Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

If only Tarquin had an easier time disappointing Ashur, then maybe he wouldn't have signed himself up for this shit.

He’s getting too damn old for this sort of thing. Truthfully, he thought he’d left his competitive streak far behind him when he was discharged from the military—but clearly he hadn't.

The thing is. The thing is, it's not as though Tarquin has got a death wish. He doesn't, thank you very much.

He doesn't.

Sure, he puts himself in danger to ensure the safety of others on a regular basis. It's a noble cause, after all, fighting for the Shadow Dragons, for Minrathous. For freedom. But that's not like this. He'd never voluntarily sign up for more danger. Not in a million years. Not if the Fade tore open.

Or so he thought.

It all starts a few months after the defeat of Elgar’nan. The work to rebuild the areas the rich pricks cared enough about had started pretty much immediately, while the rest of the city was still in disrepair. Getting enough resources for that had been dependent on Ashur convincing the Clerics to invest Chantry funds into getting the more "morally disreputable" areas of the city back into decent shape, which had taken quite some time. Tarquin’s sure he’d have had an aneurysm already if it were him at the whims of the Clerics, but he knew Ashur’s patience to be nearly inexhaustible.

Just another thing to illustrate how incredibly different they are, him and Ashur. Also known as his boss, in more ways than one. The fucking Divine and the Viper.

The person he’s in love with. Though Tarquin tries very hard to forget about that.

Not that he succeeds.

Unfortunately, after Elgar’nan's attack, many things were beyond saving, including the dingy apartment Tarquin used to call home. That had been another casualty of the widespread destruction, one he hadn’t really expected. Now he’s back to living in the barracks, where he’d stayed back when he was a broke ex-soldier who’d just joined the Templar ranks. It's definitely been something to get used to; he's never really been good with change.

The Archives withstood the attack, though. He should have been so lucky, really. But as it is, he still has to do his stupid fucking job that he’s stupidly fucking good at.

He didn’t even get so much as a break after everything went down. His grouchy superiors down in the cellars—who hate their jobs about as much as he does—still dislike him, after all. Even after the bloody apocalypse almost killed them all.

But life goes on, even after a pair of elven gods try to take over the world.

It’s a sunny afternoon after work, the weather a nice respite after the seemingly endless rainy season. He strolls along the Dock Town markets on his way to the newest Shadow Dragon safe house, head held high. He passes a few harried-looking Chantry Fathers running around clutching stacks of paper, though he thinks nothing of it at first. He’s in a surprisingly good mood, whistling a tune he heard at the Lamplighter last night—and then he walks past a flyer on a Chantry board that makes him do a double-take.

Tarquin’s insides feel like they’ve been hit by one of Gallus’ ice spells, and his mood instantly sours. He stares at the flyer for a moment, with its pretty lettering and Chantry sunburst, then grits his teeth and all but snatches the parchment off its nail. He marches himself down to the new and improved Shadow Dragon hideout to demand an explanation, though he expects nobody will be able to give him one, considering Maevaris, Dorian and Ashur have been mysteriously absent for well over twenty-four hours. But to his surprise, all three are right there waiting for him when he enters. Without ceremony, he drags the Viper into his office by his cape; Mae and Dorian follow along after a quick, terse look.

Once they’re all inside, Tarquin kicks the door closed, locks it behind him, and slams the flyer onto the desk. Considering it’s just a thin sheet of parchment, it doesn’t make a very impressive sound when it connects to the surface. Tarquin makes sure to look very pissed off while doing it, though.

“What. The fuck. Is this?” Tarquin says icily, jabbing his finger into the flyer in between every word. “And why didn’t I know about it until now?”

Maevaris has the good grace to look guilty. Dorian does not.

“Well, where do you think we’ve been, Tarquin?” Dorian says testily, voice rising in volume. “In some fancy bathhouse, enjoying the finer things in life, or kicked back on a plush velvet seat with our legs up and stuffing confectionery into our mouths—or whatever it is you think we do? Because if so, no, we were not doing that. We were busy, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Tarquin scoffs loudly. "What the bloody hell do you mean, busy? Busy doing what, exactly? We couldn’t reach any of you for two whole days.”

Dorian lets out a sharp, exasperated sigh, throwing his hands up in the air as if appealing to a Maker he barely believes in. Which, coincidentally, is just about the one thing they can usually agree on. "Busy, Tarquin! Busy trying to keep the Magisterium from tearing itself apart! Busy ensuring the Chantry doesn't decide to hunt down every insurgent within the city limits! Busy dealing with the fallout of an assassination attempt on His fucking Perfection here!" He gestures wildly towards Ashur, who is straightening his gloves with an air of calmness that feels entirely feigned.

Busy doing what? Tarquin tenses up, his eyes quickly roving across Ashur's body, but their resident vigilante seems entirely unharmed. Good. Good.

