Work Text:
Night settled over the upper district of Minrathous in layers of molten golden shadows, glowing lanterns softening the edges of towering facades and floating structures. While the city itself never truly fell quiet, the sounds of daytime transformed into something more deliberate. Once the last light faded, Minrathous felt just a little more artificial up here, elevated above the rest of the city. Like the pretentious backdrop of a carefully staged play.
The palanquin moved at a swift but controlled pace through the wide streets and stairways, carried by steady hands. The heavy drapes intentionally raised a barrier between the nocturnal streets outside and its interior, however thin it might have been. Ashur had always felt like it distorted his view of what was going on outside of it, too. That it gave everything that lay behind the closed curtains a dull edge, whether it was light or sound.
It was a rather familiar perspective for him, being displayed and elevated in all the splendour and extravagance that was expected of his station. Unmistakable to everyone crossing paths with this little procession, while he himself was held at a deliberate distance, the world outside perceived only through fragments and glimpses.
Tarquin had taken one look at the palanquin and delivered his verdict with that slight uptick of his brow—the one that always meant he momentarily entertained the idea of using more polite words, but ultimately gave up on it in favour of swearing. He had declared it excessive and—of course—a security risk. An absurd display of wealth and status rather than a means of quick transportation. Which, Ashur agreed, aligned rather perfectly with the truth of the matter.
He turned his head just a fraction, the heavy mask with all its decoration and little applications he wore for the night’s occasion instantly creating a soft cascade of sounds. It was not the heaviest or the most elaborate headpiece he had ever worn, but it was prone to shifting uncomfortably when he moved his head too abruptly. This mask was one of those pieces that had laid in the Chantry’s treasury for an extended amount of time, left to gather dust. Until someone remembered its existence and got it out of its display case to present it to the elite of Minrathous once again.
It had been wrought in gold, polished to a near-obnoxious shine that was meant to catch even the smallest bit of lighting. Its shape arched high above Ashur’s head in an intricate crown of filigree, the design reminiscent of a rising sun, each outward curved beam fanning out in perfect symmetry. His face was hidden under thinly woven gold that was worked together so delicately that it brought upon the illusion of lace instead of metal. Ashur’s features were carefully hidden in favour of displaying a representation instead of a person. Delicate chains draped from each side of the mask, tinkling faintly whenever they moved together, while the lower half of the mask curved along his cheekbones, leaving his mouth bare.
Ashur suspected that the particular predecessor who had commissioned this piece had never worn it himself. If only because of the fact that he had already lost his head by the time the commission had been completed. Accidents could happen tragically easily during elaborate banquets.
The sound of hooves steadily following alongside the palanquin brought Ashur’s attention back to the present and a small smile to his lips. The presence just beyond the veil of curtains was grounding as much as distracting. Tarquin had chosen to travel on horseback, as he preferred to do.
Ashur lifted his hand, fingers brushing against the edge of the curtains, moving them just enough to catch a glimpse of the figure riding alongside him.
It was a small indulgence he allowed himself, before the night could truly begin and demand most of his attention to be focused elsewhere.
Tarquin sat atop his mount with a controlled posture he had perfected since taking up the mantle of Knight-Divine, despite looking like he would rather be anywhere but here. Ashur couldn’t begrudge him that in the slightest. While getting ready to depart, Quin had loudly voiced his opinion on the evening’s proceedings, repeatedly and with colourful emphasis. But it was nothing Ashur hadn’t been able to distract him from with a kiss, or several.
He wasn't wearing the armour he usually preferred. Tarquin's attire had been tailored specifically for the occasion. The masquerade ball had called for something more formal and refined, to his utter dismay. He'd chosen something that was as plain as he could get away with. A dark crimson tunic adorned with the bare minimum of subtle detailing and a black cape that fell over one shoulder, fastened with an ornamental clasp in the form of a coiled serpent. Without a doubt, the most elaborate piece of his outfit was his mask.
Black with a matte shine, it covered only Tarquin’s eyes and nose while parts of the ornamentation reached back into his carefully braided hair. Intricately-shaped snakes curled along the edges of the mask, their scales adorned with flecks of gold. Ashur knew that Camilla had put in considerable effort to enchant them so that the creatures seemed to move ever so slightly, shifting along the black metal of the mask. Going so far as to turn their heads and even open their little maws to silently hiss. It was no wonder Tarquin had accepted it so willingly from Camilla, without a single word of protest or snide remark. As though he was hoping the snakes may scare others away and make him look unapproachable.
