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Murray's familiar voice reached his mind at the crack of dawn, the signature of her magic flooding his thoughts and waking him up in a rush.
They are here.
Three words struck the centre of his mind with raw force, the spell vibrating along the bond.
Azune stood before even answering, he could feel the hammering of his heart as he pulled his pants over his briefs. While he knew well that Sending was a spell that only carried words and not sentiments, he was sure that he could feel her fear as clearly as if it was his own.
He was worried, for one because Murray never asked for anything for herself, especially not help, but also because she would rather set herself on fire than let anyone see her scared. She'd told him that.
"I am coming," he answered quickly when he was done dressing.
He reached for his short-sword, always settled underneath his pillow and his great hammer, always within reach from his bed and crossed the corridors of the Brethren Hall with a walking speed that bordered on a run.
A few weeks prior, Azune had warned Murray that her name and home address had been listed in a document about potential searches. He had told her then to hide anything that could incriminate her, anything that bordered on dissent, which for someone like Murray could be anything and everything in her life.
There was no doubt in his mind as he reached her house that this was exactly what was happening. He arrived to see several Arcane Marshals leaving and from this distance he couldn't tell who it had been. Perhaps Crowaxe or Faburel, they had been eager lately, willing to do just about anything to climb up the ladder and be rewarded by Fazir these days.
Azune waited around corner until they cleared well away before knocking on her door.
She opened the door almost immediately. Murray stood there in a thin robe, her hair loose and wild around her shoulders. She stepped back to let him in, then turned on him before he could greet her.
"How did you know it was me?" He asked as he stepped into the apartment, closing the door behind him.
"Well, it's not like your buddies bothered with knocking," she answered. His brows furrowed at the term buddies, the term creating a pea-sized hole in his stomach. She sounded so tired.
He looked at the splintered hatch of her door, the wood had cracked and the lock now hanged crooked outside of the frame, it would not hold if someone decided to come back. He made a mental note to either fix it himself before nightfall or convince her to stay at Hal's for a few days while he does.
Or when she'd ultimately refuse, he could stand watch.
Murray shoved aside the overturned chair in the middle of the room. His gaze took in the wreckage: the overturned furniture, the papers all over the floors, the books she's read and textbooks she's used, all torn apart in the aftermath of the marshals search.
He walked further in her home, and found her standing in the middle of the kitchen, shattered glass at her feet. Murray's hands hovered uselessly at her sides, as if trying to decide what to pick up first. He noticed black ink staining her hands, probably from picking up an ink pot before he arrived.
"At least I warned you," he said innocently. She sighed heavily, her breathing coming out faster than it should. "At least they didn't find anything."
"Right," she snorted, throwing her hands up. "At least."
Murray moved to one of her cabinet, getting one of the only remaining glass of her cupboard and a bottle of liquor, serving herself a generous amount.
She drank it in one go.
He noticed the tremor in her fingers as she poured a second glass.
"Yeah," he shrugged, "The warning gave you enough time to secure all the materials that could've put you in danger."
"You think all this is about the materials, Azune?" she asked, pointing to the wreckage of her house. "This is about fear and control. They never meant to find anything, only scared the shit out of me."
Her voice rose with each sentence, Azune watched her, rattled and powerless.
"And you know what?" she cried angrily. "I'm so mad that they succeeded."
"I should've prepared you better," he said apologetically.
She laughed again, bitter and dark. She laughed at him. He hated it.
"You always think preparation fixes the aftermath," she accused, pointing at him with her empty glass. She set it on the counter with force, anything more and it could have been added to the pile of broken glass on the floor.
He stepped toward her because, despite her anger, distance felt intolerable after feeling her fear inside his own head. Azune approached and then, for a second, couldn't do anything but look at her. He was a man of action and right now, it seemed like everything he could say or do, would make her predicament worse.
“I am trying to help you,” he tried.
“I know you are,” she shot back, and he released a breath, watching her as she started pacing away from him and back again. “You are always trying to help me. That is the problem."
