Archive of Our Own

It's very cold. He's so hungry, so tired, so sore. The last thing he remembered was rain, a dark forest, unfamiliar voices, warm arms around him, the softness of a blanket. Even the pain in his skull had felt distant, muted.

…Took it…

That witch…

…took it…

Rain diluted the blood on his face. His vision blurred, and he had passed out.

When he woke up he had been on a cold floor, freshly washed, long hair free of filth and mats and his empty eye socket sewn shut. Bruises were blossoming across his skin, deep purple blooming against stark white. Marks on his thin wrists and ankles suggested he had been bound, the rope only cut loose for his burial.

People keep trying to talk to him now. They ask him where he's from, and he doesn't remember. They ask him about his parents, which he's sure he has, but he can't recall their faces, or names, or voices. They ask his name and he realizes he doesn't know.

What he does know is that each time they refer to him as her, as little girl, it feels like a knife in the ribs. They don't listen when he protests, his voice hoarse and weak from exhaustion and disuse and— oh, he must have been screaming for quite some time.

He hears faint murmuring behind the door. No signs of sexual assault, but no recollection of anything. They found nothing at his burial site to lead them to any further clues, but it must have been a nebulous “them”. He hears something about memories, the outside world, but he can't piece anything together. He doesn't even know where he is, just that it's cold and dim and quiet.

Finally, a man enters and he thinks he's familiar. He hazily remembers his face and voice from the forest. Sitting there on the floor, the boy stares up at this strange man.

He looks so tall, sitting there in his cloven-hooved chair. Tall, elegant, and regal, with his finely-tailored robes, his angular face, his long, pale hair that spills over his shoulders like a curtain.

The man lowers his chair to the floor and reaches his hand out, his fingers slim and callused.

“Come, boy,” and that makes his heart flutter—recognition, “take my hand.”

The boy slowly unfurls himself, silent, blinking curiously. The man smiles at him; gentle, warm, sunny.

“You shall study the ways of the witch with me.”

The ways of the witch?

He… can do that?

He reaches out, pauses midway, hesitating, uncertain. The man is patient, that smile doesn't waver, and something in the boy's gut tells him that he can trust him. That he will be safe here. Even if that promise of safety for but a moment causes a flash of discomfort behind his eye.

Slender fingers wrap around his tiny, bruised hand. Tossed into the unknown, he's been offered at least one small, guiding light, and a way forward.

—

The name Qifrey comes a day later. It is the name of a storybook hero that tamed dragons, and Beldaruit had been very relieved to know the boy in his care was still literate despite his loss of memory. The boy had quite rudely decided to snoop around his new master's room while Beldaruit simply watched him from his bed, and he had dug out a thick tome from his bookshelf.

Beldaruit had said the speed at which he devoured the tome was… intimidating.

“This name,” the boy mumbles, bringing the text over to his master's bedside. His finger points to the name of the hero. “I want it.”

And Beldaruit raises a brow, looks at him for a long time, smiles that same sunny smile, and says, “If you want it, then it will be yours, my boy.”

—

It's been a few days. Qifrey is regaining his strength, his bruises are beginning to fade into greens and yellows, but the memories aren't coming back. He hasn't been allowed to wander the Great Hall—the name of this place—yet, so he spends much of the time sitting in his master's room, reading his books, and gawking at the magical contraptions around while Beldaruit gleefully describes the mechanisms of each one, and their uses.

He learns that Beldaruit is like him. They share that same incongruence, an awkward disconnect from their anatomy.

“The body never quite matched the brain,” the man had explained with a sigh. “It was hard, being bound to my bed most of the time as I was—my parents thought I was simply going mad from cabin fever. It was my master that first took it seriously. It's been a long time! Medicine has come quite a long way since!”

“Medicine?” Qifrey echoes quietly. “There's medicine for it? Why not just use magic?”

Beldaruit gives him a sympathetic look. It was then he first learned about the Pact, about forbidden magic. Healingcraft fell under the realm of forbidden spells. Any magic that altered the body did.

“That doesn't make sense,” Qifrey grumbles. “If the magic makes someone happy, why is it forbidden?”

“Qifrey,” Beldaruit murmurs. There is a flicker of something in his eyes—alarm, maybe. It's gone quickly, replaced by quiet understanding. “There are a great many things we must sacrifice for the greater good. You'll understand this, in time.”

Irritated, Qifrey replies, “That's stupid. Why would—”

“Qifrey,” Beldaruit repeats, his voice sharper now. That smile is gone, his eyes like ice chips. Hardened and cold, all the usual warmth vanishing in an instant. “Those who would gladly ink their skin with magic are the same as those who took your eye and interred you alive.”

Qifrey feels a chill run through him. He quickly looks away, hugging himself tightly, scowling.

“You will not repeat what you said here outside of this room,” his master continues. “Do you understand?”

The boy swallows and curls in on himself, feeling small, frustrated, frightened.

“Yes,” Qifrey mumbles.

Beldaruit relaxes immediately, his smile returning, eyes regaining their warmth. Qifrey clears his throat, sniffs, refuses to look at him, blinks out a few angry tears that he scrubs at with his knuckles.

“Ah— I made you cry?!” His master squawks, sounding borderline hysterical. “Please! Forgive me!” Beldaruit bows his head, clapping his hands together. “Don't worry, my boy. There are many things you can still do! And I will do my best to help you!”

Qifrey doesn't say anything. He just turns and skulks off to the adjoining parlour room, where he will mope and surely die of misery and humiliation.

There are a lot of things he simply does not understand. Maybe Beldaruit is right, it will just take time. But he curls up on the loveseat, his face hot, eye burning, head hurting, and can't help but think these rules all sound really stupid.

—

The robes are… acceptable. Qifrey stares at himself in the mirror, turns from side to side. The fabric is warm, soft, and light. Easy to move in. He does a spin and watches the cloak twirl.

“Oh! My darling new apprentice looks so adorable!” Beldaruit coos, delighted, much to Qifrey's chagrin.

“Not adorable,” he grumbles.

“Handsome, then?” Beldaruit offers.

Qifrey squints. “Fine.”

“Do they feel comfortable? Do you need any adjustments?” Beldaruit bends over in his chair, his elegant hands adjusting the cloak around Qifrey's shoulders. They then gently fluff out Qifrey's hair, fix it over his shoulders to better frame his face.

“It's fine,” Qifrey grunts. He doesn't say it out loud, but he… really likes them. The black undershirt is… surprisingly comfortable. He likes how covered up he feels, less exposed than he was in that old, white gown he was buried in. “Um…”

He pinches a fluffy chunk of white hair between his fingers thoughtfully.

“Master Beldaruit.”

“Yeeees…?”

“Can you cut my hair?”

In their reflection, Qifrey can see Beldaruit’s expression shift from surprise, his mouth falling open and eyes widening, into pure joy. “Of course! Oh, your long hair is so beautiful, but it is quite thick… I imagine it’d be very hard to maintain, especially with your curls. Ah, not everyone can sport long, flowing locks like mine all the time, right?”

Those hands land on Qifrey’s thin shoulders and he tenses up, his own small fingers curling into his robes. The touch is warm, and… comforting. Something stirs uncomfortably within him and he must have made some sort of expression, because Beldaruit quickly pulls his hands away.

Qifrey sits on the edge of the bed while Beldaruit takes shears to his hair. Every time the man has to tilt his head to the side, or down, or the metal brushes too close to Qifrey’s skin and makes Qifrey tense up he murmurs out a hushed apology. But he’s gentle with him, his hands are deft, handling him delicately but efficiently. Qifrey watches clumps of hair fall around him and, gradually, his head begins to feel a little lighter.

“There. Finished.” Beldaruit sets the shears aside and Qifrey lifts both hands up to ruffle any loose hairs out. He blinks, looks down at his lap, then at the blankets. There’s hair everywhere. Wait, why did Beldaruit agree to this?! They made a huge mess! No way can Beldaruit clean this all up himself, and Qifrey isn’t sure of the best way to do it.

