Work Text:
Richeh gets hers first, which is a shock to them all.
Qifrey says it's unexpected. She’s just so small and it’s quite early for her to start bleeding. While Olruggio says it makes sense— rarely do things happen like they expect them to.
She wakes in a pool of her own blood— which is never a good sign.
Richeh contemplates screaming before deciding against it.
It’s strange to wake up in a pool of blood. Especially if the blood is your own. Yet, it doesn't occur to her that it may be concerning. She thinks, briefly, that it was slightly less mortifying than waking up in a pool of urine— which caused plenty of trouble and too many did you sleep dry last night?’s to ever be worth telling the professor again.
She stares down at herself for a good few minutes. Processing the unprocessable.
Her mouth is terribly dry and the stick of her smallclothes to her skin by the blood is forming an itch under her skin— it’s all just awfully uncomfortable.
She peels off her duvet and stares down at the mess she's made, somewhere between indifferent and confused.
In a different world, the blood could be pretty. A consistent crimson cloud soaking from below her waist onto her thighs and nice jellyfish sheets.
In the morning blue however, the blood begins to cool too quickly. Going straight from a fascinating turn of events to an upsetting sensation that makes Richeh want to pull teeth and hit her head.
She pulls down her hair with one hand instead. Harm reduction, Professor Olruggio tells her.
“Whenever you gotta get your ouches out— try to do as little damage as you can.” He once told her after finding the bruises on her arms from where she slammed herself into the wall. Reading straight from the book the hospitalists had given them after the discovery of her self-injury just months past.
She had been too overwhelmed the past nights to notice the damage she was doing to her body. Too anxious to remember her breathing or counting or—
“You can't help what you need to cope when you get like that..” He had sympathized. “ But you gotta try and do it less damagingly.”
“And if it ever gets too much, you come to me or Qifrey and we’ll keep you safe.”
She relishes in the tug of strands in follicles— the sweet, grounding pain.
Richeh stands on faun legs. A twinge of pain shooting through her pelvis, sharper than her preferred methods of getting her energy out but just as uncomfortable.
“Owie.” She mutters to herself, peeling the skirt of her gown away from her legs, examining the mess.
The blood is too much really. A bit over dramatic of her body to make such a mess if she’s dying.
That's what she assumes at least. Blood inside the body was for living, outside was for the dead— or dying in her case.
“Richeh!” A voice calls from outside her door. “Are you dressed for breakfast?”
Tetia is very good at waking her up at the perfect time for breakfast, which Richeh would appreciate any day besides the one where she's dying.
“No,” she responds. “I need to get changed.”
She can hear Tetia’s face scrunch in confusion— before relaxing into some sort of understanding.
“Did you wet yourself again?” Tetia asks, far too loud. Richeh wishes her death would catch her quicker.
“No! No—” Richeh stammers. “Don’t say stuff like that so loud.”
She knows Tetia lingers outside. Probably furrowing her brow and chewing her lip— worried and planning to snitch to Professor Qifrey.
Richeh opens the door quickly— all by slamming the outer knob into the wall next to it.
“I’m alright.” She tries a smile, which only makes Tetia’s brows furrow deeper.
Her friend’s eyes draw down; past the sweat stained top of her slip underdress and to the pool of blood staining the area below her hips.
Tetia screams and Richeh slams a hand over her mouth.
She still screams— though it’s blessedly muffled— far too long into Richeh’s palm.
“Quiet! Quiet!” Richeh shakes Tetia a little, who stills at the insistence.
“I’m gonna take my hand off— just— don't scream again.” She sighs. “My head really hurts.”
Tetia nods and Richeh follows through, slowly removing her hand from Tetia’s frowning mouth.
“Are you okay?!” She cries out.
Richeh falters at this.
She feels crummy— like when Agott gave her the cough after a visit to Kalhn and she was put on bed rest for the week. She certainly didn't feel okay, but Tetia’s pinched face made her think if she said that— Professor Qifrey would be getting an earful.
“I’m okay,” she says slowly. “I just… need to eat breakfast.”
Tetia looks unconvinced, which upsets both of them equally.
