Archive of Our Own

“Congrats on passing the fourth test, you two!”

Olruggio grins. Qifrey shifts, fidgeting with his hands, unsure of the attention he’s receiving.

Sure, he’s graduating from Beldaruit’s care: his (former) professor, who is currently in tears and babbling on about something embarrassing that Qifrey can’t manage the energy to stop. There’s a familiar discomfort accompanied with it all, a sensation that grows with Beldaruit’s admittance that he was proud of Qifrey.

He had not expected the mini-celebration. He did foresee Beldaruit’s awful doting over the teacup he spent ages designing that he awkwardly presented to his professor. It's now displayed with all its glory.

Sure, it was only acquaintances who were there - close friends and all - but that doesn’t mean he’s comfortable with this development. He can barely handle Beldaruit. He cannot handle anyone else.

Olruggio doesn’t seem to mind, though. He laughs at something Alaria says, eyes scrunching up the way they do when he’s genuine. He’s always sociable, munich unlike Qifrey himself: he absorbs the life that’s given to him, a star, constantly expanding.

Like everything else they’ve done, they took the fourth test together. Of course, they were individually assessed; but they scheduled their tests so that their time slots would almost coincide. There wasn’t much to worry about, and it felt almost like a formality for the two of them. It was another excuse, to study together, to laugh alongside Olruggio, to allow himself to be pulled into Olruggio’s orbit.

Qifrey’s not sure what to do with this newfound independence. It’s supposed to be a milestone, and he supposes he should be a lot cheerier about achieving so much.

He feels like he’s viewing everything from a distance. No one makes the active effort to approach him, which he appreciates, to an extent. So he simply observes, detached from it all, comfortable with the lack of connection that’s keeping him alive.

So what if he’s passed the fourth test? Nothing is going to change, in the grander scheme of things. Order is maintained by his suffering, and he will continue to hurt and take, the greed that represents him.

It’s how it's meant to be. This isn’t anything to celebrate, really. It’s just another ordinary day.

He’s drowning, when quietly, Olruggio returns to Qifrey’s side. They observe their own celebration from the side. Olruggio, leaning against the wall, peers up at the Argentgard’s magnificent silverwood. It stretches and twists, greedy for love, to be held, to be used.

“...Well, we’ve done it.”

“I suppose so.”

“So, uh…” Olruggio’s arm goes up, pauses like what he wanted to fidget with wasn’t there, and scratches his neck. He takes a deep breath.

“Are we. Um. Building that atelier?”

He- he looks at Qifrey, and now Qifrey’s roots are startling awake, queasiness in his stomach getting worse. He hates this. He hates the way that Olruggio makes him feel, the way Olruggio’s cheeks have a faint tint to him, the way he’s clearly nervous. Despite it all, Olruggio doesn’t let his eyes steer away from Qifrey. It’s those eyes, that know him inside out, that drive him insane, that haunts Qifrey.

They’ve spent nights fantasizing of their grand escape, of a home for themselves, under the grandeur of the stars. They’ve talked and talked about it, of spreading their wings beyond the oppressive depths of the sea. They’ve imagined how their mornings would go and what kind of days they would have together. Qifrey had not thought he would have time like this to think about his own future, to be able to look over the horizon: but Olruggio had always pushed him to his absolute limit. It’s so close to their reach, now.

An atelier of their own. A lifetime spent with the physical manifestation of Qifrey’s sins, his inability to atone.

In the grander scheme of things, nothing changes. A meaningless sort of change.

“I… I would like that, yes.”

He wants this. He needs this. He needs so bad it hurts, and it threatens to spill out of his chest, but he’s learned to control himself a long time ago.

“Okay.” Olruggio exhales. “Alright.”

Their fingertips brush, slowly, Olruggio grasps Qifrey’s hand. And Qifrey lets it happen, indulges in his destructive desires. Olruggio wears a bashful expression, and Qifrey’s sure he does too.

It feels like the silverwood lets out a joyful cheer with this development, and it grows, grows.

Qifrey wants. He wants and it’s all he ever does, reaching for the stars. He wants. He wants to be the one there to tell Olruggio good morning, he wants to be the one that Olruggio consults over contraptions. He wants Olruggio to be there when he gushes about dragons. He wants Olruggio to be the one he shares his meals with, a hobby that developed out of their escapades.

And it’s that want that the parasite latches onto. It devours him. Qifrey’s love, his desires, consumed. It leaves Qifrey empty, starving.

It’s dangerous. It’s dangerous, the way his heart leaps for joy at the slightest bit of contact, at the information that only Qifrey can make Olruggio like this, a nervous wreck full of adornment for him. It’s dangerous, because he knows what it will lead to, that he knows it will lead to the piling of corpses, Olruggio’s blood all over him, twisting both of them beyond recognition.

Qifrey doesn’t think he can endure hurting Olruggio even more.

The following morning, Qifrey had left the Great Hall, with not one note regarding his whereabouts.

-

Harsh wind beats against Qifrey’s figure as he treks through the snow. With each step, he crushes the ground beneath him with a crunch. The sky is downcast; if he does not find shelter soon, he will get caught in a storm.

It’s stupid. It’s incredibly stupid, Qifrey knows this. But he couldn’t bear it anymore - the image of his dearest friend, of his body sprawled out, limp and fragile and unaware. The bodies that pile up, the vial of tears that are used and refilled - he cannot bear the repetition any longer, the sensation of hurting Olruggio.

He’s used the windowway many, many times, enough to lose count. He knows its combinations by heart, days exploring with Olruggio filling the expanse of his mind.

He just needed to get somewhere far away. So he traveled somewhere north, which he is regretting now, his hands red and aching from the unrelenting snow. The way that it stuck to his skin was almost akin to water, and he could feel his roots subsiding, good.

He really should’ve left with a plan, but can you blame him? It was too much. He couldn’t subject Olruggio to it all. He just couldn’t.

Yet, as his feet are almost sweeped off by a gust of unbearably freezing wind, he wishes he had Olruggio’s pyreball by his side; he always kept Qifrey warm. He was always awfully frantic in the winter, never leaving Qifrey’s side. Qifrey hadn’t questioned it then. It just meant it was harder to keep Olruggio ignorant of his own predicament, because he was far more perceptive in the season.

His mind always wanders to Olruggio. He can’t help it, not really. It feels a little counterintuitive, because his spontaneous decision to travel was precisely so he could rid himself from Olruggio’s side. What good will it do if he thinks about Olruggio now? He’s not going to see him again.

Eventually, Qifrey reaches an rather shoddy-looking village. Some of the buildings are destroyed beyond repair, but not removed entirely. It’s so empty that it’s almost a little terrifying, a ghost of the life it once had. Yet, he notices a multitude of buildings, seemingly rebuilt. They’re illuminated by the faint glow of a fire. When Qifrey gets closer, he notices beastwards are littered everywhere.

He supposes he has no choice - the weather is worsening, anyways - biting his pride, he goes up to one of the houses, pulling his arm up to knock against the wooden doors. Before he could, though, the door is opened in one, quick motion.

“What are you doing out there? Just- come in before it gets worse-”

Qifrey looked like a mess. Snow piled up on his shoulders, and he hadn’t noticed until now, but he was shaking. He stood awkwardly, which only seemed to agitate the villager further.

Ushered in by the stranger, Qifrey gets a good look into the expanse of their home. It’s cozy: unwashed mugs litter the table, blankets sprawled over the floor, the fireplace, crackling with vigor. A working space, where sketches are sprawled all throughout, unorganized paints and canvases surrounding the premise. It’s the mess achievable of someone who creates, the comfort found in the familiarity of their own bad habits.

They emerge from the deeper crevices of the home with a towel in hand, almost throwing it onto Qifrey in a frenzied state.

Qifrey realized he hadn't said anything throughout the entire interaction. A bit bashful, he mutters out his gratitude: “Sorry. Thank you for this.”

