Chapter Text
Antiva City boasted sights and scents familiar and yet utterly foreign to Anora. The gilded statues lining the Golden Plaza reminded her of the tales of The Sun Gates from Val Royeaux, yet The Perfumed Spring , with robust scents of wine, leather, and musky perfumes of her own Denerim. It was unappetizing to her palate and yet sent butterflies aflutter in her belly. Perhaps , she thought , that could be for different reasons . Anora refused to let the experience be interrupted and cleared her thoughts as she watched down at the city from the balcony of her rooms within the Royal Palace.
A trade summit had been called for the great leaders of Thedas and was boastfully hosted by the Antivan crown. The air was heavy with humidity and the sun was stifling. She imagined the Empress was sweating through her powders, and that tiny thought brought a smile to the Fereldan Queen’s lips.
As if on cue, a rivulet of perspiration fled Anora’s hairline, though her smile did not fade. Turning, she moved into her rooms, stemming the sauna outside by shutting the double doors.
The rooms boasted a myriad of styles that all seemed quintessentially Antivan. The rugs that draped across stone were Nevarran, the stone floors harvested from the Free Marches, gilded statues with rare gems disgustingly Orlesian , and the spiced tea cooling on her desk, Rivani. Though, she countered, that was an import she had brought of her own accord. Even still, quintessential Antiva was best presented in the imports and exports of its Merchant Princes, working to make the city a beautiful and bustling bastion of trade.
Anora had allowed herself this afternoon to enjoy the city itself before her thoughts turned toward forging the best agreements possible for her country. That wish, though, seemed a hope best left for later. She’d received the note only this morning, and though she’d planned a lightweight dress to sweep through the hustle of a trading Capital with a moderate guard in tow, minutes drifted to hours and now it seemed too late to try.
Approaching the cedar desk, she spied the offending correspondence with weariness. Even Anora’s name seemed Orlesian with the lavish script the Empress etched on embossed paper. Sitting, she took the thick parchment in hand, running her thumb across the ornamental filigree along the contour of the folded note before opening and re-reading.
Queen Anora of Ferelden,
Your Majesty,
As deliberations are scheduled tomorrow morning and proceed throughout the day, We thought to take dinner with you to approach the assembled from a place of strength—a united Southern Thedas. We’ve brought Our staff to prepare fromage from across the Empire, Eggs à la Val Foret, and a variety of fruits served within pastries, or with cream, and sauce.
As We recall you have a fondness for chocolate, We do hope to present a selection that you will find pleasing.
Fondly,
Celene I
Empress of Orlais
Anora’s mind could scarcely escape the impending images and her eyes fell shut upon that torrent. They never agreed. Not really. They agreed to disagree, and the places where they could compromise came at the last cry of whichever could no longer endure the ravages of passion for total victory. Every night of negotiations was a trade-off. Did it work? It did. The power differential had left Anora feeling battered...and more than just physically. Too-tight silk binding her hands might temporarily bruise her wrists, but being driven mad with her own body’s betrayal and acquiescence to the Orlesian left scars that were not visible.
Every night she spent breaking or being broken was fuel for her own self-loathing. And even despite that, Anora felt her stomach flip at the memories of their disagreements.
Celene tasted sweeter than she smelled, and despite the endless layers of silk Anora loathed as excessive, she craved the feel of the Empress’s skirts pooled against her hips. As much as she deplored the Orlesian accent, when she managed to steal a scream from the Empress, it was easily the most divine sound in all Thedas. It was raw, and genuine, and the one moment when the harlot, at long last, was unmasked.
Anora’s eyelids lifted. The reverie had ended but her heart still raced. Lifting her eyes toward the door at the crisp sound of a knock, she responded. “Come in.”
Erlina stepped inside with a downcast gaze and curtsied. “You sent for me, Your Majesty?” The elven woman did not lift her eyes from the point on the floor they were fixed upon.
“It’s time to prepare for my evening dinner with the Empress.”
Erlina moved toward the bathing chamber, leaving Anora a few more moments of respite. Anora folded the note carefully and slid it into her desk, away from prying eyes, placing it beside the rampant lion wax it came sealed with.
