Chapter Text
“So, ‘proud,’ huh?”
Any intention of using that dangerous magic vanishes the moment Olruggio repeats her words. A wave of relief washes over him instantly, nearly causing him to collapse. The witch, serious and stiff, can’t help but hide his face in his clasped hands, which in turn rest on his knees. A lump forms in his throat, his eyes burn, and his breathing becomes labored at times.
Proud. He repeated in his head. She said you should be proud, Qifrey. Were it not for his refusal to give in to his emotions in situations like this—where maintaining his composure is essential—Olruggio would likely have found it amusing. Sinocia’s words are not directed at him, but at his tormented best friend. Olruggio isn’t the person who should have heard her speech, but it would be ridiculous to say he didn’t need it. After all, if Qifrey turned to magic before medical treatment, it was because he had set a precedent. There’s no way to blame him; witches are supposed to have nothing else to fall back on but their magic, and there was a belief that it would work because it had already worked once before.
Qifrey hadn’t been wrong. On the contrary, he had done everything right.
You didn’t hurt her.
The actions he took for Coco’s sake didn’t contradict his mission as a witch, and Sinocia was providing irrefutable proof of that.
You saved her.
“Thank you,” he whispered in a trembling voice.
Olruggio hadn’t managed to quell the rage, terror, and guilt in Qifrey’s heart, and it was Sinocia who had just opened the door to the path toward forgiveness. Forgiveness from whom? From Coco? Not at all. That girl, that sweet little girl, was far too kind and intelligent to even consider that her master bore any responsibility. No, the forgiveness did not come from Coco or the other girls, nor even from Olruggio—who had never once blamed him from the very beginning.
If Olruggio was so deeply relieved for Qifrey, it was because he had finally found a way to allow him to forgive himself.
His best friend had already suffered too much from the lack of a past, while his future was consumed by the search for the thieves of his history. That his present, the here and now, was also steeped in pain was too cruel for a soul born to love like Qifrey. If the witch had reacted so catastrophically to the event, it was not for lack of love on his part, but because of an excess of it. So abundant that it could suffocate him to death.
And now, Sinocia had given Olruggio the tools necessary to pull Qifrey from the depths of his caged and condemned mind.
Olruggio tries to hold back, but fails.
His eyes, hot. His voice, broken.
“Thank you, Sinocia.” He sobbed. “Thank you.”
If the witch feels a slow swaying against his back, neither of them says a word.
When Olruggio finds enough courage to face Qifrey again after his anticlimactic retreat, he decides to return to Coco’s room. What his eyes encountered as he stepped through the doorway caused a slight twisting in his chest. Holding back the bitterness on his tongue, the black-haired witch slipped silently through the small room, passing the space where Coco lay on the stretcher until he reached Qifrey, who was lying unconscious against the windowsill. Despite the unusual sight, Olruggio was not alarmed. The man hadn’t slept or eaten in days, not to mention that he had remained in a state of constant alertness and stress since they arrived at the Great Hall. That his body had finally collapsed was a sign of extreme exhaustion, and though difficult to accept, Olruggio had already come to terms with the fact that this was the only way the man would allow himself to close his eyes for more than a blink.
The witch cast a brief glance at Coco, who was resting peacefully, before turning back to Qifrey, whose dark circles stretched beneath the frames of his glasses. Very carefully, Olruggio removed the glasses from his face, noting that the other’s only reaction was to frown a little more before returning to his uncomfortable expression.
At this, Olruggio sighed. And so, under these conditions, it’s me you’re scolding. He mocked in his mind. There wasn’t a shred of humor in his thoughts. You’re an idiot.
His hand slides through his bangs, gently brushing them aside to reveal a disfigured scar. Upon seeing it, Olruggio’s heart shrinks, but his hand does not pull back. On the contrary, it remains there, hovering for a moment before his thumb begins to brush—and, frankly, caress—the deformed skin. It feels rough, the result of a violent and unjustifiable act. An act so abhorrent that Olruggio’s warmth quickly turns into a scorching fire, such revulsion and hatred toward the people who have caused so much harm to the one he might call his soulmate.
