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Tarquin got back from Vol Dorma with bruised ribs, a hangover the size of Minrathous, and a reassignment to the depths of the Templar administration archives, which turned out to be a long, dimly lit series of rooms filled with aging papers and other riffraff the Templars considered insubordinate but didn’t know what else to do with. He loped down the dark corridor to the space he’d been told would have a desk for him, still surprised he hadn’t lost his job entirely. He knew, when he’d cut out of assigned duty to help the Viper sneak a bunch of slaves out of the city, that it would probably mean he was out on the street again, so when his superiors had merely handed him his new orders this morning and told him to report to the administration building from now on, it had come as a surprise.
The door to the space he was supposed to be working out of was stuck, and he groaned a little as he heaved his weight against it to push it open. He really should’ve let that fucking mage heal his ribs before they went their separate ways. The ease with which that thought came to him rocked him back a little, because Tarquin had a longstanding personal rule about trusting mages, which was simply: don’t. And that rule shouldn’t apply to anyone more than some over-dressed weirdo running around calling himself the Viper, and yet-- not only did Tarquin abandon his post and his good sense in order to help the man get three families of now-former slaves out of Vol Dorma, he even suggested they celebrate afterwards by sharing a bottle of what turned out to be the strongest, most gut-twisting liquor either of them had ever encountered.
And that was how he’d spent the previous evening: drunk with a fucking mage on a rooftop in Vol Dorma after a night of vigilantism. Apart from freeing slaves and drinking bad liquor, it had gone against several things he would have said he stood for. But it had almost been— fun? He could do without the hangover, but the Viper himself had actually turned out to be decent company, for all that he was a mage and probably a rich one, at that. Too bad he’d probably never see the man again. Or at least, so he thought, until he reached the desk he’d been assigned.
“What the—“
On his desk, next to a huge fuck-off stack of papers that he gathered he was meant to be filing, sat a leatherbound sketchbook and a bundle of charcoal pencils. He would question whether or not it was for him, but tucked into the leather strap that encircled the sketchbook was a card that read, “Quin.” There wasn’t any other note, but masked vigilantes weren’t really known for that, probably. He looked around, but he was certainly alone.
“Fuck off,” he muttered, running his fingers over the smooth grain of the leather. It felt like fucking butter against his fingertips and it looked like red hart leather, something he’d only seen in person once before and definitely hadn’t been allowed to touch. Expensive, whatever the fuck it was. He knew that costumed idiot came from money— that snake getup probably cost more coin than he’d see in ten years— but now he was reassessing exactly how much money. He was also reassessing just how loose-lipped that bottle of foul-tasting whiskey had made him, since in addition to his fucking nickname he had also told the man about his silly little childhood hobby of drawing on everything in sight, dreaming occasionally of a future that involved art only to find that if he wanted to live as the man he was, he’d have to be a soldier.
He wasn’t going to use it, obviously. It was a bribe, or something, though for what he couldn’t say. It seemed too easy for it to be just a gift. People like that didn’t do that, did they? Certainly not for the likes of a lowly soporatus stuck in the bowels of the Templar administration building. Sure, they’d freed some slaves and shared a terrible drink or two, but the man was a mage and likely some magister’s son besides. He’d get bored with vigilante justice eventually. If Tarquin was lucky, he wouldn’t come looking to get rid of anyone who knew he’d bothered to help the less fortunate. Maybe that’s what this was— a warning. The Viper knew where he worked, so he’d best keep his mouth shut.
But— despite his considerable and entirely justified distrust of mages in general and highbloods in particular— that didn’t feel right. Maybe it was the lingering high of seeing all those families escaping to freedom, or maybe it was the hazy recollection of a pair of crinkling eyes smiling at him from underneath that stupid serpent hat, but either way, this felt— good? The feeling was about as elusive as his new caped and crusading acquaintance, but he was pretty sure that’s what it was. And— it was a nice fucking sketchbook. If he was gonna die anyway, might as well get some use out of the damn thing.
There wasn’t a lot of light left when he got off work, but it was enough. After all, the thing he found he most wanted to draw was only in his memory, not on the docks near his apartment, where he posted up with the sketchbook and some cheap kebabs from the fish fry. The charcoal made soft marks on the paper, lines and shadows slowly taking the shape of a face he hadn’t even seen all of. He wondered, as he examined his work and chewed idly on one of the vegetables from the kebabs, what the man looked like under that mask when he smiled.
He was so absorbed in it that he forgot to pay attention to anything else, and when a deep voice rumbled, “Nice work,” out of fucking nowhere, he nearly dropped the whole kit and his dinner into the water in surprise.
“Maker’s fucking ass and balls,” he half-shouted, as a familiar masked figure settled in next to him. “Where the fuck did you come from?”
“Nobody watches the rooftops,” the Viper shrugged.
“All right. Do you ever just walk up to somebody and say hello like a normal fucking person?”
“Hello,” he said, and Tarquin did consider pushing him off the pier, but those fucking eyes were crinkly at the edges again and something about that made his face get hotter, so he had to look away and focus very intently on the water for a minute. He was too damn old to be blushing over some moneyed mage who happened to pay him a moment’s attention.
“Thanks for this, I think,” he said, closing the sketchbook and tapping the cover.
“You sound uncertain,” the Viper observed.
Tarquin shrugged. “No such thing as a free gift, in my experience.”
“If you want it to be, then that’s all it is,” came the reply.
“Ah, so you did want something,” he said. The sharp bite of disappointment was not unexpected, but it hurt all the same.
“I considered what you said last night, about recruiting people,” the Viper continued.
