Chapter Text
For a short while, Qifrey manages to keep the water down by exhaling slowly through his nose. He sternly reminds himself he's in control of his own body. As waves of nauseating panic roll through him, he even attempts the useless breathing exercises Beldaruit made him practice. But eventually he's forced to crawl out from his pathetic hiding space to the waste pot in the far corner. Shuddering convulsively, he heaves into it, throat burning from the effort to empty a stomach that only contains a few sips of water.
When he's finished, gasping and ashamed, he sits back on his heels. The stone floor is cold against his bare feet. Some time before he regained consciousness, they dressed him in a loose, sleeveless sleep gown. Without the security of his form-fitting undershirt, he feels naked and sick. He longs for his own clothes almost as much as he longs to be free of this place. And when he thinks about them undressing and dressing him like a doll, he wants to rake his nails over his own flesh to scour away the residue of violation.
"Are you okay?" Olruggio asks softly from the bed. He peers from the edge of it, chin hanging off the quilt that looks too cozy and mundane for a prison. There's dark red blood on the collar of his shirt, but the cut has stopped bleeding.
"No, I'm not okay. I just threw up. It's disgusting."
"No kidding. You sounded like a bull myrphon doing a mating call."
For a moment, Qifrey feels suspended in air, made buoyant by the absurdity of the insult. And then he laughs, very briefly, the way only Olly can make him laugh. It makes his sore stomach hurt too much, and with a shaky breath, he composes himself. "Female myrphons do the ritual calls," he says, managing to sound dismissive. "Not the males."
Olruggio makes a disbelieving sound. "How do you know that?"
"Everyone knows that."
It's a lie. The truth is that Qifrey spends an uncommon amount of time reading, especially for a relatively inexperienced apprentice who ought to devote every spare moment to studying spellwork. He got into the habit when he discovered that Beldaruit would let him stay in his room as long as he remained quiet and read by a small light at the foot of the bed.
For the first year of his life in the Great Hall, he'd often wake in the morning with his body crumpled awkwardly over a small pile of leatherbound tomes and a knitted blanket draped tenderly over his shoulders. To this day, he reads in secret under his quilt most nights, shoving as many ideas into his head as it takes to crowd out the silhouettes of fears he still struggles to name.
As a result of his unusually broad education, Qifrey often shows off with random facts. He likes the way Olruggio gets flustered when Qifrey knows something he doesn't. Especially because Olruggio doesn't actually care about knowing things that won't help him with his spellcraft.
"You could be making it up," Olruggio grumbles.
Qifrey's lips twitch. "Would I lie to you?" he asks, mock-sweetly, bolstered by the warm familiarity of play-fighting with his best friend.
That fragile thread of normalcy frays and snaps at the sudden metallic rattle of a key in a lock. It's the ugly sound of vermin trying to scratch through wood. It's the last thing you hear when they close the lid and leave you in the dark.
Qifrey lunges for Olruggio, unable to discern between the instinct to hide him and the instinct to hide behind him. Olruggio is already flopping fishlike off the bed, and they connect in an awkward, grasping embrace on the floor like children caught trying to hide broken pottery.
When the door opens, the man in the beaded mask fills the frame. He is followed by a slender witch wearing a yellow brimmed cap and a stripe of gauze over her eyes. She doesn't appear to be much older than an apprentice, but her expression is hollow, like a statue brought only halfway to life.
The Brimhat leader surveys them for a moment before he says, "Get up, boy. It's time to harvest your woodcruor."
An icy wave of terror crashes through Qifrey, hollowing him out. His mind goes white-out blank. They can't hurt him if he doesn't exist. He's not here this isn't real it can't—
"Qifrey." Olruggio's voice hitches with confusion and fear, pulling Qifrey back into the moment. He clutches Qifrey's arm with both hands, and Qifrey tries to say I'm sorry, but when he opens his mouth to speak, the words catch in his throat.
His secret has never been spoken aloud; it's always been betrayed by the unruliness of his heart. To hear it so plainly voiced, that his blood is ink and ink his blood, exposes him far more than unfurling toward Olruggio like a tender blade of grass toward the sun.
"You both look surprised," the Brimhat leader says. "What a shame that the fools you associate with refuse to educate their young."
"Qifrey," Olruggio repeats softly, aching and worried.
