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The first time Tarquin kisses Ashur’s hand, it catches him completely off-guard.
The gesture is so soft, so tender, so completely unlike the Tarquin he knows that Ashur doesn’t really know what to do with himself for a little while afterwards. Or really, a good while.
Maker preserve him.
Though, of course, there is nothing embarrassing about being that affected by the man one loves.
Hours ago, a flock of demons came crawling out of the damn sky. And Ashur would be lying if he said his first priority hadn’t been to ensure that Tarquin was safe, even though he should probably be more concerned about the Shadow Dragons as a whole, as their leader.
He supposed he was only human. And Tarquin did keep telling him that he should be selfish once in a while. To just think of himself “for once in his bloody life”.
So he did exactly that. As instructed. When the demons hit, he didn’t really think. He didn’t really plan. He just ran across the rooftops, as fast as he could. All the way to where he knew Tarquin would be, and stepped in just in time to prevent… something he’d really rather not think about, actually.
Tarquin hadn’t been wearing his plate armour or his leathers. He’d been wearing his archive uniform, working overtime again because his superiors weren’t happy about something or other. Soft linen fabric, not made to withstand Despair’s icy claws or the fiery aura of a Rage demon. And though Tarquin made it a habit to never be completely unarmed—Ashur’s amatus wasn’t born yesterday, after all—there was no use for weapons in the cellar, and thus they were not permitted.
And unfortunately, Tarquin’s small dagger would never be enough to fight off a horde of otherworldly monsters.
But it’d likely been just enough to buy him some time.
Regardless, he’s already taken a claw to the chest when Ashur finds him exactly where he thought he’d be. Exactly where he said he’d be, should there be a sudden crisis. They’d made agreements on what to do should they ever not be together when disaster struck—Tarquin’s idea, of course, ever the pragmatic—and it seemed, in this case, that Tarquin’s foresight had been the exact thing that saved him.
Ashur doesn’t know whether to thank the Maker for that particular stroke of luck, or Tarquin himself for having such a brilliant mind. For always, always planning ahead.
Either way, Ashur feels like he should be thanking someone. On his knees, probably. Though that would probably have to wait until later.
Because Tarquin still got hurt. He’s still bleeding, winded. It’s just not as bad as it could’ve been.
He’s on his back on the cobblestone bridge, pressing a hand to his bloodied chest, breathing hard. Around them, all is calm now. Near-serene, a stark contrast to the chaos of before.
“Thought I was a goner, you know. When I took that hit. Then out of nowhere, there you were,” Tarquin mumbles, his back against a wooden pole as he struggles to keep himself up.
Ashur pushes his hand aside and presses gentle, cooling magic against the gash running through his uniform and splitting his skin. “I will always come for you, my Quin.”
“Fuck,” Tarquin winces as his wound slowly starts closing over. “How do you even fucking do that?”
Ashur raises an eyebrow. “Do what, amatus?”
Tarquin huffs out a laugh. It sounds slightly pained. “Say something so sappy, something that should make my skin crawl, and yet sound so completely fucking earnest about it? It doesn’t even make me want to punch you in the face, like it would for anyone else. How do you do that?”
Ashur smiles softly, catching Tarquin’s eyes and holding his gaze for a moment. “Have you considered that perhaps you just have a soft spot when it comes to what I say and do?”
Tarquin grimaces. “I suppose that could be it. But also, you’re just so bloody earnest all the time. I’d be an idiot if I accused you of lying about this. Or about anything that you don’t have to in order to keep yourself safe.”
The wound is deep. Too deep. It’s taking quite a while for Tarquin’s skin to knit together again.
“Perhaps,” Ashur agrees, his voice smooth and steady, but underneath it, even he himself can hear the thread of concern that shines through clearly. Of anxiety. The realisation of just how close this got.
Maker, it was too damn close.
Wrenching his eyes shut, he takes a deep breath. Then he focuses his attention on the here and now, on the man in front of him. He dives deeper into his connection with the Fade to infuse Tarquin’s wound with more magic, so that it may close even sooner. His vision swims a little as his eyes mist over, looking at the pallid colour of Tarquin’s skin, near-sickly from blood loss. He tries his best to push it all back down.
It’s not the time to lose his composure just because everything he holds dear in this world almost got torn away from him. It’s not the time.
