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cedarmoons · 7 years ago

Text

you had me

so in the update, lucio tells mc: “was it you? the one who broke [asra] for me?” which, first of all, WHAT. my brain immediately went to angst, and spawned this. finally.... i can continue to fulfill my destiny of writing angst for each and every fandom i enter..... burningelmo.gif

asra/mc, pregame speculation, but also some character building for my witchy bab ziah, and an opportunity to practice more arcana characterizations. warnings for lucio being an asshole and (conjured, not actual) self-harm.

prompt lists || tip jar

She always has sage and jasmine and frankincense burning in the shop, these days, to better purify the air and strengthen the protective spells around the shop. She draws wards and runes around the house’s doorways and windowsills, and prepares protective and healing charms for customers desperate to buy them. Yet nothing shakes the sense of foreboding that lingers like a heavy, cold cape draped over her shoulders.

The plague claims more and more every day. It is not a physical disease, but something from another realm, and she does not know how to combat it.

Asra had waited until the new moon to visit his friend, Muriel, the gladiator they had rescued from the Coliseum. She had drawn upon his body various sigils of protection with sacred salt water mixed with dragonlily ink herself, so she knows that he will be safe. Still, she worries. If he contracts the plague, he will be far from her healing waters, far from Tiamat’s diminishing power, and his familiar—still so small and new to this world—will not be strong enough to alert her to any danger he finds himself in.

She does not realize she is gnawing at her thumbnail until the sharp clack of her teeth biting through the nail pierces the air. She lowers her hand at once and closing her eyes, inhaling deeply, allowing the incense to fill her lungs and calm her, though it takes several long breaths before her mind begins to settle. She senses movement and when she opens her eyes, Tiamat is sitting atop the small saltwater fountain Ziah had constructed for her, watching her with bright blue eyes.

The water wyrm had once been as large as this room, had once been strong enough to power her movement with magic, floating through the air as easily as she had swum through the ocean she so loved. But that had been long ago. Ziah gets up with a sigh and crosses the room, cupping her hands in front of her. Tiamat crawls into her hands and curls up into a circle, barely filling her palms.

He will be well, Tiamat assures, lifting her head and brushing her scaled snout against Ziah’s cheek. You worry too much.

“Oh? And yet you scolded me for my distance not so long ago,” Ziah replies, lifting her hands so that Tiamat may move to rest atop her shoulder. “He has grown on me.”

Grown on you! Pah! Are you so blind to your own feelings, child?

She is far too old to blush, but she allows herself a small smile as she begins to rearrange the jars that rest behind the counter. Powdered bat’s milk, pickled newt eyes, preserved wyvern honey from the Blood Mountain…

The door opens, the bell ringing alongside the silent wards audible only to her ears. Ziah returns the jar of wyvern honey and turns to face the customer, silencing the wards with a gesture hidden behind her back.

The visitor is a man she knows well—pale, and blond, with tattoos under his eyes that distinguish him as a member of one of the southern war tribes. She does not kneel or curtsey or do anything except stare at him. “My Lord Count,” she says. “What brings you to a humble apothecary’s shop?”

Lucio hums, lowering his golden hand to rest lightly atop a display case—he had worn the claws, this time, she notes. At her silent urging, Tiamat crawls down the back of her neck, burrowing into her hair. Her braid will shield the lump. Lucio drags a single golden claw over the glass, the sound high-pitched and squealing, but Ziah does not flinch. She extends a hand behind her, and the water in the scrying bowl across the room begins to tremble, quickly forming into something semi-solid and ready to answer her call.

“You know, there were rumors of this little shop,” he drawls, observing everything in the room but her. He stops in front of the fountain that serves as Tiamat’s home, and it takes everything within her not to tense. His cloak is entirely made of white fur, and it swirls around his ankles, which are clad in golden, heeled boots. “Rumors that you were just a little fortune-teller, or an apothecary, or a midwife—depended on who you talked to, really. But you’re more than that, aren’t you?” He turns, eyes narrowed as he takes in her long, braided hair that falls down to her hip. “I can taste the magic in this little shop.”

