Chapter Text
Qifrey strode over cobblestone, watching his feet, still a little dizzy from all the detail. Silly him, imagining his last day in the Great Hall would be sunny and brilliant, with trilling birds and trouncing fauna skirting his ankles—not the same old, cold, dreary, eerie blue, distorting bodies and thoughts alike, guileful in its womb-like seduction, jealous and enclosed. I am all there is and all there ever will be.
Well. Not for long. Today was a new beginning, a second (or third?) birth. Today, he could hear the clarion call of the open air—could see by faith the sun that shone for him, warm and honest, golden and true.
Qifrey leapt over the stone wall and fell right into Olruggio’s back garden—and right, as it were, into Olruggio himself.
“Watch it!”
“Sorry, Olly!”
Qifrey disentangled himself from Olruggio’s scrolls and lengths of fabric, grateful he hadn’t spilt any ink, though he’d come within a hair’s breadth. Olruggio coughed, for he’d choked on his tea, but he soon recovered. He looked Qifrey up and down, smitten with his usual begrudging fondness.
“Who’s this scholar, all of a sudden?” he asked, crossing his arms. Qifrey beamed, pinching the frame of his brand-new spectacles and tipping them off his nose.
“Why, Olly,” said Qifrey, squinting for effect, “the bags under your eyes were heavy enough to begin with, but now that I see them plainly—they’re downright cargo!”
“Sheesh,” groaned Olruggio, massaging his stiff neck. “Leave me alone, would ya?”
“I’m afraid that’s why I’m here.”
Olruggio sobered a little at that. He’d known, of course; he’d had a special box of provisions delivered to Qifrey’s room that morning, and Qifrey, brimming with gratitude, had already rolled it into his pack.
“You don’t have to leave right this minute, do you?” Olruggio said, wagging a hand at Qifrey and pouring a second cup of tea. Qifrey obliged him, plopping down onto the witch-made grass. He was glad to hide a little from the milling crowds along Olruggio’s street. Right smack in the middle of town...he couldn’t fathom how Olly lived like this. He accepted the tea with a quiet smile.
“Thank you, friend.”
“You’re a sap,” Olruggio said. He gathered a scroll onto his knee and smoothed it with the side of his hand. “Since when are you a sap? That a teacher thing?”
Qifrey sipped his tea. “What are you working on?”
Olruggio shrugged. He chuffed a second scroll toward Qifrey. “New contraption. For Lady Suma. Rules a little township near Ghodrey.”
Qifrey studied Olruggio’s sigils and signs, ever and always so clever and deft. His admiration for Olruggio’s handiwork would never wane. “Something to do with manipulating snow?” he asked.
“Melting it into clean water,” said Olruggio. He sighed, slipping a particular little bottle from his sleeve and tipping it into his cup. “Emphasis on ‘clean.’ I’ve been fighting the design for a week...if I can get this right, though, I might score a long-term contract.” He took a long swig and set down his cup with a sigh. “Any pointers?”
“Nothing you haven’t already thought of,” Qifrey admitted. “I’m never sure why you ask me. All I know I’ve learned from you.”
Olruggio shot a look at Qifrey through his curtain-like bangs. Sure. He frowned over his impromptu workstation, scratching the wispy goatee he’d only recently managed to grow.
He said, “...Y’know, I don’t wanna think about this right now. Wanna grab a drink?”
Qifrey hesitated. “I ought to be setting out. I shouldn’t—”
“No, no. Let’s go! I can work on this later. And today’s a special occasion,” said Olruggio, stuffing his supplies into a woven bag, avoiding eye contact. “Who all have you said goodbye to?”
“Only you,” muttered Qifrey, a little resentful. “Who else?”
“Who else??” cried Olruggio. “Not Alaira? Lord Beldaruit?”
Qifrey made a face. “I left a gift for Beldaruit. And I saw Alaira when I traded my hat—”
“—which suits you, by the way,” said Olruggio. “You kept the ribbon.”
Qifrey blushed. “Of course I did,” he said, tugging the ribbon reflexively. He hurried on, “And I saw Sinocia, only yesterday. She helped me with these.” He tapped his glasses.
Olruggio gave a thumbs-up. “Also suit you. Very professor-y. Suddenly I’m worried about my grades, an’ I haven’t taken a test in years.” He leaned in. “The right lens...is that an opacating spell?”
Qifrey slid his glasses off and passed them to Olruggio, who scrutinized the ink-black lens in the dim, undulating blue light.
“Yes,” Qifrey said. “My addition.”
Olruggio examined them for what felt like ages. Qifrey massaged his cheek with the heel of his palm, cupping his fingers over the right half of his face. His headaches were a permanent fixture down here. But his visions of the surface—close enough to taste now—buoyed him.
“Your hair hides the scar well enough,” said Olruggio, passing the glasses back at last.
“What if there’s a gust of wind?” said Qifrey as he put them on, adjusting them until Olruggio’s tired eyes blossomed back into focus. “It’s a reliable failsafe. Besides, I need students. I don’t want to risk frightening people in a new place.”
“But stuff like that’ll rarely happen. If somebody sees the scar every once in a blue moon, surely it doesn’t…”
Olruggio trailed off, his brow furrowing, and Qifrey realized his bitterness must be apparent. He fought to repress it, forcing a small smile.
“It matters to me,” he said quietly. “I need to try, don’t I? At least a little?”
Olruggio studied his tea, head bowed. He always understood, and if he did not, he would try until he did. This occasion was a trying one.
Finally, Olruggio raised his head. “That’s all any of us can do,” he said. He orphaned his cup and saucer with a clatter and rose to his feet, his house robe billowing at his ankles, and extended his left arm.
“I know you won’t miss the Hall,” he said. “But I’ll miss you, y’know.”
“Oh, Olly,” murmured Qifrey, drawing himself up. He grasped Olruggio’s hand in his own, drawing them together, and lay his forehead against their joined hands.
Olruggio squeezed his hand. “Good luck, Professor Qifrey.”
Qifrey’s heart swelled, filling his throat, thwarting his reply. At length he stepped away, slung his pack over his shoulder, and leapt—perhaps a final time—over the stone wall.
Qifrey reached the deep base of the spiral stairs and stood, still and alone, for several moments. Far above him glinted a silent snatch of sky. Echoes of the Great Hall clattered across the encircling stones—voices and laughter, clambering activity that felt more distant now than ever. He would write to Olruggio, often. As far as it depended on him, he would never leave Olruggio behind...never.
Damn everything else.
With a swift tap, he drew his heels together and shot upward.
The ocean churned and heaved and thrashed. It thrashed against the jagged rocks below. It thrashed against the dismal, dragging heap of low-hanging clouds. It thrashed against the barricades thrown up ’round Qifrey’s heart, but it would not break through. His heart today was lighter than the traces of foam left behind by the waves. All that raw anger, that ageless wrath—remembered only by a delicate strand, a whisper of lace upon the sand.
Hat and glasses firmly affixed, he knelt against the wind and set the windowway to Kalhn, the closest town to his new atelier, his new home. He gathered in a deep breath and strode forward; he did not look back.