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Olruggio hears a crack in his knee when he sits on the small bench by the garden. He curses his aching bones, for the way his age seems to tether his limbs to the ground, each day adding weight to its slumping form.
The tree casts a welcome shadow on his face. It has grown to a majestic size, so impressive in fact that many travelling witches wandering through the Downs come to ask him why he never considered making conjuring ink out of its branches.
A sound argument, without a doubt. Silverwood is hardly considered a purely decorative resource.
“Imagine the beautiful magic you could draw with its ink. The pens you could carve! It must be of prime quality, too, gorgeous as it is,” one of them had said, only a week prior. “I am certain magical shops would pay a pretty prize for it.” Olruggio never answers their curiosity angrily, but his stare is always enough to kill these ideas in the bud.
The truth is, he has considered using the silverwood, not for profit, but for his own, selfish gain.
Drawing with blood made from this tree would ensure a part of Qifrey is still with him, that he can still grasp it. Giving life to paper with Qifrey’s essence, under the guise of dark ink. A poor excuse for proximity. But still, proximity. Something close to intimacy, even. They have always played within these gray areas between tenderness and cruelty, the two of them. It would hardly be their strangest act of love.
Still, he likes the tree intact. He likes the way it greets the sun each morning and cuts a recognizable shape visible from within the house, guarding it in all its glory.
Olruggio turns North, wondering about Coco and Agott. They are travelling together these days, to the frozen lands. He hopes they are not at risk of catching a cold. They are both more than capable of keeping the frost at bay, but still he imagines them, small and shivering under their coats, red noses and dry skin against the unforgiving gusts of wind he remembers too well. Strangely enough, when he thinks about the girls, he is unable to imagine them as anything but children. It shocks him a little every time they come to visit, that there are women in front of him, with no need for protection.
They are now past the age Qifrey and himself were when they first took them in, he realizes. Surely it has not been that long.
“Can ya believe that ?” he asks the tree, “At the pace they’re growing, you’ll be a grand-master sooner than later. Coco will get an apprentice as soon as she’s able, knowing her. Wouldn’t that be a sight!”
Qifrey was always a good listener. Still, Olruggio can easily surmise his answer.
“Don’t count on me to help her take care of the twerp when that happens. I already had my share.”
It is too late. He can already imagine a child wearing Qifrey’s hat, learning with the same awe, remaking the world. He wants to see this. He wants Qifrey to see this. He wants to stop looking at the tree. In the darkest corners of his mind, he wants it gone.
*****
“I want to die under the stars while I can still see them.” Qifrey says one evening, his face turned to the dusk above their heads.
Olruggio chokes around his sip of plum wine. “Say that again?”
Qifrey deigns to return his look, but his expression is dangerously cold, as it often gets when the veil of mystery he keeps attached to his face is lifted. “You understand what I mean.”
“I don’t.”
“I want to go tonight,” he sighs, “I should go tonight.”
Olruggio had never resorted to slapping Qifrey in decades of knowing the man. For the first time in his life, he considers it. Instead, he takes another long sip. The last minutes of sunlight are long past, and he has no intention of staying out here past dark.
“You always say that. But you never go through with it.”
It is a cruel thing to say, he knows. He is aware of how deep Qifrey’s mourning of his eyesight goes. And he understands, better than anyone, how tempting it is to resort to an easy escape.
“I thought you had accepted it. You’re already used to doing things without magic, nowadays.”
Qifrey purses his lips. “It’s not about becoming blind. Not completely.”
Instinctively, Olruggio goes to take his hand. Most times, Qifrey flinches, or even jerks away at the smallest contact. But this time, he welcomes Olruggio’s touch and interlaces their fingers together. It is so simple, and so precious, that Olruggio almost ignores the disaster that is forming on Qifrey's lips. But, just as surely as the most violent storms strike unexpectedly, the truth comes pouring out like an explosive flood.
