes through Celia, she thinks herself a pale aggressive girl in comparison.
The moment of self-pity is short lived as they're approached by a group of other noble ladies, the remaining Ferelden's all chattering about. Celia gets by nodding her head and breathing slowly, glancing down at the still empty dance floor. Maker she does not want to dance with any nobleman, well beside her husband of course.
Rowan is approached first, by a Merchant Prince from Antiva, Eleanor informs her that the Merchant Prince's really hold the power there. Celia finds it strange but says nothing, watching as her friend takes the hand of a Prince Vael of Starkhaven. Yet another place Celia's knowledge of is that of a young child, trivial and topical.
Celia is approached by another nobleman not a moment later, "Your ladyship, might I have this dance?"
"Of course." She manages a small smile taking his hand, he's no Orlesian that much is certain, not with that accent.
"You are Teyrn Loghain's wife are you not?" He asks with a genuine curiosity.
"I am."
He chuckles, "I am Viscount Threnhold of Kirkwall. It's a pleasure to meet a lovely creature such as yourself."
"You flatter me, your grace." She says softly.
"I mean it honestly. In the Free Marches, people are convinced you're all brutish thugs, they couldn't be more wrong."
"I-… Don't know what to say." This is quite an uncomfortable conversation.
"You're just as delicate as a flower." He chuckles, and now she thinks he's making fun of her, so she chuckles in return. He spends the remainder of their dance complimenting her appearance, divulging how envious he is of her husband, and to such a degree she'd be relieved to be alone.
That however is too much to hope for, as King Pentaghast asks for the next dance, giving her no room to refuse. He's an old man, slow with his steps and their conversation, he tries to make jokes but she doesn't understand any of them. He calls her a pretty thing with an empty head, or at least that's what she thinks he's said, his accent makes communication difficult.
As soon as that dance ends she's met with the Antivan king, so of course she accepts. Listening to a barrage of compliments and innuendo, Celia glances at the throne pedestal there stands her husband with the king and Bryce, Rowan is climbing the stairs to meet them. She can't believe that no one else has asked the queen to dance, when she finds herself in a barrage of partners. What is this madness?
She is asked to dance with a Duke from the Free Marches, and watches as Eleanor exists the floor. She begins to wonder if she's been tricked, if she should be denying dances. Part of her wants to run away, but the uncertainty in her gut keeps her still. She has no place denying these people anything, after all they leant their aid to her people, probably directly to Gwaren in some cases.
It's not until she hears the Orlesian accent that she feels the weight of all she's doing befall her. The eyes of a man she recalls but can't quite name as he offers her a hand to dance. The world goes silent as she slips her hand in his, should she have denied him? Should she cry or pretend to faint? How can she get out of this?
"I thought I recognized the name, Celia Mac Tir, from Gwaren is it?" He knows her, why is she not surprised? Why is she not immediately unconscious? Why can't she will herself to leave? Why is her fear so loud in her head?
"That is correct, my lord." She says, afraid to be anything but stoic.
"Hmm." He chuckles as he twirls her to a song she can't hear. The kind of hate she feels is indescribable. "I've been to Gwaren, a wretched place with horrible weather."
"Perhaps that was due in part to the disrepair brought on by the war." She offers, voice firm despite everything she's feeling.
"No, I believe that is a result of being far too south for any sane human being to live." He laughs as she shudders, what would her father say to seeing her so close to an Orlesian? The scars on her back prickle at the thought, at realizing where she recognizes his face from. His laughter an eerie reminder of a past she'd been hoping to leave behind her.
"That is your opinion and you are entitled to, Lord Aurelian." She says his name with a poisonous type of sweetness.
He smirks at her, "So the Garrison girl does remember." He twirls her out and when he draws her back in, he grasps her neck. Not enough to choke her, but harsh enough that she gasps at the contact. "It's good to know somethings of Orlais have stayed."
He releases her and she rebukes him, "You'll watch yourself, my lord, I outrank you."
"Your king doesn't outrank me. Your country is only a temporary state."
"Are you insinuating war sir?"