Olruggio closes his eyes for a moment. He takes one, two breaths to calm himself. This isn’t the place, he tells himself, nor the time.
Someday. Someday, Olruggio will catch this man and force him to talk, he’ll shout that he’s there and that he’s not going away. I’m your best friend, he’ll say, and your burdens are mine too.
But that won’t be here or today.
What needs to be done now, what Olruggio can do to help ease whatever burden Qifrey carries on his shoulders, is to take him to a place where his body can at least recover physically.
So, very carefully and without any haste, he crouched down right in front of Qifrey, pulling his arms until they were wrapped around his neck. Then, he focused on his legs, wrapping his arms around them until he achieved a firm grip. By the sheer force of gravity, the albino witch’s torso slumped against his back. At all times, Olruggio stayed as close as possible to avoid any sudden movements that might wake Qifrey. Above all else, the last thing he wants is to interrupt the poor man’s much-needed rest.
With his friend now in tow, Olruggio leaves the room at a slow pace. He won’t deny that it’s somewhat difficult, but he certainly expected it to be harder. Being aware of this detail makes him uneasy, wondering when Qifrey became so light. Even if it had only been a couple of days, it shouldn’t have been enough. He thought. And usually, you’re the one who cooks in the atelier… What have you been doing, Qifrey?
Cursed be the heavens and the earth on the day they brought this man into his life. His mere existence implied a deep and ever-present concern—and devotion, if he’s to be honest—in his heart, and what matters to him matters to Qifrey as well. His promises and values are intrinsically linked to his, and any distress in Qifrey will inevitably be reflected in Olruggio. It’s not that it’s a one-sided relationship; on the contrary, Olruggio of the Torch could state with total and absolute certainty that this man would rather drown than cause him harm. The difference, however, lies in the fact that while Olruggio values the life of every living being, Qifrey reduces the value of his own to nothing the moment he—and as has become clear, his girls—are exposed to imminent danger. Qifrey is a stubborn and overly emotional witch in his quest for the Brimmed Caps, and he is even more so when his family is involved.
This time, however, it was different. No Brimmed Caps were involved, and it wasn’t even a field trip gone wrong. It was an accident—just an accident. Knowing that Qifrey had sunk so low over a relatively simple situation, what could Olruggio expect when the real conflict reached them?
The witch shook his head. Focusing on events that haven’t happened yet won’t get him anywhere, and thinking about them will inevitably distract him from the present. His duty is to take care of the now; then he can focus on what comes next.
With greater clarity in mind, Olruggio gently laid Qifrey down on one of the beds in the girls’ room. Luckily for him, the place was empty. Olruggio gave a silent thank you; perhaps Sinocia had interfered more than he’d thought. With the students out of the picture, the jet-haired witch allowed himself a moment’s respite. Qifrey was finally getting some rest, the girls had left the oppressive atmosphere of the medical wing for once, and Sinocia had assured him that Coco, though it would take a while, would be fine. Olruggio sat down on the edge of the bed. Before he realized it, his hand had already reached the albino’s hair. His work-calloused fingers slid with little difficulty through the fluffy mane—a bit greasy from days without washing, mind you. There’s no real benefit to performing such a trivial action, but Olruggio’s chest feels a little lighter as he does it.
“You’re an idiot.”
There is no anger or reproach, only exhaustion and melancholy.
He has spent decades with this man. He doesn’t remember when their fates became so intertwined, sharing everything from the most insignificant meal to the most crucial decision. Olruggio has no certainty about his future or what he will be doing ten, twenty, or fifty years from now. Despite this lack of certainty, the witch has a couple of expectations: that Qifrey will be there, and that Olruggio can be a part of it. Qifrey’s dreams became his own; his life has been shaped by plans whose purpose he feels hasn’t been fully shared with him, but Olruggio has grown so accustomed to Qifrey and the baggage he carries that he can’t think of a single reason why things wouldn’t continue this way in the future.
His future lies with Qifrey and the stars under which he wishes to rest.
Who would have thought those stars would take the form of four wonderful apprentices.