“There’s no need to apologize.”

There’s an awfully uncomfortable silence between them.

“Um… Are these your paintings?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I haven’t been able to finish this one - I really should, since it’s a commission… My lines don’t.. I don’t know, flow? As well in the cold.”

“It’s beautiful. And quite intricate, as well… Your brushstrokes are rather precise, and the vibrance brought out by the blues-”

“Okay, Okay! Thanks, but it’s unfinished, so don’t look at it too close.” Embarrassed, they cover their face with their calloused hands. Qifrey smiles, as if to disarm them.

Art. Commissions. Qifrey has always found the care put into craft as something… beautiful. He’s tried his hand at it, but Olruggio had always been the better of the two, filling Qifrey’s life with contraptions radiating of warmth.

“Um. That aside, care to explain why you’re traveling in the middle of a snowstorm?”

“Oh! I was partaking in some… soul searching, I suppose.” I wanted to get as far as I can from someone close to me.

“Sure. No sane individual would come up to Noz, of all places. That’s all there is to it?”

“Huh?”

“Don’t you know? It’s mostly abandoned. Really, I only think it’s a few of us that still reside up here. Especially in the winter.”

Qifrey supposes that explains the decay he witnessed. They take his silence as a means to continue.

“Yeah. A few years back, there was a particularly bad winter. Been pretty empty since then. It was pretty infamous, since some witches lost their lives to it-”

“Witches?” Qifrey doesn’t have his hat on, at the moment, which makes his interjection seem a bit strange.

“...You really don’t know?”

A few years ago. It’s not specific enough. Had it happened before or after his eye was stolen? (Which is a twisted metric, in of itself). Could this be related to Olruggio? He’s heard the rumors, as much as he tried to avoid them: something along the lines of Olruggio, a tragedy, a snowstorm up north. It checks the boxes. He’s a bit apologetic, but he can’t help but pry.

“No.”

“Uhh… well, there were massive casualties because of a sudden blizzard. The village wasn’t really prepared, and a beast attacked, too.”

“I was also… Well, I only made it thanks to a witch. They found me, and warmed me right up, really. Just a kid, too.” A sense of fondness radiates, despite the dreary memories. “I still remember that fire. It shone so brightly, ‘tore me out of a haze.”

This… This has to be- it has to be him. And it’s no surprise that it is, is it? Olruggio has shone since their very first meeting. Of course he was bright like that, even before Qifrey knew him.

Olruggio always leaves something behind for Qifrey to pick up. It’s not something Olruggio can help, but a part of Qifrey likes to think that it was meant to be this way, so Qifrey could experience those fractions of warmth, to have something to look forward to.

To be sure, he asks for confirmation: “Do you remember them? The, uh, witch-“

“Huh? I mean, not really. I was in a pretty bad state, it was a miracle enough that I survived. But others weren’t so lucky, so…”

“Ah.”

“Since then, the village’s been pretty dead. There’s not a lot left - some families visit, but it’s not as sustainable as before.”

“...I see. My apologies for prying, then.”

“You apologize a lot, huh?” They scoff. “It’s fine. ‘S not everyday we get visitors.”

They fall into a comfortable sort of silence, their gaze reminiscent, of times more simpler, of times less difficult. They have the eyes of an artist- perceptive, when they want to be, kind at the core, and so, so full of life, and Qifrey sees the visage of Olruggio, of the touch of life the latter holds. A star.

“Soulsearching, huh?”

Qifrey casts his gaze aside, avoidant.

“Yes. It’s… Well, one could say I’m searching for a home.” He doesn’t know what home will look like, without Olruggio. He doesn’t want to know the comforts it’ll bring, the roots that will grow. He doesn’t need a home.

“… you look like you’re barely an adult. What kind of parent would-“

“No, no. It’s, out of my own volition. No one’s at fault, it’s just. That. It’s…” he should not be voicing these thoughts.

“It’s better if. I’m not in the picture.”

They take a pause at this, and Qifrey feels like he’s being scrutinized; he doesn’t deserve this concern, no, don’t look at me like that-

“I like it here.”

“… sorry?” Qifrey snaps out of his spiral.

“I don’t think I can abandon Noz. It’s home. Always will be.”

“I hope that you’ll find someplace like that, one day.”

Home. It’s familiar and unfamiliar, beautiful and terrifying. Qifrey hopes that it stays far, far away from him, and wonders if Olruggio wanted their atelier to be “home, “ if Qifrey’s roots would determine it as a beautiful resting place.

-

Qifrey is gone, and Olruggio has no idea what to do.

It was a day, at first. Then two, then three, and an entire week. He just… vanished. Olruggio knows that Qifrey has the tendency to leave on random spurts of energy, but it was always alongside Olruggio, always with him. And if it wasn’t- Olruggio made it very, very clear that he should at least let someone know.

He checks. He checks the library, observes the dining hall, Qifrey’s room, for anything. There’s no note, and the only trace of evidence is the absence. The absence of his ridiculous boots, awfully thin cloak, writing supplies, and pointed hat. There is a presence missing; and it’s driving Olruggio insane.

He can’t help but feel like he’s done something wrong. Should he have read into Qifrey more? He knows Qifrey was acting off - he knows his expressions at heart - but he didn’t ask. There was no need for it, he had given up his search, so why did he leave without leaving as much as a note? What is he supposed to do in the absence of the person that makes him whole?

Olruggio wasn’t enough for Qifrey. Is that it? Is that all there is to it?

Somehow, Olruggio knows that’s not right either. It doesn’t make sense. He knows that it’s not a lie, to say that Qifrey needs him as much as Olruggio does. He knows it’s not a lie, because there was a point in their life when they were a little more honest to each other, and he knows that Qifrey appreciates those days as much as he does.

Olruggio’s more than enough for Qifrey. The root of the problem is him, isn’t it?

Olruggio likes to think he has an eye for noticing mannerisms. From stuck-up adults (though he supposes he is one of them, now) and companions close to his age, he’s always observed their expressions, what makes them tick, what makes them appreciative. He’s seen the ways Qifrey speaks, and it’s something full of self-hatred, of I don’t deserve you, Olly and- well. He doesn’t remember the rest.

It has to be something along those lines. If he’s given up his vengeance towards the brimmed hats, then it has to be that; his loathing for himself, sourced in Olruggio. Qifrey doesn’t want to be saved, doesn’t let himself feel loved, and Olruggio wants to tell Qifrey that’s not it, to urge Qifrey to let loose rather than wallow in his self hatred.

But Olruggio pushed too hard, and Qifrey distanced himself once again. It happened before, the days after the challenging the Tower of Tomes where Qifrey wouldn’t look Olruggio in the eye, spurts of avoidance that Olruggio had to work with.

He knows that Qifrey needs him. Yet, he feels himself drown in doubt, in dread, because it’s his fault Qifrey’s left, his fault for not prying into Qifrey and instead pushing him, his fault that he can’t save him. That he’s needed, but not needed enough to be trusted, to be relied on.

His worries rage like an unwavering fire, consuming him whole. If he loses Qifrey, now, of all times- he doesn’t know what he'd do.

If he can’t save Qifrey, if Qifrey feels like he can’t love him, then what worth does Olruggio have?

Nobody else notices Qifrey’s absence. Maybe it’s because there’s no master to tell them off anymore, because of the change. Because of the fourth trial, because their dreams were finally achievable, because they were finally about to grasp at their future, it was torn to shreds by the person who’s half of that aspiration.

Qifrey is gone, and Olruggio has no idea what to do.

-

It’s been a month or two, and the snow has begun to melt, though not completely. Qifrey saunters along a trail near the sea. If he squints, he thinks he’ll be able to spot Cape Romonon.

Recently, his body had begun to ache in an all-too familiar fashion. He recognizes the way it feels like something is growing, and he knows it’s the silverwood. Is it traveling alone that provides this much relief? He has an ongoing hypothesis as to why, but he doesn’t want to accept it.