--
Anora knew that expecting different outcomes in repeatable situations was cause for concern with regards to her mental stability, but there was a stronger part of her that wanted that outcome regardless.
And on that one topic, both the Empress of Orlais and the Queen of Ferelden would agree.
--
In the rooms provided to her, the Empress of Orlais had minimal supervision, giving Celene the freedom to break the role she was expected to play. And even though the accommodations were precisely the same, somehow the presence of an Orlesian made them appear more grandiose. A brocade pillow sat on the chair behind the desk that Anora could recognize as cedar by the scent, and there was a leather placemat with several gilded tools and embossed parchment for frivolous letter-writing. Even the letter-opener was crafted as one might a ceremonial sword, complete with tiny gems and sharpened to a fine point.
She was catapulted from her thoughts as her presence was announced to the room. She crossed the threshold to the Empress’s dining rooms. The man who announced her presence had a thick Antivan accent and her name sounded rich in his mouth. She smiled to herself as she turned to face the Empress, eager to feast her eyes upon the sight.
She was only a little disappointed.
A golden half-mask, with plain embellishments, no gems, but the fringe looked like the flicker of fire, as if from Orlesian paintings of the sun. Anora hated the masking rituals of the fops to the west, but it paired well with the accents of golden trim in the Empress’s violet silken layer upon layer skirts. Celene’s neck and shoulders were elegantly visible in the candlelight, but the cursed dress began earlier than she’d expected, and declined any glimpse of that pale, pretty bosom Anora had come to appreciate.
It took her no time to assess though, as she had become quite practiced. She needed to wet her throat before greeting the hostess, “Your Radiance.” Anora offered a bow just barely sufficient.
Celene had learned that for all Anora’s bluster, she was terrible at the Game. This meant she needed to think more coarsely about the layers of messaging that Anora had detailed in her clothing. And like most of the messaging she had seen, it took little puzzling over the red silks fit neatly and tailored to Anora’s lovely form, nor the wyvern amulet, to recognize that Anora was saying the same things she always said. I am the Queen of Ferelden. I am proud to be Fereldan. Loghain mon père .
Celene suppressed a smirk and remained politely indifferent, bowing in return. “Your—” Her throat had gone dry, she cleared her throat politely, “Your Majesty, We are delighted by your presence.”
Anora did not mask her chuckle when the Empress of Orlais stammered.
--
The dinner itself was fine. The conversation was droll as Celene listened intently to the descriptions of the foods prepared for them, though Anora assumed the description was for her benefit. Even still, never willing to dismiss a dedicated servant, crafter, or artisan, Celene let them describe in vivid detail the depictions of childhood in this or that dish. To Anora, a simple summary could have saved them half the time, but she had finished the small portion in two neat bites just as he was getting to the tearful remembrance of the first pumpkin he’d chosen from a pumpkin patch before his grandfather returned to the Maker . In his defense, the pastry had a spice and richness that the Fereldan Queen found pleasing, but not for half an hour of reverie.
They had long finished eating by the time the different cooks, chocolatiers, and pastry chefs had given their full accounting of the dishes they’d prepared. Celene looked almost tearful, and Anora was ready to come out of her skin.
The Empress escorted Anora to the study to deliberate over the main talking points for the next day’s trade talks, leaving the various servants to work uninterrupted. A second glance of the room yielded a pot of tea manifested with two teacups, and beside it, a pair of goblets with a favored Antivan red upon a low table in a sitting room.
As Anora had come to expect, Celene held nothing but disdain for comfortable chairs when she truly wanted to talk business. Once the door had been shut behind them, she took a seat in front of the low table and poured herself a glass of wine to ease the stiffness in unused muscles for three bloody hours . “As much as I adore getting educated on Orlesian foods which, frankly, I don’t, is it possible to have a meal without having the cultural or artistic significance of every ingredient and their pairings detailed long past when our bellies have filled and emptied again?”
Celene lifted an eyebrow, cutting her gaze to Anora from the desk, inquiring, “Are you hungry?”
