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One more page turned. The wind wailed against the cracks in the windows, cold, a blizzard that blew so murky one could not tell day from night. Figaro's chin came to rest against his knuckles, him so used to the sound it barely made a scratch against his senses. The flame of a single candle illuminated the yellowed pages, and the fireplace burned with much welcomed warmth; otherwise the dark and the dense smell of aging books pervaded the study.
There is a phenomenon that occurs when one studies a word for too long. What was until then instinctively intelligible becomes an amalgam of letters emptied of meaning; scrutinized further, each letter is reduced to rudimentary forms, straight lines and round crescents and sharp angles, until it is fathomless how a word arose from such arbitrary sketches, and mutual understanding from pure blather. Figaro had stared down at the words for far too long. He scarcely remembered what he had been reading anymore. He flipped the cover shut, marking the page where he had stalled with his index finger: it was a book on the making of protective charms. Judging by the dulled green of the cover and how the gold lettering flaked to a few scraps at its edges, it was not a recent acquisition, though he did not remember where or who he had gotten it from. As to why he had chosen this particular book rather than any other among the hundreds of titles that filled the shelves of his study up to its ceiling, he could not tell. It had been an unthinking gesture, a reflex, as when the body folds into itself to ward off the cold, or when a shadow flittering against the snow in the corner of his eye was enough to have him summon his weapon.
It had occurred to him to read a book to hasten the passing of time. At sunrise he had sent Faust—the hatchling wizard who, only a few months before, had come crying at his gates to bid Figaro teach him magic that could change the world—off to gather the ingredients he would need for the day's lesson. They were healing herbs and none of them dangerous, but the danger in his task lay elsewhere. Faust might unwittingly, or recklessly at the sight of one of the plants he sought, trespass into another wizard's territory. Though the traces of Figaro's magic that lingered on Faust were warning enough against doing his apprentice harm, they might just as well spur on a wish to kill him—as a declaration of war, out of a vendetta against Figaro, or in simple, sheer terror of his presence. Faust's magic was yet far from powerful enough to fend off a Northern wizard, much less in their own domain. Figaro's eyes strayed towards the windowpane, though he could see nothing beyond the blizzard. He had judged Faust bold, not a fool. If he was not bright enough to assess his own weaknesses he might as well turn to stone there and then, for he would achieve none of his ambitions.
Figaro forwent chasing after the meaningless words before him. He flipped through the pages until he reached a satisfactory point to begin again.
If only those were the only perils lurking in the North. Among the herbs Figaro had tasked him with there were others of like appearance and opposite effect, some strong enough to burn the skin or even poison upon contact, and none easily distinguishable in a climate that had little use for intricately patterned leaves or garish flowers. He might brave crossing a frozen lake, carelessly step where the ice was too thin and fall into the waters to drown to death, if the cold did not take him first. He might narrowly escape death at the hands of another wizard only to be too wounded to forage and die from starvation. He might be unable to find drinking water and resort to eating handfuls of snow; too much and it would sap the heat in him, and if Faust could not keep his bodily warmth from seeping out into the relentless winter, be it through magic or otherwise, his death would be certain. The true assignment Figaro had given him was not merely to gather herbs, but to prove himself hardier than Northern Country's countless death traps. It was a lesson every Northerner, wizard or human, learned from the cradle: the frail do not survive—let alone change the world. It was a necessary test. Had Faust wished for coddling, surely he would have sought a mentor other than Figaro.
His thoughts dissipated with the creak of the gates outside. Figaro deliberately kept his eyes downcast, though he no longer attempted to read, and waited for the soft footsteps that carried across the walls to make their way to the study.
Figaro sighted the figure by the open doorway, one hand leaning against the doorframe, waiting for permission to come in. Faust had come back with a full pouch slung over his shoulder. The tip of his nose and his cheeks were painted a vivid red, fogged by the hot air that left him in puffs. Figaro noted his lips retained a healthy coloring. There were tidbits of snow caught in his hair, now wind-blown and half undone from its habitual low ponytail. With his other hand, Faust clutched his fur-trimmed cloak closer against his body. He owned no cloak warm enough to venture into the North for long hours, and so Figaro had gifted him one of his own. It satisfied him to see it had served Faust well—though it hung down to his ankles, a little too long for his stature. There was not a scratch on him that Figaro could see.
