Time: -6 years pre-canon
Age: 20 years old
I believe Muriel canonically is a couple years older than Asra, so he's probably about 21 - 22 here.
Dawn in the central district usually brought with it a veil of mist that blanketed the streets in a dull grey miasma. It reminded Daya of winter in all the worst ways. Their body craved the sunshine, but mid-morning sleep-ins were years behind them. There was food to get and the shop had to be open in two hours, so when the sky began to turn grey and blue they were up.
They weren't happy about it, but they were up.
"Protego hanc domus," they whispered, and the front door of the shop glowed white. Daya stepped back, pulled on their scarf-then paused, as the hairs on the back of their neck prickled.
They glanced up and down the street warily, shoulders tensing, and in the shadows of a nearby alley they saw it. A dark figure looming in the shadows, menacing.
Fear stole the breath from their lungs, but they called fire to their hands regardless. Ribbons of smoke and flame sprung from their fingers and they approached the figure.
"Who are you?" they demanded. "Did he send y-oh."
A familiar face blinked at them from under a dark, fur-trimmed cloak. He was a few years older than Daya remembered, but there was no way they'd forget that distinctive height.
"Muriel?"
The young man pulled the cloak off his head, shaking his head as black hair tumbled over his shoulders.
"What are you doing here?" Daya asked, and let the flames die out. "You've never visited me before."
"Not here to visit." He sounded almost embarrassed. "Asra asked me to check on you."
"Asra?" Their eyes brightened. "Is he back from his trip?"
Muriel shook his head and shuffled his feet from side to side. "He asked me...before we left."
"Oh...well, that's sweet of you. I'm about to run some errands if you want to join me."
He shook his head again. Daya suddenly remembered what Asra had said about his friend's discomfort with crowds.
"Would you like me to make you invisible?" they asked. "That way you can accompany me without having to worry about staring."
Muriel paused, blinking, then a small smile tugged at his lips. He nodded.
He had to bend down to let Daya smooth the magic over the top of his head and across his cheeks. They could feel him fidgeting nervously under his touch, and he flinched when their fingers brushed over his shoulders.
"There," Daya said. They led Muriel to a nearby puddle so he could see his reflection. "I can still see you, and you can see your reflection, but to everyone else you're nothing but air. But if someone bumps into you they will feel you, so be careful."
They headed back out the street leading to the market. Daya walked briskly; Muriel followed close at his heel. He seemed more relaxed than a few minutes ago, glancing around with a little interest at the buildings.
"I sometimes get anxious in big crowds too," Daya said to him. "Is it the press of people, or do you not like the stares?"
"Both."
"That's fair. People can be thoughtless when it comes to others who are different. Not that you look bad or anything," they added hastily, and Muriel's dark brows drew together. "You're quite distinctive. But I suppose you must get tired of hearing that."
The market was all but deserted this early in the morning save for the vendors and a few other early risers. It was a sight that made Muriel's shoulders relax further, and he let his pace slow a little.
"Do you mind if we make a stop?" Daya asked. "I'm starving."
Another small smile. "Me too."
"Oh? Then I'll double my usual order."
Daya beckoned him over to the baker's stall, where the owner was kneading bread on a counter dusted with flour. This was about the only semi-permanent stall in the market; the man had been in business for years beyond counting.
"Dayana!" the baker said, raising a hand in welcome. "My first customer of the day. Come, sit. I have a loaf in the oven with your name on it."
Daya glanced longingly at the little table shoved into the corner, but shook their head. "I'm running behind today, so I'll have to take it home with me. Do you have another, by any chance?"
A younger man emerged from the back of the stall, carrying a little wicker basket covered in linen.
"Hello, Selasi," Daya said. "You have good timing."
The baker's son smiled and laid the basket on the counter. He pulled back the linen cover, retrieved two loaves of pumpkin bread and wrapped them up.
"Here you are, Daya," he said. "How is Asra? Still wandering the world?"
"Still wandering the world," Daya replied, smiling wryly, and felt Muriel shift awkwardly beside them. They extended their hand to Selasi's father, waving him closer.
"You're too kind," said the baker.
"Looks painful," Daya murmured, wincing in sympathy. There was a burn on his forearm they'd noticed, yellow-white and beginning to blister. Daya smoothed their hand over the wound and the skin flattened, brown-pink, shiny and new.
"Thank you, magician!" the baker called as they left. "Say hello to Asra when he returns! And make sure to come again soon!"
