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The Heir's system for sending mercenaries out on expeditions seemed to be entirely random. Either that, or it was deliberately cruel.
Bigby was in every other party, and Al-Hazred was too — except when Al-Hazred was in the Hamlet, Bigby was in the Warrens, and when Bigby was in the Hamlet, Al-Hazred was in the Weald. Always missing each other by a day, sometimes less.
It was enough for Bigby to consider going on strike, but the last thing he needed was the Heir docking his pay. So he waited.
The assignment parchment was pinned to the tavern door as always, its edges fluttering in the damp coastal wind. Bigby shouldered past a group of returning wayfarers, their boots caked with Weald mud, and scanned the week's deployments. He was somewhat surprised to find his name wasn't present at all. That was new.
Al-Hazred’s name was absent, too, which meant...
A free week. No expeditions. No bloody corridors or the stench of blood and rot. He realized he was grinning like a fool, and forced his face back into its usual somber expression before anyone noticed.
Bigby wandered away from the tavern, his limbs feeling lighter than usual. Al-Hazred would undoubtedly be in the athenaeum, poring over relics and incantations with the other occultists of the Hamlet.
The building was usually quiet and empty; the more scientifically minded residents of the Hamlet found the occultists’ reverence for forbidden knowledge unsettling at best. Bigby pushed open the heavy oak door with his shoulder, its hinges groaning in protest.
Dust motes swirled into the air, dancing in the beams of light filtering through the windows.
At the far end of the hall, hunched over a cracked leather-bound tome with his back turned, was Al-Hazred. Whole and alive — and alone, for once.
He crossed the room quietly, not wanting to startle him. Al-Hazred didn’t turn, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "I wondered how long it would take you to find me," he said.
Bigby exhaled through his nose. "You could've come looking for me first," he replied, leaning down to press his lips against Al-Hazred's cheek.
Al-Hazred tilted his head, letting Bigby's lips linger against his skin a moment longer before turning fully toward him. "Perhaps. But I know how you enjoy the hunt," he murmured, one hand rising to stroke Bigby's stubbled cheek. "And I wanted to see what you'd do when you found me."
"Hm. Would you fancy a smoke? I've recently made a blend of pipeweed with lavender," Bigby said.
Al-Hazred's fingers curled around Bigby's wrist, his thumb tracing the raised veins there with idle fascination. "Lavender," he repeated. "Interesting choice." His dark eyes flicked up, holding Bigby's gaze with an intensity that made the hair on the back of his neck prickle.
For a moment, it seemed that Al-Hazred's own inner monster was studying Bigby through the windows to the occulist's soul, something ancient and calculating swirling beneath the surface. Half a dozen pink dots glittered in his pupils, like stars in the abyss.
Then it was gone, as if the black-beast had turned away from the window and retreated back into the depths of Al-Hazred's mind.
"We should go somewhere more private," Al-Hazred said. "My study, perhaps. We can share a smoke there."
Bigby nodded, eager to finally have Al-Hazred to himself without the looming threat of another expedition tearing them apart. He resisted the urge to run, walking calmly behind the occultist.
The occultist’s study was tucked away in the back of the athenaeum, a small, cluttered room lined with shelves of crumbling grimoires and esoteric artifacts. Some of the books were bound with chains, a sight that never failed to amuse Bigby.
It smelled of incense, wax, and old paper, noticeable to an ordinary man but overwhelming to Bigby's heightened sense of smell. He had to cover his nose momentarily as Al-Hazred closed the door behind them.
"It's been months since we've had more than a day together," Bigby said. "I feel... almost giddy. Like an adolescent with his first love." The confession tasted strange in his mouth, but Al-Hazred only smiled, turning to light the oil lamp on his desk.
He fetched a pipe from a cluttered shelf, its wooden bowl stained from repeated use, and handed it to Bigby. "Then let us savor this moment."
Bigby nodded. He let go of his shroud and withdrew his left arm from under the heavy chain over his shoulder. Normally, the chains only came off when they were broken during transformation, rejoining on their own when he transformed back thanks to some strange magic. Here, alone with Al-Hazred, he let them slacken willingly.
Al-Hazred settled into the armchair, watching as Bigby fished in his pockets for the pouch of tobacco.
Bigby rolled the little leather bag between his fingers. "You know," he said, "before you, I never... I never understood why people got attached." He pulled the drawstring open, letting the fragrant tobacco spill into his palm.
Al-Hazred pulled a matchbox from his robes. "No?"
Bigby was silent for a moment as he filled the bowl of the pipe. "I'm a killer. A monster, in every sense. I didn't think I'd ever..." He trailed off, pressing the tobacco down with his thumb. "You know."
Al-Hazred reached out, plucking the pipe from Bigby’s fingers before he could light it. "You are neither," he said, voice low but firm. "You are a man who carries something terrible inside him... and so am I."
"You're better at controlling it than I am," Bigby admitted, watching as Al-Hazred struck the match against the side of the desk.
"Control is relative. My beast is mental, yours is physical." Al-Hazred held the flame to the pipe's bowl, inhaling slowly until the tobacco caught. The scent of lavender and tobacco bloomed between them, mingling with the lingering incense of the study.
The pipe passed between them in comfortable silence. Bigby sucked the smoke deep into his lungs, savoring the floral undertones. He wished he could capture this moment in time to look back on later — the warm glow of the lamp, the softness of Al-Hazred's eyes as he watched Bigby exhale a thin stream of smoke.
When he finally met his end, Bigby wanted this to be the memory that surfaced.
"You're quiet," Al-Hazred murmured, tapping ash into a brass tray before passing the pipe back. "Penny for your thoughts?"
"Thinking about endings," he admitted. "When I was a scholar, I was focused on the past. Now that death lurks around every corner, I have an appreciation for the present... and a faint hope for the future." He inhaled another lungful of smoke.
"Hope is seductive," Al-Hazred mused. The lamplight caught the silver in his dark beard. "A dangerous thing to nurture in a place like this."
Bigby watched the smoke curl upwards, dissipating into the air like ghosts. "Not nurture," he corrected. "Just... noticing it when it appears. Like spotting a patch of sunlight in the Warrens." He passed the pipe back.
"So it is." Al-Hazred sat back, the chair creaking under his weight as he exhaled a slow, deliberate stream of smoke. "You could be a decent poet, you know."
"Maybe. If I live long enough to settle down somewhere quiet," Bigby said. He wanted to add that he'd like Al-Hazred to settle with him, but he wasn't quite brave enough.
Instead, he simply savored the moment, and imagined a future where such quiet evenings weren't a fleeting rarity.