#divine rites

Ashur Vesperian looks across the city to which he had once refused to return and wonders if there's anything he could have done to end up anywhere else. If there was ever truly an escape from this. He supposes his being here answer enough. He should at least feel satisfied that he'd done it on his terms, but the gratification rings hollow.

The youngest Divine in three ages.

Somehow, Ashur is sure his father would find some way to express his disappointment. It should perhaps not spark the amusement that it does.

"You should be more careful,"

Ashur whips around, startled less because there is a stranger on the roof, and more because he hadn't expected to see her again. Certainly not so soon. But it's undoubtedly her, perched there on the roof's edge like an overlarge bird, eyes reflecting a myriad of colors from the shadow of her cowl.

Aegis drops onto his terrace almost soundlessly, her hood slipping off her head with the force of the landing. Ashur is at once thankful that they've been gifted a miraculously clear night in Minrathous. The starlight affects her with a strange, colorless glow.

Her cowl crowds around her neck now, the hair that hasn't been stirred by the removal is contained down the back of her cloak. Usually green eyes seem black with the shadows, the freckles that dust her cheeks are thrown into sharp relief in the starlight, making her look almost the inverse of the night sky, darker pinpricks on a blanket of silver.

"Anyone could sneak up on you up here," She chides, though her mouth pulls up at one corner.

"Lucky it was you, then."

Ashur expects her to roll her eyes, but she just smiles at him, decidedly not as sharp as he's become accustomed to. Rather unfortunately, he's enchanted by this softer version. Enchanted by the way it makes her seem even younger than she is. He could almost believe this was another woman altogether.

He slips through a side alley and comes up on the window to the office he holds at the hideout, locked by his own magical seal. It doesn't take much to break it, only a drop of his own blood and he's slipping through.

Ashur never could decide if Cyri would approve. It seemed just as likely she'd roll her eyes at the pageantry. She seemed to be of two minds always. Traipsing every path at once, sharp eyes that see everything from every angle. He's sure that's why he finds her so fascinating.

There hasn't been one time he's slipped into his office he hadn't thought of her since the last time.

He can't help wondering what would have happened if the door had not—

"Ah, the Viper," Dorian says amiably, closing the door behind him with a quiet snick. "I was sure you'd drop in at some point, you always were punctual."

"I didn't expect to find you here," Ashur replies, unable to quite keep the smile from his voice. Talking to Dorian felt easy in a way it didn't with many people. One of the many reasons, perhaps, that he was such an apt politician. "What do I owe the pleasure?"

Dorian waves a passive hand, "I do work here you know."

Only in the loosest sense, though the same could be said for any of them. So little of the Shadows' work took place in the warehouse. So far as circumstances stood, the place was more a refuge than much else.

"Mae thinks we ought to seek out more supporters, and I agree, of course." Dorian sighs as he flops gracefully into the armchair on the other side of Ashur's worn desk—a recent addition. "I've a list of names for each of us. At least we both suffer equally if the labor is halved—" he offers a lackadaisical smile, "or something of the sort."

Ashur takes up the parchment Dorian has dropped on the table between them. A short list—something that fills Ashur with relief and trepidation—of members of the magisterium who are suspected to be curious if not entirely sympathetic to the cause of the Lucerni. It's as good a place to start as any. Scanning he page, Ashur is surprised to find more than one grand cleric among them. Vasilia is no surprise, considering Ashur appointed her himself—one among many things that made him unpopular in those early months.

"And tonight's dock raid—"

"Returned an hour ago,"

At Ashur's surprise, Dorian offers a wry smile. "I did try to tell her how sorry you'd be to miss it, but I'm afraid the Mercar girl is incorrigible."

Ashur stops cold, his blood resumes flowing a moment later with a painful pulse.

"She's here? In Minrathous?" He can't help asking.

Dorian gives a knowing smile, and the question of what he'd seen that morning is finally answered.

