Archive of Our Own

It’s happening more and more often these days.

Qifrey tries to breathe through it, a hand pressed to his face, teeth digging into the meat of his cheek. One would think that the fear of it— the constant, thrumming anxiety that buzzes in his skull, that whispers everything he’s given up to get this far, everything he’ll have wasted if he fails now— would be enough to save him, enough to keep him from falling into it. But here he is, tasting iron and blooming silver, hoping the pain of teeth in his cheek and nails in his thigh will be enough, just for now, to make the branches wandering out of his eye recede instead. His head pounds once, twice, and Qifrey pictures Olruggio’s face the moment before the memory wipe hits each time, the moment after, that horrifying blankness where he knows he’s been robbed of something but doesn’t remember what before it all gets wiped away. He pictures tear-stricken Coco pleading for a way to save her mother, the fact that she might not ever get to see her again; he pictures Richeh when she’d first come to him, withdrawn, unbroken but so closed to the world; he pictures Tetia, all the cruelties the world had heaped on someone so sweet, so kind, so giving— how silently she bore it, how rarely she asked for help in any regard; he pictures Agott, so stubborn and so scared and so alone—

The branches have receded. A tiny breath of relief, though he doesn’t allow himself to feel it for long lest he ruin everything again. Qifrey thinks if he could, he would be crying, tears flowing over the hand still flat to his face; his breath is coming quick, silenced by his palm, and he forces it to slow. Wouldn’t want the girls to worry; wouldn’t want Olruggio to notice anything amiss. His old friend isn’t observant enough to notice how Qifrey is breaking apart of late, or he’s kind enough not to mention it, but if he were to see Qifrey in this state…

He’s been living with this curse as long as he can remember, the ache behind his eyes never falling below a certain point, a constant reminder of what will happen if he ever once allows himself to set down all it is he carries. He’s been furious, terrified, heartbroken; he’s let his hands grow so tainted that he hesitates to touch the world, let the black in his soul harm those closest to him, let it drive him to secrets and cruelties and forbidden spells in pursuit of a cure, of answers, of just one more day to try. The silverwood’s ever-growing roots robbed him of his ability to cry years ago; now, when it builds within him, there is no release, no freedom, no catharsis to be found. Qifrey has ruined beautiful things and prevented new ones from being born, has rent himself into a shape that breaks through the world, has stolen each new moment of his life or paid for it in blood and memories. He has crafted a life of suffering and placed everything he cares about atop its precarious sill.

In the past month, Qifrey has had to fight back blooms and branches more times than in the entire year preceding it, and he has no idea why.

Living with a curse is like living with anything, if you ask Qifrey. A constant headache, a disconnect between looking at the world and seeing it as the silverwood translates what his eyes were meant to do, the vigil he can never let up out of fear of discovery or worse. It’s a lot to carry, a burden so heavy that sometimes he feels that it’ll crush him before he can find a way out from under it, but there are days where he hardly even notices— days where he wakes and cooks for the girls and leads their lessons and it’s only as stressful as daily life ought to be and it doesn’t even occur to him to worry until he wakes in a cold sweat the night after, awash with the fear that his moment of domestic bliss could have doomed them all. 

You get used to it, is what he means. 

And when he fails, when it is too much and he leaves and Oru follows him, when solitude and the person he trusts most in the world are his only companions and he cannot hide the branches sprouting from where his eye once was, he can depend on Oru to be told what he’s been told many times before. Can count on his clever, brilliant, beloved friend to come up with the solution he always does. Can count on the wash of guilt, shame, horror that he’s done something so unforgivable to Oru not just once, but time and time again.

For years, he could count on these incidents always coming when he least expected them, always coming when he’d once again grown complacent, but still… only so often. Once a year, maybe? Less? And smaller, scattered incidents— a branch, a leaf— would bring the tally up to a bare handful of failures each year. Slips of his attention, his composure.

In the month and change since Coco had found out his secret, the both of them pasting twin smiles atop the now-shared fact that Qifrey, like Coustas, was utterly doomed unless they could find some cure or solution, hardly a day had gone by where no errant greenery found its way free. 