“That’s so much blood though. Are you faint? Do I need to tell the professor?”
Richeh shakes her head vigorously, attempting to be intimidating to a girl a head taller than herself. “We’re not telling the professor!”
Tetia’s expression is a mirage of movement: lips pouting and unpouting— eyes watering and drying. “But there’s so much blood.”
Richeh curls her fingers into her dress. The combination of the strange feeling of pressure in her pelvis and the remnants of blood on her thighs overstimulating— it hurts. Physically. Like acid on her skin and a knife in her leg.
“It just looks worse than it is. Like when Coco hit her nose and all the blood squirted everywhere.”
The explanation doesn't convince Tetia— even Richeh could tell that, and she rarely could tell a frown from a smile on a good day. So she brings out the final straw, her best weapon tucked in her belt that she could only manage to use once or twice ever so often.
She makes eye contact— and smiles.
It’s like magic. The way Tetia’s shoulders relax, instantly trusting and accepting the words Richeh says.
Riliphin used to say there were many unspoken rules about the littlest things. Meeting someone's eyes meant honesty, nodding your head as they talked meant you were a good friend, and letting hugs linger meant that you loved them. Richeh hated, more than anything, having to learn them all. But now, she was more than happy she did.
“Well, alright.” Tetia finally says, taking one of Richeh’s hands and squeezing. “But let me know if it happens again— or if you’re hurting.”
Riche squeezes back, the contact less grating than it should be. “I have to wash up. Tell the Professor to put my food in the oven til I'm done.”
Tetia nods, taking her hand from Richeh’s. “Okay, be quick.”
***
Richeh takes too long in the bath— scrubbing herself raw.
It starts as just a means to get the blood off of herself. Digging a rag into every space the blood dared to touch and then some.
Qifrey loved to say that Richeh was a fish that adored its soup broth. He had teased her about it plenty. His little fish coming out of the bath red; steaming up the bathroom til there was a sheet of fog overtaking it.
Richeh did enjoy the feeling of hot water slipping into her pores. Slotting between her joints and vertebrae and leaving her lighter than air in the comfort of a porcelain tub. It was her favorite way to, as Olruggio says, regulate.
In the tub now, Richeh was finding it very hard to regulate herself.
She feels every inch of skin, every shift of muscle and stretch of tendon as she scrubs the remnants of her night off of her body. The once soothing weightlessness of the water now encroaches on her space, pressing against the same raw skin that cramps and twists in upset.
She pulls up the stopper, watching the reddened water drain— a trail of her own blood following down from between her legs.
Richeh tries to do all the things Sinocia at the Medical Spire taught her.
Breathing in, counting numbers, humming, and rocking back and forth. Things that usually would calm her enough to finish her bath and stand— now just jostles her already tender body and mind.
Someone raps at the door.
“Richeh? Are you still there? Professor Qifrey sent me to make sure you’re still coming down.”
Coco is at the door. Richeh tells from the knock. Her signature knock-knock knock-knock revealed her long before her voice did.
Richeh grips her hair in her hands, balling them up and tightening. The sharp pain is a sweet relief from the thudding zaps in her pelvis.
“In a moment.” She chokes out— raising her hands and hitting at her head. Thud, thud, thud against her scalp.
“Are you sure you're okay? There’s no steam from outside the door— are you even bathing?”
Richeh refuses to make the question real with a response. Squeezing her eyes shut and cutting out the sensory impact of the lamp lit room.
It’s different; the pain she inflicts onto herself.
Different from the kind ravaging her body now— it anchors her. Ties her to the mass of a ship before the siren’s song of a meltdown can overtake her.
She once told Sinocia that after Qifrey learned she had been hurting herself— that her self-inflicted pain was the fix for the pain in her head— that caused the pain in her body.
He had been so worried, bundling her up like a fresh babe in her favorite quilt and taking her to the Great Hall, leaving the atelier in Olruggio’s hands.
Sinocia had inspected each wound carefully— so carefully— like Richeh was a gentle thing in need of gentle touch.
