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Muriel can’t believe he let Asra talk him into this.
Okay, that’s not true. Asra could talk him into almost anything simply by virtue of being Asra. He could convince Muriel to swim twenty laps around the Lazaret, just for the sake of it, and he would bellyache the whole way down to the docks, but he would do it, because it’s Asra . Because even after all these years, Asra still hasn’t given up on him, has actively sought him out because, somehow, he trusts him. Muriel doesn’t understand it, often doesn’t even believe it, but despite his persistent doubt, Asra keeps coming back, so why wouldn't he do the occasional favor, no matter how annoying it is? If Asra can find it in him to return time and time again, it’s the least he can do.
But that doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it.
The streets of Vesuvia are relatively bare this morning, save for a handful of early risers much more invested in their own business than anyone else’s. Muriel avoids them nonetheless. Navigating the alleys makes for a longer walk, but he prefers the shadowed cover they provide, and it’s not like he’s in any hurry. He’d postpone this particular favor indefinitely if he could, if there were any chance he could lie to Asra’s face about it. But he knows he couldn’t. All Asra would have to do is look at him, and he’d buckle before he managed a single stammered word. Thus, he trudges along, each step hammering against the deep-set dread in his chest, but each step taken still. For Asra, for Asra, for Asra...
What a waste, spending his morning this way. The sky above sings notes of rouge and lavender over subdued powder blue, accompanied by the steady golden crescendo of a rising sun. The air feels crisp to the touch, tasting of late autumn chill and recent rain. Tiny birds flit from rooftop to windowsill to hiding hole, chirping their greetings to the new day and every other living creature therein. It’s lovely, simply lovely, yet Muriel can’t enjoy it as he normally would, returning again and again to the place he must go and the person he must see once he gets there. Specifically, he returns to that day, two years ago, when he made a similar journey for an entirely dissimilar reason.
The world had been different, then. Not the whole world, necessarily, but certainly the one in which he lived. The Red Plague still held Vesuvia in its bloody iron grip, and every day, it squeezed tighter. It seemed only a matter of time before the city itself burst open and died. Morale was low among citizens, as he heard, and for good reason. As the disease picked off their friends and family like some hellish lottery, the Count hid in his palace, behind his court, ignoring blatantly the suffering of “his people,” as if they ever belonged to him in the first place. Their future was bleak, decorated with red scleras and an island consumed by smoke.
Living out in the forest, beyond even the outskirts of the city, Muriel wasn’t all that worried for himself. He worried more for his friend, his only friend, who had just recently moved out of their shared hut into the shop and home of someone he, frankly, barely even knew. Muriel had advised him against it, had downright told him it was a stupid idea, but still, he went through with it because, well, it’s Asra. Muriel cares deeply for his friend, but looking back, he really shouldn’t have expected any different.
Regardless of his feelings on the matter (of which there were and still are many), he got by on the fact that Asra stopped in semi-frequently to visit. He sometimes brought pastries or news from the city, but Muriel only cared that he was there, alive and healthy despite the increasingly horrific stories he told. And he took some small amount of comfort knowing that as long as Asra stayed, whether it was five minutes or five hours, he was safe, too.
But it couldn’t last forever. Nothing does. Not joy, not sadness, not certainty. When he didn’t see Asra for a week, he grew concerned. Two weeks, he started to fear the worst. By the third, he couldn’t wait anymore. He donned his cloak just before dawn and, after petting Innana goodbye, set off for the city proper, for that tiny one-room apartment set above an inherited magic shop.
Seeing as he was in a hurry, then, he arrived at the shop’s door just as the sun began crawling over the horizon. He tried knocking, first. It was more a warning of his presence than a request for entry, for when the dull noise failed to summon anyone, he quickly went for the handle. The door swung open easily, which was alarming for a number of reasons, not the least of which being that the wood carried obvious residuals of protective magic — magic that had long since been deactivated.
Panic seized him. “Asra—?” he called, acting, for once, on impulse. Stepping past the threshold, he frantically scanned the room for any signs of his friend. Though Asra was always eager to invite him, he’d never actually been inside before. But he needn’t have seen it then to know something was terribly wrong.
The entire shop was practically destroyed. Smashed magical goods covered the ground like a second carpet. It looked as though someone had gone through every shelf and swept its contents to the floor, then knocked the shelves themselves off the wall for good measure. No single bottle of mugwort, no single stick of incense was spared. The crunch of broken glass underfoot grated against Muriel’s already fraying nerves as he searched the similarly trashed back room, then the stairwell.