He takes a step toward her. Tiamat burrows further into her hair, but Ziah remains silent. Lucio’s lips quirk up into some cruel facsimile of a smile. “You’re the one who took my Scourge from me, aren’t you?” he asks, taking another step forward, then another, until they are almost chest-to-chest. Ziah is taller than him, she realizes, even with the heeled boots he wears.

“I do not know of whom you speak, my Lord Count,” she says.

“That is what I mean,” he hisses. “No one remembers him anymore! You took him from me and I can’t even get him back! He was my gladiator, my property—you had no right to steal him from me.”

“My Lord Count, I do not know what you speak of,” she says, again. He searches her face but cannot detect her lie. She is too old, and too practiced, for such slips.

“Then it was that little orphan boy you took under your wing?” he asks, lips curling away to bare his teeth at her. “Perhaps I should be hunting him down instead.”

Ziah clenches her jaw and Lucio grins, something animalistic and dark in his eyes. “Ah, there we go,” he says. “Found something.” He chucks her under the chin with his golden claws, and she jerks away, nose wrinkling. “So tell me, little witch, why haven’t you gone to the palace?” He turns away, examining more of the shop’s magical wares. His claws tap against the glass, hard enough that small cracks spiderweb through it. Ziah turns her body as he starts to circle her, keeping him within her sight at all times. “We’ve opened our doors to everyone trying to find a cure for this plague. A witch of your talent—and your apprentice’s—would be welcome.”

“I have not the slightest idea how to cure the plague, my Lord Count.”

“Well, obviously, no one does. That’s the point of coming to the palace,” he says, annoyance shadowing his features. “Maybe you just need some proper motivation? Maybe—your familiar? The little water dragon on your back?”

How did he—?

Feeling her heart begin to race, she twists her wrist behind her back, and the water across the room begins to lift itself from the scrying bowl.

“You know, my tribe had legends about the Siluri,” he tells her. This time, when he steps forward, she steps back. “They were the fiercest warriors ever seen, their raids and heroes the stuff of legends. Even Prakra feared them, back before it was an empire. They never cut their hair unless they lost a battle, did you know? Scalping a Siluri was considered a great achievement. But then the tribe just... disappeared. Do you know what happened to them?”

His eyes linger on her face, waiting for a reaction. Ziah does not give him one, even as she turns her wrist and the water begins to lift itself from the scrying bowl behind him. “I do not, my Lord Count.”

It seems to be the answer he was expecting. “One night, each and every Siluri was slaughtered by a little blue-haired Prakran slave girl who could control water—but that was three hundred years ago.”

When he grabs her throat, the movement far too sudden for her to counter, age old instincts flare up in her. With a snarl, Ziah lifts her foot and plants it into his unprotected stomach, kicking as hard as she can. Lucio wheezes, releasing her, and she lands on her feet. With several short, sharp fluid movements, the water bursts from the scrying bowl to rush towards Lucio, knocking him flat against the wall and icing over, pinning him to the stone in a wall of ice. Ziah calls back some liquid water and it crystallizes into an icy spear in the palm of her hand, one she levels at his throat.

Lucio only laughs, baring his teeth. His eyes are bloodshot, she notes—but no, there is too much red to be simple exhaustion. He speaks before she can think of it further.

“Fucking hells, it’s true,” he says, wheezing. His canines gleam in the gas lamp’s light as he grins at her, energized by the violence. “I didn’t think it was, when I first saw you—but holy shit.” Ziah takes a deep breath through her nose and presses the spear forward, letting it prick his throat, letting the blood trickle down his skin, staining the pale flesh red.

It would be so easy to make his blood burn. So easy.

“If I don’t walk out of this shop within the hour,” Lucio sneers, “my guards will barge in and kill you. They’ll burn down this shop. And then they’ll hunt down that apprentice of yours and kill him too. So if you want to keep your hide, little witch, you’ll let me go.”

Ziah clenches her jaw and pulls away, turning her spear into a harmless orb of water that floats above her hand. The ice stays, pinning him to the wall.

He says, with a savage smile, “Or maybe—maybe I don’t need you. There are plenty of rumors about your apprentice, too, you know. Rumors that he is growing more powerful than you. Maybe he’s the one who needs proper motivation.”