She poked at the bruises on her arms from ramming her shoulders into walls, the bloody skin of her cuticles from picking at them, the patches of missing hair at her scalp from pulling at it. All painting a picture that Sinocia called concerning.
“Richeh, you have to know, when I see these types of wounds it really worries me. Worries your professor.” Sinocia explained as she spread salve on her cuticles. “You shouldn't be hurting yourself.”
Richeh had tried to explain why she did it.
The way her brain fought her and riled up her body— the way the pain let it escape just enough that she could relax.
When her rocking failed and counting her favorite things ceased being effective, she could always fall back on the pain. The sharp ‘ouches’ that regulated her enough to not do worse— not scream and cry and toss her spells across the room in rage.
Qifrey and Sinocia had talked over her head after she admitted it. A conversation both about Richeh and not about her at all.
She spent a week in the Great Hall after that, stuck in a cot in the children’s ward. Accompanied by sad looking witches with scars on their arms and in their hearts.
Richeh didn’t feel like them, didn’t see herself in their sad faces and sadder stories. They reminded her more of Riliphin than herself— downturned eyes always glassy and gray.
They made her talk with Sinocia and another woman— an Unknowing woman with kind eyes and strong hands who wrote everything down on a small notepad. Smaller than her palm quire.
Professor Qifrey had sat with her in each session. Neglecting his duties to his atelier to sleep at Wise Beldaruit’s home and visit her daily in the hospital.
“How about we start small.” The woman dipped her pen into the ink pot. “Can you tell me why you pick your cuticles?”
Richeh had gazed down at her reddened cuticles— soothed by the balm Sinocia made the orderly’s rub on them each night. “I pick them when I’m upset. When the pressure in my body builds and builds and just— needs to come out.”
The Unknowing woman hummed; writing something in her miniscule notebook. “Give me an example. The kind of time when you’ll feel the need to hurt yourself to stabilize.”
“When we do group critique outside. It’s hot and I can hear the stream roaring and my frock is sticking to my skin and now we have to huddle together— all in each other’s space and I can feel Agott’s breath on my neck and Tetia’s thigh against mine and—” She catches her breath. “Then I’ll pick my cuticles— or scratch at my arms. To make it go away.”
Qifrey wrapped his hand around hers. Forcing her gaze up to meet his own. “Oh Richeh, you could've always asked to stay inside. To critique one on one.”
“Mr. Witch, it’s alright.” The Unknowing woman interjected. “What would happen if you didn’t hurt yourself? If you didn’t pick when you were upset?”
“I'd explode. Make a mess. Be angry and rotten and—” She quiets.
They kept her there the full week. Her professor an everpresent ghost at her side. Pale and sad and so so worried for her.
She had been so confused, so upset that no one seemed to understand why Richeh did it. Labeling her source of reprieve harmful and attempting to direct her need for pain to other outlets.
Richeh had hated every moment of the workshops, as Sinocia called them. Teaching her deep breathing and counting and removing herself from stressful situations. The techniques worked, but Richeh never liked being told what to do. Even if it was better than scabs along her nails and green-blue bruises on her arms.
After her full week, she was discharged. Given her apprentice’s uniform and pointed cap and sent along her way with a stack of papers instructing her and her professor on regulation tips and means of diverting her behavior.
Qifrey knelt down next to her when she was discharged— wrapping her favorite quilt around her shoulders and holding her close. “I am very glad you're okay, Richeh,” He had said. “The next time you’re in pain— physical or otherwise— do not hesitate to tell me. Promise me that?”
Richeh had tucked her head into her professor's neck. Hiding her face, her embarrassment, in the safety of his body. “I promise,” she had whispered. And they went home.
***
She thinks about her time in the children’s ward. The concerned look in Qifrey’s eyes and the pressure of his arms wrapped around her shoulders, begging her to come to her with his worries. To keep her seams from falling apart and her edges unfrayed.
She can feel herself unwinding. Unraveling into a mess of tissue and tendons and blood.
The pain in her pelvis reverburates through her bones. Across her chest and constricting her heart— causing her flesh to buzz and burn.