When they were out of earshot, Daya turned to Muriel. "Here, let's stop for a moment."
They turned into the same alleyway they'd been introduced, two years ago. Daya sat on a barrel and handed one of the loaves to Muriel, smiling up at him.
"This pumpkin bread is how I met Asra, you know," they said as both of them ate.
Muriel shot them a glance in the middle of biting down on the bread; Daya took that as a cue to elaborate.
"It was the last night of the Masquerade, about four years ago now. He set up his booth at the back of my shop-well, it was my aunt's shop at the time. He was there all day, so I brought him some of this bread from the market." Daya smiled fondly at the memory; of the surprise on Asra's face.
"Why?" Muriel asked in his low, gruff voice, and Daya glanced up. He was staring at them in confusion and disbelief between the strands of his long hair.
"Why what?" they asked, quirking an eyebrow.
"Why would you do that...for someone you don't know."
The question stumped Daya for a moment.
"Why?" they repeated slowly, blinking. "Because... he might not have eaten all day, and it was little trouble for me to bring him some food."
Muriel dropped his gaze, but he still looked confused, and a sudden realisation made Daya draw closer, peering up into his face.
"Muriel," they said, and he blinked. "Has no-one ever done something for you purely to be kind? Not ever?"
"No." The green eyes dropped. "Not before...Asra."
Stirred with pity, Daya touched his hand. Muriel flinched like the touch hurt him, but after a minute his fingers slackened. They gave his palm a little squeeze, and he flushed.
"I'm sorry you haven't known a lot of kindness," they murmured. Muriel shrugged; he tried to pull his hand back, but they held on. "Muriel...there's a lot of people in this world who delight in being cruel, but there's more who will be kind to you. And you do deserve kindness, the same as everyone else."
They ate in silence for a few more moments. Then Daya drew in a deep breath and spoke.
"I did want to ask something of you," they said, and Muriel glanced over sharply. "I wanted to ask about Count Lucio."
The young man stiffened, the last piece of bread squashed in his hand.
"You don't have to," Daya said hastily. "I know you're not-well, I know there's a story."
Muriel's hands curled into fists.
"Asra told you," he muttered, his voice low.
Daya shook their head. "He said it wasn't his story to tell, and I never pressed him for it. It's not my business. I'm asking because I think-I think Count Lucio harmed my aunt."
Quickly they filled him in on the details of the story: the night Lucio came to the shop, his aunt's fear, the disappearance, the guards at his door. Muriel listened silently, his brows pinched.
"It's been nearly a year," Daya finished, "and I just-I don't know what to do about it. Or what I can do."
"You can't do anything."
"I don't believe that. I can't."
Muriel frowned. "He's the Count."
"I know he's the Count. I-" Daya stopped with a grunt of frustration. "I'm sorry, I'm angry at Count Lucio, not you. But surely you're angry at him too? Not just because of what happened to-to Asra's parents, and to my aunt-but to the state of the city. The disease, and the flooding, and the Coliseum fights. It's like Vesuvia means nothing to him."
"I am angry," Muriel said, in his low voice, and there was an edge of steel Daya hadn't heard before. His fists clenched on his knees. "I hate him."
"Me too," Daya said softly.
Silence fell, punctuated by the murmur of the gathering market crowds. Then Daya stood, and before Muriel could move, wrapped their arms around the young man's middle. He froze...then tentatively returned the embrace.
"Thank you for checking on me," they said. "I know you don't really like me that much."
"It's not that," Muriel mumbled, and he looked so wildly uncomfortable Daya didn't press him. They stepped back, squeezing his arm, and smiled up at him.
"It's not important if you don't," they said. "As long as you know I care about Asra as much as you do, that's all that matters."
Was that shame in his expression? Guilt? It was impossible to tell; Muriel was a man of inscrutable expressions even without the curtain of hair that covered his face.
"I need to go," Daya added, and pulled their hood over their head. "That invisibility spell will take at least an hour to wear off, so you should be able to make the journey home in peace."
They turned away, took a few steps back towards the mouth of the alley-
"Thanks."
Daya glanced over their shoulder, this time straight into Muriel's eyes as he perched on the barrel. His hands spread relaxed over his thighs, and he gave them a little nod.
"For the talk," he added gruffly. "And for…looking out for Asra."
Daya's expression softened, and a smile spread over their face.
"You're welcome," they said-and meant it.