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Riliphin finds that he enjoys Beldaruit’s estate much more than his old masters.
It has been weeks since he was removed from the old atelier and all but given to Beldaruit; his sister far from the Great Hall and his life uprooted to be cared for by the Wise.
The estate is wonderful with its long halls, grand staircases, and a few people that keep them fed and cleaned.
There’s a library where he is encouraged to spend his time, a garden in the back that Beldaruit insists they take lunch in when he is well, and a kitchen that always is stocked. It reminds him of his grandparents' house, smelling of old wood and older memories.
He even likes Beldaruit, who likes him plenty back. Often, Riliphin finds himself at his new professor’s (“Blah! Master is so outdated, I am your teacher. Not your keeper.” Beldaruit had said the first time Riliphin tried to call him master) bedside. Sat peering over his shoulder to gaze at a new spell or take tea on those days where the old man’s joints were too swollen to let him to move farther from the confines of his room.
It’s an idyllic life; all too strange to Riliphin -- who had learned the art of anxiety by the means of sharp hits and sharper words. Yet in Beldaruit’s home, the way of life seems simpler, easier. Light breakfasts, afternoons spent tucked into a book, joining Beldaruit for strolls in the garden, and retiring to his chambers with dinner. He grows accustomed to it, to the swing and sway of what is expected of him, wanted from him, that Riliphin lets his guard down. Relaxes day by day, shedding his past like an old coat and exposing the fear-soaked beast that haunts him.
That is until Beldaruit announces they are going to start lessons in earnest.
Riliphin is clever.
Not clever like sweet Richelette, whose brain gave him a run for his money on a good day, but he is still clever. He knows now that he is useless, and thus he has to earn his keep by hand, however that may be. Riliphin has fooled the wise so far, kept his needy rottenness at bay, but at the serpent's promise of lessons— private lessons— Riliphin knew better than to let his guard down, but he did. And now he needed to build it back up from scratch.
Before his first day as an apprentice to Wise Beldaruit— Riliphin wakes up before dawn and prepares himself.
He irons his uniform, plaits his hair, shines his shoes, and warms up his wrist long before studies are planned to start. Tailoring himself into the perfect version of imperfect Riliphin, finding ways to hide his shaking hands in the folds of his robe and clench his jaw so it won't shiver.
Beldaruit had laid out what their days would look like as professor and apprentice, educator and educated, five times a week.
“We’ll have breakfast at the first bell, then a few hours of fundamentals, after lunch— we learn something new. On your first day, you can choose from one of the spell books.” He had said, eyes sparkling, “it ought to be something fun, hm?”
The promise of a new spell had invigorated Riliphin, a fun spell, a spell his Richelette would've adored.
Riliphin resolves to not mess this up, not again. Riliphin would be beyond himself with the shame, the humiliation of anyone knowing how pathetic he was. The tragic big brother who couldn't protect his little sister from harm, who couldn't muster enough bravery to fight back. Riliphin can’t mess up, can’t give his new Professor a reason to make him fight back, because Riliphin knows he won’t be able to. And when that day comes, for the second time, he won't be able to get back up again.
Riliphin is almost satisfied with himself when he looks in the mirror. Combed and cropped into the ideal version of himself, one with neat hair and still hands and relaxed shoulders.
Riliphin is thrown out of his stupor at the chime of a bell, ringing melodically from on top of the dresser. A crystal handbell sits on it, long passing his scrutiny with how easily it blends into the cozy opulence of Beldaruit’s home.
The ringing persists, a soft ding-ding-ding echoing through the room as Riliphin examines it.
It seems normal; the kind of servant's handbell his old master used to call for them to gather or to tell them dinner was served.
Riliphin graces his fingertips along the crystal, pressing it down into the saucer and causing the ringing to cease. Perhaps it was a precursor to the clock-chime that announced breakfast? A form of wake up alarm for him? Riliphin let it consume his thoughts for only a moment before returning to his notebook, practicing his circles for the morning.