Anora might have laughed if she wasn’t so frustrated. Instead, she took a long drink. The taste was bold and cleansed her palate of the thousand different descriptions that had been jammed into her mind. Now every time she tasted a cream sauce, she’d think of that damnable cow Vache the pastry chef lost at a young age. Doesn’t Vache simply mean cow? She shook her head and lifted her middle and forefinger to her temple, applying generous pressure. “Who needs diets with dinners like yours, Your Radiance?”
Celene’s good will was running out. Her jaw set and she lifted her chin in defiance. Had Anora not been so annoyed, she might have recognized the shift and changed the topic before the Empress’s tells disappeared.
“The man lost his grandfather to the Blight, Your Majesty. His grandfather was originally from Ferelden and came to look after his brother… in Lothering.” The Empress’s gaze was steady on Anora, noting the way the Queen remained silent. “Or did you forget what it means to share Southern Thedas?”
Anora pressed her lips together, letting her nostrils flare before shifting her attention to Celene, rising as the Empress approached. The Fereldan Queen would not allow the Orlesian to gain the upper hand. “Yes, the Blight. I seem to recall it well enough, Your Radiance. I remember the lion’s share of that travesty. It must have been difficult for you to endure the Darkspawn and Archdemon from such a distance. Did it cancel any parties? Pray, anything but that ,” the last word was tight as she ground her jaw.
There was something electric in the air. Both women faced one another on either side of a small table where the wine and the tea sat.
The Empress appeared indifferent. With her mask bound across her face, she was entirely unreadable. Anora, though, bared a flush across her cheeks, and her shoulders were set.
Celene responded in purely conversational droll, “Of course, who am I to remark. You were side-by-side your husband, the mythical Grey Wardens, and your father in the last battle against the Archdemon in the Korcari Wil—”
“How dare you--!”
With a swift movement, Anora’s hand shot across to Celene’s masked face.
Celene deflected the hand with her forearm, seizing Anora’s wrist with the same hand. Celene’s puzzle ring glistened in the candlelight. Wasting little time, she shot her other hand across Anora’s shoulder.
The Fereldan Queen jerked her head away from the movement, thinking it was a miss. But as Celene suddenly pulled into her, she felt her elbow bend over the back of the Empress’s outstretched arm, and soon, the legs of the table locked her feet and sent her crashing to the ground beside the wingback chair, clearly of Orlesian import. Anora groaned, gasping as the air was stolen from her lungs.
The Empress took those moments to pin Anora to the cool stone on the floor, stilling herself.
It might have disturbed the Fereldan if she hadn’t been in this same position in a myriad of different rooms, circumstances, and angles prior with the Orlesian.
Before Celene could catch her breath and try to deescalate what was turning into the usual recourse for unkind words, Anora manifested a strength that the Empress was unwise to forget and wrenched her to the cold stone with a vice twist of her grip on leaner, uncalloused hands. Celene let out a groan as Anora was more willing to let her head slam onto the marble floor upon impact.
Anora wasted little time once the dazed expression obscured the light blue of the Empress’s eyes. Releasing her wrists, the Fereldan Queen slid the mask off her enemy’s face and stole the moment to savor the sight. It was such an intimacy to unmask her. Celene had only ever willingly removed the bit of metal once. Ever since that day, she donned it again and again, despite the obvious protests Anora had stated about the duplicitous Orlesian practice.
Unmasked, Celene forced her thoughts into focus. She knew that she’d yet to bring up a single topic and that, unless she did so, this bout would be fruitful physically, but not politically.
“Perhaps Your Majesty would be amenable to—” the Empress’s breath caught sharply as the Queen of Ferelden wasted no time in finding the pulse point on Celene’s long neck. Anora was savage with the tender flesh, enjoying the way her own red lips stained the Empress as though she’d throated her. The whimpers ripped from Celene were delightful, and enough of a mix of pain and pleasure to quiet the judgment Anora would feel on her father’s behalf. Celene’s body felt heavenly, between the quickened breath from her corseting to the way her hands slid up Anora’s back. The Ferelden Queen had spent months waiting for the next opportunity to have this, and the inane babbling of the Empress attempting manipulation could wait.
