Work Text:
It’s carrying a basket of apples that finally saps the last of Ashur’s strength. First, his grip on the rough woven handles weakens; then his knees turn to water, weighed down by the heavy gear he’s insisted on still wearing. A moment later he crumples to the ground, surrounded by dozens of the red fruits. But it’s alright, he feels. This is the last of the supplies. He got them into the tunnels beneath the Divine’s Manor, ready for those who will soon flee. They will be glad, he thinks, for the apples, for a taste of sweetness on the hard journey ahead. He only hopes he hasn't ruined them in his little tumble.
He knows that he will not be able to pull himself to his feet again, so he is content to slump against the neatly stacked pile of supplies. Food, blankets, medicine: he brought them all here. It's the least he could do, as he told Tarquin. His task complete, now he can rest. Soon it will cease, the roaring of Lusacan in his ears, the whisper of Elgar’nan in his heart. He will go to the Maker’s embrace. He idly reaches for a fallen apple, intending to put it back in the basket, but instead finds himself mesmerized by it.
What a wonderful thing, an apple. He cannot recall the last time he ate one; he cannot recall the last time he ate anything. Weeks have passed since hunger touched him. His vision is weak now, obscured by the blight, but he can still make out the tempting sheen of its red skin, still imagine the juiciness of the white flesh beneath. A memory flashes, brief and pure, and the laughter of his brothers and sisters rings in his ears, sweet stickiness on their chins. He wishes he had the strength, the appetite, to eat one last apple and not have it turn to ash on his tongue.
His limbs are numb, skin like paper, veins pulsing with more blight than blood. Realizing what an unwelcome sight his body will be, he tries to rally, to move himself somewhere his body won't be a nuisance, but he can't even lift his shoulders now. If only he could have collapsed in a corner somewhere out of the way. Every last drop of mana his failing body has managed to produce has gone towards holding back the blight, and it's all gone now, his connection to the Fade drowned in a mindless haze.
A shard of fear spikes through him at the sound of footsteps, but he goes slack again when they grow familiar. Tarquin. He should have known he wouldn't be far.
“Ashur?” Tarquin’s voice is uncharacteristically tremulous. Ashur knows he fears what he will find. The Templar rounds the corner, and the relief on his face when he spots him is unmistakable, even to his dim sight. “Ashur!”
“Quin. You came.”
“I was checking to see if you needed help. Which you obviously do. What’s all this then?”
Tarquin crouches down, righting the basket and retrieving apples. Distracting himself, Ashur knows.
“Lost my grip.”
“Well, no harm done.” Tarquin places the basket on top of the pile of supplies, then eases onto the ground next to Ashur, shifting him into his arms. He’s so gentle, so careful. “Just… Let’s just rest here a minute, alright?”
A minute. As though in a minute Tarquin will be pulling him to his feet again. Too much still to do, so many people to get to safety while Rook battles Elgar’nan in the sky. In a minute he’ll be dead. But Tarquin is here, the only thing he could have wanted at this moment, so Ashur indulges himself in a small selfishness: the relief and peace of Tarquin at his side, where he has always belonged.
There are things he needs to say, and not much time in which to say them. Numb as he is, regret still stings. And yet, loud as the blight is in his mind, he doesn't want to add the flurry of things left unsaid to the din. He reaches up, needing to touch Tarquin with some tenderness, the way he's always yearned to touch him. Tarquin doesn't flinch from the coldness of his fingers on his cheek, doesn't break his gaze from Ashur’s, even though there’s practically nothing of his eyes left.
And Ashur says the only words he’s ever been able to reach for when no others would come, in his own voice. Not the Viper’s, not the Divine’s.
“In the– the long hours…of the night, when…Hope has abandoned me, I will s-see the stars and…know your light…remains.”
Not like this. Notlikethisnotlikethis.
Tarquin’s brain reels with pain and fear worse than anything he ever felt on a beach in Ventus. Ashur is telling him it’s the end, and he can no longer ignore the truth. There is no spell, no cure, no Warden trick that will stop what’s about to happen. And yet…
“Don’t. Don't say those fucking words. Don't you dare, Ash,” he chokes out. Even fighting against the blight, he can hear the voice that is only Ashur. Is he crying? He can't remember the last time he was so angry he cried.