Clearly, his master takes note of the panicked flash in his eye. The man reaches for his quire with a pleasant smile and flips it open, drawing out a seal in a few fluid motions that has the locks of hair rising off from the bed, the floor, and Qifrey’s clothes, and shooting directly into the rubbish bin. Qifrey stares, mouth open.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Beldaruit adds. With a flip of his own hair he continues, “Go look at yourself. I would say I did a fine job.”

“Okay.” Qifrey turns, walking back to the mirror and peering into it. His hair curls delicately around his head, shines golden in the lanternlight like a little halo around him. Fringe still falls over the right side of his face, where his sewn eye socket still continues to heal, the pain only abated by daily medication brought from the Medical Spire.

“You look like a little cherub,” Beldaruit fawns while Qifrey ignores him.

The sight of himself with short hair brings… an almost suffocating sense of elation, one that doesn’t show on his face but that he can feel spreading warmly through his chest. It is, perhaps, the first sense of true happiness he’s felt since being rescued. It makes him feel like himself, like the boy he wants to be, like—

Crrk.

Qifrey startles. His breath catches. Something itches beneath his skin. His small hands curl tightly into the front of his new robes. He doesn’t know what that was, but the uncertainty causes anxiety to shoot through him—and all of the sudden, the itching stops.

“Thanks,” Qifrey finally whispers, casting his gaze downward to where his hands are bunched up in his tunic.

If Beldaruit notices his momentary discomfort, he does not comment on it. One day, Qifrey will notice this pattern they fall into: not talking. Avoiding the elephant in the room that was the tumultuous stormcloud perpetually residing over his head. Instead he says, “Now, I think it’s about time you make your grand debut within the Great Hall, as my very first apprentice.”

—

Letting him out of that room was the beginning of the end.

Children naturally love to test boundaries. They love to push. They love to do stupid, ill-planned things. It’s all a normal part of growing up. The moment he is able to taste more than just a casket, than just a holding cell, than just a bedroom, his desire to see more becomes insatiable. His desire to leave this dark place beneath the ocean is all-consuming. There is a world outside. A vast, wide world, with an endless sky and people that don’t only know him as just the pitiful Outsider not long for the Great Hall. Out there, he can find the answers he seeks.

In here, in the deep abyss of the ocean, among winding halls and miserable grey stone and gossiping pointed caps, he finds his Northern Star, the one that changes everything.

—

Olruggio is a strange boy. He has a thick accent that takes Qifrey a week to even begin to parse. He is loud, expressive, clever, charming. Other children always crowd around him and ask him questions all the time, they fawn over his skill with a pen, and then sometimes in hushed tones ask him how he can even stand to be near that strange Outsider so often. The way they say the word always makes Qifrey’s skin crawl. It was venomous, judgmental, bitter. Like he was something subhuman, insignificant.

“His name is Qifrey,” Olruggio always corrects them, voice firm. Even as a child he had such a commanding presence, one that demanded respect. “And he’s my friend.”

It makes Qifrey feel itchy all over again. It makes him feel like something was crawling just beneath his skin. That same feeling he got whenever he felt overjoyed, whenever he felt secure, comfortable, at peace. Whenever Olruggio would smile at him too brightly, or laugh at his attempts at a joke even if the joke really wasn’t that funny at all.

And whenever Olruggio would join their ink-stained hands and pull him into a run down cobblestone streets, always wanting to show him something new, something amazing.

Neither of them had any idea what horrific fate would befall them one day. Such is the innocence and naivety of children.

—

They’re fourteen. The Tower of Tomes was truly not all that long ago, and yet it’s felt like a lifetime since. Their nightly outings have not ceased. Their closeness remains. Olruggio sometimes tells him that he’s acting weird, but he doesn’t seem to suspect anything. It’s just Qifrey being Qifrey in his eyes, probably.

Olruggio is in Qifrey’s room tonight. It’s late, well past the time when they both should have gone to bed, but Olruggio had snuck him some candied mountain apple slices and then procured a tall, slim bottle out from beneath his robes. “Ta-dah!”

Dubiously, Qifrey stares at it, brows furrowed. “What’s that?”

“My master has a wine cellar in their atelier. I figured out the seal to open the lock,” Olruggio explains, looking quite pleased with himself. He clambers onto Qifrey’s bed with him, squeezed up close to his side with the bottle in his hands. Warm. Qifrey digs his nails into his wrist.

“They won’t notice it’s gone?”

“It’s just one bottle out of, like, I dunno, a couple dozen? It’ll be fine.”

“Huh,” Qifrey grunts, then shrugs. “Well, if you get found out, I’m not taking any blame for you.”

Olruggio sticks his tongue out at him. He’s wrestling with the cork on the bottle, very clearly having not thought this far ahead. Qifrey can’t help but laugh a little, shifting so he can climb off of the bed. His quire is snatched off of the bedside table, along with his pen.

“Where are you goin’?” Olruggio asks.

“Getting something to help. Be right back.” The seal is drawn quickly and easily. It’ll muffle all noise he makes while he keeps it on his person. It’s tucked into his shirt, then he scurries away, out of the room. He’s not gone for very long, returning just minutes later with a bottle opener he dug out of his master’s own wine cabinet. He holds it out to Olruggio, who laughs at him.

“Now you’re just implicatin’ yourself!” His friend exclaims, swiping the bottle opener from him and hooking it around the cork.

Qifrey sniffs. “Whatever! Move.” He climbs back into the bed, bumping Olruggio with his arm to give him some space on the already narrow bed. The container of candied apples is opened while Olruggio pops the cork off of the bottle. Qifrey bites into one slice. Sweetness explodes across his tongue, coats his mouth, both from the hardened layer of quartz sugar and the natural sugar of the fruit. He lets it soften a bit in his mouth before he chews.

And then he notices Olruggio staring at him. “Your face is all pink. Do you like it that much?”

“It’s good,” Qifrey confirms, his cheeks heating up further in embarrassment. “I’ve never had it before.”

“A girl gave it to me,” Olruggio admits, and that makes something unpleasant twist in Qifrey’s chest. His friend takes a swig of the wine straight from the bottle before he continues, “And I, um, didn’t have the heart to tell her no.”

“So you’re just shoving it off on me?” Qifrey grumbles.

Olruggio flushes red, waving one hand around wildly. “No! No! I just figured you’d like them! You always really liked the other sweet stuff you’ve tried!!”

“Give me that,” Qifrey huffs, snatching the bottle out of Olruggio’s hand while he’s distracted and taking a large gulp. He can’t help how his face contorts at the taste of the alcohol, the way his lips curl and nose scrunches up. His eye screws shut, he swallows, shudders.

Olruggio makes a little amused sound. “Aw, can’t handle a bit of spirits?”

A challenge. Of course. Olruggio always knows how to get a rise out of him, knows how to make that nasty, prideful, competitive part of him rear its head. Qifrey snaps his eye open to shoot him a glare. “No way! I can handle it just fine!”

And he takes another chug. And another.

“Hey! Save some for me!” Olruggio whines, lunging to wrestle the bottle out of his friend’s hands. Qifrey kicks at him, aiming for the groin with little success, his toes connecting with Olruggio’s knee instead. Olruggio’s been growing a lot lately, he’s bigger than Qifrey right now; stronger, too. He’s able to easily wrangle the wine out of his hands and trap him by sitting on his gut.

Qifrey complains, “You’re too heavy.”

Olruggio just ignores him and takes another drink. Qifrey watches his mouth connect with the lip of the bottle and tries valiantly not to think about how his own mouth was just there moments before, how his own spit still lingers on the glass, undoubtedly mixing with the wine as Olruggio drinks. He wriggles around.

Right now, he’s imagining grabbing that bottle and smashing it over Olruggio’s head. He doesn’t, of course. It’s not even really the fact he’s being sat on that’s angering him, he just can’t get past that weird, needling feeling when he thinks about how Olruggio was given sweets by some girl. Usually you only do that if you like somebody. Like, really like somebody.