At the very least, the faint but ever-present cacophony of waves crashing against land is more than enough fear for its intensity to waver. This doesn’t mean it isn’t troublesome; he’s taking far more breaks than he did previously.

He takes a moment to lean against a fingerpost at the side of the trail. Exhaustion settles into him; his head in hands, he lets out a deep sigh, slumping against his support. Reaching for his hat, he slips the pointed cap off of his head, setting it onto his lap. Twiddling with the tassel, he shuts his eyes, closes himself off. In his migraine, he does not recognize the shadow cast upon his figure, nor the footsteps that accompany it.

“Are you okay, sir? You kinda look like you’re dying.”

“Custas, choose your words more carefully-“

When Qifrey looks up, he’s greeted by the curious expression worn by a young boy, and what seems to be his father. He can’t be any more than seven. Briefly, Qifrey ponders what he must have been like at the boy’s age. He shuts those thoughts down quickly.

The father(?), seemingly apologetic for the bluntness of his child, paces behind. His exasperation doesn’t reach his eyes, which are filled with fondness.

Qifrey musters a smile. “I’ll be alright. Thank you for your worries, dear.” Getting off of the ground, he dusts his cloak off. He bites down the pang of pain that accompanies it.

“Um… What’s your name, sir?” Judging by the sparkling eyes of… Custas, if he’s heard that right, he supposes he has no choice but to introduce himself. Setting his cap back onto his head, Qifrey tries not to embarrass himself even more in front of these strangers.

“Call me Qifrey. I’m… a bit aimless, at the moment, a wanderer of sorts.”

“That hat.. By any chance, are you a witch?” The taller of the pair questions.

“...Quite so.”

“Okay, okay, my turn!”

“I’m Custas! And this,” The boy pulls at his father(?), beckoning the taller figure. “Is Dagda. My business partner!”

Business partner…? Well, it works.

Dagda, placing his hand on Custas’ shoulder, smiles politely. “We’re minstrels. Snowfall has just passed, so we’re on our way back from our performance - to collect more stories for next year.”

“Yup! Dagda’s the best. He plays the roundlute waay better than me…” Custas grumbles, muttering something along the lines of one day I'll surpass him…

Despite all the traveling Qifrey used to do with Olruggio, he still has much to learn about the outside world- music, in particular, always managed to avoid him.

“As Custas inquired… Are you alright, sir? You weren’t looking too swell.”

“Ah, I’m.. alright. It’ll pass relatively quickly, and- this is normal for me.”

“Hmm…” Custas whines, deep in thought.

“Oh, Dagda, let’s play something for him! What’s that thing you always say? Um, music is.. Soothing? It reaches people, right! Please?”

“Yes, you’d be correct.” Dagda ruffles Custas’s hair, and the boy giggles. Redirecting his attention to Qifrey, he inquires, “Well? Care for a song, sung by another pair of travellers?”

“Well, I’m not sure if-“

“Please?”

Though comfort is the last thing Qifrey needs, he nods. He can’t deprive them of this, not when Custas looks at him with pleading eyes, not when they believe they can be of help. It’d be cruel to reject them- isn’t it cruel to reject Olruggio? Qifrey can’t deprive them from their art- but isn’t that what he’s doing to Olruggio? Leeching off of his dearest companion?

Slipping his extravagant, well-used roundlute out of his belongings, Dagda positions himself towards his audience. Custas readies his stance, bells in hand.

“I shall sing of a story without meaning, of the remnant tunes of a tale lost to time.”

With this introduction as a signal, they spring to life.

The melody is beautifully tragic- drawing Qifrey into the world they color. Custas’ steps are careful, precise, practiced- accompanied with the tone of Dagda’s voice, seeping from experience.

Dagda’s voice is- it’s pained. It has the wear of someone who has fought for their survival, and a sense of- tragedy, Qifrey supposes, washes over him. Rather than comfort, it’s deep sadness, and he’s not sure where it comes from. The song is melancholic, to him; Custas’s bright smile, Dagda’s calculated expression, it paints a picture, of the closeness, of a life they built together, of joy for a tale not even they comprehend, of a celebration of its survival, carved out by musicians of yore, given life.

When Custas joins in the duet, his voice is bright, spunky, a rebellion in its own. It contrasts the sullen tone that Dagda sings with, the brightness of a child who loves, of a child who’s learning. Their voices come together, and Qifrey’s chest pangs, his migraine lost to him, as the two sing their hearts out.

The lyrics are lost to him - as they said, it’s… incomprehensible, but not in a bad way, not really. The language is old, incredibly so- and perhaps there’s a word or two that Qifrey recognizes within it, but he’s lost, beyond that. Still, he feels that the language is not needed, not really. He can feel the intimacy in every beat, in every motion, in every crescendo and every entrance, the power of Custas’ voice and anchor Dagda provides.

By the time they finish their song, Qifrey… pauses. He’s not really sure what to do, but his eyes are welling with tears, and-

“Did you not… like it?” Custas frowns.

Qifrey’s such a mess.

“Sorry, Sorry… It’s not that, I’m just… That was incredible. These are… happy tears, I promise.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Sometimes, people cry when they’re touched. It means your song got through, Custas.”

“Well, if Dagda says so!” Shining at the praise, Custas breaks into a bright grin.

Perhaps the silverwood grows, then, but his pain is relieved, if only in this moment.

Custas whispers something in Dagda’s ear before running off. Qifrey and Dagda observe him from a distance, as he runs across the field, stopping at the sprouts beginning to grow with the gradual end of winter.

“The song you sang. It really was beautiful.”

“Oh, “ Dagda responds, “thank you. It was passed down to me, you see.”

“It’s lost its meaning generations ago. Some say it’s a retelling of the tree and star. Though, that poem has far clearer arrangements, so no one is truly aware of this song's origins. There’s multiple variations, though the one we’ve played fits best as a duet- Ah. Sorry, I’m boring you, aren’t I?”

“There’s no need to worry. I find this quite interesting, actually- you say that it has it’s… origins, in the tree and star?”

“Yes- though interpretations of the poem vary. Many i’ve come across have called the extended metaphor strange - a tree, of all things.” It seems the part with the ink was left out, for outsiders.

Dagda continues: “Of course, that’s only one interpretation. The language is far too outdated for there to be substantial proof. When one learns this iteration of the tale, they memorize the syllables, rather than understand what they’re saying…. It’s the emotion, mostly, that’s emphasized. Of what it makes the musician feel.”

Qifrey had never liked that poem, because it wasn’t enough. Likening the stars to ships… It wasn’t enough, it didn’t capture the importance of the guiding torch, of the burning light. Like- Like Olruggio.

The silverwood’s love, it doesn’t come across as much as it should. It doesn’t rip through the pages, it doesn’t represent the way that it grows and grows, the way it yearns so much that it’d offer its life up, that Qifrey would give himself up to Olruggio any day.

Yet, if the song that Dagda and Custas were truly meant to encompass that tale, he supposes he doesn’t mind it, just this once.

“He’s quite the lively child.” Qifrey shifts the attention to Custas.

“...Indeed. I always find myself fretting for him- I suppose that’s what it’s like, having someone to look after. It fills me with anxiety, oftentimes.”

Anxiety… Qifrey notes this in the back of his mind for no particular reason at all.

Dagda continues, his expression softening. “He’s… I can’t help but ponder on the ways he’s let me grow. As if fate allowed me to stay by his side.”

“Fate?”

“Yes. It seems silly, doesn’t it?”

“No, it’s… it’s lovely. It just feels… far too cruel, at times.” It’s cruel, if it’s fate. Because that means that Olruggio and Qifrey were always supposed to meet. Because it means that Qifrey was given a trial of warmth, only for it to expire in front of his eyes. Because it means that Olruggio bended something as concrete as fate, by circumventing Qifrey’s fate to a life of solitude, by stretching out Qifrey’s life by tenfold, by giving Qifrey a future.

