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The Lazerat has always been a gloomy spot on the horizon, a distant part of Vesuvia that nobody thinks about if they don’t have to. After all, only those who have the plague ever make the trip across the waters to its barren shores. Among the ordinary, the lucky, it’s only mentioned in the city’s back alleys, in hushed whispers about the haunting cries that echo through the air, drifting with the fog in the dead of night.
But now, it too has an eerie visitor, barely visible as he makes his way down its vacant streets. For a moment, he pauses, tilting his head up so that the hood of his dark cloak falls back and pale moonlight filters through white curls, turns brown skin ashen. He glances about, taking in the quiet buildings, mostly devoid of any signs of life, before pulling the hood back up and moving back into the shadows.
Ignoring the few occupied houses, he moves towards the abandoned end, a specter drifting through the haze, before coming to a stop. Violet eyes take in the dilapidated structure, the rotting wooden beams and crumbling stone edifice, before he places a hand on the door. A nearly inaudible whisper, a faint flash of light, and the door creaks open.
Ducking under the mortuary’s splintered sign, he shoulders his way into the room, gaze darting from table to table. Searching, hoping. Whether he hopes he’s wrong, or that he’s not too late, not even he can tell.
Pain wars with relief on his face when he spots familiar dark curls and bronze skin, pallid and dull in death. Her clothes are tattered and stained, in the shades of grey that she would once have protested as too drab by far. Filthy and unkempt, just like all of the other victims in the room.
In the deathly stillness, his breathing, choked and labored, is all too loud as he passes a hand over her frame. Under his trembling fingers, the dirt and grime disappear, tears repair, and curls neaten, leaving her clean and whole, and it’s worse because with the telltale eyes closed, she could simply be sleeping.
She will have been only sleeping.
Asra leans down, presses his lips against her too cold forehead. “May you rest in a deep and peaceful slumber,” he whispers. “And you will awaken in a better time, my love. I promise you this.”
This isn’t the end. Not yet. And he’ll do whatever it takes to keep his promise.