The thought of some other apprentice blushing, handing his friend a box of treats she made for him and his friend not even rejecting her, fills him up with such a sudden swell of rage that he twists to the side, using all of his core strength to fling Olruggio off of him suddenly and cause his friend to go colliding with the wall. There’s a wet crunch as his face slams into the stone. The bottle hits the floor, shatters, wine splattering and pooling into the grooves of the wood.

“Ah—” The rage subsides in an instant when Olruggio slumps face-down onto the bed. There’s a smear of blood on the wall. “O-Olly?!” He sits up, crawling over to shake his friend. “Sorry! I’m so sorry!”

Olruggio, dazed, slowly turns his head. His nose looks bent, and it’s gushing blood everywhere. It gets on Qifrey’s hands when he tries to help him lift his head up, gets on his bedsheets, stains Olruggio’s shirt. Seeing his friend bleed so much is terrifying. The sight and smell of blood is making Qifrey nauseous; his heart races, his head spins.

Then Olruggio says, “Wow, I didn’t know you had that in you.”

Qifrey, stunned, blinks at him… and then he laughs, watery and weak. “Shut up! It’s your fault!”

The evening ends with a trip to the Medical Spire and a fierce scolding from both of their masters about stealing and underage drinking. Olruggio’s nose might always have a little bump in it from the break, even after it heals. A constant reminder. Something for Qifrey to always feel guilty about, even if it was unintentional in a fit of teenage jealousy.

Still, maybe it’s better than taking that seal to his head again.

—

Witches were not allowed to practice medicine. This is something Qifrey had learned quickly. However, there were still mandatory classes involving sexual education for all apprentices. When you have a settlement filled with growing teenagers grappling with puberty and all the hormones that come with it, you want them to be prepared and will try to lessen the amount of mistakes they make. It was important for them to understand what their bodies would do, the changes they would go through.

A girl named Alaira had already told him a lot, though. She’d leaned over, her eyes wide, saying, “I still can’t believe babies come out of there.” She had shuddered, shaking her head. “It’s just… way too small, isn’t it? How does it even fit?”

The thought made Qifrey sick. It sent a bolt of fear and disgust through him, causing him to curl in on himself. It had never occurred to him before that he was capable of carrying a child, or birthing one. He doesn’t even like babies all that much. They’re loud and ugly and poop on themselves. Beldaruit always really liked them, though.

Qifrey’s chest started filling out a little a year ago, but not much else. He’s gotten a little taller, his voice a little less squeaky. His monthlies haven’t started yet, which Beldaruit had found quite odd for his age, but he was given a clean bill of health during his medical check-up. Just a late bloomer, according to the doctor.

When he wakes up one morning, he has a weird feeling in his guts. Not quite nausea. There is a dull ache at the base of his spine. He thinks that maybe he just slept wrong, and maybe supper the night before wasn’t agreeing with him, so he brushes it off.

He’s a little distant during the day’s lessons, and he’s having trouble getting comfortable. The dull ache persists, radiating to his hips and thighs. Qifrey doesn’t mention it because he doesn’t want to be taken to the Medical Spire, he hates it there, he hates having doctors poking at him and he doesn’t want anybody looking at his body. Not only that, he knows Beldaruit would just agonize over him and hover incessantly…

It comes to a head when he’s out with Olruggio later, after supper. Olruggio had wanted to show him the stray miniature whiskercat and her litter of fresh kittens he’d found recently; he was so excited about it, even. Olruggio always did really like cute things.

Qifrey follows close behind. The pain hasn’t gone away and he moves stiffly. It’s intensified over time, a sharp stabbing in his abdomen and his spine. It feels like his hips are being crushed. Everything feels too warm. He feels a little bit like he can’t breathe.

Once they reach an empty street, Qifrey comes to a stop. “Olly.”

He can feel uncomfortable, warm wetness in between his thighs. Qifrey doesn’t want to look.

Olruggio stops, turning, confused. Clearly Qifrey must have a miserable expression on his face, because he’s immediately rushing over to him and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Qifrey? What’s wrong?”

“I… think…” Qifrey shifts his weight from one foot to the other anxiously. “My… um.”

Sheepishly, he pulls up the skirt of his tunic. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but the growing red patch in the white fabric of his trousers makes him feel lightheaded. It feels gross, everything hurts, it’s too hot. There isn’t any way for him to make it back to his room without everyone passing by seeing the mess he’s made of himself.

Before Olruggio can say anything, Qifrey begins to cry.

“Q-Qifrey?!” Olruggio squawks. “Hey! Don’t cry! This- this is normal! It’s okay!”

Qifrey continues to cry anyway. Sobs wrack his body, fat globs of tears rolling down his face. He feels dirty, horrifically embarrassed and humiliated over this happening in public. He hates that it’s happening at all. It makes him feel disconnected from his body. It’s wrong, so wrong.

“I- I don’t want—” He hiccups. “I don’t want it! I d-don’t want this to happen to me!”

He’s practically wailing. His face is red, snot running from his nose. Olruggio, panicked, quickly ushers him into a nearby alley, out of sight in case anyone turns down this street. Qifrey sinks down to the ground and Olruggio goes with him, kneeling in front of him, bright eyes full of worry.

“It’s not the end of the world,” Olruggio says, doing his best to comfort him. It doesn’t help. It’s good it doesn’t help, really. The last thing he needs is to get too comfortable on top of this. “Hey, it was gonna happen one day, ri—”

“I don’t care!” Qifrey bawls. “It shouldn’t! It’s not right!” His hands fly to his abdomen. The cramping is intense. He doesn’t know if the pain is supposed to be this extreme, nobody ever told him. They just told him there might be some discomfort, but he feels like his insides are being pecked apart by carrion birds. He lets out a choking sound, doubles over, and vomits. It narrowly misses Olruggio’s shoes. It just makes him cry harder. “I wish I could rip it all out! Feed it to the scalewolves! Never have to worry about it again!”

Olruggio looks pale, nervous, uncertain. It makes Qifrey feel guilty, putting this on his friend. It’s not like Olruggio would have much experience in this anyway, so of course he wouldn’t know what to do. Qifrey drops his head forward, closing his eye, his shoulders shaking.

Faintly, he hears the sound of a pen scratching against paper. When he opens his eyes again, Olruggio is ripping a page out of his palm quire and pressing it to Qifrey’s belly. Pleasant warmth immediately blooms where the paper connects, seeping through his clothes, spreading through his abdomen.

“It- it won’t last forever,” Olruggio says. “But I’m… I’m gonna go get your master, okay? Just wait here. I’ll come back, I promise.”

Qifrey stares at him, vision blurred by tears. His endless kindness astounds him every time. Olruggio even shrugs off his own cloak to bundle Qifrey up in it and helps him move a few feet away from the puddle of his own vomit before he rises to his feet and bolts. The warmth from the spell is soothing the pain, and Olruggio’s robes smell like burning firewood. It’s… too comforting. It’s way too comforting. He thinks the only reason that his roots have not grown is because of the sheer horror of the situation.

He draws his knees up to his chest and drops his head against them. Tears continue to fall, but he muffles his sobs into the fabric of Olruggio’s cloak. It’s getting harder to move, and he feels like he might pass out.

When he hears approaching footsteps, he’s not sure how long it’s been, but he had stopped crying eventually, too exhausted. Every sob had sent another burst of pain through him. The familiar sound of running feet is being followed by clicking hoofbeats against the stone.

“Qifrey?! Are you still here?” Olruggio calls.

“Yeah,” he replies, voice hoarse. The alley is too narrow for Beldaruit to reach him here. Olruggio appears before him, reaching out to catch him as he tries to stand up on his own and nearly collapses. Qifrey sags against his friend’s side as he’s bodily hauled out of the alley, where his master awaits.

Beldaruit looks worried. He lowers his chair, holding his arms out wordlessly, and Qifrey goes to him. The warmth of his master’s body tells him that this isn’t one of his smoke sculptures. It’s really him. He’d made it out of bed just to come for him. Qifrey swallows thickly.