“Ah. That’s how it always is, isn’t it?” And maybe it’s because Qifrey is talking to someone who knows the pains of life, he nods.

“...I was meant to have Custas as family. I wouldn’t trade anything in the world, for him.”

Dagda caresses the roundlute in his hand, shifting his gaze back towards Custas, smiling softly.

“I can only hope he knows how much I care for him. For him to earn something he can call a home.”

“...I’m sure he knows, with a father as attentive as you.”

Dagda pauses, as if shocked, before laughing.

“Thank you.”

And maybe- maybe home comes in the form of a person. Qifrey can attest to this, from the way that Dagda looks at Custas, a family strung together by the whims of fate.

Maybe, home comes in the form of a person.

-

Olruggio crumples his spell up, letting a frustrated grown out. He rubs at his eyes - he hasn’t slept well, not since Qifrey left.

It’s excruciatingly lonely; between searching for Qifrey’s whereabouts and, his commissions, he doesn’s have time to spare for himself. He can’t help but want to give it all up, dedicate everything to finding Qifrey again, and yet- he can’t help but fear really finding Qifrey, only for his body to be cold against his grasp, only to be met with decay, with his own faults, with why didn’t you save them earlier, you caused this mess-

He shouldn’t be thinking about this. He picks up his pen, rather begrudgingly, and draws.

He’s… always drawing. He’s been doing this since he was a kid, when his voice was pitched a little higher, when he used to think he could be useful. He would draw and draw, and absorb the praise that he didn’t deserve, and draw some more.

After Noz, his hands would shake when he picked up his pen, when he tried but nothing would really come out, And it was Qifrey, then, that brought out his precise lines, that snapped him back to reality; it was Qifrey, who gave him worth.

And since then, he’d draw even more. To best Qifrey. To awe Qifrey, to see if he’ll crack a smile. A dragon, made out of boiling water. A sword to cut its path through rain.

Olruggio always drew his contraptions for Qifrey.

So the absence of him is strange, and it’s abnormal, because he doesn’t have anyone to talk to (as pathetic as that is). He’d trot to Qifrey’s room, excited to share his breakthrough, only to be met with piling dust, with an absence, with someone lost to snow once more, the cold overwhelming, hypothermic fear swelling in his body, and his lines are shaking again, he can’t save anyone, he can’t atone for his mistakes-

His conjuring ink falls over, spilling over his drawings.

Well, it’s back to the chopping block for him, he supposes. He scratches his neck, getting up to find something to wipe his desk with. When it’s clean enough to his standards, he sits back down, stretches a little, and hunches, staring at the new, blank sheet of paper.

….Olruggio continues to draw. It’s all he has, and deadlines are coming up. The faster he finishes his work, the faster he can go look for Qifrey, aimlessly chasing after the remnants of the latter’s presence.

-

It happened again.

Curled up into a ball, Qifrey sighs shakily. He grasps at the ground, claws at it, the dirt getting underneath his nails. He anchors himself, but it’s difficult to stay awake, not when his body reacts so viscerally, not when he’s losing against his overwhelming senses.

He was fine, at first. But then he started thinking about Olruggio, of how he must be faring without Qifrey, of the friends he’ll make because he knows Olruggio is brighter than he gives himself credit, of Olruggio, happy, solace from the eternal cycle of memory erasure.

Of Olruggio, who’s allowed to be happy.

It seems to be enough for the silverwood and Qifrey wallows in the curses bestowed upon him, by the brimmed and pointed hats. By the witch who stole his eye, the witch that offered his own.

He’s surrounded by it; the Forest of Thristas looms in his view, laughing at his demise, as it always does. The dead silverwood beckon him to join. Qifrey hacks up blood, and when he looks up, his eyes struggle to focus, until-

A ribbon.

An image of young Olruggio looms upon him, and Qifrey knows that he must be going crazy, because he’s not even real, and it’s smiling, as if to say this is what you get for breaking our promise. As if it’s saying Qifrey can’t live without him, because the curse was their union, really.

“Why…”

You didn’t think it’d be so simple, did you? It grins at him, memory spell in hand, a palm quire.

“I didn’t, I’m sorry, I just couldn’t keep hurting you, I couldn’t bear it-”

Really, Qifrey. Doubting my genius like that! It takes its hat off.

“But it’s my fault- it’d be better if I died then, if I just-”

I told you then, didn’t I? It unclasps the tassel from its hat.

“You did, but how am I supposed to be happy if it ends with your pain-”

You’re stuck with me. You’re bearing the full brunt. It clasps the tassel to Qifrey’s hat.

“Olly, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

Really, you can’t do anything without me, even now!

Qifrey halts awake.

Sweat is dripping from his forehead. He’s disoriented- he doesn’t know where he is and Olruggio is haunting him, taunting him for a promise severed. Out of the corner of his eye, something reaches for him- he swats it away, in panic-

“Woah- uhm, easy, there.”

Oh.

A young man meets Qifrey’s eyes. His hand is extended out towards Qifrey- the one Qifrey just hit.

“I’m-”

“So sorry!” The man finishes, his voice far louder than Qifrey’s. “I shouldn’t have done that, you were panicking- it was wrong of me, and-”

“No, it’s-”

“Sai! Did the witch wake up?”

“Hey, you were supposed to go fetch more water-”

“And miss the opportunity to talk to the stranger we picked up? No way-”

The pair of strangers argue like this for a while, and Qifrey can’t get a word in- only observing the fastening pace of their dispute, until it gets a little unbearable, letting out a cough.

The two pause.

“Go. Fetch the water.”

“...’kay…”

The man returns to a more composed state, though antsy. “Sorry about that. My brother can be a bit… Overwhelming. I was hoping he wouldn’t bother you too much.”

“That’s fine. If you don’t mind asking me, what…”

“Ah, well- we found you in a rather hazy state. You were muttering something, and then- well, you dropped to the ground, and my brother and I rushed you home. You were heating up, but… You’re faring much better, now. I’m glad.”

“Ah. Well- Thank you for that. I suppose I’ve made a fool of myself…”

“My brother’s fetching something to drink, or if you’d like to cool yourself down, we can wet a rag-”

“No. Um, I’ll just take the drink. Thank you. I’m so sorry for this…”

“There’s no need to apologize! More importantly, are you-”

“I got it!” The younger brother shows up, seemingly having spilled water on himself over the rush. He sets the container down with a small thud, running out, and returns with a cup. After hastily pouring the water. He presents it to Qifrey, shoving it in front of his face.

“.. Thank you.”

“Of course!” The older brother sneers at his sibling, who giggles before pulling in a chair for himself. Qifrey is surrounded by the two, in a bed that is not his own. This is a rather uncomfortable predicament- though the least he can do is listen to the people who were kind enough to let him stay in their lodgings.

The younger’s eyes twinkle, and he goes on a barrage of questions. “So you’re a witch, right? We found your hat in your belongings. I’ve seen some before, in passing- do you do commissions? Can you show us? Actually, why not work for us? Like the stories of monarchs and witches. Why’d you pass out, anyways? And-

“Don’t overwhelm him with so many questions-”

“Hah! But you want to know too, don’t you?” He nudges at his older brother, who’s exasperated.

“Um, it’s alright. Yes, I’m a witch. No, I’m not doing commissions - though someone close to me is - I’m travelling, though I’ve aided villages along the way. If you need any aid, I can see where my capabilities lie, though we cannot collaborate further than that- it’d go against the pact.”

“And… I passed out because I miscalculated, is all.”

The younger snaps his fingers, eyes twinkling with enthusiasm. “You answered all my questions!”

“That I did, yes.”

“I’m really sorry about him. “ the older interjects.

“Don’t think I've given up on you! After all, I’ve always desired to work alongside a witch!” The younger exclaims.