He makes his way down when the grandfather clock in the foyer rings out the morning bell, having stood in the doorway waiting for it with bated breath.
Creeping down the stairs, Riliphin is struck with how quiet the estate is, quiet in the way his old atelier never was. Gone were the footsteps of apprentices and scratching of pens against paper, now replaced with silence interspersed with the home settling again and again.
It makes a part of him, one buried behind slaps of hands and pulling of hair, ache. He had always enjoyed having atelier-mates.
Wise Beldaruit had explained, on his own accord over lunch, the reasons for Riliphin’s loneliness in passing.“I long for an atelier full of students— but my health keeps me. Even twenty, twenty-five years ago, just one apprentice at a time was enough for me— even if he was like five apprentices in one!”
It is clear the estate was always built for apprentices in mind, perhaps even any children of Beldaruit's own, but none had ever lived there nor been reared there in the traditional sense. Many of the decorations had not been moved since they were placed, tables and chairs in long forgotten rooms formed dust that needed to be cleaned often, and the few rooms consistently used were less grandiose and far more humble. Little nooks and crannies where Riliphin enjoyed taking a book, or a nap.
Breakfast is already set on the table when he gets there, plates warmed up by a spell and the scent of cooking oil and smoke long gone. Whoever has cooked finished quickly before they left, leaving a bowl of sweet porridge in their wake and two places set on the table. One lacking food, the other waiting.
Riliphin waits thirty clock ticks before succumbing to his hunger and digging into the sweet porridge, eyeing the second setting— devoid both of food and its owner.
It's three clock marks past dawn and still, Riliphin hasn’t been called for lessons.
He waits, of course, sitting on the cushion propped in front of the low lessons table, a series of papers and books spread out but long abandoned atop of it. Riliphin waits.
He thinks, around the time the first clock mark passes, that this is a test.
A test of strength? Obedience? Simple loyalty? Riliphin doesn’t know, but the scared animal within him urges him not to fail. To obey, obey, obey, to follow the few rules Beldaruit had laid out so he won't get hurt.
So even when his legs become sore tucked under himself and his mind wanders into the familiar spiral of what and why and oh no, he stays where he was instructed and moves not a muscle.
He waits until the second bell rings, signaling for lunch in its familiar ding-dong-ding-dong.
He feels a rumble in his stomach not long after, pulling him between leaving for lunch and obeying the instruction to wait for his professor to come down for lessons.
It is a long internal debate on what to do, to eat or obey. Only after another clock mark does Riliphin relieve himself from his audience-less vigil, wandering back into the kitchen to satiate himself before returning to his post.
The kitchen is the same as he left it, the extra place at the table untouched and no new food set aside for him.
He dithers about, checking the pantry and icebox before finding a clay pot— a magic cook pot— waiting for him on the counter. On the top, a note reads Lunch with the date scrawled right under it.
Riliphin spoons out a portion of stew for himself, gazing at the empty seat across from him as he picks at the chunks of meat.
He knows he is not impressive, not worth the air he breathes or the food he eats, but he didn’t think Beldaruit would notice so quickly— give up on him so fast.
It had taken his old master months to realize his uselessness and pivot to other ways of making him useful, whether it was keeping Richelette in place or satisfying himself.
A pit grows in his stomach and Riliphin pushes his plate away, untouched.
He knew this would happen, of course it would happen, he's Riliphin. Weak Riliphin, morose Riliphin, easy Riliphin. The boy who would rather coward and hide than speak up for his dear sister, for himself, for any of his atelier-mates. He deserves less than what he was given, not the roof over his head or the fine clothes to match a professor as wise as Beldaruit.
Riliphin stands, the chair below him screeching out in disdain as he does.
He must make himself useful, to prove to Beldaruit who has clearly given up on him so soon, that he is worth reevaluation.
So he sets the tray for lunch; a portion of stew, a portion of potatoes, a cup of tea, and its corresponding pot. He almost adds a biscuit, for dessert, but decides against it.