The pain and its lingering sensations are worse than lessons outdoors on a too-hot day, worse than suffering through boiled carrots in her stew, worse than all the overwhelming city streets and town squares in all of the world.
There’s no reprieve.
No going inside or spooning them out of her stew or wrapping a cloth around her chin to cover her ears. It keeps happening— keeping her tender and sore and the trail of blood flowing down the drain.
Another knock at the door sends a sharp pain through her spine. Whether the product of the blood running down the tub or her own newfound sensitivity— Richeh doesn't know.
“Richeh, it’s your professor.” Qifrey calls from outside the bathroom. “Your food burnt in the oven, sweetening.”
She had forgotten that she had insisted her food be put up. It’s a small blessing she supposes, the idea of sweet porridge or eggs and toast makes her stomach seize and the ice pick in her pelvis sharpen.
“I know. I’m sorry.” She shouts out, voice muffled from her head resting on her knees.
The professor hums from behind the wooden door. Richeh can just tell he’s leaning against it, trying to be as close as possible to her— to comfort her.
“Are you decent? We should talk face to face— Tetia and Coco are terribly worried about you. Agott too, even if she has a brave face about it.”
Richeh looks down at herself. Finally clean but feeling none of the relief she believed it would bring. “Give me a moment.”
She wraps herself into her robe and ties the waist. The soft, sweet fur of the lining smooths the hard lines of her shoulders. She opens the door quickly, bracing for her professor’s worried face and concerned eyes.
“Oh, look at you,” her professor sighs. Qifrey straights out her robe, pulling it closer around her shoulders and untucking her wet hair from down her back. “You’re freezing in here.”
He crouches down, blessedly, not trying to meet her eyes. Instead, her professor inspects her face— her hair. Frowning at the tangled bundle of locks around the crown of her head from where she tugged at it.
“You look pale.” He says softly. “Is something wrong? You promised to tell me when you were having pains.” He taps her chest, right about where her heart might be. “Even the ones in here.”
Richeh sighs, wringing her hands and rocking on her heels. Back and forth, back and forth. The careful sway is a slight relief to the tight ball of pain in her lower stomach.
She points away from them. Towards the wicker hamper in the room— already full of towels and used robes— where her bloody slip sits. Crumbled halfway down the basket where she tried to hide it.
Her professor stands. Walking slowly towards the bloodied silk underslip like a rabid animal, like it might bite if he comes towards it too fast.
Qifrey raises it up. The cream color stained red— like she split mulled wine on her lap. He analyzes it. His visible eye glazes as he thinks— rubbing the stained patch.
“What a shame— it was such a nice slip.” He says under his breath. “When did this happen?”
He turns to her, brows furrowed and mouth pinched.
“This morning,” Richeh feels herself picking at a hangnail. Peeling the skin down her finger until blood pearls. “I woke up bleeding— it’s all over my sheets.”
Qifrey wraps the slip into a dirtied towel, placing it back into the hamper. “Do you know why that is?”
Richeh shrugs, shaking her head and turning away.
“Ah— that’s my fault I’m afraid. It always seemed that you girls never would—” he sighs. “That this was too far away to explain.”
Richeh face reddens. “I’m bleeding. I bled everywhere— like someone stabbed me!” She cries, pulling her hands to her face and pressing her knuckles into her eyes.
“It’s perfectly normal, Richeh—” Her professor comes close, fussing over her crying frame. “It has to be such a shock though— all the blood is terribly scary, I know. But it’ll be okay.”
Richeh scrubs her sleeve across her wet eyes, refusing to look. “But it’s outside and it’s everywhere and it hurts— so bad. Like I’ve been poisoned.”
Qifrey sighs. “I’ve made such a mistake. You deserve to know what this is before now— I’m awfully sorry you don’t. You deserve for this to not be so distressing.”
Qifrey strokes her head. Combing out the tangles at her scalp with a gentle touch. “How about we get you some burntmint tea and lay you down? You must be so poorly.”
Richeh nods. Letting her professor pull her into his arms and take her down the stairs.
They turn into the living room where her fellow apprentices sit. All feigning study when they see the two turn the corner. Richeh could imagine that her name had just been on their lips moments prior.