Could it be the act of sharing his secret that had done it? Qifrey doubts that; as much as the lessening of his burden had relieved him then, each time he sees dear Coco lie to the only friends she has beside her just to cover his tracks— the student adopting the sin of the teacher— a wave of guilt more powerful than any relief he might’ve suffered would wash over him. Coco holding a piece of his secret hadn’t made her a confidante, hadn’t made her someone Qifrey relied on— he may be a wretch, willing to erase Oru’s memory again and again, willing to lie to the students who so trusted him, but he is not so far gone that he would allow himself to foist his burdens off onto one of his students. Bad enough that she knew; he’d have to be truly the ruined thing he thought himself to beg her support. Not the place of a child; not a burden he should let her carry. He can carry it himself if he had to, and by its very nature, he has to. 

What, then? What else could have changed without his notice? Qifrey isn’t one to boast his skills, but he knows himself to be observant enough, and particularly vigilant when it comes to his condition— if something were to change the panic and guilt he’s woven into his everyday life, he would be aware. 

He’s been trying to figure it out since the rate increased, but he hasn’t found anything yet— neither a cause nor solution presents itself to him when he thinks on it. 

His errant branches have receded, and his breath is calm, smooth in his chest from his forceful control of it. If he returns now, the girls won’t notice anything amiss— hopefully, neither will Olruggio. A pang in his chest. How he wishes he could simply confide in his dear friend, tell him everything he’s hidden in the years of their friendship, share each and every memory he’s stolen— how he wishes he could feel only hope, only fondness, only the fluttering in his chest when he runs his hand over the stolen ribbon of his cap. Guilt fills each crevice meant for those feelings, though. It is his own continuing failure to find a solution that keeps him in this cage, his own incompetence as teacher and friend and family that prevents him from— 

If he could find a solution, he would tell them all in an instant. He has to believe this about himself.

Very well. Breath calm, branches gone, guilt tucked away in the box he keeps it in, Qifrey emerges from his hallway hiding place out into the larger space of the atelier. The girls are crowded together on the floor, staring at a contraption between Tetia’s hands— some combination of her and Agott’s magic is scrawled across a metal sphere. Tetia twists it apart, and something springs out— Qifrey startles, about to leap to the girls’ defense if their experiment has gone awry, but what emerges from the sphere is no danger.

A small dragon-shaped creation flies in short circles around the girls, sparkles trailing from its wingbeats; it is cloudy white, and if the way the girls reach out to pet it is any indication, soft as well. Something like his and Oru’s own creations, he thinks fondly. Their girls do take after them. 

The thought of Oru lifts Qifrey’s head. He searches the room for his missing companion, only to startle— without his notice, Olruggio had appeared at his side already. He leans against the wall next to Qifrey, a small smile on his lips as he looks over the girls and their beast. They seem to be devising a game now, holding a finger to the dragon-thing’s face and guiding its circles. Richeh manages to get it moving in a tight circle over her head, spilling glitter over her hair and dress. Tetia squeals in delight, begs Richeh to show her so she can join in. Qifrey’s heart squeezes in his chest, and he worries for a moment— is it too soon after? Did he fail to stave it off enough before?— but the fear must bind him enough, for nothing twitches in his head. 

His Oru-side feels warm, suddenly, and he peers over at his companion. Leaning into his side? Perhaps Olruggio is tired, though given the way he lives, Qifrey doubts there’s ever a time that he isn’t. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, quiet enough not to alert the girls. If something is wrong with their teacher, they’ll worry needlessly; it’s Qifrey’s place to tend to them all, and he won’t be sharing the weight of it if he doesn’t have to. 

Olruggio smiles at him, slightly askance, and again Qifrey’s heart tugs. “Yeah,” Oru grumbles, his voice matching Qifrey’s low to keep the girls from hearing, rough with his register and the way he’s pitched it. Heat attempts to rise to Qifrey’s cheeks, but he bats it down with long practice. Now is neither the time nor place; feelings, consult this witch again when he’s found a solution, thank you very much. “I’m fine. You know you don’t need to worry about me.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” he says dryly, shifting to put space between them. He covers for the distance created, reaching with a wrist for Olruggio’s forehead. “You take such good care of yourself without my aid, after all. No fever? You aren’t coming down with anything? Overtired?” 

Olruggio shrugs his hand off and leans back against the wall. There’s space beside him, an open invitation for Qifrey to return to his former perch. He remains standing where he is. 

“No more tired than usual. You don’t need to mind me like you do the girls.” Olruggio’s head tips to the side, that same askance smile warm and fond and crooked on his face like he’s getting away with something just by looking at Qifrey. It sends a shiver down Qifrey’s spine. He’s grateful for the choice to stay standing; lord knows what impulses he’d be fighting down if he were closer to Olruggio right now. It’s the sort of smile that begs to be kissed off the smug face wearing it. Were he a couple inches closer, he doesn’t know if he’d be able to battle the thought away. 