Maevaris's expression softens into something apologetic, but firm. She places a hand on the desk and leans in slightly, absently adjusting a too-tight sleeve with a sigh of annoyance; her clothes befit her new station as Archon, though Tarquin knows she still wears them uneasily.

Holding his gaze, Mae says, "The Magisterium was in session, Tarquin. For two entire days. A lockdown, practically. The Chantry forced emergency protocols after Lord Varon's little stunt. No one in or out. Not even a courier raven could get through without being shot down by an antsy Templar with a crossbow."

“Lord— Who?”

Ashur finally looks up, his piercing ocean-blue eyes locking onto Tarquin's. There's a flicker of something there. Relief? Affection? It's gone before Tarquin can properly analyse it, buried under the composure of the Viper.

"Lord Varon," Ashur states, his voice a low rumble that resonates deep in Tarquin's gut. As always when Ashur speaks, it seems as though he draws all the attention in a room to him even without even trying; a natural magnetism Tarquin's never understood. "Or so we think. We don't have enough concrete evidence so far. He is a minor Magister with delusions of grandeur and an affinity for poison. I assume he thought that considering the continued unrest of the aftermath of the succession crisis, this was the perfect time to strike. He was... mistaken."

Mistaken. The word has a sour taste to Tarquin. Mistaken, and they left him in the fucking dark. As usual.

He might be part of their "inner circle", but he's not a member of the Magisterium. He's always the last to know shit like this. The odd one out.

But there are more important things to worry about right now than being bitter about that fact.

"The Chantry," Dorian interjects, "In their infinite wisdom and desire to assert control, decided that the Divine needed a ‘personal protector'. Someone chosen by tradition, not appointment. Hence..." He taps the flyer Tarquin had slammed down. "...the Aegis Tournament."

Tarquin stares at the parchment again. At the blazing golden sun. The way the flyer looks hastily made on closer inspection, ink smudging at the edges. Big, swirly calligraphy boldly announces 'The Divine's Aegis Tournament’. Disciplines listed include Archery, Equine Merit, Wrestling, Chess, and a Final Duel. The prize? The honour of serving as the personal bodyguard to Imperial Divine Aequitas II, of course. Oh, and a tidy sum of prize money for the best three, presumably to encourage participation.

“You couldn't have sent a message?" Tarquin demands, his voice dropping to a growl. "A coded note? A signal? A Candlehop? Anything? I've been sitting down in the Archives organising bloody tax records while someone tries to kill my—" He cuts himself off, swallowing the word boss, or friend, or, even worse, the words ‘the man I'm hopelessly in love with’. "While someone tries to kill Ashur?"

"We tried," Mae says gently. "The courier was delayed. Couldn't get through. Nothing could. We only got out around mid-morning.”

Tarquin sighs deeply.

“And as the date on the flyer proudly proclaims, the tournament starts in a mere three days,” Dorian explains, “Which is frankly ridiculous.”

Tarquin lets out a sharp, incredulous laugh that sounds more like a bark. “What? Three days? That's insane, even for the Chantry.”

He quickly looks back at the flyer to confirm what Dorian just said. But he's right. There, at the bottom, in small calligraphy, is the starting date. After the weekend. In three bloody days.

Dorian nods, eyes sharp. “And we've told them exactly that. Or tried to. But the Chantry wants to get a move on, apparently. Supposedly because they are ‘concerned’ about Ashur’s safety, and want this resolved as soon as possible. Or, more likely, because they want to use this to assert some semblance of control.”

Ashur wouldn't even get a choice in any of it. He'd have to go along with whatever the result of this fucking circus ended up being. No matter what.

And that? That’s just bullshit. Tarquin studies the side of Ashur's face for a moment, notes the closed-off look in his eyes and the way his shoulders seem to be drawn tighter than usual. Tense.

It's subtle, but beneath that mask of control, Ashur is angry. Upset. And he's right to be.

Tarquin paces the small length of the office, his boots thudding heavily against the floorboards in his frustration as he contemplates the situation they've found themselves in.

He freezes in his steps as he comes to a horrifying realisation. "Small issue with this all, isn't there?" Tarquin snaps, whirling around to face them, face Ashur. "Get especially unlucky, and you might end up with an Aegis who's in league with the very person who's trying to kill you. And even if some random bloody hero who doesn't want to kill Ashur wins this shite tournament, that person still gets constant access to the Divine. They get to stand right next to him, watch his every move, sleep outside his door.”

He gestures towards the Viper and his ridiculous hat. "They'll figure it out. Give it a week. Sounds like they want a clever sod. And a clever sod will notice the Divine keeps running off somewhere, that he's gallivanting around on the Minrathous rooftops doing Maker knows what. Or they'll see where Ashur's stashed the getup. Or they'll just get too close when Ashur's sneaking back into the Spire and smell the same fucking perfume on both of you. It's a security nightmare waiting to happen."