“Girls,” Richeh leans closer to her professor, burying her head into his shoulder. “Lessons are postponed for today. Richeh isn’t feeling too well so you’re all to review your spells from yesterday and work on your exercises, alright?’
Tetia perks up, stretching her neck to peer at Richeh’s curled up form in Qifrey’s arms.
“Is she okay? There was so much blood on her dress—”
“Blood?!” Coco exclaims, the sharp increase in volume hurting her head. Richeh can imagine Coco’s worried little face: a furrowed brow and a pout all on display at the idea of Richeh bleeding.
“Alright girls— upstairs!” Qifrey says sternly. Corraling his apprentices up the stairs despite their questions and concerns.
“Richeh herself can explain what’s going on when she’s well— but I won’t tell her business while she cannot.” He explains, pressing his free hand to Tetia’s back and pushing her up the steps.
When her friends are gone up the stairs, Qifrey sits her down at the kitchen table. Taking a hand towel from the kitchen cabinet and stepping behind her, ringing the water out of her locks with it. He fluffs her hair a little in a fit of silliness to break the silence between them, which makes her laugh.
“Are you feeling well? How’s your stomach?” He asks, Richeh leans into the warmth of the towel.
“I’m nauseous. Like I ate something spoiled. It’s all under my skin— like when I get feverish and it feels like all the sickness is in the bones and I can’t get it out. It’s all in my pelvis, too. The mushy organs in there are angry.”
Qifrey squeezes the rest of the water from her hair. “You’ve been tugging on your hair again.” He says it as a statement, not a question. “It can’t be helped, I suppose. You’ve been so stressed all morning.”
He places the towel into the sink and pours water into the kettle, setting it onto the stove and lighting the fire. In a few minutes, a pot of burntmint tea is between them. Hers sweetened with honey, Qifrey’s with milk.
“Drink, it’ll help.” He insists. Richeh drinks, letting the hot water melt the icy block of pain in her stomach. “There we go.”
“It’s bitter,” Richeh winces. The taste of unripe melons and sour fruits on her tongue.
Qifrey laughs.
“It’s awful, I know. But it settles the stomach and numbs the aches.” He pours another spoonful of honey into her mug, Richeh smiles. “Don’t get used to that.” He warns.
She downs the rest of her tea. Qifrey makes a show of bringing the cup to his lips without taking a sip himself, she doesn’t blame him. It really is awful.
“You told me you didn’t know why you were bleeding.” Qifrey says when she finishes her cup. “Do you feel up to learning why that is?”
Richeh nods.
“When a witch gets to a certain age, those who can have babies—” he stills, “you do know how babies are—”
“Yes, professor.” She interrupts, ears turning red. She does not, in fact, know.
“Right, obviously.” Qifrey sighs. “Well, those who can carry children start to bleed every month, usually around the age you are. It’s called your menses.”
“Honestly, I didn’t expect you to be the first of the girls to get it.” Her professor smiles, a little ashamed. “You’re just so small and the youngest by far. Often it happens when you’ve already grown up a bit more.”
“So it’s normal?” She asks, wringing her hands.
“More than normal, the timing is just a little unexpected. I’ll find my old texts on it and explain it to you in more detail later. It’s been so long since I’ve had to think about it— not even my own.”
Richeh gazes at her hands. The long wound from pulling her hangnail scabbing. “How long does this last? Why is there so much blood?”
Qifrey reaches across the table and clasps her hands in his. “As far as I can tell you’re bleeding a normal amount. It’ll last a few decades til your fifties or so. Although, if you’re like me you’ll take tinctures that just so happen to end it.” He shakes his head. “No matter. For now, you’ll have to use a cloth— ah— a cloth for your underthings so there isn’t a mess. I don’t believe we have some stocked but I’ll put Olly to work sewing one.”
Richeh blushes. The idea of Olruggio knowing this is suddenly mortifying. The idea of anyone knowing how vulnerable she is— on the cusp of some strange change— is nauseating. “What about now? I don't want to get my robe bloodied.” It was quite a nice robe.