“You will not touch him,” she snarls.

“I’m the Count, you idiot, I can do whatever I want.” As if to prove his point, his shoulder flexes and the ice restraining his golden arm shatters. He drives his metal fist into the blocks around his other hand and feet, and within moments is standing before her, a savage leer on his face. This close, she can see that her suspicions are correct—the red around his irises are not faint, or from exhaustion, but deep crimson and too obvious to ignore.

“You have the plague,” she breathes.

His features contort, silver-and-scarlet eyes flashing in anger, and he half-snarls at her. “Oh, you are smart. Yes, I have the plague. And if you don’t want your little apprentice to end up mysteriously infected with it, or your little familiar ending up dead, you’re going to do what I want.”

Ziah grits her teeth. “Which is what, exactly?”

“You’re going to go to the Lazaret. I don’t care if you get infected or not, but you’re going to make your little apprentice think you have the plague. That’ll make him come crawling to the palace, hmm? I don’t need you both—I just need one competent magician there. That should be enough to find a cure, don’t you think?”

“Magic will not save you, Lucio,” she says. “This plague is not something that can be cured. By anything.”

“I don’t believe you, little witch. So here is what will happen. If you’re not in the Lazaret by sunset tomorrow,” Lucio threatens, eyes narrowed, “your apprentice will be there in your place, and I will make sure he actually has this incurable plague. So… think about my offer.” He seizes her braid in his golden hand and leans up toward her, sneering. Ziah tenses, fighting age-old instincts that tell her to run, to fight, to hide. “And let me tell you—for that little stunt you pulled earlier, when the time comes, I will be the one to personally cut off your hair.”

He releases her and offers a charming grin as he steps back, the grin he feeds the masses whenever he throws open the palace or hosts festivals or a match at the Coliseum. “And who knows? Maybe threatening you will be enough to get my beloved Scourge returned to me.”

Ziah stares at the swish of Lucio’s cape as he turns on his heel and strides out the door. Once he is gone and the guards have disappeared, she collapses, chest heaving. Tiamat skitters up her back to rest on her neck, nuzzling her scaled body against Ziah’s throat. He is bluffing, she says.

“He is not,” Ziah whispers. “He will do it. He will hurt Asra, and Muriel—”

Unless I do what he wants.

She lets herself break down. Lets the tears course down her cheeks to stain the wood, ignoring the fact that she has not wept in many, many years. She lets the frankincense and sage burn her lungs, lets her body curl into itself until her forehead touches the floor, a mockery of the prayers she had once believed in, so many years ago. Tiamat says nothing as she curls around the front of Ziah’s neck, too small to wrap herself around fully. Her silence betrays her thoughts: that she, too, thinks there is nothing to be done.

If she ignores Lucio, Lucio will harm Asra. She knows that Tiamat will be safe so long as she is by her side, but Asra… she closes her eyes, thinking of how it could happen: a drugged drink, a kidnapping in the shadows of a back alley, guards arriving at their doorstop to drag him away.

Or she could go into the forest, right now, take Asra, and run and never look back.

But Tiamat would not be near saltwater. And Muriel would be alone.

And if she were in the Lazaret, she would be next to the ocean, which had been blocked off for months since the plague first appeared in Vesuvia. Tiamat could regain some of her lost strength, and she could attempt to heal the sick—attempt to find her own cure for this otherworldly plague. And Asra and Muriel would be safe from Lucio.

It does not take long for her to make her decision. She takes a slow, steady breath, closing her eyes as she inhales, lungs expanding until they strain. And then she rises and gets to work.

The first are the wards by the front door. She destroys them in controlled doses, silencing the explosions so the neighbors do not come running. The broken wards leave notes of warning energies in the air, a clear alarm to any sensitive to magic. Asra will sense it the moment he turns onto the street. When enough of them are broken, she returns to the shop and turns on the tap for a short moment, just enough to get a handful of water. She hardens it into a block of ice and slams it into one of the display cases, sending glass shards across the floor. She knocks a few of the cheaper materials to the floor, but leaves the wyvern honey intact.