“Does it hurt?” Beldaruit asks him, voice soft. Qifrey nods. His body shifts a little in Beldaruit’s lap as the chair pushes back up. “How long?”

“All day,” Qifrey croaks out.

“Oh, Qifrey…” Beldaruit sighs. “If only you had told me.”

Qifrey doesn’t say anything, just turns his face into his master’s robes.

“Not to worry, we’ll get you cleaned right up.” Beldaruit pats his shoulder. “You’re very lucky to have such a supportive friend, you know.”

Olruggio makes a flustered sound. Qifrey sniffles. “I know.”

They take an alternate route to the Medical Spire, away from the more crowded areas of the Great Hall. Qifrey still has Olruggio’s cloak around him, still has that warm little paper held close to his belly. The doctors are kind enough to keep things discreet. When he’s undressed, there’s a thick layer of bright red, brown, and black in his undergarments and trousers. Beldaruit insists it can be washed out. Magic does wondrous things, after all.

Qifrey doesn’t have the energy to panic or thrash when he’s put in the tub. The doctors handle him with care, like he’s so delicate he’ll shatter with one wrong move. It would be frustrating if he wasn’t so exhausted. A fresh change of clothes is delivered, and he’s shown how to apply the thick lining to his undergarments to catch the blood.

When a nurse brings up the possibility of doing an exam to figure out why his pain is so severe, Qifrey says, “Exam?”

“Oh, well.” The nurse clasps her hands together. “You’d have to be laid back, and we would have to insert a medical instrument inside of your—”

“Nevermind,” Qifrey cuts in. He doesn’t need to hear anything else. Just that little bit of information makes him dizzy. “Don’t do that.”

“We won’t have any idea what the problem is if we don’t check,” she responds, voice gentle.

“I said no,” he bites back.

She gives him a pitying look. “I’ll see what your master says.”

Luckily Beldaruit, when he returns to check on Qifrey, is on Qifrey’s side. If Qifrey says no, then the answer is no. There is some pushback from the doctors, discussion about what if there is a severe issue, what if there is something we need to catch and treat, it could be life-threatening, how could we know…

But, like with everything regarding Qifrey, Beldaruit bats away all opposition.

He doesn’t have to stay the night at the Medical Spire. They send him away with tinctures for pain and extra padding. Beldaruit is surprisingly quiet when he escorts Qifrey to his room and puts him to bed.

“If you’re ever feeling unwell, Qifrey, you can always tell me,” Beldaruit says, leaning forward in his chair to pull the blankets up over his apprentice. He’s already poured a vessel of water and placed it on the bedside table. “There isn’t any need to suffer in silence.”

Qifrey purses his lips. Beldaruit doesn’t know the half of it. Seeking help and comfort would backfire, inevitably. It was better to let himself feel the pain and push through it, like he always did.

But he also thinks: what would happen if he told Beldaruit? The man knew so much, was so respected, had so much influence. Maybe, just maybe he’d know what to do, how to rid Qifrey of this wretched parasite, and Qifrey would be free. He’d be able to breathe again, to express his emotion openly, to finally sort out these troubled feelings he has when he looks at his best friend.

“I just don’t want to be a burden,” he chooses to say instead, voice thin.

Beldaruit’s expression softens, his smile wistful, his gaze faraway like he’s recalling a distant, or perhaps not-so-distant, memory. His long fingers brush through Qifrey’s hair. It’s not unwelcome. “Believe me, I understand.” He pulls his hand back. “But you will never be a burden to me, my child.”

When his master shuts the lamp off and takes his leave, Qifrey rolls onto his side and curls up into a tight ball. He sniffles, hiccups weakly. His hands curl tightly into the blankets. It’s hard to get comfortable with the new, thick padding in his undergarments. He can still feel the hot wetness there. The medicine they gave him helped with the pain, at least. But he still feels so miserable, so angry, so humiliated, and so scared.

Qifrey pulls the blankets over his head and weeps, soft enough that no one will hear.

Olruggio comes to retrieve his cloak in the morning. Neither of them talk about what happened the day prior. Qifrey’s still thinking about the thoughtful, kind spell that Olruggio had drawn just for him. Was it one that already existed? Or did Olruggio come up with it on the spot, clever as he was?

He doesn’t ask. There are kittens to go and see.

—

His cycles come irregularly. It is both a relief and a curse, not having to deal with them monthly, but it means that he doesn’t know when they will come. Sometimes there are signs the days prior: more moodiness than usual, aches and pains just the day before. Sometimes it comes without warning and he wakes up in a puddle of his own blood. He hates those times. It’s always excruciatingly painful.

Olruggio eventually gives him something. It’s a hand-sewn mat of some sort, just big enough to cover Qifrey’s abdomen. It’s covered in the thick, soft fur of domesticated liongoat, filled with flax seed. Attached to it is a short cord with a knob at the end, which Qifrey can twist to complete the outer ring of the seal and cause the mat to gradually heat up.

The seal is familiar: it’s similar to the one Olruggio had scribbled into his palm quire all those months ago to provide his friend some momentary relief, but vastly improved. Not a rush job done in a panic.

Qifrey can feel that itch under his skin again. Peace and joy war with anxiety and terror inside of him. He’s surprised that the branches don’t explode forth from him. Olruggio, driven to the point of invention for him?

“Thanks,” he mumbles, holding the gift close to him.

“Don’t mention it!” Olruggio replies, beaming. Then, as serious as a heart attack, he adds, “Seriously, don’t mention it, or else more people’re gonna ask for one…”

Qifrey just laughs, even if it hurts.

—

It’s not the last time Olruggio invented something for him.

When Qifrey is fifteen, he has to start wearing spectacles. It came when he realized that the things he knew were far away from him (something he once had trouble judging, with only one eye) were starting to look a little blurry, and bright lights felt especially intense in his vision. A warning for what was to come many years down the line, he supposes.

But walking in the dark also became difficult. It was never easy, but he started to find himself tripping and stumbling more, especially during the night when the sunlight was not piercing through the ocean’s depths and the moon was far too weak to cast any light that would reach this far down. He and Olruggio had to rely on lanternlight, and that was barely enough.

“I wanna show you before anyone else,” Olruggio says as he leads Qifrey to a back street. “My master’s lettin’ me present it at this year’s Silver Eve.”

“You’re still just an apprentice,” Qifrey replies, confused and impressed in equal measure.

“Y-yeah,” Olruggio responds with a sheepish laugh. “But my master… they think it’ll be a hit.”

Olruggio comes to a stop in front of a long stretch of stone that looks far cleaner, far more new than the stones surrounding it. Qifrey stops beside him, squinting out across it for a few long moments before he gives Olruggio a questioning glance.

His friend laughs again, pointing out across it. “Just walk on it!”

“Uh. Okay.” Qifrey looks back at the path, wondering if Olruggio’s about to pull some sort of trick on him, but takes a step forward anyway. The moment his boot touches the first stone, he’s illuminated by a glittering golden glow from beneath him. It shines in his eye, feels warm across his face. Qifrey gapes, but takes another step. The next stone does the same. So does the next.

Behind him, Olruggio follows. He casually explains, “The stones’re nested! One with the sigil, the other has the ring, and when you step on them it completes the seal. It wasn’t too hard to come up wi— uh…?”

Qifrey’s spun around to face Olruggio, his eye wide, sparkling. His lips are wobbling, his cheeks flushed pink. He looks touched and awed both, like he doesn’t know whether to cry or to exclaim his amazement and compliment his friend. “Y-you… did you… was…”

It doesn’t take long for it to click for Olruggio, apparently, with how quickly his face turns red. He rubs his neck, flustered. “You had a lot of trouble walkin’ around in the dark,” he coughs out. “I thought it’d help.”

A strangled sound rips from Qifrey’s throat. The tears start before he can stop them. Olruggio, alarmed, races up to him. “Sorry! Is it bad? Do you not like it?”