“If you say so, old friend,” Qifrey murmurs, watching Olruggio carefully. Nothing seems off about him. Perhaps it was simply Qifrey’s imagination that he had gotten closer— wishful thinking? With a deep sigh, he returns to his post against the wall, though now a space stands between him and Olruggio. The girls are still playing with their creation, teaching it little dances. Coco and Agott are drawing something now, off to the side as Richeh solemnly circles Tetia with the dragon— 

“Heh,” Olruggio pipes up, startling him, “they really take after you, don’t they?”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Qifrey jokes, puffing his cheeks out childishly. This startles a laugh from Oru, precisely what Qifrey was after; in the spare moment Olruggio’s eyes are shut by mirth, Qifrey shifts a tiny bit further away. He can barely feel his friend here at all by the time his eyes open. Qifrey straightens his posture, returns to composure, adopts a more contemplative voice. “Besides. What child their age isn’t taken with such creatures? And them more than most, I would say. With good reason, too.” He smiles, wistful for their early days of Coco in the house; their misadventure with the dragon when getting her her first wand had been harrowing for the girls, to be sure, but they’d all come out of it strong and glowing and brilliant, bright with the pride of surviving their first such problem. It had been instrumental in the girls budding friendship.

“Friends that undergo hardships like that together… it’s a bond that nothing can break.” Olruggio’s voice is calm as he plucks the thought directly from Qifrey’s own. Qifrey’s eye widens a fraction— it must, for Olruggio looks at him and smiles. “That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it? I think so, too. Your girls are so strong… they can still smile, after all that they’ve been through.” Again, Oru comes closer; this time, there’s no pretending he’s imagined it. A press of his shoulder to Qifrey’s, brief but hot enough to sear, cheerful companionship. “They’ve learned a lot from you, haven’t they?”

Qifrey is frozen, his mind reeling out from the gentle contact, and words come up that he might otherwise have stopped. “Coco more than the others, I fear.” He breaks his gaze from Olruggio’s, looks out at the girls. Wrapped up in drawing with Agott now, Coco is bright as the sun, but the bags under her eyes tell a different story. “I think sometimes… she’s been through so much. They all have. That smile of hers…”

“Yours, through and through.” Olruggio bumps his shoulder against Qifrey’s again, quiet support, and something is unfurling in Qifrey’s chest that he doesn’t know how to stop. He thinks of how much he’s kept from Olruggio. How much he’s taken from him, robbed of memories and years and joys and the chance to find someone else to lend this support to. How much he has to feel guilty for; how much his sinful, selfish heart has stained the star that nevertheless faithfully stands beside him through it all. The rustling recedes, guilt choking out his branches. Olruggio is still speaking. “She doesn’t want to worry us, is that it? If something were bothering her, she wouldn’t ask for help, not from us… maybe the other girls, but for something serious, she takes just after you. She’ll try to solve it all on her own, even if it hurts her, just to keep from burdening those she cares about.”

“...Yes,” Qifrey murmurs, more to himself than to Olruggio, “that was my worry as well. Is it my failing as her teacher? Does she not feel she can ask for help when she needs it?”

“Some children just grow up with that inside them.” Olruggio’s voice isn’t a comfort, or it’s too much of one; he’s there, kind, gentle, warm, no judgment in his words for Qifrey as a teacher. “All you can do is show her that you’re there, show her that she has support here for her. You can’t make her ask for help anymore than you can make her stop wanting to learn magic or save her mother. You can only show her that help is always within her reach if ever she should need it. From there, it’s up to her whether or not to ask.” Agott is leaning against Coco’s side as the two of them draw, now, sharing corrections as Coco offers ideas— make that seal a little bigger, add the wind sigil here, no, here, hand me the pen I’ll just do it for you— and Coco is asking her question after question, not designing-with-her-help but simply designing with her. 

“Besides,” Olruggio chuckles, “it seems she has someone she’s willing to ask for help already.”