Even Qifrey has limits when it comes to lying, so there's nothing he can say to comfort his friend. If the Brimhats want to distill Qifrey down to conjuring ink, they'll need to release the silverwood first. The way Qifrey sees it, there's only one way that can happen: They will free Olruggio, and Qifrey's consuming relief will make rich soil for the parasitic tree to thrive in.
Qifrey tried so hard to keep his promise. He blinks up at the earthen ceiling and feels like it's closing in on him. There's no room to spread out underground. There's no sunlight. "Not here," he croaks around the swell of a dry sob. Not in this grave of a place. Not forever. Not where the stars can't find him.
"Enough of that." The Brimhat makes a dismissive, impatient gesture. "It'll be over before you know it. You'll have no memory of this time once we release you back to your wretched kind."
Olruggio's voice is a broken whisper. "What is he talking about?"
"What are you talking about?" Qifrey echoes, staring up at the man. "You aren't going to turn me into a silverwood?"
"A what?" Olruggio claws at him. "Qifrey. What?"
The Brimhat crouches, nimble on the balls of his feet. His beaded mask sways, revealing an unkind, toothy smile. Qifrey wonders with a lurching sensation if he was mistaken and they won't actually let Olly go. It's the worst thing he can think of. He presses his head against Olruggio's and tries not to squeeze his eye shut like a child hiding from a bad dream.
"There's no need for all the fuss of cultivating a silverwood."
Qifrey takes a ragged breath and shakes his head tightly. "Please," he gasps, not sure what he's asking for. The word has the aftertaste of a memory. One he doesn't want returned to him.
"Your flesh is more tender than bark," the man says, snatching Qifrey's wrist with a movement as quick as a snakebite.
***
Olruggio hasn't seen Qifrey look so desperately frightened since they were much younger. Back then, Qifrey occasionally got startled by an unexpected touch or a splash of water and couldn't wrench himself back from the precipice of panic. Thrashing wildly in the Brimhat's relentless grip, he looks like that little kid again, all of his carefully-constructed self control shaken off like a scalewolf's armor.
"Qifrey!" Olruggio doesn't want to help them hurt Qifrey, but he doesn't want Qifrey to make whatever is going to happen worse by starting a fight he'll lose. Qifrey is tenacious, but he's built like a reed, and he's not as coordinated as he tries to appear. He doesn't stand a chance against a strong adult. "Qif—"
A vicious blow sends Olruggio sprawling onto his back. He struggles to comprehend the pain that follows like thunder after a lightning strike. His head throbs with every racing heartbeat, and it takes a while to recognize his own disoriented whimpers for what they are.
No one's ever hit him in the face before. It hurts so much.
There are no more sounds of a struggle. Only Qifrey breathing like a trapped animal, every shallow exhale forming the same word. Olly. Olly. Olruggio rolls onto his side and sweeps his fingers through the hot blood pouring from his nose. He swallows the metallic thickness of more blood and groans. His wavering vision slowly focuses on Qifrey panting and staring at him with guilt and disbelief and crystal-blue horror.
The Brimhat leader places his hand on Qifrey's shoulder and squeezes it the way a teacher might comfort a distressed student. "Are you going to behave now?"
Qifrey's nod is a dead leaf trembling in the wind. He doesn't look away from Olruggio. Not when the man lifts him effortlessly. Not when the man places him on the edge of one of the beds.
"I'm okay," Olruggio mouths silently, though he must appear gruesome. He knows how bad nosebleeds look. He accidentally gave Qifrey one when they were racing up a tree and he kicked Qifrey in the face when a branch snapped under his weight. It had taken them three clockmarks to figure out how to get the stains out of Qifrey's uniform. But Qifrey had never stopped smiling the way he only did when they were far from the Great Hall.
Now, Qifrey looks shattered, like he cannot comprehend that Olruggio is on the floor bleeding. Tears roll silently down his cheek, and his arms hang limp at his sides. It takes the other witch several tries to get his attention, and when she does, Qifrey looks up at her and seems to return to his own body — and shrink into himself. It's a sick parody of kindness when the Brimhat leader sits beside Qifrey and bolsters him with one arm. There's something terribly proprietary about the way the man absently touches Qifrey's hair as he speaks in low tones with the other witch, like Qifrey belongs to him, like he always has.
Olruggio quietly pushes himself up to sit with his back against the other bed. He knows better than to do anything but pinch his nose and clench his free hand into a fist. They're not going to bludgeon Qifrey with his pain again if he can help it. But that leaves him helpless to do anything but watch the other Brimhat produce a large glass vial and a sharp, thin tool from the bag at her hip.