“Don’t give him more to worry about-”

“Hey, if you’re travelling, then that means you’ve seen the sea, right?” The younger brother, somehow, finds even more energy in him to interject.

“...Yes.” Its vastness terrifies him, still, and it’s exactly what he needs.

“Really?” Both questions, at the same time.

“So you’ve traveled across it? Hey, have you ever left Zozah?”

“Um… No. I’ve seen ships in passing, though-”

“Ships! You mean- You mean you’ve seen caravels, then? The large ones that loom over you, larger than sailboats-”

“Well, Yes-”

“Hah! That’s- that’s so cool- I’ve seen ferries in person before, but never an actual caravel- well, not in person, at least-” the younger of the siblings goes on a tangent, for awhile, eyes sparkling in excitement

Qifrey’s never met anyone so enthused by- ships, of all things. He’s met outsiders who gush of the conveniences of magic (which always leaves a bitter aftertaste of sorts), or their specific craft, but never… Shipbuilding. Observing the way he babbles on, from the way the older brother looks at their sibling, he supposes this isn’t a recent development, but one stretched out across their lives, a constant.

It’s then, when he finally decides to look around at his environment closer; the room is littered with replicas of ships in bottles, compact yet precisely remade, seemingly with the correct measurements. Books, notebooks, and materials are strewn across the room. It’s almost reminiscent of reduction spells - how they’re making these replicas without them, Qifrey has no idea.

Olruggio asked him, once. If he’d ever consider leaving Zozah entirely. Qifrey doesn’t remember the specifics- perhaps they were on a nightly outing, gazing at the stars with a meal in hand. Or perhaps they were hanging out in Olruggio’s room, illuminated by the lowlight of a pyreball’s flame, laying beside each other. But Qifrey remembers Olruggio’s hushed tone, the casual intimacy between them.

Back then- Qifrey had said something like I don’t think I could handle being surrounded by the sea. Olruggio blinks at this, like he hadn’t considered that. And Qifrey would add something, like maybe if you were there with me. And Olruggio would respond of course you’d be there with me, like it was the most obvious thing. And they’d laugh, bump their heads against each other.

Qifrey can feel the aches creeping up at him.

“It’s my dream - to sail the world, see what’s beyond Zozah Peninsula. And one day, It’ll be in my hands. I’ll have a large ship, all for myself, equipped with the best technology money can buy, a whole crew to command- and my brother! See, he helped me make the ships in bottles over there-”

“How many times do I have to say I don’t want to go with you?”

“But you won’t refuse, will you?” The younger brother laughs.

The way they talk about this dream, like it’s achievable, like they can take it in full stride… Qifrey… Doesn’t understand, in all his honesty .To him, his dreams were always best left unachieved, shut tightly away from his view. He was never meant to be saved- and the future he has now is a miracle in of itself, accredited to Olruggio, of course.

So Qifrey interjects: “Perhaps… It’s good to rein your desires back, on occasion.”

“ But desire is noble, isn’t it?” The younger argues back.

“..Noble?”

“It’s what gets the world to run, isn’t it? Desire for money. For fame. For dreams to be achieved, for the countless companions you’re sure to make. For a lover. Even you, witch- are travelling out of desire.”

“If you can’t rid yourself of it, why not embrace it? Would you not want to grasp what’s in your reach? I’m full of desire, but you are too, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, maybe you have too much…” The younger laughs boisterously at his brother’s grumbling.

Qifrey thinks that desire is a dirtier thing. It claws at your skin, the overwhelming weight of wanting. It’s suffocating, and it’s what Qifrey is filled with, always. The desire to be held, the desire to be loved- and to have the love given to him, to share it with the people around him.

But when it’s put into words by the boy, it seems pure, the way he sees it; the rawness of the human composition, like it’s not just Qifrey that’s ravaged by want. Like the world can be run by such a simplistic, almost ugly truth, rather than the countless lies Qifrey is drowning in.

Like it’s normal. Like Qifrey can be whole, even after his humanity was ripped away from him by the writhing parasite in his body.

“If your dream comes true, then. If your… desires, are fulfilled, what are you going to do?”

“Well, there’s no end to my wants - I'll aim for greater. Perhaps, to dominate the skies, from the seas to high beyond the atmosphere.” It’s selfishness completely contrasting Qifrey’s own mannerisms, a perspective far, far away from his usual.

“... But won’t you miss it, here?”

“The grandeur of going out into the sea is seeking a new home for yourself, isn’t it? And perhaps that’s what the sea will be, or what the skies will be, the greatest companion there is. It’s not like I can’t return if I wanted to, is it?”

“I suppose… You aren’t entirely wrong.”

“See? I knew I'd get you on my side.”

Qifrey wonders if there’s a world where he can grasp those desires, where they can finally be in his hands - and perhaps he’s been running away from them, because all his mind conjures is Olruggio, because all he wants is a home for his heart, and maybe- a place where he can’t rest, not yet. A place that he can rest, eventually.

-

Olruggio is going insane, he thinks.

He hasn’t taken any work since then. He didn’t really feel like he could, in the numbed state he was in. His routine consists of long trips away from the hall, checking locations he knew Qifrey was particularly vexed by, camping out when necessary, squeezing in an act of service or two when the opportunity presented itself.

Qifrey is springy, impossible to track. Olruggio will go to villages and they’ll tell him about the tall man in the smoke-colored cloak, no, we haven’t seen him since then, he vanished overnight. and he finds himself back at the starting point, with know way of knowing which path Qifrey would have taken. That’s just how Qifrey is, when he doesn’t want to be found.

Back at the hall, he goes around to ask for Qifrey’s whereabouts. They always say something along the lines of “I thought he would be with you, “ and turn their attention to something else, pointless and mundane. Qifrey has that sort of reputation, where people find him strange enough to gossip, where people think he’s too much of an outcast to regard as a person, and it bothers Olruggio to no end.

Today is one of those days where he’s camping out, pyreball blazing by his side as he replineshes his energy, stew in hand. (He knows it’s turned out better than before, but it doesn’t taste as good as then, when he had followed the simplest of recipes with Qifrey).

It’s exhausting, when Qifrey’s not there but he still thinks about him anyways. His mind spirals and spirals out of control, anxiety and guilt and fear creating some twisted feedback loop.

He’s just tired. He’s tired of running after someone who might be dead for all he knows (he has to be alive, he needs to be), of the gaping wound Qifrey has left. He’s tired, and he feels his consciousness slipping… Olruggio lets himself close his eyes, if only for the moment.

Encased in darkness, he recalls something packed in the deep crevices of his mind. The memory smells like nature. It feels like the rough exterior of the skin of a conifer.

He thinks that Qifrey is there. He looks young, perhaps from when they were sixteen or so, and Olruggio feels young too. Maybe because he’s recalling a memory.

“...I knew you’d figure me out eventually.” Qifrey sounds so full of anguish, his voice more emotional than it is these days. His hands are shaking as he takes his hat off, the tassel wrapping around his fingers.

“This silverwood, it’s eating away at me, and I… I thought I hid it better, this time.” Qifrey scoffs, twiddles with the tassel on his hat. Olruggio thinks there is something peering out of his eye and it grows at the admission.

Olruggio tilted his head, then. Or did he? Maybe he yelled something out in protest, or rushed towards Qifrey’s side. His memory, as if encased in a pool of mud, does not clear for his sake.

Maybe he forgave Qifrey: “It’s fine, it’s not your fault.”

Maybe he bargained: “We’re older, now- I know we can find a better solution-”

Maybe he laughed: “I wouldn’t want to leave you with a sour memory, do I?”

Maybe he cried: “I’m sorry I can’t do anything more.”

Maybe he stayed silent. Maybe it’s all of the above.

He’s not sure, because each corpse within him remains blissfully unaware. They only smile at him, tell him this is what he wants, that his share of the burden is simply in the gap of memories that he gave away that day. The ones he’s letting Qifrey borrow, the ones that won’t be returned.