"Master Figaro. I have returned."
Figaro's grip on the book loosened, and only then did he notice how he had been clasping at it. There was an ache in his jaw where there had been none before. He wondered if he had been grinding his teeth.
"Come in," Figaro said at last. He motioned for the pouch with his hand. "Bring it here; let us see what you have gathered for us." Faust strode to the desk promptly, undoing the knot that held the pouch shut. He then placed each branch, leaf and root on the desk in neat rows for Figaro's appreciation. Figaro leaned forward in his chair, bringing the knob of a finger to his chin as he appraised the results of Faust's gathering. He had brought all Figaro had asked for, and all fresh and cut as he had been instructed. Figaro was hard pressed to find any fault in it, if not for a small oversight. "This one, here." Figaro offered Faust a branch longer than the others. "Turn the cut end toward you. What do you see?"
Faust leaned closer toward the light of the candle, turning the branch in his hand as if it were a piece of delicate craftsmanship. Figaro saw then that his hand trembled—whether from the cold or exertion he could not tell. A drop glistened on the cut end of the branch and fell onto Faust's palm. "It is oozing some liquid. Is it sap?" Faust asked.
"Latex," Figaro corrected him. "It can cause rashes in contact with skin. You should cut it closer to the leaf to keep it from leaking. It doesn't seem to have leaked onto the other herbs while you were carrying it, so they should be fine for us to use."
Faust appeared troubled. "I see. I will keep it in mind."
"It was but a common blunder." Figaro wiped off the drop of latex on the ball of Faust's thumb with his own. "All else is excellent. Good work." Faust pressed his lips together at the praise, then bowed his head slightly. "You can leave them on the desk. I will teach you how to prepare them later. For now, warm yourself up at the fire."
"Yes, Master Figaro."
Figaro sat on the armchair by the fireplace, crossing one leg over the other, then gestured for Faust to take the cushions piled up on the floor by his side. Figaro's current abode had not been made for more than one dweller, and Faust too would leave once he attained what he had come for. So they made do.
The frame of Faust’s shoulders drooped as he settled himself down and sunk into the cushions, hands now ungloved and spread out before the fire. He blinked slowly, as if about to drift off at any moment. Faust had told him about his mana area before. Although the bookshelves surrounding them were no trees and the tame fireplace no bonfire, the similarities must be enough to replenish Faust, for he looked uncharacteristically relaxed, as a cat napping under a beam of sunlight. Figaro noted he had not taken off his cloak, then noted his fingers still shook, though not as much as before. Not enough time had passed for Faust to acclimate himself to the biting temperatures. Truth was, though Northern-born himself and well over a thousand years in age, neither had Figaro. Snow and White had once teased him about the number of fireplaces he scattered around his homes. Figaro would not deny it: he despised the cold. It had taken his first venture out of Northern Country for him to realize how much so. At least his apprentice appreciated warmth as much as he did.
He ran the back of his fingers through the tangles on the top of Faust's head. Faust looked up at him, wide-eyed.
"There was snow in your hair."
"Ah," Faust's voice cracked on the lone syllable. "Thank you very much," he said hesitantly, shifting his eyes back to the fire. More blood rushed to his cheeks, tinting it a brighter shade of red.
Eyes shut, Figaro interlaced his fingers on his lap and leaned back into the armchair. He did not try to make conversation; there was a lethargy to Faust's movements that betrayed the exhaustion he must feel, and Faust had earned his rest. Besides, this silence was something Figaro had come to savor since taking in his apprentice. Prior to that, silence had meant the aftermath of catastrophe, or the pressage of danger when stepping into uncertain territory, or the space between solitude and revulsion he had so often felt among the halls of Snow and White's towers. This silence, however, did not repel nor abandon. It was as comforting as the crackling of the fire before him. It was a strange thing to discover after having gone without it for such a long, long time.
It was Faust's voice that interrupted it, raised only a notch higher than a whisper. "Master Figaro."
"Yes?"