Ashur had made no secret out of his appreciation for Tarquin’s new attire, the cut and way it was tailored to cling closely to his form. But he had held himself back, both during the fitting and tonight while they were getting dressed together. Had just offered to help fastening the cloak on his partner's shoulder and only allowed himself a brief kiss afterwards, while his fingers brushed lightly over the clasp at Tarquin’s shoulder.
There would be more time for worship later tonight.
Even dressed to suit the expectations of the evening, Tarquin looked entirely out of place. Though he did so in his own, unique way that clearly displayed he made no effort to pretend it was otherwise. The way he sat mounted spoke of an ease that was borne from true practice rather than training to display some elaborate parade armour. He held the reins steady in one hand, while the other rested seemingly relaxed on his thigh, his eyes moving around constantly. It did not take long for him to notice Ashur’s gaze lingering on him.
The tension in his shoulders eased visibly when they locked eyes. While his playful head tilt seemed to suggest: We could still make a run for it. Just say the word.
At the unspoken offer, Ashur couldn’t help but let amusement flicker through his carefully composed appearance. His lips curved faintly, not hidden by his mask. For the briefest moment he allowed himself to imagine the chaos and uproar it would cause. Dorian would surely applaud them, but the temptation faded as quickly as it had come. Not yet.
Tarquin rolled his eyes. The look of poorly concealed resignation, the one he had been wearing for the past few days, was back in all its glory.
Ashur would have to find a way to make it up to him later.
That they were drawing closer to their destination became clear even before the estate hosting the masquerade came fully into view. The crowd of people grew thicker, all moving towards the same direction. Voices carried, high-pitched laughter rising over the steady murmur of gathered nobility, magisters and everyone deeming themselves important or daring enough to make an appearance tonight.
It was already grating on Tarquin’s nerves. He forcefully exhaled through his mouth and adjusted the grip on the reins, the leather creaking softly under the pressure. His mare didn’t seem to care at all for the upcoming spectacle. A truly enviable position. At least she didn't have to spend the night gallivanting around with Altus mages.
At last, the estate loomed ahead of them, doused in the suffocating glow of meticulously placed mage-lights on the polished stone facade and towering arches. Some scattered fragments of music wove through the air, reaching them even before entering the grounds.
Tarquin let his gaze sweep over the scenery. He checked the faces of people milling about, the guards at their postings, elevated vantage points, some hidden corners here and there.
There was that unmistakable hum of anticipation that seemed to come with gatherings of this kind. It always managed to set Tarquin on edge for all the wrong reasons.
The palanquin slowed until it came to a halt before the wide steps leading up towards the elevated entrance of the manor. Already some heads were turned towards it, like it was some big mystery who would be arriving in the palanquin of the Divine. Tarquin had learned that it was all part of the game. Play and pretend.
His jaw tightened as he dismounted in one smooth motion, without waiting for one of the other templars accompanying them to assist him. With a quick tuck he adjusted the sleeve of his formal attire, trying to not feel so utterly uncomfortable wearing it.
He had worn way worse things over the years. This outfit was tailored well enough, the cut sharp, the material smooth, and gave him all the freedom to move without any unnecessary restrictions. It even allowed Tarquin to carry a concealed weapon, apart from the sword that rested where it always did, on his hip.
His hand moved instinctively to the hilt of said sword before it fell back to his side, his whole posture shifting into something more relaxed, though he had to force himself into it. He could feel the weight of curious eyes boring into his back, something that was better not acknowledged.
Servants moved in to draw back the curtains of the palanquin, their motions practiced and precise. Gold caught the light from the entrance as Ashur shifted within. For a brief moment, Tarquin allowed himself to just look at him. The choice of robes for the night had fallen onto something black and velvety, heavily accented with golden thread that blurred into chantry iconography, stitched into the edges of Ashur's attire. Every detail about the Divine's appearance had been considered in great detail, that ridiculous excessive mask above all.
A careful constructed image of something to be admired, held at a distance—untouchable. So of course, Tarquin took a confident step forward and offered a hand to help Ashur out of the palanquin. Without hesitation Ashur’s hand came to rest in his. It even stayed a moment longer than strictly necessary after he had stepped fully out. Their eyes met, and Ashur offered the smallest uptick of his lip to Tarquin.
He could not resist leaning in further and whisper. “We could still turn back.”
Ashur’s lips curved further upwards, “I wouldn’t dare to deprive you of this experience.”
Charming, Tarquin thought, and put in no effort at all to hide his snort.
“I already fucking hate everything about this,” he muttered under his breath.
Ashur hummed. “So you’ve said.”
“I’ll say it again.” Tarquin promised, because he planned on doing exactly that.
“I have no doubt about that," Ashur offered with a truly charming smile that was all performance.
