Work Text:
The truth of the matter is, all that lives was once born.
Whether life soaks up the sun or burrows beneath the crust, whether it swims into the musty alcoves of the sea or flies so close to the stars that its back reflects nebulae, each and every entity comes from another. A vase is spun upon the wheel of its potter, magic is only fashioned by the hand who guides it. Creatures and monsters and humans alike, we are born of something—or rather, simply, we are born.
Yet, that by itself isn’t enough. Obtaining a life does not make us live, miracle though it may be. For in those brief instances where you are nothing but at the mercy of the world, all that keeps your lungs from shriveling into dust is that first, wondrous breath of a love for living. A heart will beat on without being told, a voice will cry and whimper before knowing what ails it. Involuntarily, imperatively, all that is born has been tied to the powerful, devoted desire of loving to live.
Obviously it stands to reason that Qifrey was once born as well. Surely he was. He’s certainly never encountered a soul whose first memory was of their birthing place, and Qifrey’s wooden coffin did not lay him there to rest by itself. He did not spawn from the icy rain pooling inside, nor from the pungent, wet smell of dirt and clay. No, his damp casket wished for the resurrection of another, crafting something new and foreign from his feeble skin. So even if he does not know of it, of its origins or meanings or intentions, Qifrey was born elsewhere first.
To whom he was birthed is harder to discern. Perhaps he belonged to a pair of pointed caps who amounted to little more than petals in the wind, or an innocent couple living in bliss from the world of witches and wondering what might’ve become of their boy. And though it chills him to imagine, so too might Qifrey be the product of a brimmed cap. One vile and esoteric, who would raise a hand against their son to turn him to brittle wood and dark ink.
Yet—there is little relevance to that of his origins, what’s important is the simple reality of his birth. His heart thrummed in his chest with vigor and passion, his cheeks beamed pink and his tears streamed hot, proving his newfound life. His body loved to live, fought to live, from the very moment it needed to.
Somehow, Qifrey still lives today. Though his love did not always persist. His mind forgot what his body remembered and when the weight of it was too crushing, he nearly let himself go solemnly down into the soil. The very same soil he emerged from, that which claims to be the benefactor of his life today.
Perhaps to be born from the ground is to be born without such intricate ties to love. Rather, the dirt and roots hope to seize it from you, to put you back from whence you came.
As a general rule, Qifrey tries not to distance himself far from the atelier while the girls are sleeping. Joyful little things who oft come peering into his workspace in hopes of answers for a question they’ve reminded themselves of. Tetia once came to him just after waking from a dream, eager and confused over how she might replicate a delightful spell which aimed to produce the sounds of songbirds from wind chimes. “For the winter!” she cried to him, hair awry from tossing and turning. “To turn a dreary day into a chipper one!”
Though sometimes more dangerous than their curiosity to learn is their curiosity of him. Should Qifrey fly up into the stars one night to think among the clouds, he would most surely find Coco peeking behind a wisp of smoke rising from the atelier. And the trouble is, what a delight she would prove to be! What wonderful things his young apprentice would share, such insights and brightness that remind him of the ever-beating heart in his chest. Stirring up all his desires to live on, to see and wonder and hope. To love to be alive even if he cannot catch it, yearn for joy but not experience it. He will be reminded again of why it is he toils so and why he cannot give in to the temptation of release.
Tonight, however, Qifrey aims for no such interruptions. And where he has rooms well devoted to privacy within his atelier, it’s distance he’s aiming for, so he takes care not to be followed. He pulls on his glyph shoes but does not use them, keeping any minds looking for magic confined to their bedrooms. He sleuths into the night, climbing atop a grassy hill, then walking down until its height consumes his silhouette from the front windows. And at the bottom, as promised, lies the object of affection he was looking for.
“Strange of you to call me outside with all the girls sleeping,” Olruggio says, back resting on the ground with his hands laced beneath his head. “You’d better hope they don’t come looking for you.”
“It is precisely because they’re asleep that I risked the trip.” Qifrey sits beside his dear, old companion, palm pressed into the cool grass. He lets his fingers intertwine with the blades, squeezing as hard as he can. He will sooner rip the life from the ground than he will let it steal life from him. That is an oath he intends to keep.
Olruggio slowly rises until fully upright, crossing his legs in the process. He fiddles with a piece of wheat growing beside him, then plucks it from its family. Any attempts at nonchalance vanish as he nibbles at its end and begins to eye his shoes, a vibrant red tickling the tips of his ears.
It takes a beat, and at first Qifrey tries to fill the silence. But Olruggio, still gnawing the grain between his teeth, throws both his hands onto his knees and squeezes his eyes shut.
“If it’s a rejection, you can just leave without saying a word!” he says, barely conscious of his voice enough that Qifrey isn’t worried about waking the girls. “I put you in this position and I’ll take all the responsibility for it. You don’t have to tell me outright.”
Qifrey sits silently in the warm night, listening to the chirping of the grasshoppers as he waits for Olly’s patience to run out. Qifrey stays as still as he can, not even lifting a finger, watching the moonlight glaze over the surrounding fields.