It’s precarious to balance the tray as he hikes up the staircase towards Beldaruit’s private chambers.
He had never been personally disallowed from entering the room, in fact quite the opposite, as the man seemingly enjoyed having Riliphin near his bedside to entertain.
However, they were no longer guardian and ward, but apprentice and professor - thus the dynamic must’ve changed. As so the rules.
He knocks twice, briskly. As if the wooden door may bite if he leaves his knuckles close for too long.
When there is no response, Riliphin immediately doubts that his idea of begging for reevaluation will work.
Perhaps the Wise had already taken lunch, or his stomach wasn’t pleased with the idea of eating, or he simply just didn’t want to see him. Riliphin’s mind races, dashing back and forth between leaving and staying.
Riliphin is knocked from his daze by a simple; “come in!” coming from within the quarters. So he pushes open the wooden door by the shoulder, attempting to hold the tray straight so as to not tip the pot over.
Beldaruit’s room is the same as it always is, a collection of drapes and cushions and a bed taking the majority of the space. The scent of stale tea and fresh ink permeating the space, a light smokey afterscent notable. Perhaps the Wise had just sent a smoke clone out?
The Wise in question is laid supine, resting with a pallor that reminded Riliphin how pale Richelette got when she was febrile.
He turns towards Riliphin, narrow face tilting up to look at his apprentice, smiling.
“Oh - my dear apprentice comes to visit his ailing professor! With food as well? You are too kind.” Beldaruit praises, voice thready and weak.
“You didn’t come down for breakfast-- or luncheon. I thought-- are you well?” Riliphin asks, stuttering.
Beldaruit laughs, attempting to sit up a little more.
“I am the way I often am. My illness likes to take away my good days, if it's anything, it's consistent.” He gestures for Riliphin to come closer.
“I am sorry I had to cancel our first session, I promise you when I am better we shall galavant across the Great Hall. Just give me a day and I’ll be right as plum rain.”
Riliphin let his expression morph into confusion. He was sure that he was not sent a missive that the session was cancelled-- although it did seem reasonable.
Of course his professor was dealing with a flare, of course it wasn’t about him, of course.
“Dear apprentice?” Beldaruit asks, snapping him out of it. “Are you alright?”
“I’m-- I’m quite fine, M-- Professor. I just, it's so silly.” Riliphin shakes his head looking away.
Beldaruit all but pouts, tilting his head.
“Well now I must know. Coin for your thoughts? You’d make an old man very happy.” He tries, Riliphin bristles.
“It’s just-- I was sure that you would-- well… I thought you had given up on me. That you finally saw that I am a lost cause.” Riliphin trails off, looking anywhere else but Beldaruit.
The Wise is quiet as he ponders what Riliphin has said, the silence between them keeping him on edge. It’s only when Beldaruit sighs that he looks back, his professor the face of concern.
“Don’t worry, Riliphin. You are far from a lost cause, in fact, you are one of the brightest apprentices that I have ever come across.” He reassures, Riliphin exhales. “Why don’t we eat together, hm? I don’t believe I will be able to stomach such a rich lunch, but I’m sure the tea would be wonderful to settle me.”
At the insistence, Riliphin approaches, presenting the tray to Beldaruit on his bed.
“I hope-- I really do hope you enjoy the tea. I remembered how you take it! Two sugars, one lemon.” Riliphin adds.
“What a close eye you have.” Beldaruit says, impressed, watching as Riliphin takes the pot from the tray and pours tea into the cup.
It’s a simple movement that sends it all crashing down, a pair of hands trembling too fast to be stable, slipping between shaking fingers onto Beldaruit’s lap— warm tea and all.
“Oh my—” Beldaruit yelps, the tea cup falling straight into his lap, rolling off and shattering on the floor below.
Riliphin is mortified, petrified as he watches Beldaruit’s eyes look down at the warm liquid spilt across his lap and move down to the cup shattered across his floor.
The older witch doesn’t flinch, doesn't react in any way beyond his eyes trailing the puddle now found in his lap.