Qifrey shakes his head so hard it’s a wonder his spectacles don’t fly off. He wipes at his wet face with his sleeve, hiccuping. “N-no. It’s great. I just can’t believe… it’s for me.”

“Well, why not? You’re my best friend.”

It makes Qifrey choke out another sob. He lets himself do something he rarely ever does now: he slumps forward into Olruggio, letting his friend catch him and hug him close. They’ve been shooting up past one another in height for the past year, but they both stand around the same right now, so Qifrey can easily tuck his face into his shoulder.

“Thanks,” Qifrey sniffles into Olruggio’s cloak.

“I want you to be there when I present it. Okay?” Olruggio pats him on the head, smiling into his hair.

“Okay,” Qifrey mumbles. “I will be. I promise.”

And he keeps that promise. It’s a good promise, this time. When his friend presents the Glowstone Path at Silver Eve, it takes all the power in Qifrey not to burst into tears again as each and every person in the crowd raises their flag with a raucous cheer.

—

When he’s sixteen, after a few assessments by a doctor, he starts his medicine. The medicine that will help him feel more like himself, that will make his body feel much less foreign. It’s injected into his leg through a small syringe once a week at the Medical Spire.

Olruggio teases him whenever his voice cracks, but not unkindly. Qifrey’s change feels rapid: his features sharpen within a handful of months, he feels stronger, his voice steadily begins to drop a few octaves, and his cycles cease entirely. More people are looking at him, other apprentices gazing with their cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

He gets letters. Confessions. He always burns them with a pyreball without reading them. Other apprentices his age are experimenting already. With each other and themselves. Kissing, and touching. Having relationships, even if they’re fleeting. He doesn’t, because he cannot afford to, and because the object of his desire is… also one of those apprentices experimenting, much to Qifrey’s quiet despair. The success of the Glowstone Path launched Olruggio further into the spotlight. Of course he’d be popular.

Meanwhile, Qifrey remains distant and inexperienced.

Sex was not some embarrassing, foreign concept Qifrey could not handle thinking about. They learned about it years ago. The other boys talked about it. Bragged, even. They talked about the girls they liked and said things about their bodies that made Qifrey feel sick, that made him pull his chest wrap tighter around himself if he ever had to share the baths with them. What would they say if they saw? If they knew? He'd already made a habit of going when it was relatively empty—now he's decided, only late night trips.

The only boy who didn't talk like that was Olruggio. Qifrey had witnessed some boys trying to pull him into their conversations, but Olruggio would either ignore them or say, “How'd your mum feel knowin’ you talk about girls like that?”

It’d make those boys stutter, choke out a few poor excuses, but swiftly change the subject.

—

It’s just him and Olruggio alone in the baths now. Qifrey’s learned to tolerate warm water over the years. It doesn’t feel like he’s back in that casket, freezing rain pooling up around him as he claws desperately at the lid until his fingers bleed, but he’s so numb from the cold he can’t even feel the pain. Until he gets so exhausted he begins to pass out.

“Y’know,” Olruggio says, flopping back in the shallows to stare up at Qifrey where he sits, knees drawn. “I was lookin’ into it recently, and I hear there’s a special type of surgery for boys like you.”

“Oh?” Qifrey responds with a fond little smile. Olruggio was looking into things like that for him? How considerate, as usual. That’s his dear Olruggio. “Do tell.”

“Yeah. Knock your tits clean off,” his friend says with a laugh. “They make you go to sleep and then they cut them off, I think. I hear recovery is a few weeks. You wouldn’t be able to draw!” Olruggio throws his arms up. “But, hey, maybe somethin’ to consider for the future…”

Qifrey considers it now. His chest has grown more, but remains small, with no more signs of growing further. It’s easy enough to hide from others that don’t know. The compression of his turtleneck and a bit of binding tape makes his chest look indistinguishable from other boys, so long as he’s covered up. It’d be nice to not have to hide it.

And yet…

To be rendered unconscious, to have something cut from his body with no memory of it…

He bites the inside of his cheek.

“I suppose we’ll see,” he murmurs.

Olruggio squints at him. “Aye.” He pushes himself up, shaking his head around wildly, water flying in all directions like a dogtail drying itself. “I dunno if it’s available to witches anyway. One day, though…”

Qifrey’s smile is smaller, now. Sadder. “One day.”

—

Word spreads quickly through the Great Hall. The young Librarian of House Arklaum has just given birth. A little girl, they say. Qifrey hears the news and thinks that eighteen is quite a young age to bear children, but he knows that many nonwitches begin families even younger.

He doesn’t know why everyone is causing such a fuss, anyway. It doesn’t have anything to do with them, and certainly will never have anything to do with him. Qifrey will forget soon enough and carry on with his life, the Houses far from his mind.

—

These days, it’s becoming harder and harder to ignore the feeling in his chest whenever he’s around Olruggio. That delightful warmth, the joy, the longing. They’re closer to young men than they are to children, now. Still apprentices, but their graduation is quickly approaching. Other apprentices must realize that, too, with how they throw themselves at his friend.

It’s always someone new, every few weeks. It never lasts long. Olruggio mentions he’s rarely the one ending things. He is always very kind, introducing them all to Qifrey. Qifrey is pleasant and cordial, but his smiles are always tight, never reaching his eye. So long as he does not see what they’re up to, he can manage it just fine, he tells himself. He’ll just ignore it when Olruggio meets up with him with bruises on his neck, or rumpled up robes.

Really, it isn’t fair to the others. They are always very nice to him, they don’t give him those nasty judgmental stares, they don’t whisper behind their hands. They are warm, eager to know him, and he remains polite but distant. He has no reason to hate them beyond being bitter that they have what he cannot. It’s not their fault.

But he has noticed a pattern: that the relationships seem to end not very long after they are introduced to Qifrey.

He’s walking through the Great Hall, Beldaruit having tasked him with delivering a tome he borrowed back to its owner. Olruggio hasn’t come to meet him in a few days, which has had Qifrey quite despondent, so Beldaruit was doing his best to get him out of the atelier so he wouldn’t simply sit and mope between lessons.

Maybe it would have been best if he stayed in his room today, because Qifrey sees the familiar flash of black, gold, and blue from his periphery and turns his head to look. And there is Olruggio, standing in a corner with his newest lover that surely will not last long either. Qifrey had met her a week ago. He doesn’t remember her name. He never remembers their names.

It's impossible to fight off that hot spike of raging jealousy. Watching a pretty girl with pretty red hair and pretty green eyes press her lips to Olruggio's, seeing Olruggio kiss her back and thread their fingers together. He has no reason to be jealous, no good reason. Olruggio is free to be with who he likes. Qifrey cannot be with him, no matter how much he desires it. But many people want to be with Olruggio, who is shaping up to be quite the handsome young man at seventeen. Handsome, talented, kind—of course the other apprentices would be vying for his affection.

But Qifrey still turns and rushes away, robes fluttering, hot tears stinging at his eye and the image of Olruggio kissing someone else burned into his memory. 

At least this will be enough to keep the parasite at bay, for a time. A silver lining to it all.

—

A few days later, Olruggio comes stumbling into Qifrey’s room unannounced. Qifrey closes his book and places it aside, scooting over so Olruggio has room to climb into his bed with him. They’re both much taller now, Qifrey just a few inches shy of six feet and Olruggio just a tad shorter than him. They likely won’t grow much more, if at all. It’s harder to squeeze into a narrow bed like this.

“You remembered I exist,” Qifrey murmurs, teasing.

“Sorry,” Olruggio grunts, flopping his head against Qifrey’s shoulder. Qifrey clasps his hands tightly in his lap. “I had a date tonight.”

“How did it go?” That prickle of irritation and jealousy is there again, but he does his best to feign interest, if only because he cares for his friend and his life.

Olruggio chuckles. “Didn’t work out.”

Irritation and jealousy turn into something possibly even uglier: wicked satisfaction. Once again, Olruggio is not in anyone else’s arms, is not pressing his mouth to another person’s, is not running his hands under someone else’s robes. “Good,” Qifrey blurts out without thinking.

