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There is no faith in a war zone. Or perhaps there is only faith, clung to as the last semblance of sanity. You either cling to something, anything, unflinchingly, a need for there to be more, a reason as you watch friends helplessly fall around you, or you come to one simple conclusion: the Maker, if he ever truly existed, no longer cares. He has abandoned all, the faithless and devout alike, turned his back on the people, and left them well and truly alone.
It is interesting, Tarquin muses as he watches Ashur with his evening ritual, lighting an incense and sending out one final prayer before sleep, that someone like Ashur would find him. That the Divine, one of the few true believers that still exists in the chantry, someone who actually cares for once and is not simply using this as a political ladder to grasp for more power, would choose someone as irreverent as him.
"Still don't get why you do all this shit," Tarquin says as Ashur rises back to his feet. "Has he ever, once, answered you?"
Tarquin almost hates to admit it now, but he had believed, once, long ago. Sent up silent prayer after silent prayer that they survive, that his friends make it through, that the qunari pause their onslaught, even for the just the night so he could finally rest. The prayers were rarely answered, and even now the qunari continue their attacks into his sleep.
"Some things we must do for ourselves," Ashur replies easily, waving out the incense before joining Tarquin in the bed. The response is quick and easy on his tongue, yet vague and veiled in a layer of mysticism, something he might tell his flock. Tarquin tries his best not to scoff. "Still, he did some things for me. He brought me to you."
Tarquin does scoff at that, unable to stop himself as he rolls his eyes and shakes his head a bit. "Like to think that I did that on my own, thanks. C'mon. Get some fucking rest." Ashur hesitates, propped up on his arm against the mattress. His hand comes up to cup Tarquin's jaw, thumb running down cheekbone until it meets scruff of his beard.
"And if I want to worship something else?"
Tarquin's mouth quirks quick in response. "That's blasphemous," he teases lightly, but turns into the other anyway. Ashur wants to worship, and Tarquin presses his mouth to the other, lets himself be revered.