“For now? I’m sending you back to bed in your least favorite play pants and a rag.” Qifrey stands, collecting Richeh in his arms and sitting her on his hip. “I’ll bring you some honey toast and soup when you wake.”
Richeh leans her head back onto his shoulder, her professor carrying her up the stairs.
At the landing, Coco, Tetia, and Agott stood— half frozen from where they had been attempting to listen.
“Oh— you three!” Qifrey scolds. “What part of review and exercises means snooping on the landing?”
Agott slinks back from the two— Richeh’s hamper in her arms with her bloodied linens tucked away.
“We just wanted to make sure Richeh was okay! Honest!” Tetia cries, Richeh smiles from her place in Qifrey’s arms. “We changed her linens and we were just going to put them in the wash— that's all!”
“That's all well and good, but Richeh deserves her privacy when she’s going through a tough time.” At this, each of them falter. “Even if you’re trying to help. Going into her room isn’t polite.”
Her fellow apprentices mumble their apologies in response. The faces of regret.
Agott steps up to present the hamper to Qifrey. “Can I still put them in?”
“I would be grateful if you did,” he nods. “Take the bathroom hamper along with you.”
“Feel better Richeh,” Agott says as she passes them.
Qifrey turns to Tetia and Coco. “Both of you can help too. Set the kitchen for lunch, won't you? I need eight potatoes peeled and cut— think of it as time to reflect on the merits of minding others' privacy.”
“Yes, professor.” The two say— stopping by Richeh to give her their get wells.
“I hope you feel better soon,” Tetia says in earnest. Taking Richeh’s hand once more and squeezing. Richeh squeezes back.
Coco pats her back— her signature pat-pat pat-pat echoing in Richeh’s chest. “It’ll be all right, Richeh.”
The two make their way downstairs, leaving Qifrey and Richeh together on the landing.
“I am truly sorry about that, Richeh.” He says, carrying her into her and Tetia’s shared workshop and into her bedroom. “I know they’re trying their hardest to be helpful, but I can’t imagine it feels good to have someone in your sensitive business.”
Richeh shrugs. Qifrey places her down on her bed— her jellyfish linens changed for floral ones. A rag folded at the foot of the bed.
“Change into your oldest play clothes that you won't mind bleeding through and take a bit to rest, sweetening.” He instructs, pulling her curtains closed and lowering the lamplight. “I’ll wake you for lunch. Don’t feel the need to do your homework— as far as I’m concerned, you’re on sabbatical.”
Richeh nods. The lowering of the lights was a blessing on her sore eyes. “Thank you, professor.”
“Oh Richeh, it’s never a problem.”
Qifrey lets her get changed into her least favorite day outfit: a pair of daisy covered slacks in a garish blue that Olruggio had picked out before realizing it was a crime against fashion and her old night shirt.
Her professor tucks her in. Like she's still fresh to the atelier and wetting the bed— needing her blanket to her chin and a kiss on the head to drift off.
He does it just like he did then. Pushing the corners of her favorite quilt (blue and purple with ribbon designs— she had patterned it with Riliphin at their grandparents’ estate. Cutting out each piece and sewing it together— side by side.) under her and bringing the rest up to her chin.
“You rest now, alright? By the time you wake up,I’ll have your cloth sewn up and your jellyfish linens fresh.” He tells her. Richeh just on the precipice of sleep. “You call and I’ll come running if you need anything.”
With that, Qifrey leaves her to rest. And Richeh sleeps.
***
When Richeh wakes up, she has to decide not to scream again.
Not because of the, blessedly, light puddle of blood staining her slacks or the pains still thrumming through her body. But because someone was standing over her bed, watching her.
They're taller than her— a dark silhouette just a tad darker than the rest of her room. It’s night, she supposes.
“Richeh,” the figure says. “You missed lunch.”
Her desk candle alights and it’s Agott. Standing at the foot of her bed with her cream slip— now suspiciously white— in her arms.
“I figured.” Richeh grumbles, heart slowing as she lays back down.
“Professor told me to make sure you got changed into something comfortable and ate.” Agott holds out her newly white slip and a small sewn cloth.
