Work Text:
ERIKA: I want to know what he would ask. What would some creature that knows everything ask? Would they?
AABRIA: I think what you get back is not a question, because the very nature of it is to know the answer to a question. So I think what you see is a sense of curiosity and wonder. Of, what if I could be something else than the thing I was made to be?
There is a little question behind that, isn't there? What if I had a choice?
And that's the question, and you see it, and the question you asked gets an answer. "You can't."
ERIKA: I'm sorry?
AABRIA: "You can't save everything. You can't fix the world. You cannot avert disaster. You cannot shake the firmaments. But you can save something. Could you imagine what you might do if the wide breadth of your focus was narrowed to a single point?"
And you see through those glasses a point of yellow which defies all of that sort of understanding, rosy glasses, and yet that yellow magic comes through and resolves to a little glint of light off of a doorknob.
Do you reach forward?
ERIKA: I extend my hand and reach for it, and just before I touch it, I say, “You always do have a choice.” And I turn the knob.
In a time when magic is still balanced, the Qohlye senses that Weugan wants to meet. He doesn't go right away; he tries to stall for a while, indulging in any reason to delay. Last time, Weugan made fun of him for being too fast, claiming that the Qohlye had shown up at his door mere seconds after deciding he wanted to see him.
That was just a decade ago now. They used to go centuries without seeing each other, but the world moves so much faster these days. It feels like it’s been eons, though the time before personal computers and MTV was just a few short years ago.
So, the Qohlye stalls, but not for too long, since he knows that Weugan’s insistent request will keep on getting louder every day.
It’s fairly easy for the Qohlye to assume his human form. Just a fraction of his full power concentrated into a single point near Aberdeen, and in an instant he finds himself walking down a cobblestone street, carrying an umbrella to protect himself from the gentle rain. The location is fairly accurate, but of course Weugan would never stay in a city like this. Rather than spiriting himself along with magic, the Qohlye wastes time by finding a car that he knows no one will miss and drives off into the hills. It’s an hour or so of Queen and David Bowie on the old staticky radio, and then he knows he’s arrived.
He parks outside of a quaint stone cottage that’s nearly as old as they are. It looks like the mass of vines are pulling the house down into the earth as the old rocks slump and sag into the dirt. The chimney is breathing a healthy stream of dark smoke that’s tinged with vibrant red. The Qohlye knocks on the front door, and it swings open to reveal the human form of his old friend.
Weugan is dressed in modern clothes, sturdy jeans and a red flannel shirt, but the Qohlye remembers the same rugged tan skin. The same salt and pepper hair that hangs as low as his beard. The same bright auburn eyes.
Looking into these eyes always brings back memories of centuries past, and reminds him of their strange existence as passive observers of the universe — watching from afar as kingdoms rise and fall, seeing the whole world turn itself over time and time again, collecting millennium after millennium of truth and other tragedies — yet the magicks’ functional utility is eternally restricted to just a small population of wizards, and the Qohlye’s own interest is smaller still, as with all of his magical sentience, he has only ever truly loved one thing.
“Hello, Weugan,” The Qohlye greets.
The wolf-turned-man smiles easily. “Hey, Q. Come in.”
The Qohlye steps inside, shedding his heavy peacoat and hanging it up to dry as his friend pours them two cups of tea.
“Thanks for coming,” Weugan says. He also still has his accent from the upside-down part of the world.
“Yes, well,” The Qohlye makes conversation as he sits down at the small dining table. “It feels like it’s been longer than it has.” When Weugan joins him with their tea, he asks, “How have you been?”
Weugan sighs as he sits and leans back in his chair. It’s been so long that he doesn’t even have to say it anymore. The Qohlye can read his response plainly on his face. You already know the answer to that.
The Qohlye nods once, and stares down into his tea. “It’s quite a loud decade,” He remarks.
“That’s true,” Weugan says, then quickly looks up, and the Qohlye knows rather than sees him smile. “Obviously.”