Firstly, Olruggio turns his head so his ear faces Qifrey. And only after no sure sound is confirmed does he peek one eye open. Qifrey, quite amused, waves with his fingertips and smiles. Olruggio slaps a hand onto his face the moment he sees him.
“Okay,” he mumbles, taking the chance to massage his temples with his thumb and pointer. “Now, please tell me this still isn’t you trying to let me down easy.”
Qifrey leans forward, trying to catch Olruggio’s eye beneath his fingers. “I’m not so heartless.” He begins to fiddle with the divots of his knuckles, a terrible anxious habit he hates to let out. “But there is much I’d like to talk with you about, if we may.”
With an audible gulp, Olruggio begins to slide his hand down until it reaches his chin, now gripping beneath his jaw and rubbing at his beard. Finally does he meet Qifrey’s gaze, and he releases quite the sigh, too.
“I’m—sorry for just kissing you out of the blue,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting myself to, either, if it helps.”
“Don’t be!” Qifrey says, quite honestly. “Please, Olly. I’m glad the girls didn’t see, yes, but—I am nowhere near upset with you.” Qifrey’s heart once again trembles in his chest, forever recollecting his dear, dear life. “How could I be?”
A desperate expression flashes across Olruggio, as if longing to say something. But he keeps that secret to himself and instead pulls the string of wheat from his lips. “If you’re sure,” he says with just a tad more confidence, “then I agree, yeah. We’ve got some things to discuss.”
“If I could go first?” Qifrey asks. Olruggio wipes his palms on his robe.
“Yup, that’s probably for the best.”
Indeed it is. Qifrey composes himself, not taking in anything of the moment, because what he hopes to savor comes next. He leans around Olruggio and takes his cheeks in his hands, placing a kiss onto his lips. Olruggio tenses in a familiar way that sends lightning down Qifrey’s spine, and soon he awkwardly puts his fingers at the base of Qifrey’s neck, not pushing or grasping, just resting.
Qifrey pulls back, looking Olruggio in the eye. He smiles at his dishevelment, his bewilderment. It is a charm unlike any other. “I must remind myself,” Qifrey begins, prickles aching up his back and curling behind his eye, “of all it is I yearn for. Of all that it is I wait for.”
What surely is his savior tonight is the way Olruggio’s expression starts to twist as Qifrey’s limbs do the same, curling into branches and clinging to the soil. The very look of his fear offers Qifrey the cold relief of despair and guilt, the lengths of his sorrow proving to him how deeply his love runs. How much this life means to him, how much it is that he wants.
The sheer anguish of Olruggio’s does not dissipate until Qifrey’s cap is set upon his head. And as he does so, Olruggio presses a hand into the winding wood until just his fingertips brush Qifrey’s forehead. The unruly grief of it all settles in then, right as Qifrey manages to flick the seal into something whole.
Olruggio crumbles down as Qifrey’s branches retract, and he barely manages to catch him before his head hits the ground. Perhaps now he’d find it in himself to release tears into the night, all alone without a witness—but the fear of the relief such a thing might grant him is too great, and thus he can do nothing but silently stew in his melancholy.
He sits quietly beside his companion, his lover, his fool and his heart. The first reason his love to live reignited and the dark, blazing hole that is his misery. A man so full of forgiveness that Qifrey is forever stuck drowning in his light. Of all of the love he could’ve gotten, the cruelty of fate handed him that which forces him to live and love and grieve and yearn.
Not much later into the night, after the clouds have begun to shift and make the moonlight patchy, Olruggio wakes. Qifrey tells him he only wanted to come out tonight and look at the stars, just like they used to.
Rather than granting himself the levity of feeling it a blessing, Qifrey instead worries himself over ensuring none of his apprentices are to ever have their memories stolen away by him.
Qifrey quietly scrutinizes his girls over the breakfast table. None of them are natural born liars, exactly, but Tetia and Coco’s tells are more overt than those of Richeh and Agott. Tetia’s eyes have a keen tendency to wander up and around towards anything but the subject of her fibs, and Coco develops a sort of thoughtful grimness, perhaps from rue or perhaps from forethought.
If Qifrey pays attention, he might notice that Richeh tries a little harder to escape from conversations rather than sticking to her stubborn roots. As for Agott… Usually that depends on the lie. But Qifrey feels awfully certain that had she witnessed any semblance of romance between her teachers, she wouldn’t so brazenly sit herself at the table across from him the next day. As he always does, Qifrey will remain diligent in his suspicions, but his midnight escapade seems to have gone by unnoticed.
Olruggio, unsurprisingly, does not join them to eat. It’s a rare morning he does, usually one indicating his total lack of sleeping the night before. He’s likely still dozing away, mind reworking and reconnecting how his uncanny lapse in memories might actually make sense.
Guilt serves as a helpful feeling for Qifrey. Shame, too—hand-in-hand they parade around his atelier, watching him smugly and sitting atop his furniture. As if they’re two of his precious students he nurtures and raises them, helping them grow and learn until they consume each and every moment of his day.
And when it comes to that fretful pair, Olruggio is Qifrey’s most frequent supplier. He must face him each day after he’s stolen from him, he must lie and trick and betray, and then repeat the process without fail. It would be a relief to care less for his memories, so Qifrey cannot; he would be calmed could he love him less, so it’s become impossible to leave his side.