“We were pretty drunk, but I think what I said was that you wouldn’t have a prayer of recruiting anyone in that outfit,” Tarquin said.
“You’re not anyone. You’re someone. You’re Quin.”
If his face got any warmer, it would probably catch fire. “You don’t really know me,” he said.
“I know you helped me,” said the Viper. “It’s a place to start.”
“I helped those families,” he corrected. “I don’t help mages. They don’t need any help from me.”
“Fair enough. I am just one mage, if that makes a difference.”
“Oh, fuck off,” he groaned. “I came out here to draw and eat my dinner in peace, not get into a fucking argument about grammar with a grown man dressed like a snake.”
“Again, what’s wrong with the way I dress?” asked the man in question, in the same wry way he’d said it yesterday as they watched the stars light up the sky over Vol Dorma. “All right. As you said yesterday— it’s a bit much. But sometimes people need a symbol. Not a person.”
“Yeah, but the person underneath the mask still matters. You think the people’s best fucking champion is a magister?” he tossed out, curious to see how the Viper would react.
He sighed in response, but he didn’t deny the accusation that he was a magister, either, Tarquin noticed.
“I think the people’s best champion is anyone who’s willing to do right by them, and that anyone with power owes it to the people of this country to do so.”
“Do right by them, sure,” Tarquin nodded. He felt warm for different reasons, now. “And who fucking determines what right is? Oh wait. Mages. Because magic is a blessing the fucking Maker only gives to those who deserve it, so they can look after the rest of us poor sods. Well, I’ve had a lifetime of that, so no fucking thanks.”
“That’s not what the Chant says,” he murmured in response, quietly but with a conviction that made Tarquin want to sit up a little straighter. “That’s the Chantry, and the Magisterium. But all men are the work of our Maker’s hands. All of us. Equally.”
“That’s a nice sentiment, and I think you might actually believe it,” he said, after a moment. “But it doesn’t change shit. It doesn’t matter."
“If you really believe that, then why did you help?"
It was a good question, and one he’d asked himself since sunrise, when he’d rolled back into Minrathous with the other Templars, head pounding at every rut in the road that bumped their cheap carriage on the way back from Vol Dorma. He shook his head. “Because— fuck, I don’t know, because I couldn’t do nothing? Because maybe nobody else would? Because— there’s a whole country of us that the people in power forget about, and the rest of us deserve to get some of our own back every once in a fucking while.” He looked over at the man next to him. “What about you? Why’d you help?”
The Viper grew still and appeared to think for a moment, though it was hard to tell with most of his face hidden away. The silver on his gloves glittered in the setting sun. Finally, he cleared his throat, and in the warmest voice Tarquin had ever heard, said, “The Maker is with us. His Light shall be our banner, and we shall bear it through the gates of that city and deliver it to our brothers and sisters awaiting their freedom within those walls. At last, the Light shall shine upon all of creation, if we are only strong enough to carry it.”
“That the fucking Chant?” Tarquin asked, blinking at his companion. “The fucking Chant is your answer.”
“Yes,” said the Viper.
“So you’re trying to what, in this scenario,” Tarquin said, “bring the light?”
He had meant it to be insulting, but saying it felt less so. The Viper apparently agreed.
“That,” the Viper said slowly, “is exactly what I’m trying to do. Will you help?”
“Depends. You gonna get bored and go back to having someone peel grapes for you and stick me with all the blame when this goes sideways?”
The Viper looked away across the water. Tarquin was long past caring what some highblood thought of him, but after the warmth in the man’s voice talking all that nonsense about freedom and light, this brief silence felt like disapproval, and it stung like a fucking snakebite.
“No one peels grapes for me,” he said at last. If his feelings were hurt, Tarquin had to hand it to him, he was keeping a lid on them. “And if there are consequences for what we do, I will do my best to make certain they fall on my head first.”
“You can’t tell me it’s not a fair question,” Tarquin said, though he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince himself or the man next to him.
“I know that it is and it is your right to ask,” he sighed. “I simply wish you didn’t need to.” He turned his head away from the water, focusing on Tarquin again. “I don’t need an answer now. I'm only asking that you consider it.”
“I am, but— you’re asking me to trust you with my life, and I don’t know you,” Tarquin said. “Give me something.”
“I did,” he replied.
Tarquin was about to protest that the only thing the guy had given him was a near fucking heart attack from surprising him while he was sitting here, drawing and distracted, but then his fingers slid against the supple, buttery leather of the book in his hands, and the answer hit him like a thunderbolt.
“Red hart leather’s hard to come by,” he said slowly. “Nice sketchbook like this, probably one of a kind, or at least a limited run. Whoever made it must not sell to too many people. Wouldn’t be impossible to track down buyers.”
A casual “Hmm,” was all the response he got to that, but it was a warm, pleased sort of sound, and he had to shift around to distract himself from what that did to his insides. He really was too old for this.
“Fuck it,” Tarquin said. “I don’t believe in the Maker and I don’t know fuck all about the Chant, but— I’m tired of doing nothing. I'm in. I draw the line at the snake getup, though. I’m not doing that.”
“Of course not,” said the Viper, whose eyes were hazel, Tarquin noted, and crinkly at the edges again. “No one would ever be recruited by someone dressed like this.”
“Yeah? Well, I’ve got it on good authority that I'm not no one,” he joked, and held his hand out. “I’m Quin.”
Tarquin wouldn’t have thought that you could hear a smile. He certainly couldn’t see the Viper’s behind that foolish mask— but he knew it was there all the same as the other man extended his hand to grasp Tarquin’s.
“Ashur,” he said. “Tell me, Quin: how are you at Wicked Grace?”