Figaro peered out of half-open eyelids at the sound of Faust rummaging through his clothes. He reached into his coat for a pocket hidden beneath his copious layers and brought out his closed fist. His fingers released their hold carefully, as if afraid of what he would find once he did, before he sighed in relief. Faust lifted a cupped hand towards Figaro, bidding him have a look. It was a flower.
"What might this flower's name be?" Faust asked him.
Figaro leaned his elbows against the armrest, inching forward for a closer look. He had seen the flower many times before. It was a wan, frail-looking thing that bloomed in clusters from naked boughs laden with snow, from trees so gnarled as to seem dead. It was not a common sight, but not rare, either. The tree was not poisonous, nor did it have any medicinal properties. Its branches were resistant to catching fire and made a poor shelter against the wind and cold. The leaves had a leathery texture and were repulsively bitter, the flowers tasteless and scentless. No spell or potion required it, and neither had he seen it used in ritual, not by wizards nor humans. Its one virtue, if it could be said to have one, was how it persisted on blooming through the most savage snowstorms the North had to offer. But it had no use, not for taking nor for keeping life. No wonder it had no name.
"None that I know of."
Faust sounded taken aback. "No one has named it?"
"No one." Figaro wondered if the people in Faust's homeland had so much time in their hands they could afford to spend it naming everything under the sky.
"I see." Faust retreated the hand that held the flower. He kept his eyes down, his gaze melancholic. Figaro considered whether he had disappointed Faust with his answer.
"We can have a look at the botanical field guides later," Figaro suggested, though he had had more than enough years to leaf through his volumes from beginning to end a sickening amount of times. "It may be that it does have a name and it has but slipped my mind. I will ask my own mentors too when I next meet them. If there exists anyone who would know its name, it would be them."
Faust's eyes regained their light. "Would you? Thank you so much. It is just…" With his fingertips, Faust brushed away the frost that still clung to the flower's petals. "When I saw how the flowers held on despite the blizzard, I felt I had to see it up close, though it was not quite what I had been looking for. Why would it flower in such weather, I wondered? When I came closer, a cloud of pollen flew into my face, so thick I sneezed again and again. And then I realized. The pollen was riding on the strong winds, in the hopes that it would find another flower like itself if it traveled far enough. That is why it blooms in a blizzard. It is very clever; it must have taken root all over the North. I dare say it will soon encroach on the boundaries of other countries. I thought it was something of a miracle." The corners of his mouth lifted upwards, softly. "I am sure it has a name."
Not once in the months he had spent teaching Faust had Figaro ever seen him smile as he did now. If it could draw a smile from this inordinately serious child, born to persecution and war and who willingly placed the weight of both on his narrow shoulders, perhaps it was not such a useless flower after all.
"Or," Figaro added lightheartedly, "you could name it."
"Me?"
"Why not? Was it not you who noticed it, who took such pains to bring it to me unscathed so you could learn about it, when no one else has? I would say it is yours to name."
"It is… a great responsibility."
It was Figaro's turn to smile.
"You can stay a while longer if you need it. I will be going down to the kitchen. Bring the herbs with you when you come," Figaro said as he got up from the armchair and headed towards the door. He paused before he left. He thought of asking Faust to tell him when he decided on a name for the flower. He walked out of the study without another word.
Yet another sneeze sounded behind Figaro, muffled by a handkerchief, then followed by an impatient groan. Figaro spun a glass vial in slow, practiced circles, waiting for the moment when the liquid within coalesced thoroughly. The medicine took on a blue-green tint as the powdered herbs dissolved in the water, so clear as to be see-through. The curseworking tools on the desk acquired cooler hues as he peered at them through the bottom of the glass. Faust had vehemently refused to be treated by Figaro’s magic: hence the medicine. He had supposed Faust would not be so wary if he could see it as it was prepared; yet despite the thoughtfulness he had shown he could still feel that bottomless rancor suffusing the room like a miasma, unabated. He swirled the vial until he could no longer tell each ingredient apart, then heaved himself up and walked towards the bed.
"It's done," Figaro announced, showcasing the potion with a flourish of his hand and a smile. "Would you like to smell it, too? Ah, right, you're congested. Never mind."