“Eh?”

“I mean, that’s no good,” Qifrey quickly corrects himself, his neck feeling hot.

Olruggio lifts his head and stares at him, an unspoken question burning in his gaze. Qifrey holds his breath, waiting for his friend to poke at it, to try to figure out what that slip-up was all about. It wouldn’t be the first time. Olruggio doesn’t remember the first time.

To his blessing, Olruggio lets it go. “I think,” Olruggio begins, flopping back with his arms folded behind his head, “I might just not be interested in women.”

“Me neither,” Qifrey states casually.

“Yeah, I could guess,” Olruggio says with a laugh. “I just thought I had to be. Still, it never felt right. So I gotta stop leadin’ those poor girls on.”

Qifrey hums, picking at a thread on his chemise. “So, you’ll stop running back to me the moment a relationship doesn’t work out?”

Olruggio blanches and shoots upright again. Flustered, he waves his hands around. “It’s not like that!”

It makes Qifrey laugh, a soft sound behind his hand. “I’m joking, Olly.”

Color returns to Olruggio’s face immediately. Embarrassment and panic is replaced by irritation, his thick brows knitting together and his slightly-crooked nose scrunching up. He growls out, “Qifrey…!”

He’s pounced on and Qifrey laughs again, the sound bright. They’re both stronger, now, putting them on a more equal playing field when they wrestle playfully like this. They’re much more aware of the wall beside the bed. It gets them all tangled up in the bedsheets, and then Qifrey’s pinned down with Olruggio’s hands around his thin wrists.

They’re both breathless, giggly. Their faces are flushed, a little sweaty. Above him, Olruggio’s eyes look dark. There is the soft shadow of stubble along his strong jaw. His hair is glossy and needs a trim, but it’s lovely. He’s beautiful.

Olruggio is staring down at him with an intensity that’s almost terrifying, but ignites a fire in Qifrey’s belly. Raw affection and naked desire is plain as day across Olruggio’s face. This is dangerous. Qifrey doesn’t try to get away, just stares back at him with his lips parted.

When Olruggio slowly ducks his head down, Qifrey closes his eye and lets it happen. He expects the press of their lips together, he expects Olruggio to pull up his chemise and show him exactly what he was doing with all those girls before him. That desire is aching, unbearable, and he wants desperately.

But it never comes.

He feels Olruggio’s breath against his lips but nothing else. Qifrey opens his eye again, confused. Olruggio looks troubled.

“Olly?” He whispers.

“I…” Olruggio pulls back, shaking his head. He releases his grip on Qifrey’s wrists. “No, it’s not fair to you. I’m sorry.”

“Olruggio—”

“Look at me, stumblin’ in here after a failed date and…” Olruggio laughs weakly. “Hey, how’s about we have a drink?”

Qifrey sits up slowly. He wants to scream and thrash and throw a right tantrum, but even he knows this is probably for the best. For them both. They keep just the right amount of distance between them and nothing will happen. Qifrey will remain safe, and Olruggio’s memories will remain intact.

“Okay,” Qifrey tries to make his voice sound warm, tries to hide any of his disappointment, but it probably isn’t very convincing. He feels a bit like a pumpkin in autumn, all of him scooped out, leaving him hollow. “Let’s.”

—

It’s the end of autumn, and Qifrey is accompanying Olruggio, other older apprentices, and their masters on a trip outside of the Great Hall. One last mission to prove themselves before their graduation. It went extraordinarily well, of course. Olruggio and Qifrey ended up doing the bulk of the work while other apprentices observed, impressed. Olruggio’s master said they would send Beldaruit a glowing review of Qifrey’s work.

Then, after everyone was fed and washed, it was time to retire to bed.

They’ve shared a bed before, as younger boys. There was a lot of fussing and kicking and fighting over blankets, Qifrey waking Olruggio up in the dead of night by sticking his freezing feet against his legs, Olruggio slinging an arm directly over Qifrey’s face and whacking him in the eye. There had also been Olruggio waking him up from a nightmare, eyes wide and worried, and it caused that uncomfortable stirring in his chest again. They hadn’t shared a bed since before that day when they went to the Tower of Tomes. When they made that horrific promise to one another.

Olruggio doesn’t remember. How many times has it been now that he’s learned in just these three years? Three times, maybe? Five? Eight? Qifrey can’t recall. He should, because Olruggio wanted him to remember every single time he pressed that blasted seal to his forehead.

But they’re sharing a bed now out of necessity. There weren’t enough for everyone to get their own, and with their closeness as friends it was only logical they would share. Qifrey would refuse anyone else, and it would hardly be appropriate for either of them to share a bed with Olruggio’s master.

It’s really hard to sleep.

The beds are quite narrow. Olruggio is snoring softly next to him, back to him, curled into a fetal position. It’s dark, save for a beam of moonlight slanting across the room and over Qifrey’s face, reflecting in his single eye as he stares at nothing. As he tries to get his mind off of the solid warmth pressed close to his spine, how Olruggio’s legs are dangerously close to tangling with his, how he could simply roll over and press his face into his best friend’s neck and breathe in the smell of sweat and smoke and whatever soap he uses that makes him smell faintly like a forest.

He can still smell it now, with this proximity. It’s making his guts churn in a way he’s not wholly unfamiliar with. Heat pools under his skin, he feels a little sweaty, his heartbeat accelerating. Qifrey swallows, scrunching his eye shut. Ignore it. His toes curl into the sheets, his palm digs into his temple. Ignore it!

Olruggio lets out a soft sound that makes Qifrey feel like he’s been electrocuted. He wants to scream in frustration, considers smothering his friend with his pillow and then fleeing into the woods, because he doesn’t want to deal with this wretched desire that’s making his skin feel like it’s on fire. The only thing that can work now is distance.

Slowly, so he doesn’t wake the other, he slips out of bed. Qifrey grabs his cloak off of its hook and curls it around himself as he bunches himself up into a ball on the cold stone floor, hard and uncomfortable and exactly what he needs. He can still hear Olruggio faintly in the bed above him, but he can’t smell him or feel him anymore.

That, at least, is enough to help him finally fall asleep.

He’s woken up by someone nudging him several clock-marks later. “Qifrey?” Olruggio’s voice sounds muffled, far away. Qifrey groans in protest, pulling his cloak over his face. His entire body hurts, which he can only blame himself for since he willingly decided to sleep on the stone floor.

The cloak is ripped from him and Qifrey shouts, “Hey!”

Olruggio looks thoroughly unimpressed. “Why’re you sleepin’ on the floor?”

Qifrey sits up slowly. He feels his back pop in several places. “You snore too loud.”

His friend doesn’t look convinced at all. He raises an incredulous brow and says, “Can’t you still hear me from down there?”

“I have to go brush my teeth.” Qifrey pushes himself up to his feet and shuffles away without giving a proper answer. He’s become quite good at the art of dodging questions. It infuriates Olruggio sometimes, which is good. It’s better when Olruggio is angry with him.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

—

Tomorrow, Qifrey graduates. He’s just turned eighteen. Approximately, at least. They still don’t know the day he was really born. So they simply used the day that he was saved from the muck and brought into the embrace of witch society.

Olruggio is graduating with him. They’ll be leaving the Great Hall as quickly as they can. They had already been going out frequently to that quiet little place in the Naakiwan Downs, slowly rebuilding the crumbling structure found there. Olruggio had come up with the blueprints for the layout, had figured out every room they’d need, how big they would need to be… ah, he truly was a renaissance man.

He still can’t believe Olruggio wants to come with him at all, and he’s said as much. To which Olruggio replied with a laugh and said, “Someone needs to make sure you’re takin’ care of yourself.”

Qifrey cannot bring himself to face his master when he delivers his gift. He waits until Beldaruit is asleep, then gently rests the teacup and its saucer on his bedside table, along with a short handwritten note in his unmistakable looping penmanship:

Use this for your morning tea.

Thank you for everything.

