Time: -4 years pre-canon

Age: 22 years old

He had never seen the streets so empty.

Asra moved down the street at a headlong pace, lungs burning. On a normal day the crowds would have been out in force, flowing between the south market and the docks. Now there were so little people...and so many red-painted doors.

His nerves felt raw here, fear keeping his chest tight. But still he kept an eye out, and when he saw the clinic - a wooden sign with a painted bottle of leeches - he veered towards it. And stopped, as he caught sight of the red paint smeared over the doorframe.

Of course it would be marked, he reminded himself, as his stomach clenched. This was the ultimate haven for plague sufferers.

Asra tried the door. Locked.

Confusion overtook him. He leaned against the building and pulled the stack of letters from his bag. They were dog eared and fraying, worn from being read many times - but never replied to. A reaction borne of pride, and one he now regretted. The last two were particularly creased and many lines were crossed out, as if they had run out of parchment.

D e ar As ra

Forgive the shortnes of the letter. I dont know how Ilya ran this clinic by himself. Exhaustin g. I dont know where you are and I dont know why you wont answer my letters. I dream of you every night. Please dont leave me to wonder so callously.

Day a

He closed his eyes, imagining the words as if they fell from their lips. When he could hold the paper without trembling, he read the last one.

Asra

You must hate me. Why else would you meet my le ters with cold sile nce

Please Im sory. If I could take it back I would

Asra clutched the last letter to his chest and knew a moment of bitter regret.

Two weeks it had been since the letter found him, inkstained and tremulous. Daya had always written in a beautiful cursive (maybe he was a lovesick fool, to think even their handwriting was lovely, but they did) - it had to be fatigue. It had to be. Anything else was unthinkable. Unacceptable.

Faust peeked out from under his scarf. Her tongue flicked the air, and she slithered across the paper, across his hand.

Daya?

"I don't know, Faust," Asra said heavily. "I think they must have gone to help the doctor." Knowing Daya, they would have worked themself to exhaustion, and then they would have pushed themself some more.

Even if they were better now. Even if they were angry at his stubbornness; even if they had finally given up on trying to contact him...it didn't matter. Together they could talk it out. They always did.

Faust slid over his shoulders, and Asra nuzzled her with his cheek.

Snooze?

"You snooze," Asra said, stroking her chin. "I need to find Daya."

Faust sent him a distinct sensation of disapproval, but Asra placed her in his bag and moved away from the door. He was exhausted, it was true, but he couldn't wait any longer. He had to find them-he had to know they were alright.

His legs were burning by the time he reached the palace.

It wasn't hard to bluff his way inside. The doors were open to any who offered help to cure the plague, and it had only been a matter of convincing the chamberlain he was there to consult with the doctors. From there it was only too easy to be pointed to the library.

The palace hadn't changed much in the year or so since Asra had attended the Masquerade-with Daya, he reminded himself sadly-but without the festivities it seemed oddly empty.

The library door was open, its heavy carved door braced against the wall. Asra walked in with purpose - and there was a desk shoved against the far wall, like the chamberlain said. A man sat in the spindly chair, poring over a large red tome.

Daya had never described the doctor's appearance in their letters, but the plague mask hanging off his chair gave him away immediately. He was thin, and tall enough that he needed to hunch over the desk. Red curls flopped over his face; over a long nose and sharp chin.

"Doctor Devorak?" Asra asked.

The man jumped, glanced around wildly and looked right at him. His grey eyes widened, and-strangely-a flash of recognition passed over his face.

"You're Asra, aren't you? Asra Alnazar?"

For a moment Asra paused, taken aback. "You know me?"

"No," Doctor Devorak replied. He rose slowly, closed the book with a thud and approached, adjusting his jacket. "My apprentice described you. Dayana Firestone-Daya. They, uh, made mention of you."

Asra's stomach clenched at the fondness in the man's expression. An idle thought crossed his mind, but he pushed it away-he had no business questioning either of them over what might have happened in his absence. He had no right.

"They did?" he said, tongue thick in his mouth.

"Ah, well, to say they only mentioned you once or twice is quite an understatement. Daya spoke of you fondly. A lot, actually." The man extended his hand. "Ilya Devorak. Or Julian, if you prefer. I know Nevivon names aren't easy on the tongue. Not if you're used to Vesuvian, as it were."

"You talk about them as if they're-" Asra's heart twisted painfully in his chest; he took a deep, shuddering breath and steeled himself. "Where is Daya?"

The doctor left his hand hanging awkwardly for a moment, then withdrew it, running his long fingers through his hair.

"Asra...why don't we go somewhere else to talk? I have an office down in the -"

"I'm not interested in talking," Asra replied coldly. "I want to know where they are."

Ilya sighed.

"They're gone," he said finally. His shoulders slumped. "One of the other doctors took them to the Lazaret two days ago."

"What do you mean, they're gone? What the hell is the Lazaret?"

His heart was thundering in his ears, panic building in his chest. Faust poked her head out of his bag; Ilya's eyes flicked to the snake questioningly, then back to him.

"It's where they take the sick who..who are almost..."

He trailed off. Guilt flashed across his face.

"No," Asra said. The sick dread caught in his chest, and he felt dizzy.

"Asra, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry you had to find out like this." The man looked wretched, Asra observed from some faraway place in his mind. Guilt and regret painted his sharp features, made his pale skin even paler. "I only just found out."

Asra looked at the remorse in the doctor's expression, and wondered how he could so hate a person he had only just met.

"I don't want your apology," he said, his voice low.

"I-I know. Sorry doesn't seem to be enough..."

"It's not. No-" Asra stepped back as Ilya reached for him, his expression empathetic. "Don't touch me. I'll find my own way out."

He turned on his heel without another word and left, before the tears could spill down his cheeks, and ignored Ilya's voice calling his name.

Gone. Gone, they were gone, and he was too late.

The pain in his chest intensified, and Asra forced the sobs down into his stomach. He would not be seen broken. Not by Ilya-especially not by him. The thought made him want to vomit.

Daya?

"Not here, Faust," Asra said breathlessly, as his pace quickened. "But we'll find them."