Faust sat up on his bed, wrapped within a sea of blankets and propped up against his pillows. His hair was hopelessly tousled, the tip of his nose flush, and a sheet of sweat coated the skin of his face and neck. Without his shawl he looked thinner than Figaro had remembered him to be. Faust fixed him with a glare, arms crossed tightly against his chest, and gave him no answer.
"I'm here to help you, you know," Figaro held out the proverbial olive branch.
"Odd, I don't remember asking for your help." Faust's voice, though it attempted a sharp sarcasm, was hoarse and nasal, and Figaro had to remind himself not to laugh. "No," Figaro replied as he sat on the edge of the bed, "but Heathcliff and Shino did. Would you dash the hopes of your cute students by turning me away and leave them to worry instead?"
"Don't drag them into—wha—who invited you into my bed!" Faust berated him before being taken over by another fit of sneezing. Figaro tilted his head, cocking an eyebrow at him. Faust's grimace did not change. Well, furtive allusions had never been his forte.
"I'll read your pulse now." Faust did not reply, which Figaro chose to take as acquiescence. His wrist truly was bonier than it used to be. His pulse was quick but steady.
Then, carefully, as if coaxing an untamed animal, he reached a palm in Faust's direction. Faust's eyebrows lifted as the motion made its intent obvious; his shoulder blades squeezed with tension, and Figaro expected him to flee from the touch or have his hand swatted away then, but Faust only grabbed onto the blankets and shut his eyes tight. Figaro brushed his fringe back, then rested his palm against Faust's forehead. He let it linger longer than needed. He wished he could put his forehead to Faust's—had he not, once before? or did he misremember it?—but such intimacy was impermissible now.
Faust brought his fingertips to the underside of Figaro’s forearm, giving it a push with no force behind it. “That’s enough.”
Faust let out a held-in breath once he pulled away. Figaro felt his palm glisten with sweat, and as with each passing second the vestiges of warmth dissipated into the cooler air he longed for a pretext to catch that warmth in his hands again, but there were none Faust would abide to.
"As I thought, it's not that bad.” With his other, thoroughly cold hand, Figaro offered the vial of medicine. "This should bring your fever down. You should begin to feel better by tomorrow." Figaro paused, then added, "It'll help you sleep, too."
Faust re-crossed his arms and hung his head slightly, as if too tired to muster up the scowl or the rebuke Figaro deserved for having crossed an unspoken but known line. "Leave it on the nightstand."
"Listen to me, Faust. It's not like you to come down with a cold. You've been pushing yourself too hard, haven't you?" Figaro looked pointedly at the dark circles that had begun to form under his eyes. Faust lifted his eyes to glance back at him, annoyed, then looked away. "You need rest." Another sneeze. Faust blew his nose against his handkerchief, then folded it before placing it beneath the sheets again. He let out a short, bitter huff, hanging his head lower.
"I was such a disappointment, you won't trust me with a matter as simple as this." He snickered, drawing a smile that was a morose parody of the sparse smiles of his Figaro had hoarded, as if morsels of bread at the hungriest stretch of winter, during that fateful year. "I see. I understand," Faust muttered to himself, his gaze unfocused. It did not sound as if it were Figaro's earlier instructions he spoke of.
Figaro stared at Faust, his words echoing incomprehensibly in his mind. Faust, a disappointment? Would Figaro have taken him in, taught him for months on end, clothed him and fed him and nurtured his budding magic, if a disappointment had come knocking at his gates? Would he, a wizard of the North, one who had never before accepted an apprentice, have educated him out of charity? It was preposterous as to be laughable. Faust must be talking of something else, some other instance Figaro did not recognize but knew better than to ask the feverish ravings of an ill man. Instead he asked, "Won't you rely on me once more?"
Faust turned to face the other way until Figaro could see nothing of his expression. "How can you ask me that?" His voice was tight, hardly more than a whisper. "You horrid man."
There were no words he could say to make Faust believe otherwise; oh, he had tried it before. So he remained silent. Resignedly, he placed the vial on the nightstand.
"Take the medicine, at least."
"Leave. Then I might take it."