Dorian opens his mouth, likely to offer some 'witty' retort or other, but Maevaris cuts him off with a raised hand, her expression serious. "We know, Tarquin. That is precisely why we are telling you this now. We cannot let an outsider win. The Shadow Dragons must secure the position."

"Right," Tarquin mutters, rubbing a hand over his beard, his mind already racing through the logistics. "So we rig it? Bribe the judges? Sabotage the other contestants?"

"No sabotage," Ashur says firmly. "No bribes. The Chantry is watching everything like a hawk. Any hint of foul play and the Grand Clerics will cancel the whole thing and strong-arm the Magisterium into declaring martial law, especially if they think I am defying tradition and trying to control who ends up being chosen. They'd bypass any authority I have left, and that would be the last thing we want.”

Dorian's face takes on a dark look. “Regrettably, Ashur is right. They'd lock us all down tighter than a mage in a Southern Circle. We’ll have to win this the more difficult way. As in, ‘fair and square’. Or at least, convincingly enough that no one questions the result."

Ashur takes a step towards Tarquin. The distance between them feels charged, electric. Ashur searches Tarquin's face, intense and unblinking. "We need someone who knows the stakes. Someone who knows me. Someone who can protect my secret as fiercely as they protect the cause."

The room goes quiet. Even Dorian holds his tongue for once.

Then, Maevaris clears her throat. "We were discussing who among us should compete. Reliable allies who have been around the longest, or who have proven their undying loyalty in other ways." She taps her lips thoughtfully. "Hector is strong, but he lacks the... subtlety for the political aspects. Marisa is agile and knows her politics, but she's prone to injury. Neve is very capable, but too busy with her investigative work. Quillon is trustworthy, but no match for trained warriors, and he's still injured regardless.”

She pauses, looking contemplative. "And then there is Rook.”

“Rook is an option, certainly,” Ashur suggests. “Loyal, though they've not been part of this for long.”

Tarquin hums thoughtfully. He crosses his arms over his coat, the leather creaking, softened from heavy use. It's familiar. Comforting. A lifeline in a world that feels like it's tilting. "Well, as it stands," he says, his voice taking on a pragmatic edge, "None of them are aware that Ashur is the Divine as well as the Viper. And we'd have to be sure we can trust them before we do tell them anything. Even if they're ours. Can't do this impulsively."

He glances at Ashur, then quickly away when their eyes meet, focusing on a scuff mark on the floorboards instead. "It's a risk. And a massive one at that. But if we're going to have one of them running interference for His Perfection," he spits the title with just enough venom to make Dorian smirk, "They need to know exactly who they're protecting. Both sides of the coin."

Maevaris nods slowly, her expression grave. "You're right, Tarquin. We can't ask them to guard a secret they don't know exists. If Rook, Marisa or Hector end up winning this, they'll be in the Argent Spire daily. They'd see the masks come off, literally and figuratively, within hours. Days. There's just no chance Ashur could keep a secret from someone who's that close to him all the time."

Dorian sighs, leaning against the locked door. "So, we expand the inner circle. Again. Because clearly, my nerves weren't frayed enough already." He eyes the group, any last hesitancy in his gaze now replaced by determination. "But I agree. Hector is loyal to a fault. Marisa wouldn't sell us out for all the gold in Rivain. Quillon would sooner die than betray us. And Neve... well, Neve probably already suspects half of it anyway. She's terrifyingly perceptive."

"And Rook?" Ashur asks, his gaze fixed only on Tarquin. There's a question there, hidden beneath the calm exterior. A rather obvious one.

Do you trust Rook?

And Tarquin knows. He knows deep in his heart that if he says he doesn't, if he says he's wary of them, Ashur would follow that blindly. Without question. Or hesitation. And for a moment, Tarquin considers it. Because Rook, newly single, is a problem.

But lying about these kinds of things is not his style.

So he tells it how it is.

Tarquin meets Ashur's eyes, forcing himself not to look away this time, despite the heat that curls in his gut. "Rook saved the bloody world, didn't they? Stopped two elven gods and kept most of our lot alive. If they can't keep a secret, none of us can." He pauses, then adds gruffly, "Besides, if any of them are foolish enough to sign up for this circus, I'd rather know they're fighting for the right reasons before they get within ten feet of the Divine's privy chamber.”

"Right," Maevaris says, clapping her hands together once, decisively. "Then it's settled. We bring them in. All of them. Even the ones who won't be able to compete. We need allies who can work with us to figure this out.”

Ashur nods solemnly. Dread fills Tarquin's stomach.

He tries to feel like he didn’t just make a big mistake.

Tries... and fails.