Tarquin straightened again, something in his chest giving a twinge in a way he chose to completely ignore.
Ashur stepped forward, easily slipping into an elegant and imposing posture, drawing attention effortlessly.
Tarquin followed with barely a step between them. There was some exactly measured and "deemed acceptable" distance written down somewhere that Tarquin ignored time and time again, with gleeful satisfaction.
Though it seemed neither of them was very keen on acceptable distance tonight.
“Your arm,” Ashur said, after reaching the stairs. Way gentler than any request should sound out of the mouth of His Holiness towards his Knight-Divine. Tarquin’s body acted before his head could catch up fully, stepping in and offering his arm on reflex.
“Careful, Most Holy,” he muttered, as Ashur hand came for rest on his forearm, their arms loosely intertwined, “People might start talking.”
“One can only hope.” Ashur replied.
Did Tarquin imagine it, or was there a playful undertone in that answer?
While they moved up the stairs, Tarquin could feel the way Ashur made sure they did not keep as much distance between them as they were intended to. Mostly by how he held onto Tarquin’s arm, even when they continued their way on top of the stairs. This, of course, did not go unnoticed by onlookers.
It was not very difficult to spot, the looks thrown into their direction with carefully measured interest. Smiles honed to a polished precision, underlined with curiosity and disapproval.
But if they expected some sort of reaction from him, they would find themselves waiting forever. He was staying right here, at Ashur’s side, exactly where he was meant to be.
The ballroom was moderately filled with guests, the polished floor reflecting the glow of floating chandeliers in a fractured play of light. It felt warm to a point of suffocation, with different sweet fragrances wafting through the air. Music drifted through the room, never loud enough to disturb any of the conversations.
Tarquin let his gaze wander, quick and precise. Neither interested, nor lingering on the spectacle of fine clothes, extravagant masks and sparkling jewelry. He watched their gestures instead, the tension in their body language and the way they hid behind fake smiles and measured laughter that didn’t reach the eyes. Focusing on it too much made his skin crawl.
They hadn't even made it far into the ballroom before they were approached. Tarquin had expected as much.
There was some careful planning behind that timing. Calculating what would be the perfect moment to approach, waiting until the Divine had been properly received, until enough eyes and ears had gathered around them to make such an exchange truly worth witnessing.
A man stepped into their path with an air of smug entitlement, his attire’s train dragging behind him like an oversized duster. The feathers sprouting out of his slightly too tight mask resembled the sweeper Lorelei favoured to shoo the spiders out of the big pots in the Shop.
“Your Holiness,” he greeted, voice pitched low and inclining his head just enough to show the proper amount of respect. If he had to bet, Tarquin’s gold was on him being a Magister or one of the higher-ranking Clerics.
He did not miss the way the man’s gaze lingered on him a bit too long before settling fully on Ashur. Tarquin made a point of glaring back—respectfully.
Ashur answered effortlessly, with a respectful tone and patience that Tarquin was sure he himself would always be lacking. Though it was not something he would mourn anytime soon.
The talk seemed easygoing, polished words that shifted into something that appeared more like a studied script than an actual conversation. It felt like something that came second nature to Ashur, and it probably did.
Tarquin remained silent at his side, Ashur’s hand elegantly curled around his forearm in an open display that didn’t escape the Magister’s notice. Again, his gaze slid towards Tarquin, something masked behind polite curiosity, obvious even before he opened his mouth again.
“And this would be…?” The question was spoken louder, stinking of intent or even a challenge. Tarquin felt that familiar edge of irritation rise again. But before he could give in to any spontaneous impulses, Ashur had already answered, in that same smooth tone as before.
“Ser Tarquin,” his fingers moved just a fraction over the fabric of Tarquin’s sleeve. “My Knight-Divine.” As if it was that obvious and simple.
It took most of Tarquin’s willpower to not look sideways at Ashur, to not show his surprise. The irritation he had felt shifted into a giddy satisfaction and excitement. While his title explained his presence here, at a far stretch—it didn’t offer any reason for their familiarity. Though Ashur offered no further explanation, he made no attempts to step away from Tarquin. As though he was proud. Of Tarquin.
The Magister acknowledged the answer with a sharpening gaze, that no further answer was forthcoming from the Divine on the matter. “Of course,” he said, appeasingly.
Conversation resumed, though Tarquin found he didn’t mind it as much as before. He just let it wash over him, his attention on other guests around them. But most of all, on the point of contact between him and Ashur. The warmth of his hand seeping through the fabric of his sleeve. It was enough to make the looks, the whispers behind their backs, the snide laughter and pointed fingers fade into the background like meaningless noise.