“I am going to die, Olly. Something has been killing for a long, long time. It is time you learn about it. For one last time.”
*****
He has been working on this contraption for hours now. He ought to take a break before the sun sets. Maybe take a trip to Richeh’s workshop. Or go anywhere, really, he could afford it. His deadlines are much more flexible now that everyone deems him old enough to be given grace in these matters. Half the commands he receives seem to be easier to fill on purpose. He could very well put his projects on hold and travel for a bit.
Tetia did tell him that he spends too much time in the house. More than a man with much less to do should, anyway. He has been postponing a trip to his hometown for years, he still has living relatives there. Or he could spend time at the Great Hall for a bit. He is basically considered a living legend over there, he could live as a prince and take advantage of his savings, for once.
Every once in a while, a young witch travels to the Atelier to beg him to let them under his tutelage. Maybe he could dedicate time to that. Not properly teaching, no, he is no teacher, and that will not change now, but he could…offer some council. He could even write a book! That would sell well.
The tree is silent, outside. Any hint of want leaves him. What point is there to all this? His life ends as far as the tree branches go.
*****
“No.”
“Olly.”
“I don’t want to hear you.”
Olruggio has spent the last ten minutes pacing, stomping, letting the night fall on them like a shroud. He wants to scream toward the mountains, but he doesn’t want to wake the girls. It is pointless to worry, he realizes. They don’t live here anymore.
Qifrey is too calm. His words, carefully chosen and practiced. This is what shocked Olruggio the most, what convinced him that this is all true, even more than the sight of a branch coming out of his eye socket.
“I know exactly how you feel,” he says in the same monotone voice Olruggio does not recognize, “I have seen you in this situation many times.”
Olruggio feels sick. How many times has he failed to be deserving of his trust? He would rather keep the exact number a mystery, for his own sanity. “Do the girls know?”
That, at least, seems to surprise Qifrey. “Coco knows. I told her shortly after the poor events at the Silver Eve festival, all those years ago. The others suspect something. I believe they are aware, in some way or another.”
Olruggio wants to throw up. “And you didn’t wipe their memories at any point?”
Horror crosses Qifrey’s face. “No. I wouldn’t.”
Another stomp. “But my memories are expendable, are they? You let Coco carry that burden, but I wasn’t worthy of it? You’d rather -” Lie is not strong enough a word. So he lets the sentence hang between them, more venomous than anything he could have said.
Qifrey’s sadness looks the same on his wrinkled face than it did as a child. Like he broke something precious and feels incapable of pulling the pieces back together. “It had to be you. It all came from you.”
A difficult inhale. “If I could go back, I would have let the parasite take me the first time. Or any of the other times. But you would get angry. You told me to keep going, even if it meant using you, over and over.”
His gaze lingers on Olruggio, but it is not him he sees. He is looking at the previous versions of him that have found out the truth before, the versions of him Olruggio will never remember.
Were they all looking at you the way I do? he asks himself, Did they yell, did they punch you in the face? Did they find something to say that could stop you?
He decides on something simple, technical. He is good at that. “We have to fight this thing.”
Qifrey blinks slowly. He seems to have expected this response. “You have already. We both did, and it got me this far.”
When Olruggio opens his mouth to retort, he stops him. “Lying to you all this time was painful enough, and it worked. But as of now, my body cannot keep up. I’m too happy,” at that, he smiles, “what a strange death sentence, to be so irrevocably happy. But that is the truth.”
None of this makes sense.
“The first time it happened, you told me the suffering was better off in my hands. I accepted it. It sustained me all this time. Even when you caused me pain, you offered it as a kindness. For that I’m grateful,” he says, “but I cannot take it anymore."