“Will… Will you say them for me? When you– you raise a light for me?”
Ashur’s not just planning his funeral. Tarquin can hear everything he’s trying to convey in those words. He’s not an idiot. But he is a fool.
“‘Course I will.”
Because of course he will. He could never deny Ashur anything, even his bleeding heart on a platter, and maybe if he hadn't been such a coward, he could have given it to him in some softer moment. He wants to scream.
“I’m sorry,” is all he says, voice breaking.
“For…what?” Ashur’s voice is so quiet now, and the smallest words are labored.
“For not doing this sooner.”
Hands shaking, he removes Ashur’s hat and mask. Hiding doesn't matter anymore. The entire world’s on fire. If Ashur still wants to protest, he no longer has the strength. He just clings to Tarquin as best as he can.
As the final roar of a dying archdemon splits the sky, Tarquin kisses him.
He lowers his mouth to Ashur’s shriveled and blackened lips, heedless of how they feel like ice against his. All he wants now, all he’s wanted for so long, is to be kissing Ashur. And it’s his last chance.
Tarquin doesn't stop, can’t stop pressing gentle kisses into those lips, like if he does it enough he can warm them again, breathe new life into him. Nothing else matters just now, not the city they tried to save or the flashes and rumbles above them. Ashur trembles in his arms, wheezing out a faint whimper.
“Ash? Not yet. Please, not yet,” Tarquin begs in a pained whisper. “Stay with me.”
He pulls back a little, fearing yet needing to see Ashur’s face again, even blighted. His hollow cheeks are wet—with tears, not blighted black sludge. Clear, salt water.
And the eyes that weep them are blue.
Distantly, he feels something shift in the blight. A familiar presence, and not unfriendly.
Neve.
Lusacan falls. Then Elgar’nan. Minrathous—Thedas—is saved after all.
And it’s all too far away to matter because Tarquin is kissing him.
The Maker’s final blessing, that the man he loves is with him in the end and loving him back.
If dying hurts, he doesn't feel it now. All he feels is Tarquin’s mouth, lips so soft as they move against his, kissing him and begging him not to go. He can even feel their warmth bleeding into him, spreading and soothing his cold limbs. He knows Tarquin is hurting, but there is no pain for Ashur. Only peace.
He needs one last look, to have Tarquin’s face be the final thing he sees. Their faces are so close together now, even his blighted eyes can see his features clearly. The furrowed brow, the pleading lips, the dark eyes flashing with anger and…hope? It confuses him, so unusual as it is for Tarquin, but it gladdens his heart all the same, to know he is leaving behind not just despair.
“Ash? Ashur! Your eyes…”
“Hm?” His eyes? He knows they must look monstrous, but Tarquin doesn't sound scared.
Ashur is jostled as Tarquin suddenly begins rummaging through the crate next to them. He pulls out a cloth bandage. His hand shakes so badly as he wets it with water from a skin that he spills a good amount onto Ashur’s chest. Tarquin’s wiping at his face, and the cool, clean water feels so lovely.
“Quin?”
“The blight—Ash, it– it’s going away. Gods, you're a mess. But you’re…you.”
It takes a few moments for his brain to process what Tarquin’s saying. It doesn't feel real. More water splashes onto his cheeks, his lips, his tongue, but not from the waterskin; it's warm. Salty. Tarquin is crying. Really crying. Crushing Ashur against his chest.
Now he feels everything. Limbs aching, belly grumbling, tongue thirsting. Tarquin's voice is in his ear, thanking the Maker and cursing Ashur for scaring him, and he better not fucking do that again. He is alive, and it hurts. It’s glorious.
“Shh, amatus,” he murmurs. Still weak, he lifts a hand to Tarquin’s face once more and brushes away the tears. “I am here.”
But that only makes Tarquin sob harder. Then he kisses Ashur again, and this time Ashur kisses him back. He needs water, food, healing—most of all he needs Tarquin and the taste of the salt of tears between them. They cling to each other, saying nothing but promising everything as they embrace.
He's still holding the apple. Soon he will taste it, and it will be as though he were tasting an apple for the first time again, sweetness bursting on his tongue, chin sticky with delight.