Last night was not the first instance of a confession of feelings for Qifrey from Olruggio. Oh, how Qifrey has fought with this innocent love of Olly’s, how his own affections have begun to warp him. Qifrey’s bitter tears have promised to only erase the knowledge of his silvery parasite, not of any fondness Olruggio may have begun to carry. Thus, his feelings have no choice but to persist and persist and persist.
It’s vital that Qifrey treads carefully when at the receiving end of a profession of love. Unless efficient and concise, he isn’t confident the spell would erase the actual confession. It’s for similar reasons that any hints of romance between himself and Olruggio must remain totally away from the eyes of the girls. He hasn’t the proper spell to divulge them of such memories, and if Olruggio were to forget but not, say, Coco—what disaster that could bring through only a few inquiring questions.
When breakfast is finished, Qifrey sends the girls off to independent practice so he can finish preparing their lesson for the day. With Coco back in proper health she’s as eager as a honeybee and her enthusiasm oozes onto the others, whether they might like to admit it or not. Qifrey sets to writing something of a worksheet, using their Duplicity of Lettering contraption to help the work go quicker. He switches out the seals so he might work locally, hoping they won’t receive any pressing letters before he switches the seal back.
A quiet knock comes from behind. Qifrey finds Olruggio leaning on the doorway, a half-eaten strawberry strudel in hand and his usual bags sagging beneath his eyes. Mouth full, he offers only a nod to Qifrey as a greeting.
“Good morning,” Qifrey replies, almost certain they’re nearing the threshold of the afternoon. “I see you’ve found Richeh’s pastries.”
“She knows how to outdo herself,” Olruggio says after a swallow. “I’ve got some tea going in the kitchen, if you want any. Thornbark.”
Qifrey looks out the window to get a proper look at just where the sun is in the sky. “One cup before the lesson might be nice,” he says, blinking through the light rays. “Though I’ve got to make sure I get this written before we begin.”
Olruggio welcomes himself into Qifrey’s space, peering over his shoulder. “Polishing seals?”
“I’m hoping to introduce them to the idea of acts of service soon. Ideally, this will be one additional tool under their belts to show how even simple acts can be quite noteworthy.”
Olruggio hums. He glances between the lettering contraption and Qifrey’s paper, mind clearly working. “I’ll get you that tea quick, then.” And what after might’ve been a hasty glance over his shoulder, he presses a kiss to Qifrey’s temple.
Qifrey freezes in place. He brings his hand to his forehead from sheer reflex, then turns back to look at Olruggio. He, who’s already begun walking out of the room, pink glow in his ears as clear as day.
Wretched, desolate anxiety builds. Qifrey’s breath quickens and his palms sweat. That couldn’t have some new, rushed confession from nowhere. Olruggio has never acted this way, never been so rash nor so bold, not unless—
Could Qifrey’s spell have failed? No, that’s impossible, Olruggio would know the two of them couldn’t ever be if he remembered the details of his secret. In that achingly kind way he has, Olruggio has always understood the risks well enough that he wouldn’t so casually put Qifrey in such a position.
Yet, it’s obvious the spell didn’t cover everything Qifrey hoped it would. What does Olruggio remember, especially so from last night? That sharp anxiety soon turns to a sludge of dread, pooling heavily into Qifrey’s stomach. He’s made a mistake, how foolish, how foolish! He thought he might’ve begun to harden himself as the years have gone by, but could it be he’s instead turned soft?
The soft clink of a cup onto a coaster beside him startles Qifrey from his thoughts. He jolts and looks over to see Tetia beside him, eyes ever widening.
“Did I scare you? I’m so sorry!” she says, standing up straight but balanced on just one foot, the other tip-toed behind her. “Master Olruggio asked me to bring you your tea. He said you were busy, so I tried to be quiet.”
Willing his reflexive composure to overtake him, Qifrey releases a quiet exhale. He puts down his pen, of which he was gripping tightly enough to carve a red divot into his hand, and offers Tetia a smile.
“I was lost in some thought, is all,” he says gently. He takes his mug by the handle and blows on the surface, testing the temperature and deciding it still too hot to enjoy. “Thank you very much, Tetia, I’ll be sure to savor it. Are your studies coming along alright?”
Both her feet plant onto the floor with a thump. “Oh! I forgot, I was completely in the middle of something big!” She turns right on her heel and zips out of the room, her curly hair bouncing behind. “I’ll see you later, Master Qifrey, I still need just a little more time before our lessons start!”
Qifrey tries to at least wave, but she’s gone with nothing but a breeze left in her wake. Waiting until he can no longer hear the soft taps of her footsteps, Qifrey leans deeply back into his chair and puts one of his open books over his face.
This is not a problem that can go unresolved. Whatever little relationship he’s accidentally affirmed with Olruggio isn’t so much a blip as it is a great tear in the fabric he’s been weaving for years upon years. He’ll need to get as much information from Olruggio as he can, but it’s just as important to ascertain what he’ll do with the knowledge after he gets it.