Not for worse things, Qifrey thinks. Not for the secret I’ve asked her to keep. Not for her burdens. But that’s another way she’s too similar to Qifrey. Asking for help just enough that it’s easy to miss when you don’t. Perhaps he’s easier to see through in this regard than she is, or perhaps Oru simply knows him too well, but either way…

“There are things she keeps from Agott,” Olruggio says, again stealing a thought from Qifrey’s mind. “But I think… in due time, she’ll trust her with them. If they become too heavy for her to carry. Look at how Agott’s been treating her these past few weeks. It’s like she knows there’s something bothering Coco, but asking her directly will scare her off. All she’s been doing is showing that if Coco needs help to carry it, her hands are free. That’s why Coco will tell her, eventually.” He smiles again. His eyes are so old, so tired, so trusting. That’s always been the worst part: no matter what, Olruggio has always looked at him with all the trust in the world, like Qifrey is something worth putting his faith in. Like he deserves it. “If she tells her tomorrow, or if she tells her in a hundred years. It doesn’t matter. She’s right there.”

If Qifrey opens his mouth, a branch will come out rather than words. His hand is clenched against his leg, nails digging into his thigh where crescent-shaped scars already litter pale skin; if he’s lucky the pain will buy him ten seconds. Fifteen. He does not say goodbye when he whirls to leave the room.

Time, time, time. How long does he have left? How much longer can he hold it off? Twice in one day, it’s too much; he’s never had to beat back the tree so often. Is there any strength left in his body? Olruggio calls his name at his abrupt exit, but he doesn’t respond, can’t. Branches are swirling within him, pressing out against his head; he feels leaves pushing through the space his eye once was and he quickens his step, hurrying off to his room. He keeps things there, foul-tasting brews that harshen his awareness of the aches and pains in his body, written lists of wretched things he’s done that might remind him how little he deserves the joy from which his tree is borne. If he needs them, there are other ways, too; cutting the tree when it grows hurts him enough that it recedes the rest of the way. He has a handsaw and a strap to bite down on so he won’t be heard. If he can get to his room, get the door shut firmly, all will be well, and he won’t have to—

A hand comes down on his shoulder, spinning him around. Olruggio is there— of course he’s there. Why wouldn’t he be? Qifrey turns his head, breaks eye contact, hides the half of his face currently blooming. 

“Please,” he tries, voice scratchy past bark forcing its way down his throat. It nearly sounds like he’s crying. 

“No, I—” Olruggio is stuttering. When does his stalwart friend ever stutter? “I don’t want to make you run. I didn’t mean to push you. You don’t have to tell me whatever it is that’s been weighing on you. But I am here, Qifrey, and—”

“Master Oru?” Coco’s piping voice, sweet at the end of the hallway. “We might need your help. Agott and I are trying to add fire to Tetia’s dragon, and—”

She’s saving him. She saw him leave the room too quickly, too rudely for it to be normal; she saw Olruggio follow and put the pieces together, and now his brilliant little student is saving him, tearing Oru away just because she saw that he needed help. She’s his student, and she’s coming to his rescue even though he’s failed so thoroughly to save her from all of this. 

“Go with her,” Qifrey manages roughly. When he closes his mouth, he tastes something verdant on his tongue. He can feel Olruggio seeking out his gaze, trying to make eye contact, trying to communicate something to him before he departs, but Qifrey keeps his head firmly tilted away. 

Wordlessly, Olruggio follows Coco off. Qifrey will have to find some way to thank her, later. Perhaps he’ll buy her a new contraption so she can study the seals of it. So much of this world is still new and exciting to her, even things that are completely mundane to him. It won’t even the scales. Nothing ever could. 

Qifrey slips into his room, bars the door behind him. He gasps for air and leaves flutter from his mouth, falling off his tongue. The branches seething out of his vacant eye socket reach for the light from his window with a vengeance, and he stumbles towards his desk, step faltering again and again. He reaches it somehow, fumbles through the mess littering its surface until he cuts his thumb on the tooth of his saw; he takes it in hand like a death sentence, doesn’t want to waste time finding the leather strap he usually bites down on and so wraps his jaw around a corner grabbed from the bundle of blankets on his bed instead. 

Then he sets sawblade to branch, as close to the root as he can manage. As he goes nearly blind with pain, saw wrenching its way through his branch like he’s cutting off a limb, Qifrey finds a way to note how the movement of the saw ruffles his hair.

It feels like cutting off a limb because it is. His body screams at him to stop, that this is not okay, that he’s going to seriously injure himself. Ink pours from his empty and aching eye socket like a mockery of tears and he bites down on the blankets so hard he hears one of them rip. He refuses to let out the scream building in his throat. When he finally brings the saw through the last portion of the branch and it falls to the floor, dead and wasted, the pain is immeasurable. He whines low in his throat, but at least there’s no bark preventing the sound from reaching the barrier of his blankets. It is then, in the relief of the branches receding, that the pain rears its ugly head in full. He should be prepared for the way it washes over him; he’s done this enough times, after all. He should be used to it. He should be stronger. 