No need for an explanation. Beldaruit does like his surprises.

And then he goes to meet Olruggio. Qifrey pulls his cloak tightly around himself, then climbs through the windowway. The stone streets of the Great Hall give way into the soft, dewy grass of the Naakiwan Downs. It’s getting colder this time of year, the grass frosts by morning, but it’s not quite time for the snow to start. Qifrey places his boots together and flies off, the glow of his shoes like the tail of a comet across the deep, dark blue night sky. Darker than even the ocean’s depths, yet much more comforting.

Beneath the ocean, he is trapped, suffocated.

Beneath the sky, he is free.

Olruggio is already there, sitting among the strong foundation they’ve built. There is still much work to do, but they have most of the bones down. His friend raises his hand in greeting and calls out an ey up as Qifrey touches down and walks the rest of the way down the dirt path.

“I’ve brought something,” Qifrey says. He sits down next to Olruggio and pulls out a small, bound package from beneath his robes. Carefully he unwraps it, and upon revealing its contents Olruggio’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Sylph erbe?” Olruggio laughs. “Where’d you get that?”

“Beldaruit has some in his stores, for pain,” Qifrey replies. One day, when he’s older and wiser, he will realize that his master was intentionally leaving these things for him to find. It was a way to let Qifrey grow, find his independence, and push boundaries without really getting in trouble.

The pipe is brought out next. Water pools within the crystal bowl, refilling instantly whenever needed thanks to a seal inscribed within. Qifrey carefully packs the erbe into it while Olruggio watches, smirking.

“From the looks of things, you’ve done this before.”

“Maybe.” Qifrey stretches his legs out in front of him. There is a small mechanism on the pipe that, when pressed, will trigger the internal seal and ignite a tiny flame within. He explains this to Olruggio, who nods.

Qifrey brings the pipe to his lips. His thumb covers the tiny hole in the crystal, his index finger pressing down on the mechanism. The flame bursts to life, he inhales deeply. Sylph erbe was not known to taste good, let alone even smell all that pleasant, but it was good when one didn’t want to think. Qifrey’s tried it enough to know his limits by now. He holds it in his lungs for a few moments, then exhales.

“Smells like pure shite,” Olruggio states. Qifrey grins, passing the pipe over.

“You get used to it.”

Olruggio handles it well, but he does cough a little bit on the first exhale. They don’t speak too much, they just sit there passing the pipe back and forth until they feel warmer, softer, more loose. Qifrey made sure to bring some snacks to share for the inevitable spike of hunger; dried meats, candied fruits, small bits of cheese. He puts the pipe away eventually, or else neither of them will be able to get back to the Great Hall tonight. They don’t need to miss their own graduation ceremony.

The roof isn’t done yet, so they can see the stars twinkling above them. Qifrey looks up as he tilts his head against Olruggio’s shoulder, thoughtful.

“It’s nice out here,” he murmurs.

Olruggio grunts in response, his mouth preoccupied with eldroxen jerky. Qifrey hugs his knees close to him, letting his eye slip shut. They remain that way for some time, not speaking. Qifrey thinks that he’s so relaxed, so happy, so warm, what would happen if he just let go here and now? Let his branches and roots spread, stay here forever…

But he can’t do that to Olruggio.

“Qifrey,” Olruggio mumbles. “Look.”

Qifrey opens his eye slowly and looks up to where Olruggio is pointing at the sky. Streaks of white light fly across the deep blue.

A meteor shower? He didn’t know they were expecting one.

They flash brightly, illuminating in his eye. Olruggio stares, lips parted, awed, like he’s never seen anything more lovely than this. And that is distracting. It draws Qifrey’s attention from the sky to his friend’s face. His friend’s warm, handsome face. Like this, he’s so beautiful. So relaxed, so soft, so vulnerable and open, amazed by the beauty of the world around them and beyond.

“Olly,” he croaks out, throat a little dry, which he blames on the sylph erbe. Olruggio snaps his eyes away from the sky and to Qifrey, curious. He’s so lovely.

Qifrey can’t help himself.

He kisses him. It’s awkward and clumsy but it’s still a kiss. Olruggio lets out a surprised sound in the back of his throat, but he still turns his body and grabs Qifrey’s waist to pull him in. Even intoxicated, Olruggio’s able to get them in a better position, fitting their lips together in a way comfortable for them both.

Oh, he tastes like smoke, like spiced meat, like sugar. Qifrey can’t get enough of it. He kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him, his hands pawing at Olruggio’s shirt. Olruggio’s hands on his waist feel hot as the fire he wields with so much ease.

One of those hands runs up his front, to the collar of his shirt. It pulls it open with surprising deftness despite the state of their minds, exposing Qifrey’s throat to the chilly air. He whines into Olruggio’s mouth, high-pitched and desperate.

It’s perfect. It’s so perfect. It’s too perfect.

Pain pierces through his skull, causing him to jerk back. A few silver leaves scatter between them and his hand flies up to the right side of his face. No branches have pushed through his hair yet, but they’re dangerously close. No, he got too careless. Far too careless.

“Qifrey?” Olruggio, confused, reaches after him. Qifrey scrambles away.

“I’m sorry,” Qifrey chokes out, suddenly feeling much too sober. “I’m sorry.”

He flees.

Olruggio isn’t fast enough to catch him.

When he submerges himself in ice-cold water later, the lights around him blinding, he sobs. Hoarse, rattling, devastating sobs that shake his entire body. Like he’s a child again. Like he’d just gotten his first cycle again. Like Olruggio had just gotten his first girlfriend, or the first time he had seen him with a love bite visible on his neck.

The silverwood shrinks back into his body. Qifrey does not know how much of this pain is worth it.

—

Olruggio does not ask him about it the next day.

It’s another thing for them to not-talk about.

—

There are many times he slips up. Many times he gets too comfortable. Many times he must bring that seal to Olruggio’s head, another tally mark on his discomforting amount of sins. Olruggio forgives him over, and over, and over. Olruggio chases him through rain and snow, through forests and mountains, scolds him, forgives him, drags him back home.

He is cursed to keep hurting him. That is how it must be.

—

A child within the home should make for less room for mistakes. One does not want for worry with students, and it’s best he and Olruggio aren’t left alone together for too long, anyway.

Agott is ten when she arrives at his atelier after completing the Dadah Range test with flying colors. Why she chose him he will never understand. Her hair is long. She looks just like her mother. The mother that cast her aside. Qifrey had thought that this child would never concern him, when he was much younger. Ah, how wrong he was.

Children are difficult. Agott, especially. She’s stubborn, she’s angry, she’s spiteful. She challenges him often, and she has to be the one to bear the brunt of his mistakes as he learns to teach. She reminds him much of himself when he was young. She wants her independence, she wants to be strong, she wants to grow up and find her place in this world, but she is so small and so fragile.

So he will teach her patience, he will teach her humility, and he will teach her the kindness that was so obviously kept from her.

—

Qifrey’s next apprentice comes a year later. A quiet young girl with hair the color of dawn. He does not know much about her past, she does not tell him, but she’s oddly withdrawn. The look of a child that’s suffered too much, and he will not make her speak more than she wants to.

The way her eyes light up when he presents her with her new dress is not lost on him. It must have been how he looked when he tried on his apprentice robes, and then when he had his hair cut. That sense of relief and comfort was unmistakable. When she’s given her own new robes, she lights up even more. It doesn’t take long for Tetia to open up further after that, revealing the loud, talkative, energetic little girl beneath that uncertain, anxious shell.

When she learns that he’s a lot like her, she practically squeals with delight.

“I’ve never met anyone else! Like me!” Tetia exclaims, cupping her own face and swaying on her heels.

“I assure you, there are more than you know,” Qifrey laughs softly. Himself, his own master, even an… old acquaintance of his, from back in the Great Hall. One he would prefer not to see again, if possible. “I will do whatever I can to help you feel comfortable. You only need to tell me.”

“Thank you, master Qifrey!” She chirps, throwing herself at him in a hug. Qifrey wraps his arms around her tiny body and squeezes.