The Qohlye hums quietly in agreement, then picks up his teacup to hide his blushing smile. It’s one thing he rather loves about humans and their small, specific forms; their bodies give them away all the time. When they’re happy, or sad, or tired, or excited, they can’t hide it. The truth exists in the body, and the body shows it to the world.
Finally, the Qohlye tastes his tea. It’s too strong, as always, but he doesn’t mind. It warms the chill in his bones. “So, why did you call on me?” He asks.
Weugan gives him the look. You already know that.
Because of course he does. The Qohlye knows the difference between want and need, between leisure and emergency. But he stares right back at his friend and implores him, “I want you to tell me.”
Weugan considers this, grinning shrewdly across the table for a moment…and then relenting. He glances down at the table as he gives in. “No particular reason.” He sets down his cup, then meets the Qohlye’s eye again. “I just wanted to see you.”
The Qohlye smiles indulgently.
They’re quiet for a while, sitting in comfortable silence as they finish their tea. They’re old friends, very old, and this is what they do. They sit and enjoy each other’s company.
It’s only when the tea is drunk and the cups are in the sink that Weugan looks at him with real concern. “So,” He says, sounding rather serious. “How are you doing?”
The Qohlye has to think for a moment to find an answer that’s not a lie that’s also not completely depressing. “I’m happy to be here,” He provides.
Of course, Weugan isn’t a fan of beating around the bush. “Q. Come on.”
The Qohlye makes a nonchalant gesture. “I’ve been worse. We all have.” It’s technically true, and he’s been clinging to that fact, really not unlike a liferaft.
“You look like shit, mate,” Weugan announces, before wincing at his own brazenness. He breathes a quiet apology — a habit he learned, to make up for his muchness — but the Qohlye knows that he was hardly exaggerating.
The Qohlye is actually very aware of how weak he is, how shit he looks, but he doesn’t want his friend to worry, since Weugan has a tendency to overreact to things. It’s the natural cycle of magicks to ebb and flow over time. The Qohlye knows that he’ll feel better soon.
He just wished it didn’t hurt so much in the meantime.
He can’t bring himself to respond, so Weugan drags his chair around the table and sits before him. He takes the Qohlye’s hand, grasping it between both of his palms and leaning in close. “Please. Talk to me,” He says, the words echoing through the Qohlye’s bones like a timpani drum.
The Qohlye closes his eyes. He takes a slow, deep breath. He internalizes the scents of pine and peat smoke, the warmth from the roaring fire, the comfort of the hot hands enveloping his own. He takes a second, knowing it helps Weugan to focus when he’s focused.
“I’m tired, Weugan,” He confesses, looking down at their entwined hands. Weugan’s thumb is tracing rhythmically back and forth. “There’s so much to do, but, no one…” He looks up. “Does anyone even seek the truth anymore?”
He sees the hurt that he feels inside reflected in Weugan’s eyes.
“Every day, less and less people care,” The Qohlye explains. “They’re leaving me behind, and I feel so alone, and everyone just wants to shout about their own ideas, and they don’t even bother to ask if anyone–” He stops himself, realizing what he’s just said. He looks up at Weugan apologetically. “Oh. No, I didn’t mean—”
Weugan shakes his head. “It’s okay. I know.” The Qohlye breathes, and is thankful for the reassuring squeeze of Weugan’s hands. “I know what you mean,” Weugan says, gravely serious now. “I can feel it. The things they’re doing. It’s…dark. Maybe even dangerous.”
Their eyes meet, and the hardest truth of their existence hangs heavy in the air between them: they don’t control the magic. Ultimately, they are at the whims of wizards who wield them.
A shiver runs through the Qohlye’s body. Not necessarily from the dismal outlook of the magical world; the shoulders of his suit jacket are still damp from the rain soaked through.