"You'd rather remain sick out of sheer stubbornness? It's not just the children who are worried, you know. I passed by the kitchen before I came here. Nero was cooking soup."
Faust clicked his tongue. "You are intolerable." He grasped the vial and downed its contents in one go, then set it back down on the nightstand. "Now leave. And don't come back unless I ask for you. Which, as a matter of fact, I will not."
Figaro raised his hands in surrender. "I will, I will. Once I make sure you don't have any side effects." Faust gave him an unfocused, mild scowl, but sunk deeper into the pillows. "How do you feel?"
"Tired." Faust blinked slowly, then once more, slower. His brow furrowed as if he puzzled something. Suddenly his eyebrows lifted. He cast Figaro a sleepy, almost adorable glare. "You…" He trailed off, and then his eyelids slid shut, and remained so.
Truth was, Figaro had mixed in a trifle more of a herb known for inducing sleepiness than the medicine called for. Against his hopes, Faust had noticed it—discerning child that he had always been. Perhaps it had further frayed the already tattered trust he had in Figaro. Ah, well, Figaro thought, it was for Faust's own good, so he would get the sleep he sorely needed. He dawdled before leaving to gaze down at Faust's sleeping face, finally unlined and once again gentle. Though Figaro delighted in the sharp edges he had grown, at times he found himself wishing Faust would look upon him again as he did so long ago, with those clear eyes that teemed with the faith he had placed in Figaro, the faith Faust had in the goodness of a world depraved to its core. Such a small, yet impossible wish.
A fluttering speck of light passed over Faust's closed eyes. Figaro raised his head and saw the flooring and walls emit a white, dim glow, and a growing number of specks begin to swirl across the room. It was Faust's dream, spilling out of the boundaries of his own mind. He very well knew Faust would despise him if he did not leave at once, but as the white light on the walls began to acquire shape an inexorable craving rose in him to peer at that which Faust held so guardedly within himself.
What he had expected was the fire. He had been prepared for it. Punishment was one matter Figaro was familiar with as to feel intimate, easy. He had not expected the snow.
The room shone in the distinct shades of white he had grown to memorize; the clouds covered the sky so that he could not see its blue behind the gray; snowflakes whirled, and grains of a color so in contrast with its surroundings as to appear to be made of gold dust blew past him. One lone tree shuddered in the snowstorm. The wind brought no relief, only more snow to its already cumbrous load. A brief pain seized Figaro's heart when he saw a younger Faust, hair flowing wildly behind him, wade through the snow and towards the tree. It was like seeing an apparition, an existence bound to this world but no longer a part of it. It seemed Faust walked for an eternity, walking but never reaching any nearer, the effort futile as pursuing a mirage. Then, in the space of a blink, in the millisecond Figaro had not been looking, Faust arrived at his destination. He took off one of his mittens, holding it between his teeth, then held out his hand to the branch closest to the ground, stretching his fingers taut, and plucked a flower. Shielding it from the blizzard with his mittened hand, the naked one purple by then from the cold, he tucked the flower into a concealed pocket underneath his layers of wool and fur, where it would be safe.
The dream Faust turned on his feet, now facing Figaro, and abruptly they were in what had been Figaro's study, four hundred years ago. The windows were thrown ajar, leaving the snow to surge into the room and scatter into the air, drifting down to land on the stone floors or on top of the bookshelves. The fire was alight in the fireplace; the snowflakes should have melted were this reality, but in dreams the laws of nature could be distorted at whim.
Faust stood alone among the piling snowflakes, watching the door to the study as if expecting someone. Figaro had believed it closed until the wind made it swing on its hinges and the shadow it cast trembled by the light of the fire. Faust brought the flower out of his clothes and peered down into his cupped hands, opening them carefully, as if afraid to find the flower had been blown away by the wind. From where he sat by the edge of the bed, Figaro could not ascertain whether or not Faust had lost it. Figaro got up, uncommonly curious about the fate of the flower, and drifted towards the image of Faust on the wall. He tried to read Faust's expression: relieved but sorrowful, like learning a nestling one had rescued and spoonfed still breathes, but only barely. Faust turned his back to him before he could come any closer. It appeared as if he stopped and thought for a moment before he strode to one of the bookshelves. A book was either chosen at random or Faust already knew what he looked for, for there was no hesitation in him as he pulled it out of its shelf. His back concealed it from Figaro’s sight, keeping him from knowing which book it was. Faust placed it softly on the desk, as if afraid to shatter the silence, and leafed through the pages, turning them back and forth as if searching for a passage. Then the flutter of pages halted. Faust took a breath, then placed something between the pages. Was it the flower? He closed the book with painstaking gentleness, and put it back in its proper place.