“Is that my underslip?” She asks, taking the silk dressing from Agott’s hands. What was once a pearly-cream was now pure white. “You got the stain out.”
“Barely.” She snarks before reining it in. “I had to soak it in javel water and scrub with the washing board. Couldn't use the barrels… Coco helped.”
Richeh turns the fabric in her hands. It's near spotless— the only evidence of its former condition is the light color. Not a single thread out of place. “You didn’t have to.”
“It's a nice slip.” Agott says to that. A little red.
She’s right. It's Richeh’s favorite.
“There’s food on your workstation. I have to study.” Agott finally says— the gift of her cleaned dress is a showcase of fondness that Agott didn’t want to admit she had. “Goodnight Richeh.”
“Goodnight,” she says back. Watching Agott leave her room.
She changes into her slip and bloomers— fumbling with the sewn cloth before figuring it out well enough. It seemed stable, at the very least.
She pulls her quilt over her shoulders and makes her way into her shared workspace.
There is, in fact, food on her workstation.
Sourdough bread, toasted and smothered in honey, and a clear broth soup with little peas floating in it— like Qifrey had said.
Richeh eats quietly.
The atelier is asleep— barring Agott who Richeh’s sure is still studying in her own workstation. The only noises being her spoon against her bowl and the creaking of the atelier settling in on itself— resting her old bones.
Her stomach hurts when she's finished eating.
It’s the same sharp, narrow pain. The knife in her guts, the ice pick through her organs. The tea professor Qifrey had brewed helped her well enough, but she could feel the buzzing of her cells— the thrum of her veins moving blood through her. It was maddening. So much sensation— constantly. It was as if her body was sensitive to light and air— reacting at every touch and sound.
Richeh wrings her hands.
The workstation feels so quiet— lonely. And in the loneliness, Richeh feels restless.
Something is under her skin— under her eyelids and nails. It moves and wriggles and hurts like a bad bruise. It’s always a part of her; managed by ear coverings and days spent in her little pocket of the world— down her enchanted pot. And it just won't go away— not now.
Whether it's exasperated by her menses or not, Richeh doesn't know. All she knows is she's terribly cold and desperately lonely at her cold little desk.
She knows she could knock on Tetia’s door. Call her neighbor’s name and have a warm cot and a warmer body at her side— but the idea of Tetia’s ever worried face peering down at her. Her questioning eyes and wobbly lip— it wasn’t what Richeh wanted.
Richeh wanted hugs that her body didn't force her to recoil from. Another person that could breathe in her space and it wouldn't feel like an encroachment. Someone who would speak to her kindly and without pity until she could go back to bed.
It takes a while of sitting— staring at her empty bowl— until Richeh realizes that she wants Riliphin.
She wants her brother, her protector and her guard. The boy so young and so brave; who would listen to her ramble about spells and hold onto him during the night.
Richeh misses his hugs and soothing voice telling her to count, to breathe, to squeeze his hand until the fire in her bones subsided and she could continue being sweet Richehlette in his arms.
Richeh doesn't realize she's crying until she's halfway out the door with her quilt around her shoulders.
Maybe it's her menses and it’s strange power over her. Maybe it’s just loneliness that has been hidden away in her enchanted pot for years— breaking free at her first taste of adulthood— but Richeh wants someone to hold her. Richeh wants it to be her brother, more than anything, but she’ll settle for a father.
She creeps down the stairs— avoiding the rickety floorboard outside Agott and Coco’s shared space and passing the catwalk.
Richeh knew that Professor Qifrey would be fast asleep at this time of night. Probably cozied up with brushbuddy. Despite always being encouraged to wake him for any reason— Richeh feels just the tiniest bit embarrassed to come to him. After all, he had spent so much of the day tending to her.
So she starts with Olruggio.
Richeh had started going to Olruggio not too long ago. Spurred on by the embarrassment of Tetia’s discovery of her wet bedsheets during laundry and Qifrey’s fussing about it. When it would occur once more— Richeh always found herself in Olruggio’s room.
He was always awake, even when the entirety of the atelier was dead asleep— and he always had space in his extra hammock for her to curl into.