“More tea,” Weugan prescribes under his breath. He stands and moves to fill the kettle.
The Qohlye shivers again. His hand feels like ice now that the warm paws wrapped around it have disappeared. He rises and crosses to the fireplace. There, he basks in the vividly red fire flickering in the hearth, greedily warming his hands.
After the stove clicks on, the fire suddenly swells with energy and washes the Qohlye in a wave of warmth. He savors the feeling, hoping it will be enough to sustain him through this weakness and into a better age.
Soft steps approach behind him. The Qohlye closes his eyes as Weugan’s hands settle gently on his back. The Qohlye sighs, leaning into the touch. Weugan reaches around him, a warm body pressing up against his back as he hugs him from behind. And now the warmth is everywhere, permeating through his clothes as he melts into Weugan’s embrace.
“You’re not alone.”
The Qohlye nods, because of course this is true. “You’re right,” He says quietly. “Thank you.” He turns his head, and Weugan leans over to meet his gaze. He stares into those fiery, beautiful eyes, and says, “I love you.”
Weugan gives him that look. You already know. And the Qohlye does know, but still Weugan tells him, “I love you too.”
It was terrifying when the orrery broke and the world fractured. Suddenly, the Qohlye was being pulled and squished and compressed into a tiny space. An entire universe of disparate magic, condensing so rapidly that it became a place. The Qohlye couldn’t tell up from down or left from right. Suddenly, all of his magic had mass and weight; it was visible to the naked eye, yellow energy so thick that it turned a whole iceberg the color of dandelions.
It took the Qohlye a while to get used to it. At first, it was like trying to see the earth through a telescope, when he used to have the entire atmosphere as his vantage point — but with time, he adjusted to his new perspective. He learned to filter truth through the wild, restless storm outside. He got used to the clanking, uneven movements of the orrery. He hunkered down in the recesses of the ice, and used the concentration of his power to his advantage.
But he wasn’t the only island around. He had to acclimate to the terrible proximity of the other magical elements. The nauseating presence of too much transmutation magic. The others less bothersome, but still disorienting.
And Weugan.
Of course, the Qohlye could sense him. On the wind and in the air. He could hear him barking; he could feel him getting stronger and brighter as he kept on condensing in on himself. He felt so close…but he was all the way across the storm.
The trick of this place was that he was trapped. The Qohlye couldn’t roam, or stretch, or even call out beyond the edges of the iceberg. He was bounded by the extremities he had only just managed to reach. The hold of the well was too strong, the misaligned mechanism keeping him firmly planted in one spot.
The Qohlye could hear Weugan. But there was no way Weugan could hear him.
It took the Qohlye a long time to accept that fact. It was silly how long it took, considering how quickly he knew it to be true. But it was just agonizing to hear his voice, to know the depths of his strife and confusion, and not be able to do anything at all.
The Qohlye was finally, truly, alone.
It was sad to think that they would never see each other again. The only logical end to this situation was that this break in the orrery would eventually result in magic collapsing in on itself. All of the islands and avatars would either cease to exist or explode into molecular oblivion, and as the Qohlye accepted the truth of his situation, he accepted this fate as well.
However, his existence in the meantime wasn’t truly as bleak as he expected. Over the long months, strange things began to happen. Travelers braved the storm and discovered the various islands. Groups began congregating on the more habitable lands, and full-on societies started to form. Some people even visited the Qohlye, and he relished in the opportunity to explore the truth with them; some simple facts that shone through their chests like flashlights, and others foundation-shaking revelations that had to be unearthed from deep within. He talked to them, reasoned with them, and recovered some things lost, when he could.
Then, he heard something on the wind, within the maelstrom of magic swirling all around. A phrase that seemed innocuous at first, until he isolated it, and really listened.
for you, you know. for you, you know. for you, you know. for you—
But no. Not a phrase. Two phrases. Two statements.
For you. You know.
