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Guilt is a fickle thing. It’s like mold, the way it clings under the grout of tiles and festers. Olruggio remembers when they had first moved into the atelier, in the beginning it was nothing but empty ruins that Qifrey had somehow convinced him had the hidden ability to become a home. By the other man’s logic, what better place to settle then somewhere than in the remains of what was once a home for someone else? Olruggio wasn’t quite sold on the idea at first, judging the rotting planks and crumbling foundations with the growing eye of a critic.
Even with his doubts he helped Qifrey, attached to the man's side like a hunting hound to its master. The process was long, took more time than Olruggio would’ve ever committed if he were settling by himself. Hell they even had Alaria giddily asking them if they’d gone mad anytime she had visited. But she would stick around, letting wine guide the swing of her hammer as she demolished walls with a grin stretching from ear to ear. And when the work for the day was done they would set up camp in what would become their lounge room. Circled around a campfire, with a bowl of soup easily indulged and trading well crafted barbs with one another as they let the liquor warm their blood. It was in those moments Olruggio thinks he saw the same image as Qifrey. The way the crumbling walls transformed into something tangible, even if what was only ever periphery.
But as all man made, magically or manually, nature will wait its turn to reclaim what has been made within its palms. The shepherd hut was no different, foliage climbed the exterior and the roof had caved under the strain of the weather. But even in its crumbling state the shepherd’s hut had provided shelter to a couple of stray animals, carefully relocated to a more suitable environment that wasn’t rotting floorboards.
Most aggravating of all was the mold that only made itself known when they had barely made it halfway through renovations.
He has vague memories of dealing with mold before in Ghodrey. Though many of the adults of the village kept the children, even him, away from it insisting that they would get sick otherwise. Olruggio doesn’t remember how they managed it in the snowy village, but he does know it took him and Qifrey way too long to fully get rid of the annoyance during renovations. Even now Olruggio is sure to check whenever he can to make sure the headache inducing spores don’t run rampant like it’s want to do. Sometimes it slips in, appearing in the bathroom or in the kitchen during the rainy seasons.
Olruggio tangles his hand in his hair, the ache in his scalp and the oil clinging to his fingers reminding him that he’s due to wash it at some point. He stares up at the high ceilings looming above him where he’s sprawled out on the couch. He feels that mold sometimes, stubbornly clinging onto anything that will make a half decent host.
Qifrey appears above him, his snow white hair guiding Olruggio out of the fog of his own mind. Reminding him of his weight pressing into the couch and the blanket that is halfway to the floor. Qifrey tilts his head, a concerned furrow to his brow. “It’s awfully late, even by your standards Olly.” Qifrey says into the quiet that encompasses the room, his voice little more than a whisper as his gaze flutters around. Qifrey’s voice suits the space, Olruggio thinks. He could settle here if Qifrey would keep talking in that quiet way he does when he doesn’t want to disturb the air around him. Olruggio has half the thought to ask him to pick out one of the winding tomes detailing a fantastical hero's journey from the shelves and read it.
“Could say the same to you,” Olruggio says, voice gravel in throat as his hands drops to meet the floor. The blanket slips fully to the ground, and yet Olruggio’s bones feel too heavy for him to lift. Qifrey hums, a cool hand meets his forehead to check check his temperature with an unintelligible mumble. Olruggio eyes slip shut as he presses into the gentle touch, a weird concoction of relief and guilt washes through him as Qifrey cards his hand through Olruggio’s hair when he deems his temperature to be adequate. He was a mess, plain and simple. Feeling like little more than an amalgamation of flesh and bones on the couch. Olruggio wishes he could convince his limbs to move to grab the blanket, so he could hide away from the caring way Qifrey untangles the knots in his hair.
“I could hear your brooding from upstairs,” Qifrey jokes gently, Olruggio doesn’t quite bite back the discontented noise when Qifrey slips his fingers from his hair. The other man laughs, more of an airy exhalation that was his best indication of amusement. It makes the air easier to breathe.
