Time: -5 years pre-canon
Age: 21 years old
"I don't want to go, Asra," Daya said, and stood up. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you."
She grabbed the mug out of his hands.
"Ah-I'm not finished."
Daya set the mug back down with a sigh and went into the kitchen. She didn't have to look at Asra to know how he felt: fear, frustration, confusion, hurt. Always that undercurrent of fear.
She understood. She sympathized. And yet...yet they'd been having the same argument for weeks. Nothing had come of it besides hurt feelings.
"It would only be for a few months," Asra said. "The plague is getting worse. I spoke to Selasi in the market yesterday. His father just came down with it."
Daya sighed. She'd known that already when she passed by the baker's house-the streak of red paint on the door signaled the presence of a plague victim, dead or dying. Guards had painted the same thing on her childhood house, before they'd burned it-and everything in it.
"I've heard about a clinic in the South End," she began, "one that's treating plague sufferers. The doctor who runs it is looking for an apprentice-"
"Daya, no."
She ignored him. "I'm going to close the shop for a while, offer my help. I've already written to him, and he wants to meet me tomorrow."
"No!"
Asra was on his feet in a flash, hurrying around the table to grasp her shoulders.
"Daya, please." He touched her cheeks, her hair, her shoulders before bringing her hands to his lips. "Please, Daya, please. Let's leave. Please-I'm begging you."
"I can't!" she said angrily, tearing herself away from his embrace. "Did you forget my parents died of this disease too? I told you that years ago! If I could have helped them - if anyone had helped them instead of letting them just waste away -"
Asra followed her back around the table, hands thrown up. "You think your parents would have wanted you to get sick looking after them? Don't be ridiculous."
"Don't fucking tell me what they would or wouldn't have done. You don't even have parents."
She regretted the words the instant they left her mouth.
Asra drew back like he'd been slapped. His eyes narrowed; he leveled her with a hard stare.
"Fine," he said, and his voice was like ice.
He brushed past her and retrieved his bag where it had sprawled earlier, tossed over the old armchair. As Daya watched he began to rummage in the closet, separating clothes and shoving them into his bag.
A lump rose in her throat.
"You're..leaving?" she said, and her voice had never sounded so small and tremulous as it did then.
"We've had our share of disagreements, but I've never known you to be cruel to me, Daya," Asra said. He didn't look at her as he lifted Faust from the windowsill and shrugged on his jacket. "I'm not going to stay here and wait to die on top of that. Vesuvia is done."
"Vesuvia is our home," Daya said insistently. She moved in front of him as he turned to leave. "Asra, please. I'm sorry for what I said. I understand you're angry."
"I'm not angry," Asra said coldly. "I'm disappointed."
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I thought you were smarter than this. The Red Death, it's...it's bigger than Vesuvia can deal with. You know what the Count is like." He brushed past her and grabbed his hat from the hook above the stairwell. "If you think anything you do will make a difference-"
"That doesn't mean we shouldn't try!"
"Well, good luck to you. If you catch the plague, don't expect me to return for you."
Daya knew the words were meant to reflect his hurt back onto her; that they lacked real venom, but they stung regardless.
"Asra-" she caught his wrist as he began to descend the stairs. He turned to look back at her, eyes glittering with unshed tears.
"You're a fool, Daya," he said coldly, and shrugged off her grip. "And you'll die like one."
Numbly she let her hands drop to her sides, and watched him descend out of sight. The sound of boots thudding on the stairs, a slamming door-then silence fell. Daya sat down on the top stair, hands trembling, and let her head hang between her knees.
Only then did she let herself cry.