Head reeling and bleeding ink, Qifrey passes out. 

Qifrey wakes in a pool of his own ichorous sap, which is not terribly unusual. There is a branch fallen to the ground near his head, and, thinking of his own lectures to the girls about waste, he picks it up and brings it over to his desk. He can use it for ink once he feels up to the task. Waste not, want not.

Perhaps he’ll let Coco help so she can learn the process, or give the ink to her in thanks for her earlier save. Though… perhaps not. There’s every chance she’ll figure out where the branch is from, being that she knows his secret; it might distress her more than could be quelled by the joy of learning. He oughtn’t repackage the mark of his suffering as a gift to her if she might deduce what it is. He doesn’t… he doesn’t want to gift her pain, not if he can help it. He’s given her more than her share as it stands.

Oh, his poor students. How much has he taught them without knowing it? Any lesson he hasn’t planned for them can’t be one they should take on this young. 

Stiff upper lip. He’ll go back out, apologize to Olruggio, find a way around explaining himself. Then, later, he’ll return to clean his blood, mend his sheets, tend to the blackened branch on his desk. It’s useful for a witch, isn’t it? All the ink he could need, directly on tap. Perhaps he should be grateful for his curse. A bitter laugh bubbles out of his throat as he picks leaves from the ground. 

Right. In one more breath, he’ll leave the quiet of his room. He’ll do what he must. In one more breath. One more. One more—

Fine, alright, yes, he’s stalling! Glutton for punishment that he is, Qifrey still doesn’t wish to see what expression Olruggio might wear when he emerges— will there be judgment there? Would it be worse if there weren’t? What might burn him more, that his dear friend might be hurt by his actions or that he might have grown too used to the way Qifrey is to ever expect better of him? If Olruggio is disappointed, if he’s hurt, if he’s angry, guilt and hot shame will simmer in Qifrey’s chest, one part among many, one one-hundredth of what he deserves to feel for all that he’s done. On the other hand, if Olruggio simply looks at him with those wide and tired eyes, if his radiant star is dimmed not by emotion but by the dulling of it, if Qifrey has hurt him too many times for it to come as a surprise any longer, what would he do? He couldn’t handle it, couldn’t live with himself— it is an evil thing to hurt Olruggio, that he knows and has learned to condense into a boiling ball of rage and resentment and ache in his gut, but to change Olruggio— to hurt him so thoroughly, so fundamentally, so repeatedly that he no longer thinks to expect better? That he no longer thinks he deserves better? It would be unthinkable, unconscionable. Already, Qifrey deserves no forgiveness. For that, he would deserve nothing less than d—

A noise at the door pulls him from his spiral. A tiny scratching, like that of a mouse— Qifrey blinks in bewilderment at the entrance to his room. 

Carefully, he crawls towards it. The scratching stops at the first creak of a floorboard under his palm, then starts anew moments later, more frantic than before. Qifrey reaches the door, so close to whatever scratching thing waits on the other side. It can’t be anything horrible, can it? How would it have gotten through the house? It’s such a small sound, too— probably a mouse or rat that snuck in somehow. Not something to be worried about, surely. The handle is cold under his hand, and he, still sitting on the ground, maneuvers so his body will block the tiny space he opens when he pulls the door back just a few inches.

Nbiiing like its life depends on it, the brushbuddy waits on the other side.

The moment the door is open, the creature bolts for the aperture; it finds Qifrey’s leg in the way, but isn’t bothered, clambering up his knee and into his lap. It seems like it was drawn to the smell of his branch being cut, but rather than go for the larger quarry deeper into the room, the brushbuddy scrambles up Qifrey’s front to curl at his shoulder, lapping at his face with a tiny tongue rough like sandpaper. It almost tickles, and he laughs quietly, fondly.

“Strange thing,” he whispers, petting the brushbuddy’s soft back with two fingers. “Are you cleaning me up? And here I thought my girls were keeping you well-fed.” 

It continues to lap at the ink around his eye, a strange sensation between the pain of cutting the branch and the usual numbness of his eye socket; he’s heard that pets will sometimes lick at their owner’s face after a crying jag, but never experienced it himself. It’s soothing, but not so soothing that he worries over branches anew. The feeling of soft fur under his hand and a little sandpaper tongue wicking away the ink left on his face centers him. By the time the brushbuddy gets bored and clambers off him to attack the pool of ink where he cut the branch, Qifrey is nearly normal again. 