He wouldn’t have it any other way. After all, he brought this partnership upon them, didn’t they? The versions of him share this sentiment, a love so overwhelming it burns the surroundings around him to a crisp-

Olruggio jolts awake. The sun is peering up, introducing the coming of a new day, and he groans.

With Qifrey he associates the deterioration of his memories, the undoing of his makings. He spends a lot of time Not Thinking About It and blaming it on his subpar sleep schedule, as if something in him is telling him to look away, didn’t you give that up a long time ago?

Yet it’s the lack of Qifrey that forces him to ponder on this. He thinks long and hard and eventually he has no idea what had him so caught up, only met with a strangely intrusive feeling of wrongness with the way he can’t conjure an image of his thoughts, the way his thoughts disassemble, disorganized and disgusting-

What’s left in him is a sadness he cannot put words to, a giddiness at being useful but not knowing what it is for, and fear he hasn’t felt since he was a child.

Olruggio is going insane, he thinks. He supposes he’ll visit the Naakiwan Downs again, if only as some twisted last-ditch effort.

-

Qifrey stands in the middle of a field of flowers in full bloom, and lets his thoughts take him in stride.

He hears the petals crush beneath his boots, but they are endurant, much unlike him, so he knows they will be fine. It feels rather lively, with the spring revitalizing life throughout all Qifrey can see.

He’s running low on tranquileaf, and he should stock up on them soon. It’s beginning to get unbearable without the bitter sensation to keep him grounded.

The safety of distance has created too much of a lull, and Qifrey has no idea what he can do but suppress it, suppress his urges like he always has.

He remembers, once, when Olruggio took him to the very same fields, a midnight escapade under the stars.

He doesn’t ever forget anything about Olruggio. He doesn’t allow himself to; it’d be far too cruel after his transgressions, afterall.

“Qifrey, Qifrey!” Olruggio beckoned, then. Qifrey observed Olruggio’s silhouette, encased in a shadow as the door to Qifrey’s quarters creaked.

“...What do you want?” Qifrey feigns annoyance, but he slips on his cloak over his nightgown. He has an inkling for what his friend wants to do.

“Nevermind that, just- I found this place, and.. Well, it’s better if I show you myself, right?” Olruggio picks up Qifrey’s boots that he had placed to the side of his bed, handing it to its owner.”

“...What’s with the rush?”

“Stop asking questions- come on, before we get caught!”

Olruggio grasps Qifrey’s hand on his own, dragging Qifrey, as he always does. The touch burns- Qifrey feels a smile creeping up on his face as they make their way through the winding paths of the Great Hall.

Their steps create a sort of rhythm, the complimentary kind that always occurs between them. Qifrey can’t help but admit that he’s excited too, because Olruggio always introduces him to something new.

These outings are a secret between the two of them, a lovely, silly thing that Qifrey can’t help but feel grateful towards. Passing the floatglow lamps, they try to contain their giddy snickering.

Upon making it to the windowway, Olruggio lets go of Qifrey’s hand. The loss of warmth makes itself known.

“You trust me, right, Qifrey?”

“...Of course I do.” He always has, since Olruggio cracked down on his lies, since he promised to be there, to soothe Qifrey with a simple “it’s going to be okay, “ since Olruggio saved him, really. He can’t imagine a world where he doesn’t trust Olruggio.

“Okay! Um, close your eyes, let me just…” Qifrey hears the windowway screech, and steps that get closer to him.

“Ready?” Olruggio’s voice sounds closer than before. He takes Qifrey’s hand again.

“Sure.”

And as Olruggio guides Qifrey through the windowway, he feels the stone pavement be replaced with something… Softer, and he bumps into Olruggio-

“Ow- Sorry. You can open your eyes now.”

It’s a field of flowers. Qifrey (with the gaping holes in his memories and all) has never seen them - at least, not in person - petals float in the breeze, flowing along the winds. He can’t find an end to it- the valley stretches beyond the horizon.

Above him, the stars are shining, and the moon is out, a waxing crescent. It’s almost like the field is reflecting the ethereal features of the night sky.

And most importantly, Olruggio’s gaze is set on him. It’s slightly expectant, a nervousness in the way he twirls his ribbon.

“Do you like it?” He tilts his head. “I mean, I think you do. The flowers are still in bloom, even through harvest season is approaching… You said you hadn’t seen fields like this before, and when I found this, I just knew I had to tell you first-”

“...it’s nice.”

“...Of course it is!”

And they walk around, for a bit, talking about mundane things, like lessons and drawing spells, about themselves, silly things like ridiculous preferences, like would you want to be a wyrmherder? And what’s your least favorite spell?

Eventually, Olruggio interrupts their flow of discussion: “Why don’t we sit? I sneaked some pointed cap pastries from the hall…”

“Couldn’t we have made something on our own?”

“Qifrey. Your soup literally sucked.”

“...I’m a changed man?”

“Ugh… maybe next time we go somewhere, alright?”

Saying this, they find a place to sit, knees bumping together. Out of his bag (which Qifrey had not noticed until now), Olruggio takes out a container adorned with an unfamiliar seal.

“Oh- I made this spell to see if I can keep food warm. It’s still just an experiment, but I thought it'd do good for when we go out again-” (We, as in Qifrey’s presence is predetermined already) “I’m not sure how well it’s gonna work. I was going to save it for your birthday, but I figured I'd just give it to you now… Yup, I think it worked pretty well… My genius remains unparalleled.”

“Don’t let it get to your head.” Qifrey takes the pastry offered to him. It’s as warm as new, though a bit of the crisp had been lost to it. He nibbles at it, paying more attention to the spell.

“... How’d you organize the signs, there.”

“ Heh, I’m glad you asked! I initially wanted to use less, but I couldn’t figure out how to condense it, so-”

As Qifrey downs his pastry, he listens to Olruggio, motions excitedly, gesturing with his hands. His tassel wraps around him, encompassing his figure, and Qifrey thinks this is exactly where he wants to be.

Whenever Olruggio talks, Qifrey feels so, incredibly, full of adornment for the former. He does this thing where he tilts his head when he expects a response from Qifrey. He does this thing where he shuts his eyes when he lets out a genuine laugh. And he only does this with Qifrey.

Olruggio shines the brightest when he’s talking about magic, and it drives Qifrey to start loving it, just a little bit, despite what it’d done to him. Olruggio has that effect; he makes everything more tolerable, somehow.

Something flies past them, and Qifrey instinctively grabs ahold of his hat-

“Hey, are those-”

“Ash-Molted Dragons!?”

It’s Qifrey’s turn to be enthused, now- if there’s anything he loves as much as Olruggio, they’re dragons. Watching the horde fly past them, Qifrey is filled with joy, almost childlike in its nature.

“...You really get excited for this kind of stuff, huh?” Olruggio giggles. Qifrey flushes in embarrassment.

“Well, they’re just so… cool-” In his excitement, Qifrey feels like his personal lexicon compresses. There just… isn’t a way to describe the full beauty of dragons, okay?

“No one’s saying they aren’t!”

Olruggio leans against Qifrey. Qifrey, still looking up at the sky, notes the way it makes him jolt, a sense of uneasiness growing within him.

“...Well, I’m glad. That you get to make more memories, like this.”

That’s what it is, isn’t it? Olruggio has given himself another memory. As if he’s shaping Qifrey into a person, breathing life into the walking corpse that he was.

And before Qifrey even knows it, he’s given another reason to find out how to embrace what’s being given to him. He’s expanding, under Olruggio’s gaze, under Olruggio’s influence. Olruggio, who leans against him.

“Am I important to you too, then? Within your countless memories?”

He’s not sure why he’s being so vulnerable. It’s almost unspoken for, especially coming from someone like Qifrey- but he has to express his desire for Olruggio, somehow.

He feels Olruggio speak, his weight shifting with every syllable.