“I don’t brood.” Olruggio grumbles, eyes blinking open into a squint as the blanket is draped over him. He watches as Qifrey lowers himself to the floor, his night robe swishing gently as he makes himself comfortable with his legs tucked under him. Qifrey folds his arm on the edge of the couch, his features softened by the low lighting the moon offers as he peers at Olruggio from where he settles, his cheek pillowed on his folded arms. His glasses go askew on his nose the frames digging into his skin, though Qifrey doesn’t seem to be bothered by it as he hums.
“Of course not,” Qifrey easily agrees. “You’re just down here at an unholy hour because you felt like it.” The weight of his limbs becomes less of a burden as Olduggio reaches out to gently take the differently shaded lenses off. Qifrey closes his eye, hair mused enough to let slip the scar marring the side of his face. Without the glamour his glasses provide the ugly reminder of the man’s past is on shadowed display. Olruggio traces the path of it with his eyes, his fingers busy tracing the familiar sigils inscribed on the frames in his hands.
“Damn right,” he mutters, tearing his gaze away from his companion as he fiddles with the glasses. It always astounds him how delicate the frames look, errant thoughts consider how easily he could snap them in half if he exerted enough pressure on the nose piece. Olruggio doesn’t want to snap them in half though, would never forgive himself if he somehow managed to. Instead his hands were almost clumsy as he appraised the mending he’s done to the frames.
Quiet settles around the two in the lounge room, the fire once tended to in the hearth has long since faded. Letting the natural chill and quiet of the area settle into the room like another occupant. Olruggio had never done good with silence, his master always grouched at him for his inability to focus during the tests that required some level of decorum. He had found ways to fill it back then, always mumbling or humming to himself. Tapping the nib of his pen against the surface of the desk until it drove those around him mad. Where silence prevailed his attention wandered, scattered like the schools of fish that would trail around the Great Hall.
Silence with Qifrey was different. Easier in the way that Olruggio felt welcomed to join or break the steady stillness. It was funny in an ironic way, that those of the great hall liked to think that Qifrey was the silently broody type when in reality the other could go on tangents longer than ancient scrolls. When your very presence is whispered about like a ghost story, a living specter is what you become. Those long winding tangents, or the frankly lazy debates about philosophy never happened while they were in the great hall now that Olruggio thinks back on it. The talkative side of Qifrey always came out when the two of them were sneaking out in the quiet of night, the stars guiding their paths or when the prying eyes of others got lost in the bustle of a city market. It happens with more frequency now that they are as far removed from the Great Hall as a witch with apprentices could be.
Olruggio finds the silence that settles between them a reprieve. Hides within it the way he was unable to hide under the blanket. If Olruggio didn’t know any better he could be tricked into thinking Qifrey had fallen asleep, head pillowed on his arms and his breathing carefully measured. However Olruggio knows the man snores when he’s fully asleep, a habit Qifrey would deny with his full chest as if he was any wiser about it.
“I received a letter of request.” Olruggio says into the quiet, bringing the frames above his face as he peers through the lenses. Qifrey hums, lifting his head up to peer at Olruggio with measured interest. It was the same look he would turn to the girls when he knew they were keeping something tucked away in their mind. A reminder that he was there to lend an ear even if the problem was as nonsensical as just having a bad day. “From Ghodrey.”
Qifrey hums, a dissatisfied noise at the news as he reaches out to pluck his glasses from Olruggio’s hold. Olruggio lets his hands drop, unable to turn to look at Qifrey’s too knowing gaze. Instead he wonders how long it would take for him to become one with the couch, surely if he lays here long enough the perceptive look his oldest friend pins him with will slide away. “And it has to be to you?” Qifrey asks.
Olruggio sighs, “Who else would they ask?” Even all these years later he was still bound to that village. It shouldn’t fill him with as much dread as it does, to return to his snowy roots and pick up the mantle of being the shining star of Ghodrey. But it does, it terrifies him more than he thinks it has any right to. When he thinks of Ghodrey, all he can think of is that cursed trip, the way bodies freeze in the snow banks and the sound of howling beasts.
“There are plenty of witches both capable and proficient in fire magic.” Qifrey points out, a cold finger pokes his cheek insistent until Olruggio turns his head to look at the white haired witch. Even with the less than stellar opinion Qifrey has on Olruggio’s home town, he’s careful with his words when they speak about it.