It took just a few carefully chosen words to bring the polite suggestion across that their conversation had now reached its end. Ashur dipped his head as a parting gesture and didn’t linger long enough to wait for any answer from their conversation partner on that matter. They even made it a few more steps through the room before they were approached again by another person, and then yet another.
Ashur was well-accustomed to this, the exchange of pleasantries, the layered words spoken with all their hidden intentions and implications. It was something that was to be expected and endured on occasions like this. But there was something that made tonight more bearable, even a tad bit exciting, and it was Tarquin’s presence by his side.
Tarquin, who endured it all in silence, talk after talk. Every disdainful look, every comment thrown in his direction. He did not retort even once. But the way he shifted his weight told Ashur that his patience was wearing thin beneath the surface.
He chose a quick escape during a temporary lull in the current conversation, before he would end up trapped in another meaningless exchange with someone expecting to barter favours with him.
“I trust you will excuse us.” Ashur’s tone left no room for disagreements. “Ser Tarquin and I are expected elsewhere.” And before any answer could be forthcoming, they had already stepped away.
Ashur squeezed Tarquin’s arm gently, as they moved closer to the dance floor, away from more eager conversationalists.
Tarquin exhaled, something between a scoff and a small, silent laugh slipping free.
“You’re enjoying this,” he muttered under his breath, no real accusation in his tone.
Ashur watched one of the enchanted snakes from Tarquin’s mask move out of the corner of his eye as he replied. “Immensely.” He found no reason to hide the amusement in his tone.
The music, which had provided a pleasant background noise until now, suddenly shifted. The volume rose and a softer tune filled the ballroom. A soft murmur, followed by an excited ripple rose from the gathered attendants, and already people started to move towards the dance floor. Ashur leaned further towards Tarquin, the fine gold chains dangling from his mask chinking together softly.
This was probably the perfect moment to take Tarquin by surprise.
“Dance with me,” Ashur said, deliberately not phrasing it as a request.
Tarquin looked at him rather abruptly, holding his gaze for a few long seconds. “…You’re serious.”
His tone was an equal mix of bewilderment and horrified realisation. Ashur took great care not to show any form of amusement, with what little was visible of his expression.
“Very," he answered, slipping his arm free and steering them towards the dancefloor with a gentle hand on Tarquin’s back. Already, curious eyes were following their path again.
Tarquin exhaled a breath that did sound a tiny bit unsteady. “This is a fucking terrible idea.”
“Undoubtedly,” Ashur replied, something amused slipping into his tone again as he offered his hand in an elegant gesture that left no room for interpretation about the sincerity of his intentions. Tarquin placed his own hand in Ashur's with a small smirk that threatened to emerge and a soft shake of his head.
In a tender display, Ashur let his thumb sweep over the back of Tarquin’s gloved fingers as they stepped onto the floor together. They took their positions among countless other pairs of dancers. Before Tarquin could remark on any of it, Ashur guided him into the dance.
Tarquin accepted his lead easily, following the steps and turns as they began to move together in a graceful arc over the dancefloor. Though Ashur wasn’t entirely sure if Quin was guided more by his leading touch or his own knowledge of the dance. Ashur hadn’t dared to ask about anything related to dancing before the masquerade, out of fear Tarquin might suspect him of planning this exact moment.
For all the very interested observers it must have been obvious from the beginning that this was not some extravagant formality, but something that could barely be called a proper dance. Ashur had made sure to seek more contact, display touch between them openly, and keep his gaze on Tarquin more often than the bounds of propriety would deem acceptable.
Another turn following the rise and ebb of the music, another shift that brought them even closer together. Briefly chest to chest, Ashur’s hand on Tarquin’s back holding him this close for just a second longer.
Tarquin, too, seemed to notice the way a few nearby conversations faltered at their display. His gaze returned to Ashur and he muttered, “If you dip me, I will deck you!”
He was obviously well aware of what a show they were providing here.
Ashur couldn’t help but chuckle under his breath, a sound that was mostly swallowed by the music—which reached a peak with a few faster notes before softening again and bringing their dance to an end. Tarquin was the one to take a step back, the absence of their contact leaving behind a hollow sensation Ashur disliked intensely. But he knew his partner's patience was probably wearing thin, especially after being the object of interest for such an extended period of time.
And right he seemed to be, as Tarquin’s eyes were scanning the ballroom discreetly before he offered a casual, “Fresh air?”
Ashur agreed easily.