Riliphin finches back, stepping back once— twice— until his back is flush against the wall. As far away from Beldaruit that he can manage.
The older witch’s expression doesn't change from slightly startled— grasping for something at the nightstand. A switch? A spell? A paper and pen to write Riliphin’s expulsion from his atelier?
He watches as Beldaruit plucks two rings from a small glass saucer, pulling them around his thumbs and clicking them together, the tea drying off his comforter in a quick motion.
“Quite ingenious, don't you think? My dear Qifrey’s Watchful Eye handcrafted these for me, what a wonderful display.” He rambles, finally turning to Riliphin and taking him in.
Riliphin is hunched over himself, arms wrapped around his chest to cover his weak spots. Shaking and trembling, jaw clattering as he slides down the wall and farther into himself.
“Oh dear— I bet that gave you a scare.” He says, tenderness dripping off each word as he gazes over his shaking form. “Apologizes, dear Riliphin. It’s no worry to spill a few things on this old man.” He laughs. “I take many of my meals in bed, it would be foolish to go without a way to clean up a little mess.”
Riliphin shakes his head, refusing to raise it even as Beldaruit stares expectantly— waiting for him to finish his— his fit.
At his former master’s atelier, there had been a girl who slept in his room before him; the room closest to their masters and without a lock. Similar to him, if the stories were true, both in look and demeanor; slim and anxious with a perpetually furrowed brow and downturned eyes. Often, she would urinate in the bed. From nightmares, from visions, from simple fear overtaking her. And the elder apprentices would rush to hide evidence of her weakness, scrubbing her sheets into the night to hide her shame.
There was never any evidence of the story when he was presented with her room, changing from the shared room with a younger boy to the private suite. He had been excited, thrilled even, for even as a small child he never had his own room. Yet as the stories unfurled and Riliphin found curly, dark hairs in brushes and evidence of the other, sorrow filled youth that once inhabited it, it quickly became apparent that the room was far far from a blessing.
Riliphin wonders if this is how she felt, the girl who he replaced long ago. If her fear ever paralyzed her, shook her to her core and made her body’s functions give up on her in the face of fear, shutting down as to make what was about to happen easier.
“Riliphin— please.” His master—professor— Beldaruit pleas. “If I could, I would be at your side to do this— won't you tell me why you are so afraid? It’s just a mere mess, a mess cleaned so quickly as well! Come close so we may speak?”
Riliphin knows an order when he hears it; the obedient beast in his chest forcing him to stand and move— move towards his punishment.
When he is at Beldaruit’s bedside, he finally looks up, meeting his master’s sad blue eyes.
“Sit, child. Please, don't hover over me—” He requests, Riliphin obeys.
Beldaruit raises a slight hand to him, only for Riliphin to flinch away, shuffling a few inches down the bed to avoid.
“Oh my— do I truly scare you so?” Beldaruit mulls, eyes searching Riliphin for something. “I guess I do.”
The silence between them drags, Beldaruit’s light eyes analyzing Riliphin as he braces for a cruel word or a sharp hit or—
“This is my fault, young one.” Beldaruit admits, taking pains to sit up so they can be level. Riliphin jolts to aid his professor, helping to prop up a pillow so his back is supported as they speak. “Even in fear you are so helpful— what a blessing an apprentice like you is.”
“I’m not— that's not true— I’m just doing my duty is all…” Riliphin stammers, raising hands to try and placate, Beldaruit waves him off.
“Oh but it is! It is not the duty of the apprentice to care for the professor, quite the opposite.” Beldaruit explains, voice low— like he is calming a frightened animal. “It’s inappropriate for me to request you do even a lick beyond your apprentice duties.”
He sighs, shaking his head. “I should've set better expectations, explained the bell and the contingencies that are in place if I cannot teach you for the day. I let you fester in your fear; for that I am so sorry.”
Riliphin lets his professor's words sink in, permeating his ideas of what the relationship between apprentice and professor is to look like, and what the expectations are. He doesn't understand, not at first, so he simply nods.