He says nothing, but bows to her, the song is over then, she returns the gesture. Ready to turn and run the moment politeness's are out of the way, but she's not given the opportunity. Another Orlesian man with a sneer as vile as a demon itself, this one she recognizes on sight as Lord Chaniel. The two men who accompanied his High Lordship Marcel, everywhere his pompous ass went.
Sick to her stomach, heart jittery and pained, she tries to walk away but he steps in front of her. "Hello my sweet Celia. It's lovely to see you again."
"Please leave me be." She says, willing all the severity in the world to come through her tone.
Lord Aurelian wraps an arm around her waist and before she can utter a cry to release her, Lord Chaniel pours his wine down the front of her dress, slowly never once breaking eye contact.
"Our apologies, your ladyship, allow me to help you." Lord Aurelian suddenly bares a dagger slicing open the laces of her dress and cutting away any fabric in its path. A scream falls out of her lips louder than she can ever recall as he jostles her in his arms.
"You will drop your weapon and unhand my wife, or I swear to the Maker and his bride I will end you." Loghain's voice cannot be described as anything less than wicked. Saturated with the purest kind of hatred Celia's ever heard, tears flow down her face as she tries to glance up at her husband.
His sword is bared against the Lord's neck, Bryce has his own sword positioned to Lord Chaniel, while Maric stands close by the both of them. Probably to make sure Loghain doesn't actually kill anyone, or perhaps to merely ensure she's out of sight when he does. To her surprise, Rowan and Eleanor have also rushed to the scene, looking disheartened and angry.
Even with as simple a gesture as merely lifting her gaze, Celia feels her dress falling down her body, she clings to the fabric for dear life. The darkness in Loghain's eyes is one she's unfamiliar with, something that makes her shuddering heart go cold.
In an instant she's thrust to the ground without so much as a care, she hadn't realized she has been gasping through her sobs. Not until Rowan and Eleanor are helping her stand and rushing her away, and she finds herself incredibly short of breath.
They take her to the queen's chambers and sit her down in the nearest chair. Celia sobs, clutching her own figure as tightly as she can, the shaking won't stop. Eleanor stays with her, not hushing her nor whispering sweet words, instead she touches their foreheads together and runs her hands up and down her arms. Maker willing she'll just disappear in this moment, but she knows that this is an unrealistic hope.
Rowan returns swiftly afterwards, with fine gown and hair brush in hand, "Let's get you changed, quickly."
"No, please… Please don't make me." Celia shakes her head, "Let me leave please." Eleanor backs away from Celia's quivering figure and takes the items out of Rowan's arms.
Rowan kneels before the sobbing Teyrna and places gentle hands over her own. "I'm sorry that this has happened, but you can't just hide away. You must remain strong and commanding of respect."
Celia looks at the queen incredulously, "Why?"
"It is required of us, I hate that we must do it… and believe me, Maric will not show those men mercy. But we must be brave, Celia, show them that we Ferelden's do not let anything shake us."
The thought makes her blood boil, that she is expected to show a sort of strength she's never possessed. All she wants is to lay down and sob, yet that is a luxury she cannot afford, she must press forward and it makes her angry. Orlais has once again forced her hand, made her weak before all of world and forced her to stand tall, face adversity head on. She hates them, wants every last one of them in ruins, and even as she thinks this, she retracts the thought. There's no use in projecting hatred.
Eleanor and Rowan dress her personally, wiping away the tears on her face, the blood and sticky wine. Lord Aurelian did manage to cut into her flesh, not deep enough to last, but still the thought makes her shiver. Rowan has given her one of the most beautiful dresses Celia's ever seen, pale blue lace that's far too lovely for someone of Celia's birth and station.
She says nothing however, resigns herself to her fate and waits patiently to be painted as a picture of grace. The ladies work quickly, and far sooner than she had hoped, she's ready to return to the festivities, not that she's actually 'ready'. Maker end this now before it gets out of hand… again.