Celene’s mind had blanked. It was rare for the Empress to be afforded a moment where her mind was empty, and it was euphoric. Her skin flushed under the onslaught, and suddenly she felt restrained against the tight corset boning, the solid, cold stone beneath her back, and the force of Anora’s touch. In retrospect, it was something Celene enjoyed. The Queen of Ferelden was the only individual that did not treat her as though she were frail. And though Anora espoused a distaste for Orlesian decadence, her enjoyment of Celene’s body was practically shameless. Every nip from the Ferelden Queen’s teeth sent the Empress’s fingers grasping into the silk at Anora’s back, the suckles solicited whimpers and Celene’s hands flattened to palms, pulling her closer.
The Empress grew warm beneath her touch, and Anora grinned as she rolled soft, pale skin between both rows of teeth as she withdrew, lifting her gaze to capture the sight. Color had risen in Celene’s cheeks that powder could not conceal, and the way her eyelids were smooth and relaxed trumpeted Anora’s victory over the Empress.
Celene let her eyes open when she felt the Queen withdraw, easing up onto her hands and moistening her lips. She had not intended to get swept away this soon, and judging by the look in Anora’s eyes, this brief reprieve would be short lived.
And just like that, Anora dragged Celene up from the ground. The Ferelden Queen had trained in heavier combat, and despite the heavier dresses the Empress wore, Anora could easily bully her around if Celene gave in even the slightest. Unfortunately for Celene, she was doing just that.
Suddenly, Celene felt Anora give a hard shove with a twist toward her desk.The Orlesian negated enough of the impact by grasping the lip of the edge before colliding, but with the Empress’s fair skin, the tops of her thighs would still bear bruises from the encounter.
Celene meant to turn, but the Queen was behind her, and the sensation of being held against the desk caused her breath to quicken. But Anora did little that wasn’t for cause. She felt the stays of her dress being undone as she braced herself against the desk. The Empress had not recalled a time when they undressed one another, and her eyes darted across the disturbed surface as she searched for a way to get a grasp on the situation.
Her voice was quieter, sultry, even, “Surely we can agree on no additional costs from importing Antivan wine into Orlais if a single sip draws this from you, Your Majesty. I must keep my Palace stocked in case you honor me with a visit.”
The upper part of the dress was easily pried down to her hips, but the petticoat caught most of it. Anora grinned, if only Cailan had known the Empress had such slender hips . But she began busily working at the ties to the corset, loosening them, listening to the Empress. Anora suddenly took a handful each of the ties and jerked hard, the Fereldan Queen’s eyes practically rolled back at the sound of Celene gasping for breath. With the Empress’s body bared in only a corset above her waist, Anora took a moment to huff her neck and the cloyingly sweet honeysuckle that permeated just above her pulse point. It was dizzying. Even still, “Two percent tax if Orlais wants Antivan wine to pass through Ferelden.”
Anora could feel Celene’s body tighten. It caused her eyes to light up. She had dispatched the people-pleasing Empress and stoked the Lioness in its stead.
Instead of a sudden struggle, Anora felt the vibrations of the Empress chuckling. She ceased fidgeting with the corset and turned Celene to face her. There was an ease about her that had not been so before. With the smile upon her lips, and the dark tint of her eyes, the Empress appeared wicked.
“Agreed. The same will apply for Orlais if Ferelden seeks the same.”
The Fereldan Queen quickly cleared her mind to deduce where this must have gone wrong. And when it dawned on her, she tightened her jaw. “Most imports from Antiva come from Orlais by means of the Free Marches. Clever play. No tax on imports from Antiva.”
Celene shifted her gaze to the side, pursing her lips as though contemplating. “That is a steep price, especially with the damage to the Imperial Roads, Your Majesty. We will have to be convin—”
Anora silenced her with a kiss that was bruising. It had been the first time Celene had used Anora’s quick disagreement to gain the upper hand.
It would be the last time, too.
