Work Text:
Ardent tries not to ask questions.
It's a feature. It's a strategy. No questions, no clarifications, perfect performance first try. Of course, they try to understand as much as they can, and have therefore denoted Patron Stuff as a very important exception.
What does this cup do? Where is the sword? Why did you destroy the city of Kaz? What do I have to do to make myself worth it to you?
The basics, of course. The necessary foundation for other hypotheses.
But questions that are prying, that are too forward, that presume a kind of intimacy, are to be avoided. Too close, too warm, too many implications of caring and reciprocity that Ardent isn't allowed to benefit from anymore. In terms of interpersonal secrets, Ardent is a black hole in the place of a friend. A void covered by tea and weaving and fast-talking archmages, a void that can only ever take and take and rend flesh from bone. Nothing comes out. It's not a two-way street.
Therefore, logically, it can't be a street at all. Ardent doesn't ask questions, and, in return, no questions are asked of them. Perfect privacy. Perfect reciprocity. Perfect zero.
What do you dream about? Why are you here? What did they do to you at Amastacias? What are you looking for?
See? It's just easier.
Until it isn't.
Until it's Fost and Aza, crying and shaking behind Ardent. They can't see their roommates, blinded by the tunnel vision of speaking to survive. The same bright and panicked state of mind they used to give presentations with, along with more than a dash of mortal danger.
Until it's Aza, forgiving them for the worst thing someone could do to another person. Forgiving them for the thing they promised they wouldn't ever do. Why are they so alright with the thought of their own death? Resurrection is surely not a painless process. What has Aza been through to care so little about their own ending? What can I do to help you, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, don't tell me it's alright when it's not, that it's not my fault when I put a blade in your-
Ardent holds their tongue. It's a strategy. A feature. An uneasy acceptance of something that cannot be reconciled. It's not so easy anymore.
Not when it's Fost, sitting on the floor of the chapel, looking nervous, looking haunted. Light streams in from the stained glass windows, and he's dyed blue. It only makes him look more gaunt, like he's half gone already.
Not when it's Fost, pointing up at the image of a familiar half-dragon.
"How do you know my potions professor? Did he ever find out? Who do you see? Are you alright? Are you alright? Are you alright?"
The options become more clear, and they aren't looking good.
Ardent may be forced to recognize that they have once again begun to care for people.