“Of course you are. You’re the most important of them all, stupid.”

It’s funny, that someone as empty, as worthless as Qifrey, can hold this much joy in his heart. He knows he shouldn’t, that he doesn’t deserve it, not really, but Olruggio says it in a way that makes Qifrey want to believe.

Olruggio detaches himself from Qifrey, groaning as he stretches. Qifrey curls in on himself.

“Would you want to live somewhere like this, one day?”

“Hm?”

“Somewhere where we can do stuff like this everyday. Beyond the Great Hall, I mean.”

“I’ve never thought of it. The future.”

“Really?” Is there anything to feign shock over? Qifrey knows that he’s missing something fundamental to his composition. It was almost natural, to come to the conclusion that it was unobtainable to him.

“Well, I’ll help you find something to look forward to, then. I’ll take you anywhere, Qifrey. You know that.”

Qifrey doesn’t understand how Olruggio can be so kind. He doesn’t understand how someone can radiate like he does, drawing Qifrey so close- intimacy and care still foreign to him.

“Who knows. Maybe we’ll build an atelier of our own, one day!”

And Olruggio is there, writing in the blank journal that is Qifrey, Olruggio is there, waiting for him, standing beside the door to welcome Qifrey in full stride.

Qifrey thinks about the future for the first time. It’s terrifyingly bewitching, the way his heart soars at the thought.

And the usual, casual atmosphere between them returns. Olruggio’s rambling about something again, and Qifrey listens, a heart filled full by the blazing fire that is Olruggio.

Perhaps he should be focusing on the flowers, or the dragons that glide across the sky; instead, he’s looking at Olruggio, who’s looking at him, too- they whip their heads around, almost synchronized.

“A-anyways! Maybe we should head back, now-”

“No.”

“...No?”

“I’d. Like to stay. For a moment longer.”

“...As long as you want, then.”

Qifrey has no idea why he recalls this now, of all times, because the endearment only feeds his disgust, at himself, at the idealism he wants to choke himself for. The idiocracy at the assumption that someone like him could have anything, anything as warm and loving as Olruggio.

The field is not the same as then. There are no dragons in the sky, no companion to share stories with, no stars that watch over him.

And yet, It’s times like this, that the world suddenly decides to appear beautiful, when his body is dirtied and dreadful. It’s times like this when the sun shines through the clouds, when birds chirp happily, an accompaniment to the song that spring sings.

How can someone muddied and sinful as him bask in such sights? How come it’s then that he thinks of Olruggio, of the presence that should accompany Qifrey’s side?

How come it’s then, when he imagines his partner by his side, groaning about something like I haven’t exercised like this in awhile, staying with Qifrey despite all his complaining? How come it’s then, when he thinks of the atelier they dreamed to built, the desires that leap within his soul?

And it’s then, when he thinks of the artist, of the travelling minstrels, of the pair of brothers and countless people he met, of the things they love.

It’s then, when he thinks of the artist’s eyes shining bright the way Olruggios did. The traveling minstrels that sang of a love undefinable by words. The pair of brothers and purity in desire.

He thinks of how they shared that love. Qifrey realizes, then, he wants.

Maybe want isn’t the right word for it. It’s more like atoning for the promise he broke, bearing double the sin. It’s more like an acceptance to play the part that was bestowed upon him. But it’s also that he wants to see Olruggio again, he wants to see what he did to Olruggio, he wants to be forgiven and he doesn’t want to be forgiven. His roots are ready to retract at the instance of hearing Olruggio’s voice, to grow and reach and snap back into its place.

Qifrey cannot live without Olruggio. This is a fact.

The following morning, Qifrey leaves again to return home, with not one note regarding his whereabouts. His experience weighing heavily against the flowing tassel, he takes a tentative step onto the road.

-

The Naakiwan Downs are beautiful at this time of the year. The constellations above observe Qifrey, the same way they always have, shining the way back.

It resembles what he remembers almost perfectly. The chipped fingerpost, the faded doodle of a brushbuddy he and Olruggio always snickered over. The way the muddy road squeaks under his boots, the slightly dewy smell from the earlier downpour. A sky so vibrant he can’t even begin to describe the barrage of colors.

It’s unlike the cold of the Great Hall he’s used to. It’s the warmth he’s been looking for, a feeling he still can’t define fully. And he loves it. He always has. The hills that don’t seem to end, the expansive environment that lets itself be known. The memories he’s shared with Olruggio, the origin of his dreams.

It greets him like an old friend, the breeze that seems to lift him up, The grasslands that encourage him with soft praises. The quadryphon that celebrates his return.The moonlight that guides him with her soft glow, lighting the path ahead of him.

He feels at place within it all, taking in the already familiar sights.

Still, Qifrey pauses. If only briefly, he turns his attention to the cemetery along the path. Shifting to observe a stranger’s headstone, his breathing hitches slightly.

There are signs of it being taken care of, the general premises cleaned, the indicator of someone loved. A wood sorrel or three springs from the crevices of the engraved pavement, perhaps trying to comfort the resting soul.

He imagines how they would’ve been. Maybe they were bright, the way Olruggio was, the kind of person with endless patience, the kind to always forgive. He wonders if they were cold, the way Qifrey is, with people surrounding them for no good reason in particular.

They were loved, regardless. It’s clear enough, even to someone like Qifrey. Someone rests in these lands, and Qifrey wonders what that will look like for him.

He’s not sure at why melancholy hits, at the mere sight of a gravestone, why he feels like this towards someone he doesn’t really know. Perhaps it’s because he’s stepping back into the world of living, his heart that begins to beat once more, a sendoff that should be the other way around.

Someone rests in these lands, and Qifrey wonders if he’ll be one of them, in the far future. He pays his respects before he continues, hands clasped. Careful not to lose his balance, he sets back onto the road.

Qifrey could only accept with bitter eagerness, when Olruggio asked him of the atelier, to add another physical representation of their eternal unholy union. And he fled, then. In fear of what it would do to him, in fear of change that should be insignificant but isn’t to him.

Because it meant looking forward to his future, again, because it meant the dread would get worse, that his roots would toss and turn all over. Because he was scared, really, of how many more times he would have to wipe Olruggio’s memories.

But he wants, at the same time. He wants the dingy excuse of a living space, he wants to transform it with Olruggio. He wants to experiment with spells and laugh when he messes up. He wants the luxury of creating something integral to him.

He won’t go against that promise anymore. He’s decided to reach his hands towards the light, even if it burns him in the process. It’s an atonement for his betrayal, the admission that he is ready to carry the weight of Olruggio’s tassel once more.

When Qifrey sees Olruggio in the distance, he senses the awful familiarity at the way his adoration for the latter pours out, overwhelmingly intensive. It’s the way his senses recognize him in an instant, the memories that flow together like a gentle river, a reminder that he is alive.

Olruggio, who he tried to turn into an untouchable memory, gazes at him from the distance, like he’s not sure of what to make of Qifrey. Olruggio, who he couldn’t leave behind in the past, stands before Qifrey in the present, a tangible, beautiful thing.

“Olly.” He hasn’t referred to Olruggio in months, but the nickname rolls out of his tongue with ease, with muscle memory he couldn’t really shake away.

“Qifrey.” Olruggio calls out to him like he’s looking at a ghost, like he’s whispering a prayer.

Olruggio says Qifrey’s name, raspy voice and all, the exhaustion apparent on his face. A mess, the way he only is for Qifrey.

And Qifrey, well, a part of him is filled with pride, the sadistic kind, a celebration of their codependency. The sensible part of him is filled with guilt, that he’s harmed his friend once again, that no matter what decision he took, it always resulted in hurting Olruggio.

It hurts Qifrey, too.

It hurts. It hurts so bad it burns, the way his heart aches in an indescribable way, something that a spoken language can’t really represent. The way he rephrases his emotions, only to scratch them out once more.The way grief isn’t enough to describe it, the way misery doesn’t account for the affection he feels in tandem.