“Asra?” He’d never heard such desperation in his own voice before. Halfway up, he yelled again, “Asra—?”
The nearly inaudible moan that followed had him clearing the rest of the stairs in two bounds.
Like the shop below, the apartment existed in a state of utter chaos, though in addition to the heaps of shredded books and shattered trinkets, there were towers, literal towers of filthy dishes. Some appeared only slightly sullied beside a couple scattered scraps, but most were piled with rotten food, caked with mold that must have been growing for weeks. The sight alone churned Muriel’s stomach; the smell threatened to push him back down the stairs.
Still, no sign of his friend.
“As—” he tried again, barely through the first syllable when a muffled groan interrupted him.
“Go away. He’s not here.”
His heart pounding in his ears, it took Muriel a moment to put the voice to a face, much less a name. “...Theo.”
In the far right corner, a mound of tattered blankets quivered, rustled, then broke open, revealing what could have only been a twisted image of the man Asra had introduced him to just a few months prior. His long, mossy brown hair lay tangled, matted, plastered to his forehead and neck, clearly damp with sweat. His skin had lost any sort of healthy color, leaving him more pallid than a porcelain doll and just as lifeless. He stared at Muriel with clouded eyes, the corner of his mouth twisted into an irritated grimace.
Pausing for a split second to shake his surprise, Muriel eventually said, “Where is he?”
The question only seemed to agitate Theo further. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know ?"
“Yeah, that’s what I just said,” Theo snapped. “I knew you were mostly mute, but I didn’t think you were deaf, too.”
The comment jabbed Muriel hard below the ribs. He took a deep breath, focusing all of his anger into a guarded glower. “What do you mean , you don’t know?”
“I mean I don’t fucking know! Stop making me repeat myself. Fuck.” Theo ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, shifting to his temples when that evidently did nothing for his headache. “He left, okay? Didn’t tell me where he was going. And you know what? Good fucking riddance.”
For an instant, Muriel stood there, floored. What had Asra possibly seen in this man? What in the world compelled him to move in with someone who didn’t even want him around? Disgust filled him from the bottom of his torso to the top of his neck. The smell was one thing, but it was Theo’s demeanor that almost drove him to vomiting.
His contempt must have shown plainly on his face. Theo sneered at him and said, “Why don’t you follow his lead and leave me the hell alone, huh? Or do you want me to wring your stupid, thick neck?” The tips of his fingers glowed green, and the half-wilted potted ivy at his side responded with a shudder. Mostly to himself, he scoffed, “I’d probably be doing you a favor.”
Without another word, without another glance, Muriel turned on his heels, stomped down the stairs, and stormed out of the shop, leaving the door wide open and swearing to himself that no matter what Asra said, no matter how ardently he argued for Theo’s character, he would never, ever go back.
So much for his convictions.
Before Asra left for… wherever it is he goes, back when he asked Muriel for this favor, he’d said, “Theo is a completely different person now. He’s kind, and he’s gentle… And you didn’t know him before he got really bad, before his aunts died. That’s what ruined him. If you’d known him then, I really think you would have gotten along. I think you could come to like him now, if you gave him a chance.”
He’d sounded so sincere, Muriel almost felt he didn’t believe him. Almost.
He hadn’t made any promises, and Asra hadn’t expected him to, but when he left that day, he carried something in his posture, something that’s puzzled Muriel since they were children: hope. Muriel hadn’t agreed to more than the bare minimum, hadn’t given any indication he might change his mind, and still, Asra was hopeful. How he’s made it so far with an attitude like that, Muriel will never know. It’s so easy to be disappointed when you hope. At least when you expect nothing, you know you’ll never have to worry about that. No risk, no reward, no problem.
But he’s stalled long enough. He’s been standing at the shop’s door for at least five minutes, hopping between trains of thought to justify doing nothing, to put off the inevitable for no good reason at all. It would be better to just get it out of the way. Right? Right. He raises his fist to the wood.
...What was it Asra had told him to do, again? “Knock on the door, say hello, and… he’ll forget about you as soon as you leave, so it doesn’t really matter what you say next. Go with your gut! I know you’ll do great.”
Oh ye of too much faith.