Hazy and devious answers loom over him, yet so coyly stay out of reach. They taunt him, ever knowing that he’s never made a mistake so profound in all his careful years. Just what is he to do about this, just what will he make of it?
How might he escape from his dear, dear love without ruining the both of them is a fear Qifrey hoped he would never come to face.
It takes Qifrey two days to find the time to have a proper conversation with Olruggio and formulate his probable plan of action. Two long days, scattered with silent touches and shy pecks, each threatening to send an aching branch down his throat. While fighting his elation his eye would throb and ache, and he could nearly feel gnarly twigs coil around his ribcage, ever ready to take advantage of his little comforts. Qifrey can sometimes scare himself into repelling its grip, but so desperately does his body crave release that far too much of his time is spent very purposely resisting the temptation.
He manages to corner Olruggio in his private atelier, still before lights are out for the girls but late enough that they’re at least settled in their bedrooms. Qifrey confronts him meekly, keeping some distance as to not… encourage anything outright. If his shy tactic is noticed, Olruggio doesn’t mention it.
“Evening,” Olruggio says from atop his landing. He’s sat tinkering up there, no doubt fiddling with some contraption or another. “You’ve really got the same habits as your girls, always letting yourselves into my room.”
Expression light, Qifrey steps fully inside and suppresses his brief enjoyment of the glowstones beneath his feet. “And yet so rarely do I see your door anything but ajar.” And as he says so, Qifrey makes a point to quietly close it with his foot.
With a growing grin, Olruggio gestures for Qifrey to join him on his perch. Qifrey hesitates a moment, but flies up anyhow. Though rather than sitting beside Olruggio on his padded floor, he settles himself on the half wall he was leaning off of, legs crossed and facing outwards.
“Scamp,” Olruggio murmurs. He discards his new invention and sets both his arms beside Qifrey, resting his head down on top and elbow just barely brushing Qifrey’s leg. “You know… When you told me you wanted to talk to me the other night, I thought you meant a conversation. I did actually have some things I wanted to say.”
What an answer to the question Qifrey had been hemming and hawing over how he should ask. It isn’t difficult to piece together that Olruggio likely remembers up to the kiss. That’s just as he had feared, but also what he’d resolved himself to plan for. Qifrey ventures forward, hoping to repair a bit of what might be a confusing piece of fractured memory.
“If that were so, I imagine you should’ve spared me your falling asleep practically beneath me,” he says, and Olruggio immediately covers his face with his hands. “Did I bore you so?”
“I’m so sorry,” Olly mumbles, barely audible beneath his palms. “I haven’t been sleeping much lately—or, at all really—no, that’s no excuse. I won’t do it again.”
His sheer mortification is enough to bring out a laugh from Qifrey. “I should hope you won’t!” The words leave his mouth before he realizes there rests a lingering implication behind them. He rights himself back onto topic, truly not here for idle chatter. “Why don’t you tell me now, then, what you wanted to discuss?”
Olruggio reveals his face again, a soft blush still splattered across his cheeks and reaching up onto his forehead. He shifts his sitting position around, resting his back on the half wall with still one elbow on top.
“There’s a couple of things, I suppose. You seem like you don’t want the girls to know about this?”
This, he said. Qifrey’s gaze falls down to his hands. He ought to tread carefully. “…For now.” Much will depend on if he successfully manages to dissuade this memory, after all. “Do you mind that?”
“Nope. Not exactly.” Olruggio scratches the side of his neck, which quickly evolves into some persistent kneading at sore muscles. “Does that apply only to here, or is it more of a nobody-can-know situation?”
“The latter. If you please,” Qifrey says. He presses his lips together briefly. “I just… think there are some things I’m not prepared for yet.”
Olruggio nods sagely. “You and me both.” He runs a hand through his bangs, ruffling his hair. “I wish I could say I gave all this some thought before I, well, you know. And I guess I did in one sense of the word. But not in an actual sense. If you get that.”
“I think I do.” This wasn’t Olruggio’s first confession, after all. Not totally considering the logistics of a relationship he wasn’t in yet isn’t hard to believe. “I must admit I’ve been feeling a bit tense myself.”
“You’re always tense,” Olruggio says as an aside, one he surely doesn’t realize sends a jolt of ice straight through Qifrey’s stomach. “But, I uh—I did also want to talk about my work. I don’t know how many Watchful Eyes enter relationships with the heads of their ateliers.” He pauses, then shakes his head. “Though I guess if we’re keeping it a secret we don’t need to worry about it. Especially since I’m too lenient with you already. You’d think I’d try to do better since I realize it, but this has got to be worse, right?”
Qifrey is inclined to agree, actually. “That’s a bridge we’ll cross when we come to it,” he says. A quiet part of him wonders how they’ll adhere to any rules surrounding it, if there are any. He’d rather not be appointed another Watchful Eye before his investigations have borne fruit. And he absolutely needs Olruggio in this atelier. He may lose everything should he lose him.
“What about you?” Olruggio asks, now massaging what appears to be a sore spot right beneath the corner of his jaw. “Any actual talks you want to have?”
