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Well, Tarquin reflects, it’s not as if I had anything better to do.
Sure, the new year is usually rung in with friends and family, but his family’s all outside Ventus, still fighting with the Antaam for possession of the city. His friends—he doesn’t know, actually. Hadn’t though to ask. It begs the question, can he really call them friends at all, or just comrades-in-arms? Nowadays, most Shadow Dragons take orders from him, and those that don’t are all hoity-toity altus and magisters and the like, and they’re all… here.
Unlike Tarquin, however, they are guests, not templars fished from their usual cave in the archives to serve as extra guards for this fucking nightmare of a party.
Everything is draped in traditional silver, including the people, and the room stinks of expensive wine and weird food that rich people like to eat, half of which Tarquin can’t even identify.
The Imperial Divine is conspicuously absent, no doubt privately entertaining the most important guests, so Tarquin can’t even watch him while cataloguing things to tease him about later.
The night takes a turn for the worse as Pavus swans over and brushes invisible lint off of Tarquin’s shoulder.
“Fuck off, you can’t be seen with me and you know it,” Tarquin says under his breath, doing his best not to move his mouth too much.
“Don’t be so serious,” Pavus says. His cheeks are flushed with wine, but he’s at least sober enough to keep his own voice down. “If anyone sees, they’ll just assume I’m flirting with a handsome templar, as I am wont to do, you know.”
Tarquin raises his brow and tries not to look too incredulous.
“Come now, it’ll do your reputation no end of favors,” Pavus continues, dropping a wink in the direction of some nosy guest or other.
“My reputation doesn’t need favors with this crowd,” Tarquin says dryly.
As if summoned by the insult, Ashur growls, “Dorian,” from behind Tarquin. Tarquin very deliberately does not jump, and thanks his years of training as a soldier for that fact.
“Walk with me,” Ashur commands, and Pavus grins.
“But I’m oh-so-busy chatting with my new templar friend here,” he says, the picture of innocence. One of the magisters accompanying Ashur, who is friendly with the Lucerni but far from a Shadow Dragon, snorts inelegantly.
“Pavus, leave the poor man alone. He’s probably not even interested,” he says, and Tarquin’s sure he’s imagining the look of relief he sees on Ashur’s face, just barely visible through his veil.
Belatedly, he remembers to bow.
“Most Holy,” he says, and manages to not even sound sarcastic. The man beside him chuckles at this.
“Look, he’s starstruck, poor templar. Let’s get out of his hair so he can do his job, eh?”
“Yes, let’s,” Ashur agrees. Pavus grins and winks at Tarquin.
“But what entertainment will he have if I leave him here all alone?” Pavus asks slyly.
“I’m sure he’ll manage,” Ashur says, very dryly. “Stop harassing the staff, Dorian.”
Ah, well then. Tarquin tries to ignore the ice that floods his veins with those words. Ashur is only acting a part, he reminds himself, but he’s not sure he really believes it.
He straightens from the slouch he’s been perfecting all evening, and bows again.
“Good evening, Most Holy, magisters,” he says politely, and ignores them as they drift off to do important magister bullshit, probably. If Ashur shoots him one final look while they walk away, well, it’s hard to be sure whether he’s imagining it or not through that damned veil he always wears in his role as the Divine.
It’s only later, when Tarquin is availing himself of the spread of much more familiar foods set aside in a back room for templars on break, that Ashur finds him. He glances around for bystanders out of habit, even though he knows perfectly well that they’re alone.
“You’re well?” Ashur asks quietly.
“I’m fine. You should get back to your fancy party,” Tarquin responds gruffly. He’s been trying to be a statue all night long, both in motion and in feeling. He hates the way Ashur’s words, tossed out casually and without thought, have wormed their way into his stomach and settled there like an uncomfortable weight.
“I’d rather be here,” Ashur responds levelly, and helps himself to one of the meat pastries on the long table before them. He eats it delicately, though, slipping it under his veil, more graceful than he ever bothers to be when he’s the Viper.
“They’re going to be looking for you,” Tarquin reminds him, a touch impatiently. It isn’t like Ashur to be so careless with his other identity.
“I wanted to talk about what I said earlier,” Ashur says. “I didn’t mean—”
“No, your sort never do,” Tarquin says without thinking.
“Quin—”
“Most Holy?” someone asks from just beyond the doorway.
“Most Holy,” Tarquin echoes, and bows as one of the Grand Clerics comes around the corner.
“Whatever are you doing in here?” she asks.
“Magister Pavus was bothering this good templar earlier,” Ashur lies smoothly. “I wanted to ensure he was not unduly insulted.”
“He’s just a templar,” the woman said, clearly puzzled. “Well, you always did care for the lowly more than you ought. In any case the Grand Clerics from Vyrantium and Carastes are arguing a point of doctrine and your input would… greatly help matters. For someone your age you do have a remarkable grasp of the Chant.”
She sounds approving, but then, it’s hard for Tarquin to imagine Ashur failing to excel at anything he puts his mind to. Of course he’s good at being the Divine.
To his surprise, Ashur looks back in his direction.
“Thank you for checking in on me, Most Holy,” he says formally, and bows once again. Ashur shakes his head, just a little, not so that the woman behind him will not notice, and turns.
“I’m happy to serve in whatever capacity I may, Vita,” he says politely, and offers her his arm. “Be blessed, Templar Tarquin.”
He escorts her from the room and leaves Tarquin to nurse the bruise he had let himself believe was a friendship.
***
Ashur finds him the next day, looking none the worst for the wear after the festivities that lasted until dawn. Then, he hardly sleeps most of the time anyway; Tarquin should know, as he’s the same way.
The cause is too important.
“Quin,” Ashur says, before Tarquin can make his excuses and escape. He’s still nursing that bruise, after all.
“Ashur,” he returns politely.
“What I said—”
“—Was just the plain truth, wasn’t it?” Tarquin interrupts, before Ashur can make excuses or try to explain away what he had said.
“I couldn’t let them think we knew one another,” Ashur says, and he sounds a touch desperate, to Tarquin’s surprise.
“I know,” Tarquin says hollowly. “Why would the Divine, the Most Holy, be familiar with a low-ranked templar who works in the archives?”
Ashur looks away first.
“Just so,” he admits, like this divide hasn’t always been there between the two of them, like they haven’t always operated on separate levels.
The thing is, Tarquin had almost forgot it, himself.
“Anyway, no hard feelings,” Tarquin says, trying for flippant and falling somewhat short of the mark.
“Sure,” Ashur says, sounding appropriately dubious.
They shuffle awkwardly through paperwork, occasionally engaging in quick discussions regarding who should handle what task for the Shadows, until—
“Quin, I value your work here. We couldn’t do what we do without you, especially as more and more people join up,” Ashur says quietly.
“What?” Tarquin asks, startled. “What are you on about?”
“I just wanted to let you know—you’re valued here. I value you.”
“Okay?” Tarquin says dubiously, because he has no idea what Ashur is trying to get at, but somehow—somehow, some way, something within him is soothed. The bruise starts to fade.
“Well, we sure as shit wouldn’t be here without you, so—thanks, I guess,” Tarquin says.
Below the brim of his hat, Ashur’s eyes crinkle in the way they do when he’s smiling.
“Truce?” he asks, and Tarquin realizes that this is his way of apologizing for how he made Tarquin feel. He wishes, wanly, that he weren’t quite so transparent.
“Truce,” he agrees, and smiles back.