The wind makes his hair frame his face wonderfully, as it always does when it blows on him like this. Has Qifrey ever known that? Has Olruggio ever told him? “I am content with what I got. It was a privilege. But you are…getting blurry. I don’t want to forget you.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know, I mean…your face. The way you look at me. The sights from our home. The magic. Please,” he sounds solemn, terrifyingly certain, “Don’t let me lose this. Is it alright if I let you suffer on your own? Just this once?”
Olruggio doesn’t respond for a long time. He has crouched down without realizing. He puts his hands on Qifrey’s knee, and thin fingers keep them there. Those hands are pale under the stars.
“It’s not alright. But I’ll do it. Of course I’ll do it.” He snorts, then, because he is a fool.
Qifrey laughs lightly, too. “I’m glad. But I am sorry to be the first to go. You…you don’t deserve this.”
It’s a nice sound. But a terrible sight.
“I forgive you.” Olruggio says, despite the pain. Forgiving Qifrey is the easiest thing in the world.
“I know.”
Olruggio inhales deeply. “Let me wipe my memory. One word from you, and I’ll do it myself. You don’t have to do a thing. You don’t even have to think about it. Just for a little while.”
Qifrey shakes his head. “It won’t matter, old friend. Not this time.” He lets Olruggio’s hands go, instead letting his fingertips touch Olruggio’s face. His nose, his brow. Under the nightsky, Qifrey must not be able to see him. That is probably for the best.
“The simple fact that I honored my promise to grow old with you would be enough to complete the process, no matter what you do. The girls are happy and grown. My tormenters, defeated. Nothing can stop it at this stage. I can feel it, Olly.”
So it is done. Olruggio is letting his friend’s silent goodbye draw itself on his skin. There is too much to be said. Time won’t let them. Leaves are growing under his love’s nails.
“Besides,” Qifrey’s eye is unseeing, but still shines with something both familiar and novel, “I want you to remember this. All of it,” A final caress. “For it is a beautiful night.”
*****
Olruggio hesitates on what to write to the girls, the morning after. He was never known to bend the truth when it mattered, and this truth is plainer than most: Qifrey is dead. Soil for the majestic tree outside the door. But he cannot bring himself to write the words. It is too unfair, too dishonorable, below everything Qifrey represented.
Olruggio had never hated death for the sake of it. It was part of a natural fear everyone carried, and as such it was an injustice in itself, yes, but the fact that it is absolute, and thus neutral, was always a beautiful thing in his mind. Death had accompanied him since he was a child, he had seen firsthand in Noz, then later, in the eye of a boy who had already abandoned any hope to find happiness in this world. He had been used to the pain it caused. Feeling powerless in the face of it is part of the deal. Why now does his hand waver?
So he writes, “Qifrey is at peace”, and lets the small pieces of paper soar away in the pink-tinted skies. He knows the girls will understand. There is nothing else to say.
They arrive through the passageways only a couple of hours later. Olruggio is grateful he had the time to cook a light meal for them, though not nearly as nourishing as what he would have been able to put together under other circumstances. Still, keeping his hands busy helped. He’s relieved he didn’t cry when he realized Qifrey had restocked most of the fresh produce yesterday. In fact, he’d rather not think about it.
Tetia is the first to find him in the kitchen. Her hair is loose, a rare sight, and her curls are flattened on one side, like she just jumped out of bed. He finds pity in her eyes. He must look particularly tired.
“Hey, kiddo.” She shakes her head like he confirmed something dreadful. Immediately, she is in his arms, melting there as naturally as when she was a girl. She’s crying into his shirt.
Richeh enters the room next, slowly, like she doesn’t want to be seen. Her lips are in a tight line, and when her gaze finds Olruggio, fresh tears trail her fair cheeks and make them shine, not unlike a crystal doll. She stays where she is, stiff and unsure, and the sight is so painful Olruggio almost doesn’t see that Agott is at her side.
Her stare is as commanding as it always was, but her eyes miss that recognizable fire so defiant of the world and its limitations. Today, the fire is replaced by dying embers.