“Hey. Hey. Look at me,” Tarquin urges, and Ashur just does that. He’s never been one to ignore one of Quin’s requests, even despite the fact that he’d rather hide his face away for fear of Tarquin seeing just how much this is affecting him.
“I’m fine, yeah?” Tarquin says. “I lived. Thanks to you.”
The wound closes fully. Tarquin immediately grabs Ashur’s hand between both of his and presses a soft, bristly kiss to it. The black hair of his beard brushes against Ashur’s fingers.
“Thanks to you,” he repeats softly, gazing up at Ashur.
It’s as though Ashur is hit with a demon claw of his very own, the way it shocks him to his core.
For a moment, he can do nothing but stare, enraptured by the affection in Tarquin’s eyes, there for all to see.
Affection for him. For Ashur.
From the man who would sooner sign up to compete in a druffalo race than ever admit he fell in love.
It breaks something in Ashur. Something he’s been holding back a very long time. Something he never dares to let out. He remembers every time Tarquin got hurt and Ashur dutifully patched him back up. Every time a Venatori got a little too damn close for comfort. Every time Tarquin threw himself in Ashur’s way to defend him from an incoming blow, claiming that it was more important that the Viper survived. That he didn’t matter.
“Quin. Quin,” Ashur whispers, tears falling freely despite his best attempts to keep them from doing so. Not of distress. Of relief. Sheer, overflowing relief.
Tarquin only holds on tighter, squeezing his hand with a wry smile. “I’m fine, you big lug. Stop crying and help me get up.”
Ashur smiles back at him, straight through his tears. He brushes them away with the back of his ungloved hand—he didn’t have the time to get fully equipped before running off into danger, and his gloves were deemed less important than his chestplate. He tugs Tarquin up in one smooth motion, holding on tight.
Once Tarquin is standing upright and Ashur is certain that he’s steady on his feet—or at least steady enough—he throws caution to the wind and unclasps his mask for a moment, just so he can press a soft kiss to his amatus’ forehead. It makes Tarquin smile, a small, private thing. Sweeter than Ashur has ever seen before. His breath hitches, and he lingers, pressing small kisses all over Quin’s face.
Tarquin laughs, his hands tightening on Ashur’s. “I’m fine,” he says again. “Really. I’m safe. Because of you. Which you’ll never let me hear the end of, probably.”
Ashur looks around them, at the street ahead. There is no sign of any more demons. The Veil appears to have stabilised again.
He snaps his mask back in place. Standing on the bridge Tarquin chose as the place he would go to so he could always be found if something were to happen during his shift at the archives, Ashur eyes the dead demons laying all around them, and hums softly. “I think, Tarquin, that you saved yourself. With your contingency plan.”
Tarquin scoffs. “Bullshit. Plans are nothing if nobody follows through. If they are forgotten the moment panic sets in.”
And Ashur concedes that that is, in fact, correct. Though he argues until Tarquin also makes a concession, namely that it was his careful planning that had prevented the situation from becoming a full-on tragedy.
Tarquin relents with a small, exasperated sigh.
Satisfied by Tarquin’s admission, Ashur lets things go, a pleased smile making its way into his face.
They walk to the safe house with the intention to check what the situation is like for the others, and to see if they are needed in any way. Tarquin is slightly wobbly from blood loss. Thankfully, he lets Ashur take his hand, not complaining even once.
There’s a potion in the storeroom that should hopefully help with that.
And should anyone asks, Ashur is—of course—only holding his hand to support him, to keep him from stumbling.
Nothing more, nothing less.
But getting to hold it so openly makes warmth blossom in Ashur’s chest, like a ray of sunlight on an early morning.
Over time, affection becomes easier for Tarquin. Less like something he needs to bluster his way through with sarcasm and all his usual walls thrown up, and more like something he actually lets himself have.
After that moment on the bridge, he slowly starts opening up more and more, until small touches and looks of affection are commonplace for them. So commonplace that they have to do their damnedest to hide it in public, lest they accidentally advertise their love to all of the other Shadow Dragons.
The ones who haven’t already guessed the true nature of their relationship, that is.
It would be nice if they didn’t have to hide it. Any of it. But if word were to get out that the Viper has a lover, it would likely not end well. For anyone involved. Or for the cause.
And so, they keep it a secret.
It isn’t easy. Ashur has to stop himself multiple times when an ‘amatus’ almost slips out in an unguarded moment. He has to stop himself from reaching out, from showing just how Tarquin means to him. He’s not sure he really succeeds.