Olruggio smiles as he ignores the tightness in his throat the moment he breaks contact with Qifrey. A second later, he spreads a thin sheet over his body. He doesn’t think it’s enough for someone as cold-natured as he is, but he’s content just to see him lying there.
“Take your time.”
The witch walks away, his body halfway through the doorway. There he pauses for a moment, but doesn’t turn around. He thinks for a second or two before resuming his walk. The words aren’t spoken, but the thought is more than enough.
We’ll be waiting for you.
Upon returning to Coco’s room, Olruggio sees Sinocia. A mixture of nervousness and worry assails his exhausted mind, and almost by pure reflex, his body compels him to retreat. The conclusion, though hasty, seems logical: if the doctor is there, then she is performing some procedure. Procedures that he, a witch, is strictly forbidden to observe. However, before he even sets foot back in the common hallway, the green-eyed woman’s voice hums softly.
“Look, sweetie! Someone’s come to visit.”
It’s inevitable. Sinocia’s tone sounds so cheerful and ordinary that the whole picture of the situation changes in that instant. Her voice, so natural yet careful, draws Olruggio’s attention in an almost hypnotic way. So the witch turns around, takes in the rest of the room more clearly, and—
“Master Olly…?”
His heart stops.
Two greenish-gold gems search for him through the haze clouding her gaze. Dazed, somewhat weakened, and weary, yet with the childlike spark he has always found in each of his apprentices.
Olruggio of the Torch, the flame prodigy adored by witches and strangers alike, is reduced to a man with trembling legs who stumbles in uneven strides toward the stretcher. There is no sign of the magical artifact—whether it was dismantled or simply vanished along with the spell, he doesn’t care in the least—and the little witch’s body is slightly bent forward, which explains how she recognized him without saying a single word. In an instant, the raven-haired, blue-eyed witch kneels beside the youngest, stunned.
Then, a lump in his throat. Small, burning, stinging his throat, but he won’t let it ruin this moment because he is the adult and he has to put on a brave face for this girl after such a traumatic event. He has to be, it’s his duty—
Coco let out a gasp.
Suppressed, stifled, all too similar to a certain other witch he knows very well.
Olruggio isn’t mistaken; he’s spent so much time with him that his image and absolutely every one of his microexpressions are etched into his mind. He already knew that each of those girls shared something with him, but it borders on the ridiculous just how much she resembles Qifrey.
It’s like seeing that frightened child after fleeing the Great Hall, only with a different color palette.
Too pale and cold, like a tree whose branches are about to snap.
Coco sobbed.
“I’m sorry….”
Olruggio isn’t, officially, this girl’s master. In fact, he isn’t the master of any of the girls in the atelier. The magical world knows him as an inventor and genius, but not as a master. Despite this, he has constantly crossed the line; the little witches call him by a title that doesn’t belong to him, and they’ve already grown accustomed to the normality of having two masters—even though the records show only one. Guiding them through their mistakes, protecting them when danger lurks, scolding them when the situation calls for it. In every way except the official one, Olruggio of the Torch has become a mentor to the girls.
And yet—
It is impossible for him to stay behind the line. He cannot, under any circumstances, ignore the small, fragile creature before his eyes who has just emerged from a life-or-death situation while she apologizes to him.
Qifrey was already in utter despair from the very first moment.
Olruggio followed the same path as soon as he understood the implications of the event for him.
But they are the adults of the atelier, the ones who should be concerned with and handle any distress afflicting those little seeds destined to become brilliant witches.
Why, Coco—? Why did this child feel the need to apologize?
It made no sense; nothing in those days did.
And even though his next actions don't make sense either, Olruggio couldn't care less.
Olruggio embraces her. He wraps his arms around her with the care and gentleness of a man who has learned to value every life, from the smallest and most insignificant to the most imposing colossus. He doesn’t lift her—he’s terrified of causing even the slightest discomfort to her bruised body—but he holds her close enough to convey his intentions to her.
You’re okay now.
It wasn’t your fault.
It was never your fault.
Coco barely has any strength left; Olruggio can sense it through the tiny movements of her hands against his clothes, but she’s stubborn enough to cling to his sleeves, refusing to let him go. The witch doesn’t push her away. On the contrary, he pulls her closer as he begins to untangle the knots in her short hair, offering a relief to both of them that neither would dare admit.