“Thank you,” he replies with a smile.

Tetia giggles. “Thank you!”

—

Richeh is quiet and seems to favor Olruggio more than Qifrey at first. She struggles with listening, with authority in general. Something awful happened at her atelier. Qifrey knows her older brother is now beneath his own former master’s wing. She flinches away at small touches, jumps at loud sounds.

It takes a lot of time for her to stop acting like a nervous little mouse. The girl that blossoms forth is a handful in her own way, but he learns to accommodate. Like Agott, she is stubborn and fiercely independent; unlike Agott, she seems to have no real interest in actually advancing. Something to work on with time.

—

His fourth apprentice was entirely unplanned.

An Outsider touched by forbidden magic, much like him.

A means to an end, initially.

Coco is so bright, so warm, so curious, so clever, so caring. She reminds him of a boy Qifrey knew once upon a time. There is a fierce power within her just waiting to bloom, one that he will happily nurture for as long as she is beneath his roof.

She cries at night when she thinks others cannot hear; he’s heard her many times. He always passes by the bedrooms before he retires for the night to check on the girls, to make sure they’re in bed, mostly because Agott had the habit of staying up far too late to practice. Coco muffles her sobs into her blanket in a way that is entirely too familiar. Qifrey is not sure how to comfort her. It was his carelessness that caused her misfortune to begin with.

So he simply stands there, facing the door, eye closed, throat tight, until her soft cries cease. Then he walks away, deep red indentations bitten into his palms from his nails, and a headache forming behind his eye.

—

One thing Qifrey never expected in his life was to be surrounded by so much love. From the moment he was pulled from that casket, he was given love. Beldaruit had taken him in despite the protests of his peers, had treated him kindly even when Qifrey lashed out, disobeyed, and snuck around. Olruggio had been annoyingly persistent enough to break down his walls, before offering him boundless support, warmth, and forgiveness. Alaira was as funny as she was kind, her quick-wit often getting them out of trouble well before they could find themselves in it, and was happy to take most of the blame for him when things did go awry.

His apprentices look at him with big, awed eyes. They listen to him with rapt attention. They go to him when they’re sick, when they’re sad, when they’re lonely. Even now as teens they look at him like small children witnessing something incredible. It makes him feel a little shy sometimes.

To think all of these people would come together to… to continue to shower him with kindness beyond his imagining. After all he’s said and all he’s done. Even despite his selfishness, his rage, his obsession, they worked tirelessly to do this one thing for him. The one thing that will free him forever. The key to his peace.

The first few days after, Qifrey sleeps like the dead. He emerges from his room every day past noon looking like a bear that had just woken from hibernation to find Olruggio’s already started on the girls’ lessons and lunch sitting ready in the kitchen. Olruggio would spoon out a dish for him and then usher him back to bed every time, telling him he needs all the rest he can get, that he’ll handle things until Qifrey is ready.

After a week, one night once the girls have gone to bed, Qifrey is standing in front of Olruggio’s workshop door. It’s left ajar, as usual, in case he or the girls need him despite the warning etched into the heavy wood. Qifrey pokes his head in, glancing around. “Olly?”

“Up here,” Olruggio’s voice sounds from the second floor. Qifrey slips inside, carefully closing the door behind him. He walks carefully up the staircase to see Olruggio hunched over his workbench, his pen scratching away at something on the paper before him.

“What’s that you’re working on?” Qifrey asks pleasantly, walking closer but halting just a few steps behind.

“Just a doodle, I think,” Olruggio replies, setting the pen down. He unfurls himself and Qifrey can hear his knees pop from here. Slowly, his friend turns to look at him. “How’re you feelin’?”

“I’m still figuring that out myself,” he admits with a little laugh. Olruggio raises his brow and gestures to the pile of pillows on the rug, a silent command to go sit. Qifrey obeys, moving over and tucking his skirt under him as he sinks down to his knees. “I feel like I can breathe again.”

Olruggio pushes himself off of his seat and walks over to join Qifrey on the rug, folding his legs beneath him. “That’s good. Roots in your lungs probably made that difficult.”

“Yes, indeed.” Qifrey makes a point to inhale deeply, then exhale slowly. He hears Olruggio chuckle softly.

“Did you need somethin’, Qifrey?” Olruggio asks, meeting Qifrey’s eye. He looks tired and rumpled, his beard in need of a trim, the shadows under his eyes heavy, but the exhaustion seems different this time. Less miserable, in a way. Like he doesn’t have something horrific pressing down on his shoulders keeping him up at night. “Anythin’, you know I’ll do my best.”

Qifrey’s lips part, hesitating. Yes, he did come here for a reason. He could breathe. He was free. Happiness was no longer something fleeting, temporary; it was something tangible, something he could hold onto now and never let go. Happiness, to Qifrey, came in the form of a countryside atelier; in four young, clever girls; in the scruffy, compassionate man seated across from him. He’s the one who taught Qifrey what it meant to live. He’s the one who taught Qifrey to lie, to laugh, to smile.

Blinking, Qifrey finally lets himself smile. “I simply,” he begins, breathing in, “desired your company, my friend.”

“Did you?” Olruggio is unfolding his legs. He’s moving onto his knees, now, shifting his weight forward. Qifrey watches Olruggio place a hand on the rug to steady himself as he leans in. Instinct tells Qifrey to shrink away, to get up and bolt, but instead he holds his breath when he feels a scarred hand touch his cheek.

Qifrey swallows, breathes out, and turns his face into that warm palm. “I did.”

“Is that it?”

Qifrey laughs softly. “I think you know.”

“With you? I’m never quite sure.”

In the dim light of the lantern, the moonbeams shining through the window, Olruggio looks gorgeous. He always looks gorgeous, really. Even when he’s haggard, sleep-deprived, cranky. Even when he’s forgotten to bathe and hasn’t changed his shirt in three days and Qifrey has to practically throw him into the tub, clothes and all.

He loves him.

There has never been any doubt in Qifrey’s mind of this. It was simply a fact: he loves Olruggio, wholly and completely. He’s loved him for many, many years. A longing, desperate kind of love. Sometimes possessive, sometimes obsessive, but love all the same. He’s never loved anyone else like this. He doesn’t think he ever will, even when Olruggio is gone. Part of him hopes he goes first, so he will not have to live a life without the man dearest to him. Olruggio must think similarly. How funny.

Olruggio kisses him. He tastes like tonight’s supper, roasted and spiced vegetables and grilled meat. Qifrey leans into it without hesitation, his eye falling shut. Both of his hands move to rest on Olruggio’s broad shoulders, a pleased sigh slipping through his nostrils. The other man’s hand on the rug moves to Qifrey’s waist, sliding around to his lower back to yank him closer. Qifrey lets out a surprised sound, but he melts into the heat and weight of Olruggio’s body.

“Have we done this before?” Olruggio mumbles against his lips.

Qifrey responds, “Yes.”

“How many times?”

“I lost count.”

“I only remember the meteor shower,” Olruggio continues, “and you runnin’ away.”

“I won’t run away anymore,” Qifrey breathes out.

Olruggio smiles into the kiss. “Good.” His beard scratches against Qifrey’s face as he presses kisses along the line of his jaw. The hand on his face is gentle, turning his head to one side, plucking the spectacles off of his face. Qifrey lets him.

Warm, soft kisses are peppered against his cheek. His hair is brushed aside to reveal the scar he does so well to keep hidden. While he can’t feel much there, the nerves long dead, Olruggio still kisses against the pale scar tissue like it’s just as worthy of love as the rest of him. Over, and over, and over.

Qifrey swallows down a sob. His hands fist into Olruggio’s shirt, tugging. He turns his head, his lips catching the corner of Olruggio’s mouth, and Olruggio laughs. He tucks Qifrey close to him and he kisses him again, deep and loving, and he doesn’t stop. Making up for lost time.

If they’re a little late for breakfast come morning, he’s sure the girls won’t mind too much.