In public, they can’t really show it. Which means they do their best to make up for it in private. Which Tarquin does. In what he claims are “non-sappy” ways.
Ashur indulges him, and doesn’t contradict this claim. Not even once, telling him, “Of course, Quin.”
Their love is not for other people’s eyes. It is for them, shared in whispers in the night, stolen moments, and the time they can manage to find together despite the chaotic madness that is their lives.
There is, however, one moment in which Tarquin gets to show his affection in public.
After Rook’s confrontation with Elgar’nan ends decisively and Minrathous prepares to rebuild, Ashur gets antsy. Restless. Not having Quin near becomes harder and harder to bear as the political unrest only increases with Dorian as their new Archon.
So they devise a solution. They stage a scenario in which Tarquin can heroically “save” the Divine from harm—with witnesses—which lets Ashur promote him to Knight-Divine. Nobody even bats an eye. Not even the Grand Clerics, though Ashur had expected some form of protest from their camp. The ruse of his miraculous “rescue” appears to be enough for them, though.
Tarquin doesn’t like it one bit, of course. But even he seems concerned with the way the Magisterium appears to be conspiring against Ashur and Dorian, and agrees this is the best option.
He just complains a lot about it, of course. Whines, even. Though, of course, he’d never admit to it.
Ashur takes it all in stride, letting Tarquin work out his aggression the only way he knows how—ranting, rambling, and through the two of them having a lot of impassioned sex—and signs the order to promote him with a satisfied flourish.
Which leads them here. To the grandest Chantry in all of Minrathous, dressed in their finest, attending a ceremony to appoint the newest Knight-Divine. One who will fill a very special role indeed—the role of the Divine’s personal protector.
It’s a very beautiful day, possibly too beautiful to be cooped up in a stuffy place of worship that smells of incense and the fire that is burning in the braziers behind the altar. Scattered, multi-coloured light casts prisms on the marble floor, blinking in and out of existence as the sun shifts from behind a smattering of clouds and shines straight through the stained glass windows. The dome above bathes them in warm golden light, soft and hazy from the early morning rays.
On top of a raised platform, a Grand Cleric drones on about “duty to the Maker” and something that has an excessive amount of Canticle passages. But Ashur is barely listening. He can only stare at Tarquin, clad in his ceremonial armour, head held high. Looking more handsome than he has any right to. Tarquin’s small smirk only grows more lopsided as he catches Ashur’s eye. He winks, almost imperceptibly. There and gone in a flash. Ashur’s cheeks warm immediately, thankfully somewhat hidden under his dark veil.
He eyes the other attendants, but they’re all focused on Grand Cleric Leviticus and the eye-wateringly boring speech that he seems to think is a sermon.
Ashur breathes a sigh of relief. It wouldn’t do to have their newest Knight-Divine get in trouble for inappropriate behaviour the day of his appointment, after all. Propriety is still something the Chantry concerns itself with, resisting all attempts to change that, and then some.
After some more droning, and then some more, Tarquin is instructed to step forward and kneel in front of Ashur. Which he does with none of his usual complaints, the very picture of an obedient, devout knight.
Except for the roguish grin that’s on his face now that Ashur is the only one who can see him.
Ashur suppresses a smile of his own at the sight, because he does not have the luxury of being unobserved. There’s already rumours about his favouritism concerning the newest Knight-Divine to-be, so he best keep his features schooled. Carefully kept neutral.
He manages, though it takes him quite a bit of effort.
Haltingly, Ashur reaches out, his hand suspended in mid-air in front of Tarquin’s face. He holds his breath. It’s the part Tarquin complained the most about. Having to genuflect and participate in this “Chantry pageantry”.
But Tarquin doesn’t even so much as grimace as he bows forward, takes a hold of the offered hand, and presses his lips to the back of Ashur’s fingers. There’s no hesitation. No look of distaste. Just the caress of his beard against Ashur’s hand and the brush of his lips on Ashur’s fingers—soft, so much softer than one would expect of a man of his station. His dark brown eyes bore into Ashur’s as he does it, warm and uncharacteristically open. Loving. Affectionate.