When she makes it to the Watchful Eye’s quarters, the door is wide open and Olruggio is nowhere to be seen. His desk lantern snuffed out and his cloak tossed across the chair.
Odd, but not entirely unreasonable. Sometimes Olruggio would take long excursions into the night by sylph-shoe and not be seen for hours at a time. Richeh often wished she could do the same; soar across the sky with the winds fluttering her skirts and the cold breeze at her face. Yet Qifrey had forbidden such things when she mentioned it to him, citing scalewolves and soaring dovecats that might knock her out of the sky.
She sighs, creeping past the catwalk once more and to her professor’s door. Gazing at the wooden sign simply saying You Are Always Welcome with an addendum posted on the bottom, Please Knock.
Richeh does so, knocking thrice on the door.
There’s a commotion behind the door. Something falling on the ground, a groan, a hushed whisper, and a shh sound before it stills.
“It’s me, Professor.” Richeh calls.
There’s another round of noise. The shuffling of a blanket, more hushed whispers, and the clear sound of a rough— “Oh screw it.” before the door opens.
Olruggio is the one who opens the door. Dressed in his night clothes that came with the odd sleep cap— which is missing. “Oh— Richeh.” He says, a little startled. “Are you well?”
“It’s Richeh?” Qifrey calls out from inside.
From the creek in the door, she can see her professor still lying on his bed, dressed in his night clothes as well. “Hi professor.” She says back.
“Do you need something? Are your sheets good? How about more tea?” Qifrey fusses, standing from his nest of blankets and pillows to tend to her.
Richeh quiets, the gaze of her two professors on her prickling her skin. “No, professor.” She looks away.
“Did you eat? Have you bled through— I can put another load in the barrel.”
“I ate the meal you made and uh— no, I didn't.” She mumbles, Olly giving Qifrey’s shoulder a hit with his own.
“Ain’t it a bit embarrassing to ask her that stuff, she seems well and good.” Olruggio scolds, Qifrey huffs at him.
“It's hard not to fret over these kinds of things.” He looks to Richeh. “Why are you here, then?”
Richeh bites her lip— rocking on her bare heels and wringing her hands. Back and forth back and forth.
How could she explain her loneliness? The sensitivity in her soul that seeped outwards and made her tired and sad. “I— I can’t sleep.” Is what she decides on.
Olruggio hums his sympathy, her professor crouching down. “How about you lay down with us?” Qifrey offers. “At least until you feel better?”
Olruggio sputters. “Us?”
“Yes, us.” He affirms. Pressing her shoulder with his hand and leading her to bed. “I’m sure Richeh here could use two professors at her side during these tiring times.”
Olly grumbles something about discretion and secrets and not being a professor— all things that Richeh doesn’t care for. Following Qifrey into the room and shutting the door behind him.
Professor Qifrey's room smells like him. Like walnuts and herbs with a slight undercurrent of gloom. There’s something different about it— the addition of spiced clove and orange wine that Richeh associates with Olruggio more than anything else.
Richeh has been here before— more than once.
In the early days, when she had just left her atelier and her heart was an open wound, she often found herself in this same room to fight away the nightmares. Sat on the bed with her professor nursing cups of tea and biscuits until she could sleep.
She curls under her professors blankets— holding her quilt in her arms like a makeshift plush and curling it under her chin. Qifrey and Olruggio lay on opposite sides of her, closing her in.
It’s warm, like Olruggio’s magic taken form. At her foot, Richeh realizes a snugstone is in the bed— just under the sheets.
“Try and get some rest.” Olly tells her— sleep embedded in his voice. Richeh cuddles into the pile of blankets, nuzzling into her pillow to obey.
She can feel Qifrey’s eyes on her and can hear him thinking something incomprehensible to her— but full of love. “Remember Richeh, you’re more than free to wake us up if anything happens.” Qifrey reminds her after a moment. “No matter if it's up here.” He taps her forehead. “Or down here.” He taps her heart.
Richeh smiles, burying her face into her quilt. “I know.” She closes her eyes.
Her professor yawns. “It’s always good to have a reminder.”