Slipping away from the main hall was way easier than Tarquin had anticipated. Leaving the dance floor itself had felt like navigating an obstacle course, with the obstacles staring at you and whispering in hushed tones the moment you passed them. Maybe it was the fact that he still held Ashur’s hand after their shared dance and that he was half-dragging the Divine behind himself as they stepped away from the dance floor. Or it perhaps was the urgency in his step. Tarquin didn’t really give a damn.
They passed a corridor, then another one, and finally reached a door leading outside onto a small patio and into one of the gardens. The sounds from the ballroom fell away, the music fading back into a dull background sound.
Tarquin took a deep breath of cool night air as he slowed his steps. It felt so good to leave the suffocating air of the ballroom behind.
He turned and stared back at the mansion with its brightly lit windows and excessive decorations. Shrill laughter carried outside from further down the corridors, and Tarquin winced.
“Fuck,” he muttered. Who in their right mind would attend something like this for fun?
Ashur’s soft laugh caught Tarquin's attention. He watched as Ashur walked past, further along the meticulously upkept stone path leading deeper into the small garden. It was silent apart from some other guests—few and far between—who seemed to have sought a small escape themselves. Just a few decorative lanterns were casting little islands of light into the sea of dark greenery.
Tarquin followed.
After another minute of slowly walking in silence, they reached a little waist-high wall, hidden from view by some bushes in full bloom. Tarquin chose that spot to lean against the wall and reached up toward his face, pulling his mask free. The relief was immediate and he slowly rolled his head from side to side.
He found Ashur watching him, the soft smile still playing along his lips. The gold filigree of this mask caught what little light reached them even here. For a moment Tarquin studied him, before pushing himself off the wall, carefully setting aside his own mask.
“Come here,” he said, the words lacking sharpness, nearly slipping into something one might call gentle.
Ashur stepped closer and willingly bowed his head forward enough to allow Tarquin better access. This close he could make out all the fine detail hiding most of Ashur’s features. His hands came up, laying atop the masks surface, metal warmed by Ashur’s skin.
“Makers balls,” Tarquin muttered under his breath, brows drawing together in concentration. “How do you even—”
He carefully brushed along the edges of the mask, coming across the hidden clasps more by instinct than by any knowledge about fancy Altus jewelry. The mask shifted with some faint jingling sounds as Tarquin loosened it before lifting it off Ashur. Tarquin set it aside next to his own. Turning back again, his eyes caught on something. The golden monstrosity of a mask had left behind imprints on Ashur’s skin, where the metal had pressed to close along his cheekbones and near his temples, barely visible in the low light of the garden.
Tarquin’s expression softened, as he stepped closer again. “You Altus and your stupid fancy masks…” he muttered teasingly as he reached for Ashur again, thumb brushing gently over the marks on his cheek, lingering there as if he could just wipe them away.
Ashur’s gaze was holding his own, warm and inviting. Something in Tarquin felt relieved, without the masks, without an audience. This was just a stolen moment for them both.
He leaned in first, closing the distance without another word. The kiss they shared was lingering and soft.
Tarquin pulled back when distant music from the ballroom drifted over to them. He made a split-second decision, already drawing Ashur closer again. There was no perfectly polished floor beneath their feet, just muted music and their little sheltered hideout in the garden.
His arm found its way around Ashur’s waist, pulling him in until there was little to no space left between them, guiding him into a slow sway that had little to do with complicated steps and elaborate turns. Ashur settled into it, one hand resting against Tarquin’s shoulder while the other remained in a gentle hold between them. His gaze held something unmistakably pleased.
“So,” Tarquin began, “…are we about to become the evening’s most entertaining scandal?”
An amused hum and the curl of Ashur’s fingers against his came as an answer before he actually spoke.
“We did stay rather close together all evening,” Ashur said smoothly. He started listing off obvious facts. “Shared a dance in a way that invited certain…assumptions. Then we left the ballroom with considerable haste.” His lips brushed Tarquin’s in another slow kiss.
“And I suspect,” Ashur continued, with obvious satisfaction, "We will appear somewhat… dishevelled when we return.”
His head tipped forward slightly, forehead coming to rest against Tarquin’s temple gently.
Tarquin huffed a laugh. “I’ve always dreamed of causing a scene at an Altus ball.” Sarcasm dripped from every word.
Their gentle swaying slowed further until coming almost to a standstill. It was easier to kiss like this, anyway. This next kiss, too, started out soft and unhurried—until Ashur’s hand found its way into Tarquin’s hair, and something shifted. His teeth caught Tarquin’s lower lip, just a tiny pull that felt like a suggestion of more. A suggestion Tarquin was very much on board for. He grinned and licked over his lower lip as they parted again.
“Want to scandalize some fancy Highbloods properly?”