“We have a duty as witches to provide assistance where needed.” Olruggio points out, swatting away the hand that is reaching to poke him in the cheek in disagreement. Under normal circumstances Qifrey would agree with him. Nodding along as the two easily worked in tandem together to lend aid where asked. Yet the words felt hollow as he said them that night, knowing that duty was a pretty way to replace debt. A debt that was only for Olruggio to repay.
Qifrey sighs, the gaze he had pinned Olruggio softening with a sad understanding. Not pity, Qifrey was never one to give anyone pity. “You don’t have anything to make up for, you know?” Qifrey did always have a way to strip away all parts of Olruggio until he was laid barren. They grew up practically inside each others pockets, it was only fair that Qifrey would be too forgiving.
Olruggio pushes himself up from where he was fused to the couch, unable to lay down face to face with his friend. Air escapes him, too warm and suffocating in a way he never thought it could be in the atelier. Embarrassingly enough he feels a sting at his eyes as he hears Qifrey softly call to him. Olruggio tangles his hands in his hair, the image of mauled bodies greeting him as he tries to blink away the tears trailing sluggishly along his cheeks. “You weren’t there,” Olruggio bites out, strangled as he tries to bite back the suffocating need to collapse in on himself.
“You shouldn’t have been either,” Qifrey says, slowly sitting down on the edge of the couch beside Olruggio. Olruggio shakes his head at the suggestion, unable to pull away as cold hands wipe away his tears with an attentiveness that he can’t help but feel is unearned. He reaches up, encasing thin wrist in a shaky grip as he turns his head away.
“I could’ve done more,” Olruggio says there was so much more he could’ve done that night. So many ways the trip could’ve gone differently if he had just been quicker. If he had just been more adept at magic or surefooted.
“Olly you were a child.” Qifrey reminds him, letting his wrists rest limp in Olruggio’s hold. He says it as if Olruggio could ever forget, as if that very fact doesn’t keep him up at night. He was younger than the girls were now. Small enough to be carried on shoulders and barely being added weight, his legs were not quite long enough to keep up with quick efficient strides through deep snow. “You shouldn’t have had to do anything. You shouldn’t have been there in the first place, Olruggio.” But he had been. He was supposed to be brilliant, a shining star on the darkest of winter nights.
If you were to ask Olruggio his reasoning for following Qifrey and settling in the Naakiwan Downs, he would grumble an answer about the rolling hills giving ample room for test runs. Or maybe he’d give a scripted answer about the open sky being wonderful for creative ingenuity. The real reason was a touch more winding and a lot more personal.
After they had passed the fourth test, Qifrey had insisted on traveling around the peninsula. Spouting some bullshit about wanting to find himself or some other shitty poetic excuse on why he wanted to do it alone. Qifrey had insisted that Olruggio build something for himself within the Great Hall. Olruggio’s reputation was already set in stone after all, exceeding his hometown and paved in place as he became a prized prodigy.
Olruggio had agreed at the time. Qifrey was always looking for ways to strike out on his own, vanishing like the specter he pretended to be within the eyes of the hall. He came to regret it later, biting his tongue about not wanting to be too far from the other. They were a part of a pair after all, a package deal that people had come to expect to be one step behind the other. Why would he want to be far from who had become so ingrained to his own identity? But Qifrey had left, following the grand nonsense of a plan he had explained to Olruggio with a shared meal and a bottle of wine to see him off. And with the departure of Qifrey, Olruggio learned just how lonely he was.
He had friends in the Great Hall. His master had always had an open door for him and he had no end of commissions and requests with his name on them. Even now he still keeps up contact with those working in the same sphere as him. Rarely goes out of his way to make an excuse not to grab a drink with a group or spend a night spent in shared company in a tavern room. But he had forgotten how heavy the weight of titles could be. He was the Star of Ghodrey, Olruggio of the Torch, the Prodigial Pride of his master. All those names came with expectations, the idea that he would come up with the next best thing. It was in that year within the Great Hall by himself that he understood how suffocating it all could be.