The three high ladies walk back into the ballroom without ceremony, although their presence does not go unnoticed for long. Soon a great many of the dignitaries approach her with condolences, three of the remaining Orlesian's approach her with apologies, claiming those men are disgraceful mutts. She thinks it would be too rude to agree, so she merely nods and continues on her way.
The moment she sees her husband, she notices the furry in his gaze; he is nothing short of outraged, and this makes her want to run all the more. Part of her feels guilty again, that she's caused so much outrage, memories of her judgement day and the shame of it all come rushing back.
But when he notices her, he's quick and decisive, rushing to her side and kissing her fiercely, possessively almost. He retracts just enough to crush her to his chest, fingers dancing through her hair.
"I'm sorry, Celia, this will never happen again, I swear to you… Are you alright?"
She swallows his promise, but allows a small genial smile to grace her features, "We'll talk when we get home."
He kisses her again softer this time, trying to convey an apology he should not be speaking. He owes her nothing in this instance, not that Loghain will recognize that. She knows how personally he takes just about everything, a small voice in her head worries for the men in question. Loghain might go to extremes, and that she is certainly not alright with.
The young couple do not depart from the other's side for the remainder of the evening; though a few ambassadors do approach them, Loghain is able to turn them away quickly. Day has broken and the festivities have come to a close, the Mac Tir's are the first to leave. The ride home through a waking Denerim is silent, neither knowing what to say or how.
It's not until they arrive home having retired to their chambers, that he asks. While she is busily taking off jewelry and the queen's dress, he stands just behind.
"Celia… Please talk to me." His voice is soft and she can hardly bear it.
"What is there to say?" She asks, discarding the gown in favor of comfortable nightwear.
"Why did those wretched bastards target you?" His hands are on her shoulders, she can feel his gaze land upon the cut in her back.
She puts her hands on his squeezing them tightly. "Would you believe that I was just an easy target?"
"No, you are my wife, everyone knows that. Nobody in their right mind would dare to attempt what they did." She walks away from his grasp, draping the gown over the ottoman at the foot of their bed. She wants to go to bed, sleep away the memories of the night.
"Orlesians are idiots." She shakes her head.
"You're avoiding me, I won't have that." He says firmly, with a jarring finality.
"And what will you have me do? Can't we just forget about this?" In a way Celia wants to forget all about Denerim, though she recognizes that is an impossibility.
"Those Orlesians are to be punished for their transgressions, but I need to know the extent of it." Her husband stands before her, just as fearsome as before. Why her instinct is to cry, she can't say; but the tears start in earnest and before she knows it her grip is tight around his waist.
He holds her in that same possessive way, tight and strong, like his arms will keep all else at bay. With a sigh he places his chin atop her head, and waits for her to stop crying. Even though she's fairly certain she'll never stop crying, it feels like a constant state at this point.
Pressing her cheek into his chest she says, "They were there… that day when I was…"
Adjusting his hold on her, they let the silence take over until it is too much for either of them. "And they did nothing?"
She closes her eyes, recalling the scene as it happened, "I was only supposed to receive ten lashes, a slap on the wrist for harassing his High Lordship… I didn't want to give them anything, my father… my father always told us to keep as much as we could from the Orlesians. So, I bit my lip and kept quiet, I thought at the least I could keep my pride."
Her breath is heavy in her chest thoughts swimming in her mind, as her husband's grip tightens. "And they… The two of them said I deserved more, that I should be groveling for forgiveness. His High Lordship agreed, I thought I could handle ten more and I remembered counting to twenty-seven before I thought I'd gone blind… and I didn't want to submit, but I didn't want to die!" She nearly collapses with sobbing, coming to the realization that she can't handle the rush of memories.
Her husband lifts her into his arms with ease and takes a seat on the bed. She cries into his neck, all the while he never once hushes her, only holding her bone crushingly tight. He lets her remember in silence, his breath catching every now and then, which tells her he remains furious.
"I can still hear them laughing." She says, her voice has never been so small, she has never been so bare before anyone. Even on that dreadful day when she'd begged for forgiveness at the feet of those Orlesian bastards.
"They're dead men." He says, voice so dreadfully honest she feels the words settle disturbingly over her skin.