He steels himself, wipes at his face, checks his robes for stray ink— there’s a little, but not more than would be normal for him, so it’ll be alright. Nothing he can’t explain away if asked, and likely nothing he’ll be asked about in the first place. All is as well as he can stomach it being. He draws himself to his feet like a man strung up, the tension that never truly leaves his shoulders remaining there still like rigor mortis. The door waits, beckons, promises him the questioning stare of Olruggio and the searching gaze of Coco, both wishing to see if he’s okay, both wanting nothing more than to help. It is his punishment for all of it. 

He goes willingly. 

Out in the main space of this home he built to bring him stress, his girls are playing joyfully, the cloud dragon now breathing sparkling embers that fizzle out before they hit the ground. They glitter the same gold as Olruggio’s buttons, his charms, his eyes under firelight. Even if the excuse to get him away from Qifrey had been a spur-of-the-moment invention by Coco, Olruggio had clearly set to the task with all the diligence he always carries with him; it’s his handiwork, passed down to the girls. Coco is chirping praise to Agott and Olruggio both, cooing over the dragon, and Olruggio sighs and smiles and ruffles Agott’s hair, and they all look—

They all look so dreadfully happy, is all. They look like this is where they belong. Like there is nowhere else they’d rather be in all the world. 

Oh, Qifrey dearly wishes he could cry. 

He settles by the wall once more to observe, pretending the leaves coming up in his chest are just simple warmth. When Oru comes up to him with the questioning look he’d so hoped to avoid, he lets it sear into his chest and looks away, refusing to meet those waiting eyes. Oru will interpret it as Qifrey being upset with him, not knowing the guilt that lines Qifrey’s every thought; he tries not to let this additional burdensome lie add to the weight of it already. 

Olruggio says nothing, doesn’t press. All he does is lean into Qifrey’s side, a constant support. 

His throat tastes of greenery. He swallows it down. 

The days pass like this, leaves down his throat and ink on his hands and Oru, Oru, Oru warm at his side. Coco notices him slip away once or twice, pulls the others away from him if they try to follow, but he can tell that, even covering for him, she’s concerned. With what they saw happen to Coustas, Qifrey doesn’t blame her; he, instead, throws himself into research, trying to think of anything that could keep the tree back and away, anything that could buy him even the slightest bit of breathing room. There are enough sleepless nights that Olruggio confronts him about it one night, once the girls have already gone to bed; a mug of Thornbark tea is settled between Qifrey’s palms, and he steals away back to his room without disturbing anyone only to find Olruggio standing at his door, face stern. 

“Qifrey,” he rumbles, and his voice is darker than the tea between Qifrey’s hands and serious. It sends a shiver down Qifrey’s spine. “What’s caught your attention?”

“I don’t know what you’re speaking of,” Qifrey hums, shifting side to side as though he can sneak around Olruggio and reach his door. Olruggio takes a step closer, grasps Qifrey by the wrist; Qifrey goes shock-still in his grasp, pliant when Olruggio drags his hands towards him, a fish reeled in willingly, knowing death awaits once he is pulled up for air. A hot flush climbs his cheeks, and he hopes in the low light his unobservant companion won’t notice. Instead, Olruggio pulls Qifrey’s hands to his face and takes a long breath in, like he’s smelling Qifrey. He hopes with quiet fervor that his hands are being held steady enough that the jolt that wracks his frame isn’t felt. 

“Thornbark,” Olruggio says more than asks, disapproval in his tone. “Unsweetened, even. Is there some project you’ve taken, some reason you’re torturing yourself so? What is there to keep you up through so many nights?” There is a frown in his voice, and Qifrey is sure he wouldn’t be able to see it in this dimness if not for the magic in his eyes. He wishes, for once pettily, that the silverwood were never there, that blindness could keep him from seeing such… discontent on his dear friend’s face. “There was a time when you would share such work with me, if it took so much out of you. Will you not let me help?”