"You called for me," he argued.
"I know I did, I was scared okay?" She pressed her palms against her eyes. "Don't make me regret it by supervising my breakdown."
Azune found himself at a loss.
He was a master at containment, he didn't understand what it meant to let yourself fall apart in the aftermath of loss. He lost his home once, his family, and never had anything resembling that ever since. He's had to build himself into something that did not crack publicly.
He didn't have a metric for what Murray was experiencing.
He didn't even have personal belongings beyond his clothes and weapons. All he carried was a need for his people to be okay. And right now, he was failing miserably at it.
Murray called for him and now he was being treated like shit for showing up, perhaps it was the crest on his belt, the same the marshals who wrecked her home wore. Guilt stirred in his stomach once more.
But he knew one thing, Murray never asked for help, and yet she called for him. That had to count for something, right?
It must mean he was doing something right.
He crouched to the floor and began gathering shards of glass from the floor. He needed purpose, because if he wasn't here to comfort her, he needed something else.
The first shard sliced into his skin before he registered the pressure and a thin, red line slides down his fingers.
"Azune, stop." Murray said, moving closer. He continued collecting pieces. "Can't you pick up a broom like a normal person?"
"The glass will cut you," he said by way of explanation.
"The glass is not the issue," she snapped. She grabbed his wrist before he could reach another shard. Her fingers wrapped around him in a firm grip.
He looked down, her ink-stained hand from the collapsed pot on her desk wrapping around his bloodied hand. The sight altered his breathing. He suddenly became still.
Will he ever stop hurting himself to feel useful?
He shook his head, getting the thought away because it was not the time for introspection. He looked up from their hands into her eyes.
"I just want to help you," he said quietly.
He stood up slowly, Murray following with their hands still joined.
"I don't need help," she said, softening. "I need you."
"I am here," he whispered.
"Are you?" She asked. "Or are you half here? The other half of you living and breathing for the Brethren Hall."
Azune felt that accusation settle into his bones because he feared it was true. He let go of her hand and blood slid down his palm and dripped onto the tile between them.
He had a duty of care.
And yet his heart called to wrap Murray in his arms and forget all of Dol-Makjar to focus solely on her well-being. Even if it meant that she was mad at him for showing up when she called.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"No, no," she exhaled. "I'm sorry. I can't keep cutting into you every time I spiral."
"It's okay, you were scared."
"It's not, Azune," she cut him. “I should not.”
“You can,” he repeated. “You called because you needed me. You were overwhelmed and angry. Both things can exist.”
She searched his face as if she expected resentment. Azune conveyed none. He would never change her. He would never blunt her independence. He could only stand beside it.
“I came because you called,” he continued. “You do not owe me composure.”
"Fuck, Azune." Murray cursed, "How the fuck is that fair?"
"Fairness is not on the picture, your safety is."
"See what I mean?" she said more softly. "How did I deserve you?"
Anyone was deserving of his care.
Duty did not discriminate. His affection, or fully acknowledged love however unrequited it might be, for her arbitrary in the face of his oath.
In the face of the harsh truth that if standing besides her ever put her in more danger than she already was he would walk away and let her hate him for it, as long as it meant she was alive to feel it.
He lifted his uninjured hand and placed it gently against her back. He kept his touch steady and slow, the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her night robe. He felt the subtle rise and fall of her breathing, slowing down with every passing seconds.
She never pulled away. Azune drew her closer, wrapping his arms around her in a tight embrace.
The room remained in disarray around them, with broken glass still glittered across the floor. None of it felt as urgent as the person in his arms.
"I protect what I value," he explained, "and you, Murray Mag'Nesson, are incredibly valuable to me."
She tensed slightly in his arms, one of her hands grabbing tightly his shirt around his back as if to keep herself from running away.
"Then stay with me tonight?" she asked. "No fixing anything, alright? Just you."
"Anything you want," he answered without hesitation.