Ashur swallows hard. The room suddenly feels overwhelmingly hot and uncomfortable. A bead of sweat forms at his temple. He can’t tear his eyes away from Tarquin’s as the soft press of his mouth against Ashur’s skin lingers, sending tingles down his arm—and then, his spine. It nearly makes him shiver, but he gathers his composure just in time.
He can’t, won’t, shouldn’t show how much this is affecting him.
He shouldn’t. Nobody can know. It’s not safe.
Shaking himself out of it, he eyes the congregation of Clerics, Fathers and Brothers, all waiting for him to continue. Some already look impatient. Has it really been that long?
“Rise, Ser Tarquin Valerius,” Ashur states, voice projecting clearly for all to hear. “My new Knight-Divine.”
Tarquin keeps a hold of Ashur’s hand for a moment longer as he heaves himself up, eyes never leaving Ashur’s face. When he lets go, there is a flicker of disappointment in his gaze, but it is gone as fast as it came, replaced by the same smirk from before. Amusement dances in his eyes. He looks a little… impish. Mischievous.
Just before he turns to face the crowd, Tarquin winks once more, much bolder now with his back facing the crowd, now that he is unquestionably safe from being observed by those who can never be allowed to find out about this. Naturally, it goes unnoticed by the onlookers.
But not by Ashur.
It’s the kind of wink that is full of promise. A wink that says “just you wait”. And, “I’ll have my way with you later.”
Ashur nearly chokes on his own tongue as he opens his mouth to continue speaking to the congregation.
The man is being a menace. Tarquin’s smile only widens at the look on his face. He’s enjoying this, clearly. Like he’s playing a little game.
And he has Ashur enraptured; hook, line and sinker.
Maker help him.
He says a few more words, his speech much shorter than Leviticus’ had been. The gathered Chantry officials applaud fervently, dutifully.
But Ashur isn’t paying much attention to them. Instead, Ashur’s heart slams in his throat and arousal pools in his gut as he struggles to keep his eyes off the man that stands by his side, ready to serve.
Giving up a normal life. For him.
Afterwards, he makes sure to show Tarquin just how much he appreciates it. Thoroughly.
Tarquin has no complaints. He brags instead. Teases Ashur impishly. Something about how he “knew what that would do to Ashur.”
It is a very humbling thing, to be known so completely and thoroughly.
Ashur cannot find it in himself to mind.
Ashur doesn’t really get to show his affection for Tarquin in public. It isn’t safe. It isn’t safe. Especially not for two men. If the wrong person were to find out, it could have dire consequences. It’d be a scandal. For their reputations, and possibly their safety.
And Ashur would never forgive himself if his involvement with Tarquin was what led him to his death. If his time serving at Ashur’s side ended suddenly, fatally.
So they protect their secret fiercely for years. Safeguard it. Have the staff at the Argent Spire swear secrecy, on pain of death.
Because it is impossible to keep things from them. It is too easy, too simple for one of them to walk in on the two of them together, in very compromising positions.
Which they do. Many times. Another thing Tarquin makes a game out of. Something Ashur, of course, discourages. His poor staff already deal with enough.
Over time, the unrest calms down somewhat. Dorian, Ashur, and Mae (reinstated as Magister) make a lot of headway on reforms, bribing the right people and charming or threatening the others.
The Magisterium collectively gets dragged into the new century, complaining all the while. But, against all expectations, they do go willingly. Especially once they realize the actual benefits of living in a country that has abolished slavery, and how many doors that opens internationally. Trade, commerce, and the exchange of knowledge between Tevinter and other nations has never been in a better place as a direct result of that particular reform.
So Ashur can relax, even if it’s just a little. Not fully, though. The Venatori are still out there, and still a problem, though their numbers do seem to be dwindling.
And there’s always danger in Tevinter. It is, and will likely always remain, a snake pit. But there hasn’t been an assassination attempt on his person in quite a few years. Things seem… good. Better. Not perfect. Not nearly perfect. One does not fix all injustices in Tevinter in a single decade.
But they make good progress, at least.
Eventually, after lots of pushing and a truly un-Andrastian amount of bribes, Dorian’s marriage reform bill gets through. The Magisterium votes 54 to 46, just enough for it to pass.
From that day forward, homosexuality is something that is openly condoned by the state, and technically—though some of the older Grand Clerics scoff and still whisper about how unnatural it is—the Chantry.