Agott opens her mouth to say something, but one look outside the window makes her abandon her train of thoughts. She looks angrily at the floor, hanging onto Richeh’s shoulder.
Coco is last to join them, but not by much. Out of the four, Olruggio dreaded seeing her the most. She was the one to know about Qifrey the longest, numerous memory swipes put aside. Olruggio also knows that his friend saw a great deal of himself in her, more than his other pupils. That specific bond seemed sacred, raw, and Olruggio half expects to be met with rancor and spite. He would not put it past her.
But Coco’s goodness is an everlasting thing. She looks outside, sees the tree. She smiles. “He is beautiful.”
These are the first words spoken since the girls stepped into the Atelier. Her sisters follow her gaze, and something peaceful settles in their expressions. It is a magic of its own.
“Yeah. That’s a nice view,” Tetia responds, her voice still shaky. “Right to the East.”
Coco turns to the others, excitedly, “Let’s go meet him”.
They all step into the cold morning and stand around the tree. Its branches catch every piece of light like a white net. Surrounding it, it seems smaller, thinner, still strangely human in its flexible silhouette. It is Qifrey’s tree. It could not be anyone else’s.
Olruggio watches as the girls surround it with wide eyes, taking in every detail, crying softly when they recognize their teacher in the bark, in the leaves, in the song the wind sings through its outgrowths.
He is surprised however when they all go to touch the silverwood with tentative pats. It had not occurred to him that Qifrey could still be touched. One by one, they come close to hug the tree, whispering their goodbyes into it. Before long, the four women are bound together in a long embrace around Qifrey.
Richeh peeks from under Tetia’s arm, “Join us, Master Olly. Now.” Before he can say anything, they are all calling his name and his feeble excuses are quickly drowned out. With a sigh, he joins the group and reluctantly spreads his arms.
It’s more comfortable than he thought it would be. The wood is smooth under his palms, it drags softly along his beard. He could get used to this, he thinks. Qifrey did not hug him nearly enough. He feels a twinge of shame when he decides to speak to the tree. But the girls are doing it too, so he overlooks the horrible twist in his guts. He puts his mouth on the bark and speaks softly, so low it could not be called a whisper. He simply mouths the words against the surface. Maybe it is a kiss.
“I love you. But you knew that.” These are the only words he has left. Olruggio does not realize that the girls have stopped hugging the tree, and are now embracing him, desperately. Only then does he cry.
*****
The tree is on fire. It cracks and howls in the night.
Olruggio runs outside and screams at the sight. He needs to draw something to stop it, anything. But no matter where he looks, he finds no pen, no paper. All he can do is watch.
Qifrey is stepping out of the calcined tree bark. Not as old as he was when he passed, no, he is the young man Olruggio believed he could save, lifetimes ago. The fire doesn’t touch him, it dances around him like a sea split in two.
“It’s just a tree.” he says.
“What?”
“It’s just a tree.”
Olruggio awakes in a jerk. He stumbles to the bathroom mirror. He sees a bitter old man in his reflection. He cries. He shakes in anger.
He goes outside. It is dark out, but the tree is a dark hole in the blue. “I can’t live without you. Stop trying to make me live without you. I can’t.” The wood is a silent tomb.
“I know what you’re trying to do. I know what you want from me.” It has become an old dance, now, for Olruggio to defy Qifrey without an answer. “If the girls…if everyone else can move on, I have to stay. Please let me stay.” The tree watches.
“I can’t cook, or drink, or work. Not like I used to. I never will.” I can only remember how it was like, he does not say.
But he needs to remember. He needs to know it used to be better. Never perfect, never enough, but better. He needs the phantom pain of that happiness to hold onto, a memory that Qifrey could never take from him. Going back into the house, Olruggio knows that he will move one, too. One day. In a month, or a decade. He wants new memories. He wants a future.
He wants to accept that Qifrey will never see any of it. One day, he will. But not tonight. For it is a beautiful night.