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The evening was quiet, the fire crackling in the hearth across the room. The heat from the flames combined with the humidity of Docktown’s weather left Ashur’s shirt sticking to his skin, a stream of sweat dripping down his back. With an exhausted huff, he pulled the wide brimmed hat from his heat, setting it on top of a pile of books on the closest table, eyes scanning the empty room. Many of the Shadow Dragons were still celebrating at the Archon’s palace, the drinks overflowing and the food piled high on crystal plates.
Ashur knew that life, still did occasionally when the Divine needed to make an appearance among the faithful. And he had to go back, eventually, once the city was rebuilt and the dead were laid to rest. But for now, he could be the Viper for a little while longer. He'd be the Viper until the people no longer had a use for him.
The coat followed the hat, settling in a tidy heap beside a lit candelabra, the scent of the melted wax conjuring memories of his early Chantry days, when he was only a boy with a gift and little else. The revered mothers still treated him like that little boy at times, trying to guide him along a path he wasn’t quite ready for yet.
There was still too much to be done.
The next layer to come off was the heavy breastplate he wore over his clothing, a terrible choice as summer reared its ugly head. The relief he felt was nearly immediate, the shirt beneath drenched in sweat. Bathing was much needed, but for the moment, he sat in a chair in the quiet room, the stillness a reprieve from the party he’d run from.
Dorian Pavus had taken the mantle of Archon, a man who was less driven by logic than emotion, who wanted to use blackmail and continue his work in the shadows to weed out the bad from the good, but perhaps that’s what Tevinter needed after so much corruption and chaos. Tarquin certainly thought so.
Ashur didn’t pretend to know what the future held, not for Tevinter or the rest of Thedas, but at least they had time to breathe, to regroup, to plan. It was more than they’d had a few weeks ago.
Thank the Maker they still had a city to save.
“Ah, so the coat does come off.”
Ashur froze at the familiar voice, his brain taking more than a few seconds to catch up to the fact that he wasn’t in danger. A least, not in the usual sense. Sometimes, there was more at stake than one’s life.
Turning in the chair, his gaze landed on the man who should have been celebrating his ascension at a palace that was now his. But he wasn’t. Which begged the question: why was he here?
“Dorian.”
Dorian Pavus stood in the center of the main room of the safehouse, staring at the mural of a dragon as it stretched the height of the wall from floor to ceiling, vibrantly painted fire erupting from its mouth. That painting in particular had always been one of Ashur’s favorites. He remembered when Rook had started it in the first few weeks after they’d joined the Shadows. They’d spent many hours while not on missions working on the mural, adjusting each color, each scale, until it was perfect.
Even now, Rook claimed it was their worst artwork.
Dorian’s eyes slid from the mural to where Ashur sat, barely affected by the stifling heat around them. The magister still wore his party attire: a set of cream and teal robes embroidered with golden snakes across the sash. With his golden jewelry, stylish hair, and curling mustache, Dorian looked every bit the Archon he was. At least one of them was taking their position seriously. Ashur couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn the Divine’s robes. Or the hat.
Maker, Dorian was going to be impossible to work with over the next few years.
“The hat and coat might’ve made you a legend on the streets of Minrathous, but I have to ask.” Dorian’s footsteps were quiet against the floor as he approached Ashur, the heels of his boots muffled by the worn rug thrown across the ground. He moved much like a snake, deliberate and dangerous, ready to strike with words instead of fangs. Though one could compare them to each other in Tevinter’s political world. He settled on the edge of the table, perching himself like one of the colorful parrots in the Argent Spire. “When does the mask come off?”
Once, the question might have turned his ears red, the implication in the curve of Dorian’s lips as he peered down at Ashur. But after years of working with Tarquin and Rook, he ignored the question and the cheeky grin aimed at him, and instead, reached up to unclip one side of the mask. As it fell to his lap, exposing his face for Dorian to finally get a decent look at, the newly appointed Archon’s smile faded, almost as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.
Clearing his throat, Ashur met Dorian’s gaze, refusing to fear being known. There weren’t many people who could look upon his face without his express permission, especially with his divine secrets. But then, Dorian Pavus wasn’t a stranger he had to protect himself from.
“Does this satisfy you, Archon Pavus?”
Dorian blinked a few times, mouth agape before he suddenly closed it, his teeth clashing together in the silence. When he didn’t speak, only glanced away, it took Ashur a moment to realize he was embarrassed. That fact gave Ashur the courage he needed to stand, only slightly taller than Dorian because he’d stayed seated on the table, the Archon’s superior height never in question. Too many emotions fought for dominance in his chest: desire and fear and pride. But when he pushed everything away except what was important, there was one left that mattered most.
Affection.
With a gloved hand, Ashur ignored the tremors in his fingers and gently forced Dorian to meet his eyes again, raising an eyebrow once their gazes locked. “You didn’t answer the question.”
One corner of Dorian’s mouth turned upwards, and no matter how much he tried to fight the grin, he failed spectacularly. Strangely, Ashur wasn’t opposed to how he looked at him. One day, he might even welcome it.
Dorian’s hand covered Ashur’s where it lingered, the soft skin of a magister’s life clashing with Ashur’s life of violence. When he leaned in, the satiny touch of his lips was a shock to the Viper’s carefully composed mask, the real and imagined both slipping away as Dorian’s free hand curled into his damp shirt.
When the heat was too much for them both, Dorian leaned back, a grin pulling at his mouth. “I’m satisfied. For now. But one day, we’re going to have discuss your choice of fashion. The Imperial Divine will be going to many parties in the next few years and I do have some suggestions.”
Ashur chuckled, closing his eyes as Dorian moved closer, his heart thudding hard in his chest even before their lips had touched. While there was much left to conquer, his fear and doubt among them, perhaps the future would be brighter with his allies, with Dorian, by his side.