Of course there are. “Not at the moment. I think we’ve covered what’s most important to me. Though I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”
After an affirmative grunt from Olruggio, they bask in a moment of mutual silence. Olly begins to eye Qifrey’s hand atop the wall, and he slowly sneaks over his own to rest on his fingers. It takes all Qifrey has to not jump from the affection, but he does twitch. He begins a silent battle with every inch of himself that tries to convince him to settle.
Olruggio, with only his fingertips, brushes Qifrey’s knuckles. He presses his palm on top of his hand and presses down lightly, a gentle and affirming squeeze that makes Qifrey’s insides squirm. Ah, Qifrey does love him. Every twinge of that blasted silverwood confirms it.
Just like that, Olruggio suddenly pulls away. “You should get some rest,” he says. “Don’t be like me.”
Such a sudden dismissal comes as a surprise. But Qifrey readily accepts the invitation to escape his lethal desires. “And here I thought you agreed you wouldn’t fall asleep on me again,” he says, retracting his hand onto the safety of his lap. “You should sleep, too.”
Olruggio waves him off. “I’ll sleep once I work this seal out. I’m nearly there.” He picks up his discarded palm quire and squints at its pages, surely not with an expression that reads he’s been doing well.
Just before Qifrey prepares to hop down and put his sylph shoes together, Olruggio clears his throat awkwardly enough to be noticeable.
“I’m—going to be pretty busy over the next few days,” he says, eyes firmly on his work. “But you know you’re always welcome in.”
Qifrey takes the plunge to the floor, floating gracefully down until the glowstones shine once more beneath his feet. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says. And out he goes, clasping Olruggio’s door tightly shut behind him.
Qifrey’s insides are absolutely seething. Even just that one, small act of tenderness was enough to boil his stomach and dizzy his head. He isn’t even certain it’s all a result of the curse, he’s fretfully unaccustomed to accepting such sentiment from Olruggio. From accepting such sentiment at all. Qifrey knows only how to pull away, to feign surprise and peel any affection firmly off his person.
This cannot be. Should this continue he will lose himself, this brief and chaste exchange confirmed it. Qifrey has one feasible idea in mind, truly only one—but it will surely take another intimate discussion for him to even hope for success.
His plan is one so rotten that to think of going through with it makes him sick. But his silverwood visitor goes peacefully at ease at the thought, a mournful confirmation to Qifrey of just what path he’s destined to take.
Olruggio was out for a short while to make inquiries with a client of his directly, giving Qifrey plenty of time to prepare his materials as well as himself. There would be no point in denying the joy Olly has brought to him, how close to his heart he really is. But it’s that same joy which makes the relationship so dangerous. Qifrey’s only respite is that all this attention has made him as happy as it has riddled him with a deep and festering anxiety.
It was late at night when Olruggio returned. Night has always offered the two of them privacy in the atelier in a way the days never could. No fears of prying eyes or curious girls wandering through the halls. Even as boys, their escapades were usually at the very darkest hours there are, sneaking out of the Great Hall and fashioning themselves a home outside its watery borders.
Unsurprisingly, Olruggio was tired upon his return. Hungry, too, and it was while he dined on vegetable stew that Qifrey lured him away from rest with cocktails of Willowgrape wine and apple-honey liqueur. The pair sauntered up to Qifrey’s room, speaking in quiet voices and breathy laughs, cups held lazily between their fingers.
Qifrey isn’t the most prolific drinker in the world. He often likes to stay mostly sober for the sake of his apprentices and their tendency to get into trouble at whatever time suits them best. But he is also terribly uncomfortable with the way it convinces him to relax. Alcohol turns off his carefully honed senses, dulling all that he’s striven to maintain. One particularly strong pour and Qifrey might find his mind too far away to get a hold of himself.
Tonight, however, he drinks. For what he needs to do will require a steady wall to be punctured through. Not enough to turn him into branches and leaves, but nevertheless turn him vulnerable. The very prospect keeps his stomach in knots, which he imagines might serve to help him stay alive.
The night started off lovely, all casual chatter and exchanging of stories. The intimacies they’ve long shared have never been lost on Qifrey, and in truth it was on nights like these that Olruggio would notice the cracks and blemishes in Qifrey’s facade. Each time he realized he made the same face, and Qifrey began to know to expect an upcoming confrontation whenever it crossed his expression.
Qifrey, drink finished, sits on the edge of his bed while Olruggio spreads out on the rug. It takes a few concerned comments of his being far too old to lie on the floor without repercussions that he sits himself up and steers his way to Qifrey’s bed, leaning against the side of the mattress.
Something Qifrey has learned through his years of harboring this sapling is that while he cannot experience the elation of comfort and peace himself, he can readily bestow that feeling onto others. With a careful and steady hand, Qifrey reaches down to the back of Olruggio’s neck, softly rubbing circles around his nape and letting his fingers brush his hairline.
Never will Qifrey be able to repay Olruggio for the kindness he so graciously bestowed. Should he survive this miserable curse, still will Olruggio’s memories have been tampered with, still will he have forgotten himself more times than anyone should ever deserve. Qifrey’s dear, iridescent star, so full of love he turns the bitter world around him sweet. Always tempting Qifrey with a bite, always giving him every reason to fight and live on.
