A/N: The apprentice is my genderfluid, bisexual magician, Daya Firestone. You can find more at lesbianarcana on tumblr.
This fic contains spoilers for Muriel's route. You've been warned.
"You. Magician."
It takes Daya a moment to realise they're being addressed directly, exhausted as they are.
It's the first time Morga has acknowledged them beside the occasional sneer since the three of them—Daya, Muriel and Morga—left Vesuvia and headed south. Two days with little sleep and whatever food they forage from the land, and Daya's temper is already fraying.
The different food they don't mind so much. The lack of sleep is another matter.
Morga holds the horse Paloma's reins as Daya dismounts. Her cold gaze roves over them; mildly concealed disgust and no small measure of contempt.
"Take that thing off," she says.
Daya follows her eyes to the bright pashmina wrapped around their neck and shoulders, woven with all the colours of the rainbow and stitched with intricate patterns. Their fingers grasp the cloth protectively.
"My scarf? Why?"
The woman is still a near-stranger to them, but one thing Daya knows without a doubt: she's used to having her commands obeyed without question or challenge. Daya's response makes her eyes narrow, and she jabs her spear into the ground. Nearby, Muriel dismounts his horse and watches them warily.
"Because," Morga says, "Your finery has you glittering and gleaming so brightly, Lucio will see you coming from a mile away." She looks Daya up and down, her pale face twisted in an irritable expression. "You look weak and ridiculous. You're an easy target, even for the likes of my son."
Heat creeps up Daya's neck and face, prickling their skin. They're suddenly aware of how quiet Muriel is.
Is there any point arguing with Morga? Probably not, Daya thinks, as they let out a slow breath.
Morga makes a sound of disgust and picks up her spear.
"I'm going to hunt," she says. "When I return, I want to see that thing gone."
Daya feeds and rubs down Paloma in complete silence, and by some miracle manages to keep the anger at simmering level. It wasn't that they were thin-skinned exactly; they were well used to dealing with contentious people at the shop. It's just…
Daya pauses while stroking Paloma's nose. Well, they don't really know what exactly. They should be too old to be bothered about insults.
A dark shadow falls over them. Muriel approaches, leading his own horse by the reins, his expression still a little wary.
"Are you okay?"
"Fine," Daya says, a little shortly. "Just homesick."
Muriel nods, his gaze sliding away again, and they fall into a comfortable silence while he takes care of his own horse. Morga says something in her native language in the background, and Daya comes back to the present with a heavy sigh.
"What are you doing?" Muriel asks as they pull the pashmina from their neck and shove it into their bag.
"Doing what Morga wants," Daya says bitterly, and begins to pull at one of the rings on their fingers. "We need her to track down Lucio, so I guess I have to play along."
Daya winces as the ring catches; the chill has already made their fingers stiff. Biting their lip against the discomfort, they twist the jewelry roughly.
A large, warm hand rests over theirs.
"You're going to hurt yourself," Muriel says.
Daya's head drops, their hands going slack. If he notices the frustrated tears in their eyes he doesn't say.
Carefully he rubs the warmth back into their hand. His palms are a little rough—calloused, but warm and comforting—and they have to resist the urge to rest their head against his arm.
"You don't think I look ridiculous, do you?" they ask as he works, squinting up at him.
Muriel's cheeks flush a little, but he avoids their gaze, focused on twisting one of their rings in place. "Why are you asking me?"
"I don't know," Daya admits, and he snorts. "I suppose… I care about what you think of me."
That's a slight understatement, if they were being honest with themself, but that's another story for another time.
Muriel gently slides the bracelets off their wrist and works at the rings. With the chill rubbed out of their hand the jewelry comes away easily. Daya stows it in their bag and returns their hand to his.
It's a testament to how Muriel has acclimated to their company that he doesn't immediately move away. Instead he takes their other hand and begins to rub the warmth back into it too.
"You don't have to do that," Daya says softly, and without an ounce of sincerity. Their hands feel nice in his. They feel right, and that's a thought they can't really comprehend yet, tired as they are.
"The way you look…" he begins. He pauses, eyes flicking to them, and clears his throat. "It's not so bad."
That's as close a compliment as he's paid them so far.
"Not so bad, huh?" Daya murmurs, lips twitching. It's too dark to see the blush heating their cheeks, for which they are extremely grateful.
Muriel snorts, but he doesn't let go of their hands. "D-don't look at me like that. Asra wears bright colours too. I'm used to it."
"Uh-huh. Well, Asra is prettier than me, I'll give you that."
"That's not true," Muriel says, then immediately goes bright red. He drops their hands and shuffles back.
"Did you just—"
"N-no—"
"—call me pretty? You think I'm pretty?"
"Stop," Muriel grumbles, and turns away. "It's time to—food. To eat."
Daya lifts their face to the stars, smiling fondly, and follows him back to the campfire.
Suddenly, they think, even Morga is tolerable enough for the time being.