And then, before Figaro could try to learn the name of the book, came the fire. But, this time, it was the nameless tree that Faust had been bound to. Figaro cast about for the figures he had known to appear in Faust’s nightmares: his former comrades, Lennox, Alec, himself, though he had been long gone by then. All he saw was his own image reflected, in a dizzying array of angles, in the mirrors hanging on the walls. There was no one else.
Figaro withdrew from the wall to sit on the floor by the asleep, flesh and blood Faust. Wearily he rested a cheek against the edge of the bed. Faust's face, aglow with red, contorted and shuddered in erratic pulses. It was amazing how even unconscious he kept himself from crying out. Figaro wished he would scream. It would be less cruel to watch if he did.
Figaro waited, hoping for time to turn back on its hinges and bring back that quiet dream of snow and flowers—so Faust would no longer suffer, yes, but also so he could learn the name of the book. But the flames burned on. Figaro resigned himself to watching the sparks and snowfall as they danced around the room, feeling a bone-deep tiredness settle into his body. Had it been a dream that had its roots in a memory, or had it all been but a fabrication of Faust's mind? Even if a memory, it was absurd to hope he had kept track of every book he had owned hundreds of years ago, let alone one book he did not even know the title of. It might have been lost when he moved to the South. The twins could have nominally borrowed it only to never return it, and Figaro was loath to go through the pain of asking. He might as well have given it away, perhaps to Arthur when he was still learning his basics, or even to Rutile or Mitile. Even if by a miracle it was still tucked away somewhere in a corner of his library, it might be damaged beyond mending. It was possible to keep books from spoiling with magic, but it would not be the first time he had been careless and lost one or two volumes to mold and damp, or to find them eaten away by bookworms. To search for it was a pursuit doomed to fail before it even began. So much could be lost in four hundred years.
Figaro had not searched through his botanical field guides as he had said he would. Neither had he asked his mentors about the name of the flower. He had forgotten. He had made himself forget. Honesty, then: he had not wanted to know.
It could be that Faust had tucked the flower away in one of the botanical guides, to surprise Figaro once he leafed through them searching for its name. But it was only a wild guess. Figaro then wondered if Faust had decided on a name but was too shy to tell Figaro unasked, so he hid it instead, to be discovered sometime in a future very unlike the one fate had allotted for them. To all appearances Faust might have seemed too serious for gifts of pressed flowers in the midst of war, but well Figaro knew he was hopelessly tenderhearted. If this was the case, then he might know Figaro had not lived up to his word. No, Faust had always been intelligent: of course he knew.
A strand of hair wandered askew, covering one of Faust's eyelids as he writhed in suppressed agony. Out of instinct, Figaro reached out to smooth it back in place. He stopped himself before he could touch Faust. He did not want to wake him. Figaro retreated his hand, letting it fall on the mattress beside Faust. He pinched and fiddled at the creases on the sheets as a substitute.
"Master Figaro." It was but a gasp, so quiet Figaro thought he had misheard it. Then one of Faust's hands let go of its tenacious grip on the blankets to feel blindly at the side of the bed Figaro rested his head on. Figaro kept deathly still, watching as that hand cast about the sheets. It began to move more hesitantly, as if tiring, or fearful of what it might brush against, until Faust’s fingers curled and ceased their seeking, only a hair's breadth from Figaro's own. Figaro did not take his hand; neither did he draw back from it. He only sighed, letting his head slump deeper into the mattress, and closed his eyes. He recognized he would get a scolding for it, but still he prayed Faust would forgive him in his heart, and not hate him for it, not for any of it.