Trying to quell her own sobs she moves her face, placing her forehead on his, barely able to look in his eyes; unable to bear the anger she'll find should she do so. "Please, don't be angry…"
"No, Celia, don't think I'm an ounce angry with you." One of his hands travels up her back to cup her neck. He kisses her then, but it feels empty, like he's hiding his anger so not to upset her more.
"Will you come to bed? Can we worry about this later?" She asks, finally opening her eyes. She was right to assume his anger, he's not an expressive man, except for his eyes. There he is plain as day, and somehow she can read his thoughts; she sees anger, misery, confusion, frustration, but most of all she sees a painstaking loyalty.
He sighs, a sound of defeat which prompts her to kiss his brow. "I love you, Celia. I'm only acting this way because I care for you so much."
"I know. I love you too." She responds softly. Her face remains warm and flushed, as she slides off of her husband's lap, allowing him to change. Only he doesn't right away, he stares at her, takes in her tearstained face and looks as though he's trying to calculate something.
However, he rises from the bed and dresses quickly, with the curtains drawn the couple lies next to one another. Loghain rests his hand on her cheek, running his thumb along the lines of her face, they stare at the other. Eyes growing heavy, Celia is the first to start drifting off, she feels him lean forward and kiss her hairline.
As the bed moves under his weight she mutters, "Don't go."
The warmth of his body is closer than before, and the last thing she hears, "I won't."
There's a cold snap the following week, Celia is relieved to be staying indoors, away from all the commotion of court life. Loghain doesn't want her alone, but he's also content to leave her in the estate when he needs to hold counsel with Maric. She doesn't mind, the quiet is a relief from the hectic nature of nobility.
The cold melts away soon enough, and just days before they're meant to leave for home, Loghain invites her to spend the day at the market with him. He rarely asks her to do anything of the sort, and he's got a sweet look in his eye when he approaches her that morning.
So, bundled up for the cold, the young couple heads out for a day, something that is entirely normal for many couples. But for the Mac Tir's it's an intimate sort of gesture, Loghain is sweet on his wife; giving her kisses and holding her waist as they walk. He insists on buying her some trinket or other, but she really wants for nothing.
Celia notices a crowd forming in the center of the Market District and she wonders for only a moment what it could possibly be. Until she feels a hand on her shoulder and notices the telltale sign of a jailor standing on the platform.
"Loghain, what's going on?" She asks skeptically.
He gives her a pinched smile, "You'll see, dear." He insists on pushing them towards the crowd, but she knows what this is.
"Why did you bring me here?" She asks fear pulsing through her; watching the two lords who assaulted her get tied down to the whipping posts.
"Because you deserve to see these pigs get what was coming all along." He tells her.
"What in the name of the Maker would compel you to think I wanted to watch… this!?" She demands, frantic and terrified as her eyes land on the whip, her spine tingles just at the sight.
"This is justice. He tells her, "They have earned this."
"But I don't want to see it." Her breath has gone erratic, body trembling as the sentence is read aloud. War crimes, the assault of a noble lady, thirty lashes each, Celia is sick to her stomach this can't be real, this cannot be happening.
She throws her face into Loghain's chest as the first crack ripples through the air, the scream she wants to expel dies in her throat. Left with rasping breaths she repeats, "Breathe, just breathe, keep breathing."
Every lash burns the scars of her back and she's there, laying in the dirt tied to a whipping post. Sweat streaming into her eyes as her father looks on furious, her mother faint beside him, the rest complacent. Terrified to be next, wondering if this is their new lives, the only thing they have left to look forward to.
She doesn't cry, though she wants to, but she can't give her tears to them, can't give them anything. Loghain's hold on her is so feather light she remembers the way air tickled fresh wounds, the sting following the crack.
And the lord cries out, but all she can hear is sickening laughter and that of the very breath coming from her own mouth. Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, she wants to die all over again.
"The Emperor of Orlais wasn't shocked by our actions, he said to deal with them however we saw fit." Loghain says the words easily, as if none of this is troubling.