But he’s stalling again, and he knows it. Time to rip out the brambles. Steeling himself, he raps his knuckles across the wood. Then, he waits.
And he waits… not as long as he thought he would. Instantly, a voice from inside shouts, “Just a minute!” and not even ten seconds later, the door opens, and there he is: hair combed and neatly braided, eyes sharp behind rounded spectacles, freckles smattered across every inch of rosy skin.
...What?
“Hello-oh— Oh, wow—” Supposedly Theo says, taking in all six feet and ten inches of the man before him. Starting at his chest, which is just below eye level, his gaze wanders up to Muriel’s face, and… did his cheeks just get pinker? Or is Muriel seeing things?
They stare at each other in stunned silence until Theo seems to remember himself. Clearing his throat, he meets Muriel’s eyes and says, “Uh, sorry— What I mean to say was, hello, good patron! Please, do come in.”
He steps aside, holding the door to allow Muriel the space to enter, but Muriel stays firmly planted in place. Theo’s kind, welcoming smile drops, replaced by a confused frown as he side-steps back to where he was.
“...Or don’t. That’s also fine. Um,” he says, obviously not trained in how to handle a customer who doesn’t move or speak. “What… What can I do for you today?”
Now would be the perfect time to say hello, if Muriel could, but his tongue is caught somewhere between the back of his throat and the front of his teeth. There is no way, absolutely no way this is the same man he saw rise from a pile of blankets like a corpse rising from its grave. But, it has to be. Same face shape, same hair color, same dark freckle on his cheekbone that almost looks like a mole.
...How does he even remember that?
Theo, to his credit, is incredibly patient. He endures the awkward tension for twice as long as the average Vesuvian, only speaking when he’s absolutely sure Muriel won’t take the leap himself. “We have, uh, all sorts of magical wares. We also offer tarot readings, but my master usually gives them, and he’s out of town—”
“No.”
Theo’s eyebrows shoot up. “...No?”
Muriel is sure he looks just as surprised at his own choice of word. Realizing he needs to say more, he glances away and tries to ignore how warm his face has gotten. “I don’t need any of that.”
“Oh. Well, um…” Theo works at his lower lip with his teeth, flushing it with color, not that Muriel notices. “Can I ask why you’re here, then?”
That’s a good question. Why is he here? “...I know Asra.”
Recognition flashes in Theo’s eyes. “Oh! Oh, okay. Got it. Huh.” He studies Muriel again, which is already embarrassing enough, but then he smiles like, somehow, he’s happy to see him? “It’s a shame we haven’t been introduced before. I’m Theo, his apprentice.”
“I know.”
“You do?” Theo blinks, suddenly more red than pink. “Has Asra talked about me?”
Avoiding specifics, Muriel simply nods.
“Huh. That’s sweet of him…” For a moment, Theo seems lost in thought, but just as quickly he snaps back to his senses and says, “Well, like I said, he’s out of town right now, but if you want to leave a message for him, I can—“
“No, it’s fine,” Muriel interjects. The next seven seconds are torture as he searches for a parting phrase. Go with your gut . “Just… don’t get into trouble.”
Theo is understandably caught off-guard. “Wha— wait, where are you going?”
Desperate to just escape the situation and have it be done, Muriel hurries back the way he came, forcing himself to look forward, even as Theo calls after him, “I didn’t even get your name—!”
He doesn’t dare slow down until he’s well past the outskirts, only feeling comfortable once he sees his own charms hanging from the trees. Then he allows himself to stop and take what feels like his first breath since he started running. Dropping down onto an old log, he holds his face in his hands as he catches his breath, counting each echoing heartbeat until he loses track.
Even after his adrenaline’s worn off, he finds himself at a loss. People can’t just change like that. Asra is Asra, Lucio was Lucio, Muriel is Muriel… But Theo isn’t Theo. Not anymore. How is that possible?
It has to be some kind of fluke, he decides. It just has to be. Nothing else makes sense, unless...
Shaking his head to clear it, Muriel looks up and absorbs his surroundings. Same forest. Same trees. Same everything he’s ever known. But, even big trees grow, little by little, don’t they?
Muriel groans. It’s barely mid-morning, and he’s already exhausted. No use pushing himself when he’s already overwhelmed. Releasing the tension from his shoulders with a great huff, he stands and starts walking toward his hut, fully intent on doing as little as possible for as long as he can.
Which is to say, until the next time Asra decides to visit.