Reaching down for the approximate placement of the Empress’s thigh beneath layers and layers of silk skirt, Anora jolted Celene onto the edge of her desk. Something hit the floor, likely a gilded curiosity that was heavy and useless, like most of Orlais.
Without breaking the kiss, Anora gathered the layers of skirts and wedged her hips between the Empress’s thighs.They did not give way without pressure and, upon parting, Celene's legs wrapped tightly around Anora's waist, applying a bruising pressure against the iliac crest of Anora’s hips. It was the first whimper the Fereldan Queen had made all day. The Empress delighted at the sound and encouraged the kiss to deepen, acquiescing to every swipe of her tongue and moaning between nibbles.
Jamming her hand between the tight grip of Celene’s thighs and her body, Anora found the Empress eager and thoroughly aroused. Her fingers slid across warm, damp folds, soliciting a cry from Celene that Anora muffled with her lips.
Time is running out. The Empress thought, as the fogginess of desire began to cloud her thoughts. Celene’s hand slid up Anora’s arms, drawing her closer, studying her, letting a single hand scrape along the front of her chest. Alas, her fingernails were too short and though the effect did invigorate the Fereldan Queen, it did so in a way Celene had hoped not to.
Anora’s middle and forefinger slid through the folds, parting, and plunging suddenly into the Empress as deeply as her knuckles allowed. There was just enough of a pause to allow the Empress’s legs to slacken at the invasion before Anora added a third finger and began a punishing rhythm.
Celene’s breath was caught, and her eyes rolled back just as her eyelids fell. Her body weakened as suddenly the world slowed down about her. She tried to grasp a hold of her shoulders, wind her arms around her neck—something, but she turned to liquid and began to melt back on the desk. The colors behind her eyes were vivid, and she couldn’t hear her own voice for the overload of her senses. Anora had primed Celene’s body for this, and such a thorough assault evoked a cry at every incursion by the Fereldan.
Before the Empress could topple, the other arm wound around her waist and jerked her body against Anora’s, muffling the tempo of cries with suffocating kisses.
Every insertion was punctuated with a swirl and a curl within the Empress, then a grind of her thumb concentrated externally, utilizing the force of her own hips to accentuate each breach.
Celene’s breath was unsteady and she gasped for air between kisses. Her eyebrows knit together tightly, and what strength remained in her body was used to wind her arms around Anora’s neck and grasp ahold. She fought with all her might the sudden deluge of passion and arousal, despite the mutiny of her body responding to every invasion with desperation and need.
Celene couldn’t remember what the argument was over, and every attempt to think it through was smashed with the force of each thrust and crushed to meal with that agonizing grinding.
The Empress began to tremble, and her throat had gone dry. The screams were diminished to hoarse moans, smashed between the lips of her ally/enemy and then vigorously evoked again.
The zenith came and Anora buried a moan of her own against the Empress’s lips as she felt the tell-tale clenching around her fingers, the way Celene’s body locked up. Her spine arched beautifully, and just as the force of the Empress’s climax broke the kiss with her head sharply falling back, Anora slapped a hand across her mouth and stifled that last bit of freedom from release. The Queen of Ferelden did not slow her movements, continuing with the same ferocity, until the Empress lost every bit of strength to fight and collapsed in her arms.
They both panted with exertion. The Empress had gently lifted her arms around the Queen, and rested her cheek against the expanse of Anora’s shoulder.
These were the moments when the Queen’s mind was quiet enough to enjoy the respite. She lifted her hand, gently easing apart the rest of the corset ties, loosening the stays. Finally, she slid her hands beneath the brocade and felt the skin over a lean, elegantly muscled back. It was the first time she had done so. Celene’s skin felt softer than velvet beneath her fingertips.
The Empress curled her lip inwards, moistening them and then taking a moment to wet her parched throat. Her fingertips rose to carefully scrape across the front of Anora’s dress, soliciting the same gasp as she once heard. With a lazy smile, “No tax on imports from Antiva. We see your point.”
Anora enjoyed the sensation but kept her wits about her. She’d won this round.
“I’m glad you agree.”