All at once, the Qohlye could hear Weugan’s voice with earth-shattering clarity, the meaning and truth and love of his words instantly piercing deep into his heart.
For you. You know.
The change in Galamanis forced the Qohlye open his eyes.
The entire orrery shook when those four young wizards pushed the island back into alignment. And all of a sudden, he had to consider a lot more possibilities for the future of magic. They managed to rip a hole in the fabric of reality and set the sky beast free; so, yes, they might actually accomplish what they set out to do.
When they set foot on his island again, he realized what they truly were now: wizards unlike any other. They were the first ever wizards imbued with actual raw magic, their bodies physically carrying the powers of Hellbenders and Tadershacourt and—
Weugan.
Yes, that was indeed the blinding, screaming power of Weugan now descending into his iceberg, ferried along by a wizard so fearsome, they’d had the audacity to contradict the Qohlye to his face, and named themself with a single letter.
He couldn’t believe it. If the Qohlye wasn’t already accustomed to Weugan’s power in such close proximity, he would’ve choked on it.
For the Qohlye, and for all of the magicks, there are limitations on interacting with humans. On Earth, the Qohlye is truth, and truth only. His ‘emotions’ exist somewhere else entirely. He has a role to play; he's just a vessel for knowledge, a puppet of pure truth. He’s not supposed to have emotions or opinions or ideas. There is an existential veil that separates them.
So that's what he needs to be, even though he wants to say so much more. He wishes he could laud their accomplishments, elucidate their cause, and of course, ask about Weugan. But he knows it’s not his place. He knows what he was made to be, and he holds firm in that purpose — though K’s words from their last visit still ring in his ears. You always do have a choice.
He stays composed. He talks with them. He slips into his human form so he can look them in the eye. He answers their questions, and delights in illuminating even the smallest sliver of truth they were looking for. Naturally, he is utterly charmed by the dear Sam Britain and her friends.
When the group is finally satisfied with Sam’s boon, he focuses his attention to K instead, even though he has no justifiable reason to. It is just so lovely to behold them, strong and still glowing red with his old friend’s power. Although the Qohlye knows his job is done, he also knows that this may be his only opportunity to reach beyond his island, to have even a fraction of a chance to contact Weugan…but potentially inserting his ‘personal life’ into the quest of these heroes is the absolute last thing he should be doing.
The Qohlye knows it’s a risk. It’s a huge, stupid risk, especially with K’s romantic-minded nature… But he wants to be selfish. The words hang on the very tip of his truthful tongue.
In the end, he just can’t bear the thought of letting the wizards leave without taking this one and only chance for himself. Maybe he was never supposed to be this way, or feel this way, or have this much agency, but he is truth. And he truly loves just one thing.
“Thank you,” He says to K.
“Thank you. Appreciate it,” They say meekly.
“And, the next time— If you see Weugan again… Tell him I appreciate him,” He says, using the wizard’s own words in response, and desperately hoping that his body doesn’t betray him this time, that K will honor the message without deciphering its true meaning.
And for one sweet, long moment, the Qohlye thought he had succeeded – but he should’ve known it was a losing battle, trying to obscure the truth in a place like this.
He watches as K focuses on him…and then, they gasp. “Oh my god! Oh my god!”
The Qohlye panics and quickly banishes them outside – but smiles privately to himself at K’s enthusiasm for his relationship.
He listens fondly as they bicker with each other for a minute, and then they’re on their way to their next destination.
And then, once again, the Qohlye is alone. Though everything around him is much calmer now that the storm has been ousted.
Usually, the future is just as clear to the Qohlye, as so much of it is deterministic, shaped by just a handful of simple, inalienable truths. But right now, that couldn’t be further from the current situation. He has no idea what’s going to happen next. He doesn’t know what will happen to magic. He doesn’t know what trials next await the four young wizards. He has no idea if his message will ever reach Weugan.
But he believes like any truth that it’s best in the hands of the pilot program.