She goes into the garden behind the shop and burns the parcels she’d specially crafted for customers, meant to prevent or ease the symptoms of plague, charms of protection and healing and comfort. The smell of rare and precious herbs wafts up in smoke and is carried away by the blaze.

But it is the illusions that hurt her the most. They are powerful, more powerful than Asra has ever seen from her—too powerful for him to detect as a falsehood. He is still learning, her young love, but she knows his potential. Perhaps if this had happened five years from now, ten, he would have known her façade for what it was.

Oh, she wishes she could see what he will become. She longs for it.

She whisper-sings an ancient mourning song, one from her girlhood, as she opens a vial of pig’s blood and dips her fingers in it, drawing thin lines over her arms, her side, her face. Where her fingers go, an illusion of split-open skin, knife wounds and scratches follow, as realistic as any true wound—illusions that will heal themselves in reaction to any kind of magic. She sits in front of a mirror and dabs pig’s blood on her eyelids, imaging the splash of scarlet in the Count’s eyes—and when she opens her eyes, the sclera are stained with splashes of red, thin tendrils of scarlet branching out from a matching corona around her iris.

She lifts what is left in the bottle with a gesture, manipulating the water within the blood to spread out and soak into the floorboards, carefully controlled puddles that will resemble an attack. When it is done, she corks the bottle and returns it to its hideaway place, tucked behind a grimoire on her short bookshelf.

It is nearly sunset by the time she lies down, rolling over onto her side, draping one arm over her body. Tiamat rests on her neck, curling up into a tight circle. She knows what part she must play.

This will break him, she tells Ziah.

“I know,” Ziah whispers. Her own heart, which she had guarded so selfishly until the day she met him, throbs hard beneath her breast, and she wonders if she had somehow made it bleed as well.

Asra arrives just after dark. She hears him sprinting down the alley, shouting her name, hears him skid to a stop in front of the shop. She forces herself to stay limp and pliant as he steps over the dark threshold, even as she hears his breaths come in great, shaking gasps. “Mizi!” he calls, but the next moment his breath hitches, and his voice breaks as he whispers: “Mizi?”

The shop suddenly glows in a pale, warm light—light enough to see the blood around her body, the wounds on her arms, the destroyed shop. A sob rips from his throat, and he is suddenly kneeling beside her, gathering her into his arms. Ziah blinks open her eyes, letting her lips part as she stares up at him. Asra’s hands glow with healing magic, just as she’d known they would, and the illusions begin to fade, wounds closing up as realistically as if they truly existed.

He cannot tell the difference. But he would have, had they had more time, had she been a better teacher.

The light in the shop shows the panic in his eyes, and her heart breaks for him. She swallows hard, lifting a hand—weakly—to brush the pads of her fingers down one cheek. His gaze meets hers, and his expression crumples as he sees the red in her sclera.

“Mizi,” he says, and his voice breaks. “No. No, nonono, please—”

“A mob broke into the shop,” she whispers, her voice low, dry and rasping. “They stole the charms against the plague. I could not stop them.”

“No,” he says again, and lowers his forehead to her collarbone, shoulders hunched and shaking. He clutches at her as he weeps, his body rocking. She holds him to her, fingers buried in his thick moon-colored hair, and lifts her gaze to the doorway, where a group of curious onlookers have gathered. She knows the light must reflect the conjured red in her eyes, for a multitude of them gasp, and she hears the word “plague” murmured among them. One bystander starts running down the street.

Asra hears them too. He lifts his head, features twisted into a grieving snarl she has never seen on his face before and makes her miss his smile. He shouts: “Leave us!”

The force of his grief wells up like a wave, pushing the onlookers onto the street. They scatter, the spell of watching their embrace broken, supplanted by fear of plague. He turns back to her, breath hitching, his purple eyes gleaming in the soft pale light.

“Asra,” she whispers. “Asra, it’s all right.”