It was easier to exist around Qifrey. There was no expectation of grandeur. He didn’t have to be some prodigy or something greater than a man. He was just Olruggio, or Olly or any other silly name Qifrey could think of.
Olruggio’s shoulders curl towards his ears as his mind skips back to the letter of request sitting in his workshop. His upper body bends forward with the weight of his bones the same way as the accumulated snow would bend branches until they snap. Olruggio knows he can’t go back to Ghodrey, doesn't think he wants to deep down. Yet the guilt and shame at the thought of abandoning those people makes the air a chore to breathe, his heartbeat morphing into the howling winds of a blizzard.
Qifrey exhales gently above him, guiding Olruggio until he’s able to curl into the white haired man’s side. The man’s robe was silky under hand, the fabric wrinkling in his white knuckle grasp. He hides there, clinging to Qifrey like if he just stays there long enough the letter wouldn’t exist anymore and he could go on living blissfully in the home he had poured his blood and sweat into building in the Nakiwaan Downs. Arms wrap around his shoulders, dispelling the crushing weight with a familiar warmth that lets Olruggio take in gasping breaths. “I know you want to help,” Qifrey says above him, fingers carding through the hair at the nape of Olruggio’s neck. “If you do take the request I’m sure Beldaruit would be more than happy to watch the girls for a week.”
Olruggio pries himself away from his hiding spot as he squints at Qifrey. “The request was for me, I don’t remember you gettin’ anything recently.”
Qifrey raises a brow at him, his glasses slipping down his nose as he gives Olruggio the most offended look he can muster, “Olly.” Olruggio grumbles at the tone. He’s been in the room when the girls have gotten scolded about something, as little as it happens. They lucked out, he thinks with some level of abject resignation and fondness. Olruggio doesn’t think he could handle trying to reign in kids that were half the headache he and Qifrey were when they were growing up. But still, having Qifrey turn his patented teacher voice on him was something he’d try to minimize as much as possible. It could be startlingly effective when Qifrey wanted it to be. Qifrey softens, reaching up to fiddle with his glasses as he talks. “You wouldn’t let me take a dive in the nearest body of water. Why do you think I would let you go into the snow by yourself?”
“Fair point,” Olruggio grumbles. Letting gravity drag him back down to the couch, he stares up at the ceiling. The warmth of Qifrey settled on the couch beside him offers a buffer between him and the sweeping snowstorm inside his own mind. He shouldn’t feel so much dread at the thought of his hometown, Olruggio thinks. Shouldn’t be spiraling on the couch at a letter of request from the people who had raised him. Yet here he is, guilt creeping into his bones like mold along the windowsill.
A hand knocks against his leg, drawing his eyes to the white haired witch. How much easier life would be, if he could stay on this couch with Qifrey beside him with no responsibilities to attend to. “Yes or no?” Qifrey asks, simplifying the problem the same way he does for the girls when they spin something silly into something catastrophic. Yes or no, this or that, today or tomorrow. Put that way, it seems so inconsequential for something that feels so all consuming.
Olruggio should say yes, he owes it to the town that raised him to take up their request. But the atelier was warm in a way Ghodrey never could be. Olruggio goes to respond, thinking of the debt he owes and the mold creeping into his marrow and howling of winds and really it was much more complex than a simple yes or no. “No,” he says quietly, dragging a hand across his face. His hair needed to be washed, and stubble was creeping along his cheeks and down his neck.
Qifrey pats his leg, letting out a hum as he stands from the couch. “Alright,” he says as if the answer was easy to digest. As if there wasn’t inches worth of snow to trudge through. “Tea?” He asks over his shoulder, already making his way down the steps to the atelier’s kitchen.
Olruggio groans, “Might need something stronger than tea.” He responds muffled into his hands. It was far too late to break out the wine, and guilt has never made for the best cocktail. The sound of Qifrey preparing tea in the kitchen is enough to lull him into a light doze. The warmth of the tea carefully pressed into his hands the final blow to his restless mind, sending him into a sleep filled with blizzard in the sky and beasts that prowl around.