"Returned late this morning at Mae's request," he confirms, and then his brows pulls tight as though he's said something he's not sure he should have. The expression vanishes in a moment, replaced with his usual dry gaiety. "Well, I've got to get back to my lodgings," Dorian folds his own parchment with one swift movement and unfurls to his feet. "Long day of politicking tomorrow,"

He waves the folded paper in the air as he turns toward the door. Hastily, Ashur tucks his own page away and follows Dorian to the door. Behind it, are about two dozen Shadow Dragons, all in various combinations of black, red and turquoise, jovially celebrating with half as many wine bottles.

It'd gone well then.

A short cheer goes up at the sighting of himself and Dorian. Ashur's companion waves off the attention with feigned indifference, though he accepts a swallow of wine when the bottle is passed into his hand.

Ashur searches the room for a familiar face, and finds instead a familiar head of dark waves. Longer than last he saw her, in dark waves that cascade down her back as she drags fingers through, loosing it from its careful braid. His heart starts at a gallop. Perhaps, as with the last time, she'd hoped to surprised him.

She's sat atop one of the long tables at the back of the room, talking animatedly with her hands in a way he's rarely seen. It speaks of a sort of conversancy that feels rare for Cyri. The kind he's only recently become aquatinted—and so the jealousy sparks even before he crosses the room.

It takes him a moment—one filled with elation that rapidly deflates—to note the hand that lingers on her knee and the slightly-swollen pink tinge to her lips. It takes longer for him to put those pieces together, to make sense of them. And if there's any wavering in her expression, he isn't present to notice it.

"The Viper," her companion notes merrily, as if his presence is a welcome intrusion. It takes years of carefully cultivated chains on his baser instincts for Ashur's eyes not to drop again to the place where his hand rests so casually on Cyri's knee—though it's risen slightly higher on her thigh.

Ashur offers Petras a smile—at least he thinks he does—before he turns his attention fully to her.

"I heard you led the raid," he says, stupidly.

Her head tilts just slightly to one side, as though she's observing him closer than he'd like, "I didn't see any reason to wait."

Something passes between them, wordless and sharp. A dagger being pulled soundlessly from his flesh as she blinks unfeeling at his bleeding form. It's a strangely distant realization, that whatever depth lay between them, he was alone in it.

"It would seem everything went smoothly for you," Ashur answers, "caution on my part was unnecessary."

Maevaris Tilani sweeps into the room at last, her powder blue robes turning the corner last. She's as made up as she's been any other time Ashur has seen her. A consequence, he suspects, of being raised in Altus circles. His own mother wouldn't have dared receive a guest without her hair pinned and her robes pressed.

Similarly, perhaps, Ashur cannot stop himself from rising out of his seat upon her arrival. She smiles genially as she grasps his hand

"Ashur," Mae intones warmly, leaning in to brush her lips over his cheek. He glances briefly to the woman still waiting by the fire as he ghosts his cheek over hers. "I'm glad you made it here safely."

"It's good to see you, Maevaris," Ashur agrees as she pulls away.

When they've each settled into a chair, her smile sobers slightly.

"I'm not looking to dance around the subject," Mae tells him, ever straight to the point. "Do you want to be the Divine, Ashur?"

Taken aback by the question, Ashur glances first to the woman still standing by the fireside, jabbing at the flaming logs, the end of her poker glowing orange with her efforts. He turns back to Maevaris with a raised eyebrow he supposes there's no sense in now.

Still, Maevaris immediately seems to understand his meaning.

"I would have thought you'd already introduced yourselves," Mae says, gesturing amiably to her companion. "This is Aegis."

There's only the slightest hesitation before Maevaris says her name. When the other woman, Aegis, turns, he catches what he missed before. A flash of gold at each of her hips, revealed with her quick turn to join their conversation. Ashur is quite certain she was listening the entire time, just as he's suddenly sure that her lack of introduction was entirely purposeful.

She holds a hand out to him now, not exactly more formal than Mae's greeting, though certainly more utilitarian. In the flicker of firelight, he finally notices the stark white lines crisscrossing her knuckles. The kinds that indicate she finds herself in trouble often enough that seeking out a healer has become redundant.