“I’m sorry to bother you, professor. I should've known you weren't well for lessons— this is all my fault.” He says, bowing his head. Beldaruit hums.
“What a cruel way to speak about yourself, child.” He muses. Riliphin doesn't answer, listening intently to the scribble of pen to paper, yet not looking up from his lap— his wringing hands.
It is only when a cloud of cold smoke flashes against his face that he is awoken from his daze, a cloud pegasus prancing around him. Lurching to and fro in an odd trod before dissipating quickly.
Riliphin cannot stop the smile that erupts from his mouth at the face of magic, wonderfully joyously magical magic. The type meant to awe and inspire, the kind of magic his Richelette excelled at.
The wonder on his face is not lost to Beldaruit, who smiles at him. “I thought you would enjoy that— what child doesn't adore the richest form of magic.” He laughs. “The magic of small delights!”
“I— it is childish to enjoy this, I shouldn't be so delighted…” Riliphin admonishes himself, Beldaruit waves him away, the talk of magic giving him a second wind.
“Nonsense, nonsense. If it was childish, it would be more than fine for you to be delighted, for you are a child.” Beldaruit explains, Riliphin is quickly filled with the urge to defend his maturity. “Even so, I find great delight in these little spells. The spells that show not just the mechanical abilities of its artist, but the creative ones.”
Beldaruit smiles a little too fondly to be exactly about magic itself.
“I think the foolish and folly works we make in our youth, before our society presses us for maturity and usefulness, are the greatest works. A child’s scribbled reinterpretation of a spell has so much potential, I find it devastating what the teaching of magic has come to. To make its students rigid in their imagination… to force them away from mistakes and into perfection.” Beldaruit takes a breath in, his statement taking his wind along with it.
“You’re ailing— I should leave, Professor.”
“No, no. Stay. Your company has already made me feel better.” He admits, a little embarrassed. “I’ve gotten too used to my flares happening alone, I forgot how comforting another person is during it.”
Riliphin chews at his bottom lip, the nervous tick creeping back from where he had hidden it as he thought. He didn't want to tire his professor any more than he already did, but Beldaruit was explicitly asking for his company.
“Well… only if you’re sure.” Riliphin nods, scooting a little closer to his professor.
“Marvelous.” He cheers, leaning back against his pillow. “Why don't we discuss. A simple back and forth is always invigorating— about magic or no.”
“I wouldn't know what to discuss. I am far from interesting, Wise Beldaruit.” Riliphin explains, his professor sighs.
“Well, how about we discuss magic? I may be too ill to teach you in depth, but I’m sure we could workshop right from my bedside.”
Riliphin mulls it over, releasing his lip from between his teeth and wringing his hands. “I— I wouldn't be against taking a closer look at that pegasus spell.” He tries, Beldaruit alights.
“Wonderful!” Beldaruit cheers, taking out his palm quire and placing it between them. “A favorite of the hall’s children. It’s quite responsive to its caster, so it's quite easy not only to learn, but to adapt.”
Beldaruit furrows his brow, quickly drawing sigils with a practiced hand before showing it to Riliphin. “See the sigil in the middle? The way I’ve extended the top part to make it almost— bounce off of the spell? This is common in projectile spells, but paired with a smoke sigil—” Beldaruit continues, resting as he discusses the spell— life returning to his cheeks in a way Riliphin realizes he hasn't seen in days.
“Now, you try.” The Wise says, abruptly. Riliphin stills.
“I try?” He asks.
“Why, of course. I can talk your ear off about mechanics and sign makeup, but no witch has ever learned from a lecture.” He explains, Riliphin nods— taking the pen and palm quire. “Try to add something to the spell, something to make it Riliphin.”
It is no secret that Riliphin’s tutelage at this old atelier stunted his magic work, it was in fact one of the main reasons he was set upon Beldaruit. To rebuild the ability to create he had lost in the repetition and boundaries of his old atelier. Even if his circles were perfect and his spell basics were dazzling, his imagination was lacking.