“Easy,” he whispered as his other hand moved gently up and down her back. A soft touch, barely perceptible, but still there. “I’m here.”
That seems to break Coco even further. Her crying is brittle, large, burning tears that reflect the agonizing contradiction within her: terror at what has happened, comfort in the present. The distress is such that she doesn’t even attempt to hide what she’s feeling. In theory, that’s perfect. It’s essential that the young learn to let it all out before they break down, but that doesn’t stop the more experienced witch from feeling a pang of bitterness and helplessness at being unable to do anything more than hold her close to his chest.
However, Coco comes first. His role, right here and now, is to provide her with the security he failed to give her before.
So he cradles her, lets her soak his clothes with tears and snot, combs her hair while the young witch lets it all out.
Then, a fleeting thought. His actions, plus the reactions of the atelier, of Qifrey, and undeniably of himself, have revealed something deeper, something too deeply rooted within him, but which he vehemently ignored until it was too late: Olruggio loves this girl; he loves all the girls in the atelier. No, Olruggio of the Torch isn’t so naive as to not have recognized these feelings before, but until then his conclusion remained intact: Olruggio loves them because Qifrey loves them. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that he’s a cold man incapable of seeing beyond his best friend’s stance on the matter, but the idea of being a master and having young apprentices running around the atelier, interrupting his work, and causing stress for both him and Qifrey wasn’t exactly appealing.
Everything changed the moment Qifrey took in that girl expelled from the Arklaum, and that’s when the Watchful Eye’s duty was put to the test, along with his heart’s ability to keep any affection he might feel for them in check.
Olruggio of the Torch had only one job: to watch over. To ensure compliance with the rules and to safeguard the well-being of the studio’s inhabitants. But at some point, that changed. He was captivated by the evolution of the girls’ magic, worried by every practice of new spells, and angered by every occasion when the girls took perfectly avoidable risks.
Olruggio justified each of those feelings as necessary for human coexistence. If he had to be the Watchful Eye, then every emotion his heart reflected was a demonstration of boundaries—of what he could and could not allow.
Then a second, a third, and finally a fourth apprentice arrived.
Of course he got angry when he found out—how could he not? Qifrey was a man of secrets to begin with, but involving an outsider with a history of using forbidden magic already seemed absurd to him.
Then, Qifrey threatened that they would have to erase his memory before laying a single finger on Coco.
Olruggio gave in. And yes, it was because of Qifrey.
That’s why he’d been convinced that every piece of advice, every smile, every joy he’d experienced alongside the four apprentices existed solely because they were his four apprentices. Little witches whom Qifrey valued.
And then, there he is. Olruggio of the Torch, the fire prodigy terrified of burning and always ready to be the one who lights the way, comforting a little girl as if his life depended on it.
Olruggio’s heart is in his throat, but that doesn’t stop him from stroking her hair, from resting his chin on the top of her head, from whispering words he begs will reach her. Those are not the actions of a witch who has convinced himself that any connection with those girls depends on a third party; nor are they those of a mentor who prefers to stay within the boundaries and regulations.
But to put a name to that would be presumptuous of him. No. Olruggio, above all else, is nothing more than a third wheel in the atelier, the embodiment of the rules, part of the family—but only because there is someone who holds it all together.
To think of anything else would be—
“M…”
The child’s voice broke.
“Mom…”
Olruggio could have frozen, could have stepped back and asked Coco if what he’d just heard was correct. He doesn’t do that, of course not. Because Olruggio of the Torch is used to putting his inner conflicts on the back burner, because his heart, mind, and soul have become so mechanized that his first instinct isn’t to question the why, but to provide the relief that others need.
Olruggio suppresses every doubt, fear, and uncertainty; he does all that and more for this girl. For Qifrey’s apprentice, for the fourth little witch of the atelier, for their—
“Don’t hold back, pet. Just have a reight good cry."
Olruggio won’t name it, not now.
But the cruelty of being a prodigy is that even when the mind is in total denial, it is enough for the heart to believe to make it a reality.