A healer-witch, Olruggio realizes with a jolt. Forbidden. But unsurprising, considering what the Brimhats stand for.
"Straighten your arm," she says to Qifrey brusquely.
Qifrey does as he's told without protest. It's the worst thing Olruggio has ever seen. He swallows back a sob, hating himself for being the reason Qifrey obeys, even though he'd only moments ago willed him to stop fighting.
When the tool punctures the inside of Qifrey's elbow, Qifrey flinches but doesn't make a sound. Blocking most of Olruggio's view, the healer holds his arm just so, directing the blood to flow steadily into the vial. Qifrey's bone-white hand jerks with tremors that make Olruggio ache with the need to take his fingers and rub life back into him.
It's so much blood.
The vial fills steadily. It's bigger than a teapot.
With every passing moment, Olruggio feels more like a rope pulled too taut. He aches for his wand and ink. Dozens of spells cascade through his mind like the pages of a palm quire fanned out. A raw blast of fire. The stone at the young woman's feet turned to slippery ice. A tunnel carved into the ceiling and their bodies lifted in bubbles and carried away to freedom. Anything. Anything.
Before long, Qifrey's fingers stop moving.
"That's enough." Olruggio didn't mean to speak aloud. But once he does, he can't stop. "Please stop. Please." He doesn't care that he's crying. He doesn't think they care either. "Please stop hurting him."
Please don't take him.
The Brimhats ignore him, but when the vial is nearly full, the healer-witch lifts Qifrey's wrist high and gestures for the leader to help her. As he holds Qifrey's arm up, she wraps a bandage very tightly, in many layers, over the place where she cut him open. It's not something that a healer would do for a dead person, so Qifrey must be okay. He must be. He has to be.
Giving a terse nod, she seals the vial and bustles out of the room cradling it carefully. As she leaves, she gives Olruggio an impassive glance, her veiled gaze raking over him like he's nothing but a discarded pair of boots.
"Olly, is it?" the Brimhat leader asks, startling him.
No longer able to pretend he isn't terrified, Olruggio nods quickly. He feels so stupid and useless with his hands covered in blood and his sleeves stained with it and his face swelling.
Lifting Qifrey like he weighs nothing at all, the man pulls the quilt down on the bed, arranges Qifrey on the sheet, and tucks him in. With sharp relief and a sharper pang of concern, Olruggio sees that Qifrey's eye is half open and his mouth is soft and slack.
"If he bleeds through the bandage, apply firm pressure directly to the wound. If that doesn't stop it after a while, knock loudly on the door. Someone will come to rebandage him. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Olruggio whispers.
"Food and water will be delivered regularly. You will ensure that he replenishes his strength."
Olruggio feels his expression crumble with dismay. "You're going to do it again?"
The man bends to brush Qifrey's hair off his forehead. "I won't kill him." He looks directly at Olruggio, beads swaying with the movement of his head. "The silverwood will kill him. This is simply a detour."
"When?" It feels like falling and falling and falling. But Olruggio has to know. "When will it kill him?"
The man's shoulders shake once with silent laughter. "Who's to say, boy. I'm surprised it hasn't happened already. But when it does, I suspect you'll be the catalyst. Such is young love." He stands and rearranges his cap. "It is in my best interests to return him alive. I cannot say the same for you."
"I'll take care of him," Olruggio says hurriedly, not because he wants to save himself, but because he cannot bear the thought of leaving Qifrey alone in this nightmare. "He'll listen to me. I'll make him eat. I'll keep him alive. I've done it before."
The man huffs. "See that you do, young witch."
When the door closes and they're alone, Olruggio climbs onto the bed with Qifrey and jams himself under the quilt beside him, heedless of the mess his sluggishly bleeding nose continues to make.
"Qifrey." A careful shake. A gentle pat to his cheek. "Qifrey. Can you hear me?"
"Yes." It's a hazy sigh of a sound. His skin is so cold it feels like stone to the touch. "Sleepy."
"Okay." Olruggio hiccups. "Okay. Sure. I'll stay up. You sleep."
Qifrey's eye flutters closed. His lashes glimmer with tears. "M'sorry Olly."
"Shut up." Olruggio takes his hand very carefully, like he's picking up a baby bird that's fallen from its nest. "Stop talking. Go to sleep." He leaves dark streaks of drying blood in Qifrey's hair as he tucks as close to him as he can, willing every bit of warmth in his body into his friend's.
And then he cries, and cries, and cries.