He draws down the sigils with quick strokes, still shaky with disuse. Riliphin can't remember the last time he drew a spell that wasn't straight from a textbook.
He manages well enough, earning a pleased hum from Beldaruit before he urges him on. “Add your own touch, anything you want.”
Riliphin let the wand hover above the palm quire as he thought. Not an idea crosses his mind, not a single way of making a spell his own. What would Riliphin’s spell look like? What was the special effect he gave to every spell he drew? Something that made his magic his?
Riliphin falters, placing the wand down. “I don't have my own touch, I can't think of a single thing.” He mutters, face turning red.
“Well that's quite alright. Creativity is a muscle, like how you train your hand to make good strokes— we must train our minds to be creative when they fall into disuse.” Beldaruit soothes, moving a hand to rest onto Riliphin’s shoulder before hesitating, placing it back in his lap.
“How about I be more specific— how would you go about making the pegasus shine like a mother of pearl?” He asks, Riliphin ponders this quickly.
The easiest method would be to crush the mother of pearl into the ink and allow it to make the ink shimmer, but Riliphin neither had the materials nor the knowledge of how that may affect the ink’s texture.
Then it comes to him, the wiggle in the back of his mind. If he adds the crystal sigil— the one his sister had shown him all that time ago— and removes the ribbon aspect to keep the shimmering glow… maybe that would work. Riliphin hesitates, tracing the sign in the air to practice before pressing down. In a few strokes, Riliphin finishes the crystal addition, looking to Beldaruit for praise or admonishment
“Why isn't that something— close the circle, let's see what it does.” He urges, Riliphin closes the circle briskly— watching the pegasus fly from the palm quire.
The crystalline shimmer in the smoke is apparent, the smoke beast trotting around the bedspread, picking up into a gallop before dissolving into the air.
Riliphin glances to Beldaruit, taking in his professor’s expression before he celebrates.
Beldaruit is the face of joy, smiling gently as the wispy threads of smoke evaporate away.
“Now, that is your magic, my boy.” He exclaims.
“It wasn't quite mother of pearl,” he notes, Beldaruit shrugs.
“Oh pashaw! I expected you to ask for the components— but this— this was Riliphin. Using your past knowledge to build upon the framework I had given. That crystal sigil? That was Riliphin.” He praises, Riliphin blushes.
“You’re too kind… It was a basic sigil addition—”
“But it was your sigil addition! You could've given up, or requested my aid, but you worked with what you had and innovated. Even in this small way.”
Riliphin is very aware how Beldaruit is looking at him, like a seedling that has just sprouted— new and fresh to the world. It makes him feel like before, before her old Master, before all the bad things— when it was just him and Richelette and magic was their playground.
“I wish the world had been kind to you,” Beldaruit says, out of the blue. “I wish for it deeply. I watch the way your mind thinks. Processes and reformats my instructions, it fascinates me. It wounds me knowing that you were trained to think one way, behave one way. When the way you naturally do is so—” Beldaruit laughs, “magical!”
Riliphin looks away, tucking his chin into his chest. “It feels so different, learning from you.” He starts. “I am expected to— play with magic. In my old atelier, cheap delights like this would've been punished…”
“And in my atelier, forever they shall be encouraged.”
Riliphin raises his legs, curling into the spot Beldaruit had left for him to sit and sitting next to his mentor.
“Would it be too much of an inconvenience if I stayed for lunch?” Riliphin inquires. “I know if your ailing— you may want to be alone— but the estate is so big and I quite enjoy the kind company of my professor.”
Beldaruit nods, smiling easily as Riliphin takes the tray of food long forgotten.
Riliphin’s rabbit heart, forever thumping in fear, relaxes just a bit at the nod. Not as much as Beldaruit may want, not as much as it may in the future, but enough for now. Riliphin picks at his food, close to his professor, and lets the soft animal of his body rest. Even just for the hour.