“I fear you can’t help with this, my friend.” Qifrey turns his face away, wrists still so warm under Olruggio’s grasp. “I wish I could tell you. Perhaps once I find my solution…” He thinks of Olruggio’s position as his watchful eye, of his duty; would he want to force upon him a trespass of what he’s sworn himself to? If Qifrey were to tell him, it would be the whole sordid tale, and he knows Olruggio has always forgiven him when his life is on the line, but were he to simply share— were he to draw Olruggio close and, of his own free will, recount all that’s transpired between them, no imminent threat forcing either of their hands into a reckless decision—

Olruggio has always trusted him before, has never failed or doubted him. Even knowing the truth, even learning of Qifrey’s deceit and misdeeds, when it has come down to the wire, Olruggio has always handed Qifrey the seal and bid him draw. But that is the choice between losing a friend and losing a memory. That is Qifrey in active danger of losing his life, branches curling out to enclose wrists like a cruel mimicry of Olruggio’s warm grasp. In the quiet of the night, if he were to whisper it like a confession, bare his soul, hand over every wretched secret and lie he has ruined Olruggio with, it would not be a choice between the death of a friend or giving him time to find a solution. It would be a choice between his sworn duty as a watchful eye or protecting the secrets of a man who couldn’t even trust him enough to share them. 

He can’t make Olruggio make that choice. He doesn’t want to know whether he’d win. 

The grip around his wrists tightens minutely. “I am your watcher,” Olruggio intones, “your keeper. I am responsible for your wellbeing, Qifrey, and for that of those your actions might affect. If I were to demand it of you—”

Qifrey stills further in Olruggio’s grasp. 

“Would you? Would you force an answer from me, dear Olruggio? My own safety and the safety of others, do you think I act in disregard of them, enough so that you would take from me the answers you seek?” Through the dark, he looks back to Olruggio, gaze heavy and cold as the ice down his spine. Olruggio could make him— could put a truth seal on him, is sanctioned to do so if it is necessary for his duties, if he has reason to suspect Qifrey of forbidden magic or consorting with the Brimmed Caps. He could draw the truth from Qifrey like sap, drive a spigot into his side and watch it pour out. Never has his friend given reason for Qifrey to believe him capable of such a thing; never has he doubted Qifrey, even with deeds revealed, even with the debts that stand between them that Olruggio will never know. If Olruggio forces the truth from him, what will become of him? Will the betrayal overrule the relief? What will become of Coco, young, sweet Coco, who has done no wrong that she knew of other than keep his secret for him? 

“I’d sooner tie you down and force sleep from you, damned fool,” Olruggio spits. His grip hasn’t let up, and Qifrey hasn’t even thought of struggling; perhaps they are, after all, a matched set. “Who are you to speak of your own safety? My worry is not that you mean to hurt others, nor that you don’t consider your actions. Anything you do, you do with the belief that it will hurt solely you and those you fight.”

“Then why—”

“Because you fail to consider that such a result is dependent on it hurting you!” It’s something near a yell, though hushed and harshened by the whisper Olruggio has imposed on his voice. Trying not to wake the girls, trying not to worry them, even in the midst of fury like this. Qifrey tamps down a thought, a feeling, that will kill him if he puts the words to it. 

Lord, he was a fool to doubt Olruggio for even a second. 

Still, he cannot tell him. It is a comfort nevertheless to know that he could if it were possible.

“Better me than others,” Qifrey says, voice scratching. It is probably emotion and not leaves that strangles him and itches down his throat. He doesn’t investigate the feeling to be sure.

“Better you than others,” Olruggio scoffs in reply. He softens his grip, running a thumb across the bone of Qifrey’s wrist. “You’ll go to your grave with those words on your tongue. Accepting aid when it’s offered is not the same as putting others in danger, Qifrey. Think of what your habits are teaching the girls.”

That strikes against a wall in Qifrey’s mind with a dull thud. He’s so reluctant to draw away from Olruggio’s touch, soft and warm and too soothing, but he can’t survive it; gently, he frees his wrists from that too-good grip. If he allows Olruggio’s comfort and reason to breach the sanctum of his mind, there will be no end of pain, no time left for him to find a solution. He must reason his way around it; he must convince himself, too. 

“The girls have me, though. I won’t let them take all this on when I can bear it.”

“And you have me,” Olruggio tries. Perhaps knowing the futility of the effort, he steps aside anyway, allows Qifrey to reach his door. It swings open quietly, his lamps still burning within. 

Limned in lamplight, Qifrey smiles sorrowfully back at his dearest person, the one he keeps all of this for. 

“I do,” he says. “That is why I cannot use you.”

The door shuts behind him with finality, and he slumps back against it, exhaustion deep in his bones. His tea’s gone cold. A coaster sits on his desk, familiar handwriting shaping a seal that will warm a beverage placed atop it. He leaves the mug on a stack of his papers and returns to work. 