“Qifrey,” Olruggio half slurs, “you’ll put me to sleep like this.”
Qifrey doesn’t stop, but he does slow his petting. “I suppose it wouldn’t be a good idea for the girls to see you stumble from my room in the morning.”
“That too.” Olruggio wipes an eye with the base of his hand, then looks at Qifrey from the corner of his vision. “But you’ve been acting like you wanna say something since I got back.”
That comment does make Qifrey pause. He retreats his hand and places it on his knee, unsure why he’d ever think Olly wouldn’t notice. Qifrey has learned how to lie to him, indeed, but so too does he break. And while he cannot offer him a truth, in its stead he can mix lies and reality enough that his accursed parasite will be satisfied with his unease.
“I simply… I’ve been hoping I could ask you to curb your expectations of me,” Qifrey begins quietly. “You’ll find I’m no easy partner.”
Olruggio stares at him a moment. Then, he hefts himself from the floor and settles next to Qifrey, not quite close enough that they touch. “I’ve known you longer than nearly anyone. You won’t surprise me with something like that.”
Olruggio’s unceasing dedication in the face of Qifrey’s constant betrayals is a terrible burden to hold. It’s much to take in at once, his love and his passion.
But it proves to not yet be enough, so Qifrey continues, heart burning.
“I don’t know when I’ll be… better, for you. Or even how I could be.”
“I’ve got some work to do myself. We’ll find a way to work it out.”
Not enough. “Olly, I—” Qifrey’s words catch in his throat. It’s a terribly strained voice that speaks around them. “I don’t think I’m capable of loving you how I’m meant to right now. How I want to love, how anyone else would be able to. I am not—I am not as whole as you may need me.”
Olruggio reaches out a hand and cups Qifrey’s chin in his palm, thumb warm on his cheek, keeping him from spilling out anything more. He shares a long, hard look with Qifrey, and proves to be a fight to maintain the locked gaze. It may be the alcohol, or the weight of it all, but just the action makes Qifrey begin to sputter.
Olly uses his other hand to still Qifrey’s trembling lip. “That’s alright. That’s okay, Qifrey,” he says, voice so low and gentle it seems to resonate through the room. He smiles, a thin grin wrestling with concern. “All I need to know is that it’s alright if I still love you?”
A horrible writhing shakes Qifrey’s very bones as tears begin to shed. Hot and dripping over Olruggio’s fingers, he bites his lip back to keep any sobs from finding other ears. He cannot take all this love from Olruggio, it would be the death of him. He cannot take it.
Yet now, here Olruggio sits, asking for permission to give?
“Hey,” Olruggio continues, so achingly soft. “It’s okay?”
It’s a difficult, painful thing to be overcome with such emotion. Preparation pales in comparison to the rawness of it all, there is nothing but this very moment in his thoughts. So in spite of himself, in spite of it all, does Qifrey nod. And only the prickle of wood behind his skull brings him back to attention, reminding him that his fate is already sealed.
Qifrey swallows hard. He cannot bear to look at Olruggio a moment longer, dashing his gaze away to his own quivering hands. He cannot be done yet, he cannot end himself here. If what sits in front of him is all he wants, if Olruggio is the source of every idle comfort and soothing lullaby, then Qifrey must reject it in order to maintain it. He came here with something to do, and should he not, the both of them will be left with nothing but lumber.
“Would you—” Qifrey stutters quietly through his tears. “Would you please get me some tissues? I really hate to—I hate to cry like this.”
“Absolutely I can.” Olruggio glances around Qifrey’s room. He frowns at his bedside stand, his windowsill, his desk. “I’m sure I saw some downstairs. I’ll grab them for you.”
Olruggio quietly rushes into the hall. Of course he found nothing suitable here—Qifrey ensured his room would have nothing even resembling a rag that he might wipe away his tears with. Without sparing a second to compose himself, and in truth to do as much would be to his detriment, Qifrey retrieves a vial from within his robe and catches every teardrop he can salvage dripping from his chin, before tightly affixing the cap again and hiding it away before Olruggio’s return.
Bitter tears. Qifrey’s heart sinks from his throat and down through his stomach, nestling in his knotted gut. He’s done something terrible, using such love and tenderness to collect his sorrow for gain. But conjuring ink mixed with Olruggio’s love may be just enough to remove these sweet, intimate memories once and for all.
Olruggio returns with the tissues and stays by Qifrey until his skin dries and his eyes sting. Qifrey sends him away soon after with the excuse of alcohol’s miserable influences, and thereafter succeeds in not sleeping a wink until the sun begins to rise.
“I’ve been working on something for you.”
In the bright, sunny midday, just as Qifrey has set the girls loose outside the atelier to begin polishing a rusted old house down the way, Olruggio glides up from behind with a small satchel in hand.
Qifrey blinks, having hardly expected his company all the way out here. “For me?” He eyes the satchel, and as if on cue Olruggio holds it out in front of him, gesturing for Qifrey to take it. “What brought this on?”
“Open it up and I’ll tell you,” Olruggio says plainly. Qifrey gingerly takes the satchel upon his insistence, opening the flap to reveal a carefully wrapped trinket inside. Qifrey unfolds the cloth until sitting in his palm is a pen, adorned with buttons and small levers, looking as mechanical as it does magical.