He reaches out his own hand, surprised to find the calluses of her palm scraping the supple skin of his own. Her ability to use the blades at her hips isn't exactly in question, then. Her lips press together, though both corners lift in an expression of amusement she's trying to hold in. He wants desperately to know why.

“Ashur.” He manages to say after a moment.

Aegis arches an eyebrow in an expression that quite clearly says she knew that even before Mae said it only moments ago. Undoubtedly she'd known it when she opened the door, possibly known it some time before that.

When he turns back to Maevaris, eager to avert his eyes from those green ones that spark with such amusement, he finds her waiting expectantly.

"I…don't know that my wanting has ever been the problem of it," Ashur says finally.

A slight twirl around the question perhaps, but it's the only answer to that question he's ever bothered giving. From a young age, Cormir Vesparian made his expectations quite clear. Failing to meet those expectations had never been a question worth entertaining, even if in recent years Ashur had at least begun to look for a way to work his father's ambitions to his own end.

Maevaris, however, isn't so pleased with this answer.

Noting this, Ashur amends, "I want to help. If becoming Divine is the best avenue to achieve that, then it's the only thing I want."

Her surprise melts into something more like amusement, drawing his attention to the split in her lip, bright red against their usually rosy hue. Hardly the only evidence of last night's scuffle. There's a scabbed welt across her nose, oddly displaced from the center of her face and blood still crusted beneath. Violet crescents have taken root beneath both of her eyes, one of which is largely bloodshot, setting off her green iris in an unsettling way.

She crosses her arms over her chest, jerking her chin to the room behind him, "Don't tell me you prefer that chair to the cushy four poster bed in the Divine's Manor,"

Ashur blinks, brow furrowing with a brief bewilderment at the thought that she's somehow been in his room without his knowledge. Of course, he's quickly reminded that she'd seen the ones at the Cathedral rectory, and had likely made an educated guess.

He shakes himself from the brief stupor, his reason for being here at all staring him in the face. "I'm sorry about…"

Ashur trails off as Cyri lifts a formidable brow.

"I thought we talked about that?" She scolds.

Lamely, he leans against his own doorjamb, recalling her first chastisement. His lips press closed. Though bereft of apology, he finds himself at a loss for any other words to offer.

"If there's one good thing about Tevinter," she says, lips curling upward in a smile that rivals the rays of sun behind her head, "it's that there's never a shortage of mage healers. Means I get to keep my pretty face."

Ashur shakes his head good-naturedly, unaware that he's already grinning. For how long now, he has to wonder. Is he perhaps unable to quell it when in her presence? She seems to pull it out of him with those sparkling eyes, the gold ichor round her irises like a halo. Though it's maybe her smile instead, passing from her mouth to his like an infection he doesn't even have to worry about being close enough to catch.

Her eyes narrow, though her lips retain their curve of amusement, "What?"

"Just…" His eyes flit across the myriad of freckles scattered over her nose, the slight blush of her cheeks. "I'm sure it would take more than a crooked nose to ruin it."

What was intended as a veiled compliment is met with an incredulous eyebrow, "Do you know how many times I've been punched in the face?"

Ashur barks out a laugh so sudden, even Cyri's eyes light with it. She seems delighted, as though his laughter was the ideal outcome.

"Then I take it everyone finds you so charming," he quips, surprising them both.

It's only at that moment he realizes how close they are. His fingertips are still connected to the edge of her jaw, encouraging it up toward him. A fleeting touch, one he'd meant to disengage. He still doesn't. He's not sure why.

Cyri's face breaks into an outright grin, "I can be charming when I want to be."

"I'm aware." Ashur finds himself saying as he shakes his sleeve over his free hand.

He uses the silken sleeve to dispatch the blood still crusted beneath her nose. Her hand follows after the motion, the line between her brow belies surprise. An expression that looks a little like suspicion flits across her face before settling into something else entirely.

"Am I all better, then?" She asks, the words as soft as a summer wind off the coast.