“No.” He swallows audibly, turning into her touch when she palms his cheek. “No, I’ll—I’ll take you somewhere, somewhere north, somewhere far away from here. I’ll take care of you, Mizi, I promise, we can leave Vesuvia and forget them all—”

She lets him babble useless promises and instead holds him, trying to commit to memory the feeling of his touch. She knows how the sick are treated at the Lazaret—isolated and left to die, their bodies burned in pits. She strokes his hair, saying nothing, letting him hold her and weep until his eyes are dry and puffy and sore, and his voice fails him. Even then, he does not move, his body curled into hers like a sunflower bends for the faint rays of the dying sun.

They hold each other until the plague doctor arrives, his bleached mask and black cloak concealing all features except his deep, curly red hair. Asra holds her tighter, resisting as the doctor kneels before them and attempts to pull him away. “You’re risking yourself to exposure,” the doctor says, and he sounds gentle even through the mask. “You’re only making it harder. We can help her at the Lazaret.”

“No, you can’t,” Asra snaps, eyes narrowing. “There is no cure for—” His expression crashes, and he looks back down at her. “There is no cure,” he repeats, quieter. She brushes the wet skin under his eyes with her thumbs, cradling his face between her hands.

“Asra, let me go,” she murmurs to him. He shakes his head, a low, panicked noise escaping him, reminding her how painfully, beautifully young he is. So she sighs, and lifts her head up, slowly, lethargically, as someone who had just survived a vicious attack would, and presses her lips to the corner of his mouth. He goes still, only pulling back to look at her with wide eyes.

“The palace may help you find a cure,” the doctor offers. “I’ve been going there, myself, though I admit I haven’t had much luck.”

Asra doesn’t even acknowledge him. He smoothes back the baby hairs at her temples and swallows hard. “I’ll go,” he whispers. “I’ll find something.” Her heart aches in her chest, twisted tight, as if it is straining for him. His thumb brushes over her cheek. “I promise.”

I know you will try, she thinks, almost says, but she does not want to be cruel to him. So she only offers him a soft smile, doing her best to hide her grief. Tiamat slithers down the back of her neck and burrows in Ziah’s hair, hiding herself from the doctor’s glassy, red-tinted gaze. Ziah drops her gaze down to Faust, still small enough to nestle unseen on Asra’s shoulder, still new and fragile. She will grow larger, she knows—maybe even larger than Tiamat, when she was at her healthiest, her most powerful.

“Take care of him,” she whispers, and Faust flicks her tongue out, sending waves of reassurance toward her. Ziah swallows and lets her hands fall away, turning her face toward the plague doctor. This time when the doctor reaches for Ziah, Asra lets her go, his expression wretched and heartbroken. Tear tracks still shine on his cheek, and she watches him press a hand to his chest. The doctor slides his hands under her body, lifting her against his broad chest, and Ziah turns her face away from Asra, closing her eyes and resting her head against the doctor’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor says. Ziah squeezes her eyes shut, refusing to look at Asra, even when she hears him follow them out into the street, even when she feels his eyes on her.

She does not need to look back to know she has broken him.

She knows he loves her. He knows he loves her. Yet they do not speak of it, not for years and years of knowing each other. Not until one day as he is brushing her hair, brown fingers working through deep blue strands, humming a Vesuvian sea shanty under his breath. She watches his reflection work, her gaze lingering on his smile, soft and distant.

“You should not love me,” she says at last, once his sea shanty ends. Asra looks up, his gaze meeting hers in the mirror. Like lepidolite, deep purple with a thousand thousand flecks of silver and pale violet.

“And why is that?” He’s still smiling, still loose and calm from a good night’s sleep. They had been together in his dream, so he’d told her. They’d been doves, exploring the world, flying over stormy oceans and hissing deserts and emerald jungles.

“Because I will break your heart,” she informs him, even as her own heart throbs under her breast. “Some way or another.”

He laughs, long and loud, the cheerful pfhahahah she has come to adore. He grins at her, afterward, eyes crinkling in the corners until they are almost closed. His dimples are shadows etched into his cheeks. He sets the brush aside and leans forward, kissing her shoulder.

“You?” he asks, still grinning, still young and foolish and somehow, impossibly, utterly in love with her. “Break my heart? Never.”

#the arcana #fic #ziah #asra

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