That very same night, Tarquin proposes to Ashur. Ashur hadn’t expected it, not at all. Hadn’t taken Tarquin to be someone who even desired a marriage. Not after he ran away from home as a teenager after hearing that he’d be expected to marry some military man soon after his eighteenth—only to be dragged back home by his parents and shipped off to become a soldier himself once they found out his secret.
Needless to say, marriage seemed like a complicated topic for Tarquin. Ashur hadn’t even really considered that it would be an option for them, even when the reform went through.
But against all odds, Tarquin does want to get married, handing him a simple golden band with a few gruff words and a smile that is uncharacteristically shy.
With Ashur, it’s different, apparently. With Ashur, he doesn’t feel pressured. With Ashur, he feels safe.
It is enough to make Ashur sink to his knees and cry his eyes out all over again, Tarquin held in his arms. To break down in a way he rarely lets himself. To show the depth of his emotions, despite the fact that he was taught that doing so was for the weak.
Tarquin presses small kisses to his shorn head, mumbles soft words into his ear. Like he was expecting it. It makes Ashur smile, despite everything.
He says yes.
Of course he says yes.
They are married a few months later, in a ceremony that is much smaller and less ostentatious than the Chantry wishes it was. And while Ashur does have some last, lingering concerns that marrying Tarquin will paint a target on his back that’s bigger than the heat that’s already on him just from being a Knight-Divine and Ashur’s personal protector, they decide it’s worth it. To finally take something for themselves. Something they want. That they deserve that much, after everything.
They’ll just have to watch their backs a little more vigilantly, for a while. Keep an ear out for trouble. But it’s Tevinter. When does one not have to watch one’s back?
All of their friends attend the wedding, including Rook and their enthusiastic, colourful posse. A lot of international dignitaries attend as well. Ashur purposely keeps a lot of Chantry officials off the guest list, despite the Grand Clerics incessantly complaining about it.
A few months ago, when the engagement was announced, they tried to convince him that it wasn’t “appropriate” for a Divine to marry. To stay “committed only to the Maker”. Which Tarquin, of course, had called “a load of fucking horseshite”.
Ashur privately agreed with his assessment. Or perhaps not so privately, considering the way he told them off, pointing out how other Divines had been allowed to marry, to women, including ones of lower stations, so there should be no reason for them to have any reservations.
The looks on their faces had been priceless. Afterwards, Tarquin laughed about it for a good while, slapping his knees as his eyes teared up from the force of his laughter. It had been quite endearing.
Many things about Tarquin were quite endearing.
But none of this is about the Clerics or their hypocritical demands.
Here, in this small, private Chantry, surrounded by loved ones, it’s just about them and the few people who truly matter to them.
Ashur appointed a Cleric he knows very well as the officiant. An old friend, who was all to happy to do this for him. For them.
The ceremony itself is fairly brief, at Tarquin’s request. He’d expressed a lack of patience for “Chantry bullshit”, and thus a lot of that was cut out, leaving only the important parts.
And for his amatus, Ashur was very willing to concede this, with no questions asked. Even if he had dreamt of a full Chantry wedding when he’d been a young boy.
No, short is fine. Good, even. It’s lovely. It’s more perfect than he could have ever asked for. Or dreamt of, for that matter.
After they each say “I do” and they are pronounced husbands, Ashur bends forward, reaches out and presses his lips to Tarquin’s calloused hand, gaze never leaving the man beside him. Lingering. Soft. Fondness probably written all over his face, open book that it is, in unguarded moments.
Then, Tarquin makes an impatient noise, pushes the Divine’s veil aside fully—and crashes their mouths together harshly, capturing Ashur’s lips in an ardent kiss. Passionate. No holds barred.
And most importantly: finally, finally allowed. Allowed to just be. Their affection, their love, for all the world to see.
And there is no-one who can do a damn thing about it.
Straightening up, Ashur looks at Tarquin. His face is a little warm, and he’s beaming, the force of it almost making his cheeks hurt. In response, Tarquin smiles wider than ever before. Freer. Like a weight has lifted from his shoulders.
Tarquin. Ashur’s husband and Knight-Divine. Right by his side.
In a move that mirrors what they did when Tarquin was appointed Knight-Divine, they turn to face the crowd. Except this time, their hands are clasped. Tarquin isn’t required to let go for ‘propriety’ reasons. Or any other reason.
This time, they just get to be themselves.
And from this day forth, they’ll never have to hide again.
Never again.
Fin.