imagine an au where asra didn’t leave mc, but mc still ends up getting the plague. an au where asra swore to take care of mc, to prolong their life with magic as much as he needed to, to never leave them. an au where asra promises he will be with them, when the time comes. an au where asra goes to the market every week for herbs he needs for tinctures and salves and brews, herbs that slow the onset of plague symptoms but don’t cure them.
imagine asra and mc’s neighbor taking notice of how they never see mc anymore, only asra. imagine they notice how tired asra is getting, imagine how every time they ask about mc, asra laughs and waves off their concern, or deflects their question. imagine their suspicion growing, and soon their fear does too, because if there is plague in their neighborhood, they could get infected, too, or their loved ones.
imagine the neighbor tells the plague doctors that there is a plague victim inside the little magic shop. imagine the neighbor tells these doctors that the victim has a devoted caretaker, who though uninfected would never leave their side, would never let them be taken to the lazaret.
imagine asra is with mc when the plague doctors come. imagine asra opening the door, and the plague doctors pushing past him, going upstairs to where mc is; imagine the doctors telling asra that mc needs to go to the lazaret, for their own wellbeing and his. imagine asra refusing. he won’t leave mc. he promised. he promised he won’t leave them. if they’re taking mc to the lazaret, they’ll have to take him, too.
the lead doctor isn’t paid enough for this shit. “grab them,” she says to the others, gesturing to mc. “we have to take them to the lazaret.” asra starts screaming. mc is too weak to fight, so asra fights for them: he flings curses and spells, but the doctors were told to anticipate a fight, particularly a magical one. they swarm him, and he can’t fight against four doctors holding him back, so he lunges for mc, but the doctors haul him back.
asra reaches for mc from where he is held across the room, desperate, pleasepleaseplease, but they’re too far away for him to reach. asra screams and screams, but the doctors don’t let him go, and the others take mc away to a cart outside, full of other living victims. he hears the wheels, and he knows, he knows they’re going to the lazaret. he knows they’ll die alone, and he can’t let that happen. he promised he’d be with them.
imagine asra bursts free from the grip of the plague doctors. he sprints down the steps, out into the street, looks this way and that, and there, there’s the cart. neighbors are already gathering into the street, drawn by asra’s commotion, but he doesn’t care. imagine he chases after the cart, screaming mc’s name, uncaring of the shock and confusion and finally pity from his neighbors.
imagine the other doctors chase after asra, and tackle him to the ground, and all he can do is watch the cart roll away. all he can do is hold mc’s gaze and beg for forgiveness until the cart disappears from sight.
(imagine that’s mc’s last memory of asra: tackled to the ground, trying to be with them even at the very end. imagine that is why they whisper i’m sorry at the furnace, because they hadn’t been strong enough to fight, too.)
imagine asra rushing to the lazaret the moment he could. imagine he’s already too late. he consults the compass for guidance, to lead him to where mc is, but all it does is spin and spin and spin while ashes fall from the air like snow. the compass eventually leads him to the beach, but all he sees is black sand.
i dug until my fingers bled. all i could find were charred bones and ash.
he had broken his promise. he hadn’t been enough to save them.