“My! A new contraption?” Qifrey asks, pinching the pen between two fingers and rotating it about, giving it a once over from all different perspectives. “How very ornate. You’ll have to tell me what it does.”
“I’m getting to that.” Olruggio folds his arms snugly, seeming entirely satisfied with himself. “See the buttons? You press them down to activate different seals. They’ll hold there until you flick the lever beside ‘em.”
The buttons are both at the top of the pen, though one is higher than the other. The levers beside each are small enough to wedge a fingernail beneath to flip. At their miniature size, it must’ve been quite the feat to inscribe the seals into the nooks and crannies of the pen. Olruggio’s precise craftsmanship has never failed to impress. He next pulls out his palm quire and takes the pen from Qifrey, preparing a demonstration.
“Obviously it’s for writing. We start by pressing the top button,” Olruggio begins, doing just that. It clicks into place, and Olruggio scribbles something meaningless onto his pad. “As soon as you press it, the pen remembers every movement you make until you hit the lever again.” He flicks the spindle on top with his thumb and the button pops back out, just as he said. He turns the page of his quire and sets the pen down on the fresh one. “Then, if you hit this second button…”
The pen suddenly begins to move on its own, repeating the scribble Olruggio just completed onto the new page. He flips the other lever, turns the page, and presses the second button again—and the scribble repeats itself once more, all on its own.
Qifrey watches the pen with absolute delight. “That’s incredible,” he says, watching Olruggio’s expression lift at the praise.
“If you want to get it to write something new, just press the first button again and it’ll overwrite the old stuff.” Olly places the pen back into Qifrey’s hand, a marvel resting among the cloth. “It’s still a work in progress. I’m trying to make it less cumbersome to get the hang of, and if you’re not careful the pen will start writing on anything. So try to avoid edges, or you’ll end up with ink all over your desk. But for now—I’d like you to have the prototype.”
Qifrey raises his eyebrows. “Yes, I remember you saying it was for me,” he says, head beginning to tilt. “I suppose I’m just wondering what the occasion is?”
Bashfully, Olruggio wipes beneath his nose. “Well—y’see, I remember watching you write out those papers for the girls. Even with our lettering contraption you still need to write everything twice, so I thought…” he glances away, his timidity getting to him. “I thought this might make it a little easier on you, is all.”
“Oh.”
Qifrey stares down at the pen, so thoughtfully and meticulously made. Full of such love, too, absolutely bursting with it. Olruggio has always been one to notice some of the littler things about a person, that of which they even overlook themselves. He’ll offer a single gesture made up of dozens and dozens of actions, of intentions. A gift not just for giving’s sake, but to ease the way for those he cares for.
“Thank you, Olly,” Qifrey says, making an effort to keep his voice steady. “I’ll treasure it.” And for once, that is nothing but the truth.
“You don’t gotta treasure it. But, well, I’ll be glad if you use it.” Olruggio takes the satchel back from Qifrey and slings it over his shoulder, leaving him with the pen and its wrappings. “That’s what magic’s all about, huh?”
Qifrey is only granted a moment to bask in the light of his gift. For his attention is quickly overtaken by Tetia’s excited shouting from within the abandoned house.
“Master, come look! We think we found something rare,” she says, waving him over eagerly.
“I found it,” Richeh quietly huffs behind her. Tetia turns back and puts her hands on her hips.
“Well, it was Coco and I who managed to grab it, and Agott who polished it. So I think it’s a group find at this point!”
He spares the time to slide his precious pen into his robe before finding the girls, all bent over their newfound valuable and exchanging wonders of just what it is, how old it might be. The house itself is much brighter than it once was, old curios and novelties shining like new in silver and bronze.
Qifrey finds his heart rushed, almost palpitating. It’s hardly a thrum of curiosity, however, rather he fills with tensity and fear. He’s awfully unsure of what to do with all the love he feels, the love he’s given. And Qifrey is unsure, most of all, of what to do with the ones he holds so, so dear.
The pen is heavy in his pocket. The very weight of this kindness stays with Qifrey long after they take their trek back to the atelier, after they study and eat and part ways for the night. He keeps the pen with him all the while, close to his heart.
It’s not a comfort so much as it’s a signal.
Qifrey would not have made it this far if he didn’t love life.
If the world were as dull and gray as it felt when he was young, all would be different. His reality one confined to a box and the thrumming rain, waiting for the water to fill until he wouldn’t have to toil for his breaths any longer. Simple, short, and tragic.
For a long while, his only drive was his desire to remember. Understand where he came from, how his body came to function and breathe, how it could survive even against his own will. Qifrey saw the vibrancy of the world around him through foggy lenses, knowing it was no place he could fit in as he was. Qifrey lacked something everyone else had and off he ran to find it.
That ideal was, of course, crushed. For his parasite made itself known and both dissolved his passion for the past and his reason for living at all. Qifrey was ready to let his heart stop then and there, return to that wretched ground as his body turned to silver and his blood into ink.