Celia grinds her teeth, It's alright, we're doing the Emperor's dirty work, but somehow this idea improves nothing. Her mind is racing, she is horrified, why in the Maker's name did her husband think this was acceptable?
"I want to leave." She says, one lord has concluded his sentence, Celia doesn't know if she can stand the other. "Please."
He looks at her confused, "Why? You've no reason to be scared."
He won't understand, he can't understand what this is like, so she grips his shirt and listens. Fills the silence with memories and tries to breathe, even and especially when it feels impossible to do so.
As quickly as it began, the commotion is over, and Celia is exhausted as she looks up at her husband. "We are leaving now."
She doesn't wait for an answer, she walks away, back to the estate with him trailing behind her or not. Back in their shared chambers, she tears off her winter cloak tossing it aside, before slipping off her boots.
"You're angry." He says entering after her.
"I am furious." She says meeting his gaze, knowing that she'll never be as angry as her husband can be, but in this moment she's dangerously close.
"I don't know why."
"Because you just made me relive one of the worst experiences of my life." She explains as plainly as possible.
"Those men deserved what they got." He raises his voice.
"I'm not denying that! I am telling you that I didn't want to bear witness to it!" Her voice matches his tone.
"Why not? You deserved to see justice done!"
"What do you know of justice!?"
"It's what my father would have done!" He grabs her shoulders and she tries to fight his touch, "Damnit, Celia, I did the right thing!"
"Maybe for someone else! But you did not do right by me!"
He rushes her with a kiss, harsh and greedy, so sudden she can't act right away. Just as she starts to jerk her arms out of his hold, he lets them go instead grabbing at her legs and lifting her up. Startled by the movement she grasps his shoulders, jarred and confused he pushes her up against the wall.
His lips are on hers again, she isn't entirely sure what's happening, or at least why it's happening. Why is he going to take her now?
He's already made quick work of the laces of her dress, has her underskirts discarded to the floor and she isn't certain she recalls it happening. His hand is stuck in his sleeve, the frantic jerking doesn't improve the situation, halfway between piecing the situation together, Celia finds herself helping him undress.
Naked, pressed against a wall, with her legs wrapped around her shirtless husband; her body acts for her, grinding hips against his ribs. He groans loudly at the movement, discarding his trousers in an instant, she isn't even slick for him as he enters, pushing and pulsing into her.
Part of her cries out in pain, the other cries out at the confused pleasure she experiences from it. This has all happened in a whirlwind, and while she's still fueled with anger; there's a more primal instinct inside of her, crying out for more, more touch, more of him.
She's gripping his shoulders, digging her nails into the skin, and kissing him with a raging strength. He pushes into her depths over and over before his release, sighing into her skin as he leaks down the wall onto the floor. With one hand she reaches up to push her hair back while trying to stand back on her own two feet.
But his grip on her tightens as she does, "Where do you think you're going?"
"I thought you were finished with me, husband." She says, trying to keep her voice even and cool.
"No, not yet." Without warning he lifts her from the wall, taking all of her weight and walks them a few paces to the sitting area. Laying her out on the couch he hovers over her. "I'm most certainly not done with you yet."
He's back to kissing her, harsh desperate kisses that border on painful but taste like delicious sin. She thinks she's still angry, isn't sure why he's taking her, and still finds herself doubtful of all of this. The thrumming of her center is all too distracting as his fingers race circles around her.
His hot breath travels down her bare skin, pressing his lips into her skin, his fingers teasing the tender flesh they come into contact with. Practically begging with bated breath and moaning his name, he coaxes her into climax.
When he's watched her ride out every wave of pleasure, his lips are back on hers and a soft whisper comes out of him. "Am I forgiven, wife?"
She doesn't know what to say exactly, isn't sure she does forgive him in fact. The way he's taken her feels wrong in a way, and by proxy she feels dirty. But in the breathless aftermath of sex she nods to him, relief floods his features as he places his head in the crook of her neck.
"I love you, Celia. Never doubt that." It's commanding in a way. A halfway statement that leaves little room for argument.
Fingers already twisted up in his hair, she responds the only way she knows how. "I'm yours."