It’s something that actions cannot define; he twirls the ribbon in one hand, clenches his fist to suppress his shaking, but it’s not enough, his eye does not burn, and he curses his inability to express. It’s the kind of hurt that’s too strong and he is stuck with the lack of outlet.

Qifrey had so much he wanted to say. So much he knows he couldn’t say. It all disappears in the face of the radiance in front of him, and he is rendered wordless.

“Olly, I…” I missed you. Everything reminded me of you. The distance didn’t do enough to fix anything. How have you been? “It’s been a while.”

“… months. It’s been months.” Olruggio points out as he sighs, frustration and exhaustion evident in his tone.

“I know. I’m…” Qifrey fidgets with his tassel, avoiding Olruggio’s gaze. It’s too knowing. It fills him with dread (the way it’s meant to be, the way it’s meant to haunt him) and he does the only thing he’s even done right, the only thing he’s learned how to do.

“I’m sorry.” The apology doesn’t absolve him of his sins, the knife in his hand rusted by the blood he’s spilled, the countless transgressions he had committed against Olruggio.

Olruggio finds it in him to forgive him anyways, the way he always does.

“Don’t scare me like that again.” He leans into Qifrey’s shoulder, a tentative touch, his hands shaking as he goes to grip Qifrey’s cloak, embracing him tightly. He buries his face into Qifrey’s shoulder, his breathing heavy and weighted.

It’s not too different from the other occasions Olruggio has embraced him; it’s done in a hasty sort of manner, like he isn’t really thinking, like it’s more for himself. It’s not good for Qifrey’s heart - it never has been - but he thinks the least he can do is give this to Olruggio, to give rather than take, for once.

Come to think of it, Olruggio had done the same when they had first met; the manic sort of relief he displayed, making Qifrey freeze in his movements. It reminds Qifrey that the makeup of his identity, his composition, relies entirely on Olruggio.

Olruggio embraces him like Qifrey will disappear if he doesn’t. It’s desperate, painfully so, the way he tightens his grasp around Qifrey, tying their fates together once more.

Qifrey reciprocates the embrace, slowly raising his arms up. He tries his best to soothe Olruggio, his movements caring and intimate. He wants, and he lets it blossom as he whispers of the boundless joy Olruggio has brought him- And that’s what Qifrey thinks he would do if he was allowed those simple comforts. Instead, he suppresses his feelings the best he can, to avoid feeding the parasite for any longer.

This sort of intimacy is all he can handle, the sort where he can’t reciprocate, and it’s a fact that he has to accept and live with. For Qifrey, being saved means being at an arm’s length and still being unreachable. So his hands stay by the side, unmoving, and he does not return the action. He accepts the forgiveness he instinctively knows he’s been given, and stays unmoving.

”I was so worried.” Olruggio’s voice is muffled against Qifrey’s figure, and he feels Olruggio’s movements with each syllable in all of its accuracy. His shaking doesn’t seem to stop. Qifrey remains stagnant.

“I thought… I thought you’d gone. That it was my fault. And it scared me- because I don’t know what I'd do if you never came back, if I forgot your voice.” Vulnerability spills over, making a mess all around them. Qifrey wishes he could say something back.

As full of anguish it fills Qifrey with, there’s softness in the way they are addicted to each other’s presence, a vexingly comforting thing. There’s softness in the way Qifrey pockets this memory, the way he safeguards it like every other one he's been given.

“Was it my fault?” Olruggio’s voice somehow gets smaller. Olruggio asks like he’s trying to find a way to blame himself, to stew in his self hatred and ponder what he did wrong, when the problem lies in Qifrey. Their self hatred mirrors each other, two halves of shame culminating together.

“No, “ Qifrey lies, “it wasn’t.”

A bitter chuckle escapes Olruggio, then. “You’re so obvious when you lie.” His grip on Qifrey loosens, as if reminded of the distance between them that have grown throughout the years, the distance that grew through the emptying and replenishing of a vial of ink diluted by tears.

“I…” Of course Olruggio knows. He’s always known, no matter how much better Qifrey got at lying. Just for today, Olruggio chooses not to turn a blind eye to it, sees the evil that is Qifrey, and acknowledges him.

“It’s okay. We don’t have to talk about this. Not now.” Olruggio’s kindness radiates anyway.

They stay like this for a while, stewing in each other’s company, quenching the thirst that had been threatening to destroy them both. And Qifrey feels alive. It feels like home.

It feels like home. He looks at Olruggio, and feels the way his roots grow and flourish, writhe and recoil, the life blown into him sudden and unexpected. It feels like home. The tassel flowing in the wind, serving as a reminder of their promise, an ominous welcome back, the dread growing with every minute stretching into a clockmark.

It feels like home. He feels Olruggio against him and he shudders at the weight. The intimacy between them, knowing and familiar despite the months they’ve spent apart from each other. It takes the form of salvation.

“Olly, “ Qifrey starts, pauses, because he still can't find the right words.

“It’s fine, “ Olruggio interrupts. “It’s fine. Don’t explain yourself.”

Olruggio is warm against Qifrey, achingly so, boundlessly altruistic, forgiving Qifrey over and over and over again.

“It’s not that I don’t want to know.” He mumbles. “It’s not that I'm not frustrated. It’s that I didn’t pry, that got us here anyways.”

Olruggio finally detaches himself from Qifrey, his hands going to Qifrey’s shoulders, tracing down to his arms, taking Qifrey’s hands in his own (It hurts, how much such a simple action does to Qifrey). “But if I bring it up, I feel like I'll lose you again.” Olruggio’s eyes are red and they hold all the love in the world, all the love Qifrey cannot reciprocate. Qifrey looks at Olruggio and the latter looks back, and a sort of melancholy brews within both of them, of hurt and hurting and being hurt.

“I won’t go anywhere.” He plants himself on these grounds, a declaration to uphold his end of the promise, to return to life defined by anxiety. Because he was always bound to go back to Olruggio’s side, because he couldn’t deprave his soul from it.

“...Good. That’s good.” Olruggio smiles within it all, relief permeating through his tense body.

Qifrey is home now, and he’s not used to the way that sounds. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. But he understands what it is, the origin he can’t abandon, the form it takes in a person, the desires he allows himself to feel, the memories he associated with it, human and terrifying and beautiful.

“I’m still frustrated.” Olruggio caresses Qifrey’s hands.

“I know.” Qifrey does nothing.

“This isn’t done.” Olruggio’s kindness burns.

“I know.” Qifrey’s coldness cancels it out.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“...Me too.”

Olruggio, the love in his heart he cannot define, a rebellion against his fate long overdue. Olruggio, who has scarred Qifrey’s identity permanently. Olruggio, the only person who Qifrey is needed by.

And it will drive both of them mad. It will drive Qifrey to despair, the deprivation of his hope. It will lead to more sleepless nights, a pile of lies that grow and grow, the love that holds Qifrey ransom.

But Qifrey doesn’t want it any other way.

Somewhere high up in the sky, a shooting star passes by.

“Olly, “ he starts, his thoughts culminating into a single phrase. The weight of it all chills his spines, burns his tongue.

It’s the insignificant sort of change, where it’s subtle and pointless in the grand scheme of things. It’s the insignificant sort of change that rattles Qifrey. The weight of it all chills his spines, burns his tongue.

And what he wants to say culminates into a singular, measly phrase:

“Let’s go home.”

He can say this with all of his chest. Because he understands what he wants, what Olruggio wants. Because wanting is an action, the way he vows to spend an eternity with Olruggio, the deliberate choice of choosing his resting place.

Qifrey wants, and he understands. He is home, and he returns to Olruggio’s side once more. He returns to it with heaviness in his heart, the acceptance of sins he cannot atone for. The two of them feel whole, regardless of the looming misery, the promise he must upkeep.

He is home, and he takes a step off of the road.