Olruggio’s unyielding conviction condemned him then. To grant him life was to grant him suffering, pursuing this miserable path wrought with guilt and pain, all for the sake of experiencing the blandness of life a little more. Never truly at rest or at ease, a battle against all that is good just so his damned lungs might suck in air a day longer.
Yet Olruggio saved him, too. For as Qifrey trudged through each day with dourness and despair, Olruggio showed him just how vast the world really is. That life could be full of grassy fields and expanses of fresh air and the smell of cotton trees. Not just any life, either—Qifrey’s pathetic existence could hold on just as tight to living as anyone else’s did. He never lacked anything, not even once. His path is simply one much harder to travel.
So, so much of what Olruggio offered him was love. Olly’s love, balmy and twinkling and on display for all to see. So natural and intrinsic to him, that unique and flowing affection that radiates far and wide. It even rains down to those he’s never met—Qifrey remembers Coco’s story of her love of magic originating from Olly’s glowstones. How many others must he have charmed through his life, how much less love in the world would there be had he never been?
Qifrey has mixed his tears into a vial of conjuring ink. He’s set out his supplies and studied the seal’s design. Yet every time he tries to even pick up his pen, his stomach begins to flip and his chest tightens so strongly that he loses his breath and focus. It isn’t the silverwood that haunts him now, no. It’s himself.
Should Qifrey erase Olruggio’s love for him, how much would that take away? Olruggio first confessed to him while they were teenagers, and who could say the spell would only remove what’s perceived as romantic? Qifrey knows best how deeply the two of them are intertwined. Perhaps not all Olruggio did was for Qifrey, but long have they influenced each other, long has love floundered between them, long have they been each other’s inspiration and demise.
How much life can Qifrey take away from Olruggio for the sake of his own?
The new contraption prototype Olruggio gave him sits unused on his desk. For in trying to write with it, too, does his guilt begin to relentlessly feast on his insides. Again and again Qifrey accepts Olruggio’s love and devotion, and here he hopes to repay him by absolving him of the passion entirely?
Head beginning to ache, Qifrey puts the cap back on the inkwell and pushes it aside. He—he cannot have lost enough humanity to resort to this yet. He opens a drawer of his desk and pulls out an ornate box, shining softly with emeralds and pearls. Its base is inscribed with a seal only meant to open with the blood of who wrote it, and after pricking his finger on one of its sharp corners he lifts its lid.
Qifrey prefers to keep some of his more sensitive evidence from the brimmed caps in here, as well as research he’s done on his silvery disposition. It isn’t the most secure of seals, but its purpose has only been to keep the rest of the atelier’s curiosity away from its contents.
It takes him a few tries to get up the nerve to place the inkwell inside. It’s times like these, when his emotions become so mixed and complicated, that it’s difficult to discern what’s the right choice to quell his parasite’s pursuit. Qifrey could reasonably be relieved if he erased Olruggio’s memories, or he could be relieved that he could spare his dear, dear companion such a fate. Similarly, his anxiety could spike over being trapped in this dangerous relationship, or he could become forever guilt-ridden over the prospect of potentially changing Olruggio permanently.
He considers only once to do away with the ink entirely, an action that certainly does elicit a sense of relief, immediately wriggling through his body and dining on his tendons. Qifrey has come too far to entirely reject the plan, it seems. For his own sake, that reality may be better anyhow.
The vial eventually finds a home in the emerald box. Qifrey shuts the lid tight and returns it to its place within his desk, locking the drawer it sleeps in. The spell will become his last resort, then. If all is nearly lost and there’s nothing more he can do, surely the guilt from this decision would be enough to save Qifrey a lifetime, and then some.
Oh, how sweetly Olly asked if he could be allowed to love Qifrey. Would it have been better if he had told him no, and should that be true, could Qifrey have even made himself tell him so? It wasn’t only Olruggio’s love for Qifrey that saved him, Qifrey’s returned affection is what turned him into something whole. What guided him to this atelier and all the joys inside, to each of his lovely girls and the pride he feels for them. If Qifrey survives this curse without Olruggio, how would he even go on in such a hollow life?
Qifrey wanders to his bed and lies down, legs hanging over the side. Head just slightly more clear than he’s managed in quite some time, it’s obvious that he could run into significant trouble if he erased so much memory of Olruggio’s, too. It isn’t a choice to be made without careful consideration, it… It must remain his contingency plan and nothing more. But thus it will still remain, hanging over his head indefinitely, that little secret in his drawer.
It’s hard to know how long he’ll be able to last in this state. Months, weeks, or only days? Will Olruggio begin to want more from him, proper love and care, and where will Qifrey possibly find the strength to push him away?
As he always does, he’ll make sure his days are busy. Fill himself to the brim with work and study and planning. If there is to be no end to it, only then might he survive this harrowing development.
Olruggio’s kindness, innocence, devotion—they could all very well be the death of Qifrey. Though if he is fated to go someday, lost in the arms of his partner would surely be a comfort unlike any other.
Should he have the chance to defy that fate, however, he will. And he will use every tool at his disposal, every morsel of knowledge he’s obtained, to fight back again, and again, and again.
If this is how he must live to love his life, then so be it. Qifrey was born to live just as much as any other creature, and he will earn his keep.
For he has nothing else but life.