It’s hard to tell if it’s Olruggio’s interference or Coco’s natural compassion that brings her to it, but a few days later, Coco finally pulls him aside after lessons. 

“Master Qifrey,” she starts, messing with the cuffs of her sleeves, “I think you should ask Master Olruggio for help.”

“I can’t,” he answers immediately. Her face falls and he sighs, sinking to a knee in front of her. “Coco. Trust me, I think it’s a good idea to ask for his help. Master Olruggio is among the smartest witches I know, a talent of a generation. He’s the one who came up with the solution I use now, my stopgap. If not for his bright mind, I would have been done for long ago, and if ever you have troubles, you should bring them to him if I am not at hand. He is a quick wit and a wonderful teacher, and will offer you all the support I would. In any other situation, I would be just as quick to rely on him; lord knows if given time he could find the perfect solution. But he is also my dearest friend in this world, Coco, and telling him would be too much a relief. I don’t think even his quick mind would be able to find another solution in that scenario. There would be no time for him to plan, no time for him to test. It would be down to the wire, and he may have come up with a temporary solution when pressed before, but it was not permanent. Under such duress, I do not believe there is such a thing as a permanent solution.”

Coco looks upset, still, her brows drawn together in concern and possibly hurt. He knows what it feels like, as a child, to have one’s ideas disregarded by the adults, to feel unheard and unlistened-to. This isn’t something he’ll abide; Coco will feel heard, will feel understood. He will not allow his words to hurt her or disparage her idea. But he needs her to understand that it is not feasible, that it is not an avenue worth pursuing. It is of the utmost importance that she not try to ask Olruggio’s advice. So before offering the comfort he dearly wishes to offer, he makes his voice serious, his eyes stern (but not cold. He will not be cold to her.)

“That’s not even to mention his status as this atelier’s watchful eye. The methods I have used, the stopgap he devised, is technically forbidden magic. It is not permitted, even under that sort of duress, even when it was his idea for me to use it.  I am not authorized to use the memory seal. His options would be to report me to the Knights Moralis or to betray his oath and his duty. Either my memory would be wiped, and yours as well, or he would be forced to foreswear the oath he took. He is a good man, and he would choose to betray all that he stands for to keep us safe. It would destroy him. I don’t want him in that situation.” He settles a supportive hand on Coco’s shoulder, seeks her eyes that he might offer her the kindest expression he can make.“It’s a good idea, and it was good of you to think of it, okay? Under nearly any other circumstance, I would jump to the same solution in an instant. Don’t think for a second that I mean to tell you not to ask Master Olruggio for help when you need it. It’s just not possible for me.”

Coco frowns, then, a moment later, brightens with some new idea. Qifrey frowns, reading her plan on her face. 

“It won’t work. If you tell him in my stead, I would still know; he’s never been any good at keeping things secret from me.” Qifrey thinks of the longing glances he pretends not to see Olruggio send him, the lingering touches he has to pretend don’t fill him with warmth right down to his bones. All he allows them to do is fuel his never-ending guilt. A sigh rattles through his chest. “Coco, listen to me carefully. I understand that you wish to help me, that you wish to help Coustas, but please do not burden yourself with it. This is my task.” He hopes his hand on her shoulder conveys the support he means it to; he hopes she doesn’t feel as though she must take this upon herself. His sorrows were never meant to be hers.

For a long moment, Coco looks at him searchingly. Then, slowly, she nods. 

“Okay, Master Qifrey. I won’t tell him. I just thought… I don’t know how else to help.” There are tears in her eyes when he looks at her and he doesn’t know what to do about them, doesn’t know how to take away her pain and fold it within himself. If he could, he would. What can he say to a girl who is trying to take all of the world’s problems on her thin shoulders? “Coustas… Tartah… it’s my fault that they’re out there, that the Brimmed Caps have them. They’re my friends. I’m supposed to be able to help them.”

“You did your best,” Qifrey tries, reaching up to dry her tears. “You did your best for them, Coco, and we’re going to keep trying, right? You’re still their friend, and so you can always try again.”

“I’m a witch now,” Coco whispers. “I shouldn’t need another try. I should have been able to help them! I should know how to save Coustas, I should have known how to save Dagdah, Tartah and Coustas should be safe and warm and happy right now and instead they’re all alone, and Mr. Nolnoa doesn’t even know where his grandson is and it’s all ruined and it’s all my fault!” She breaks out into wracking sobs, a horrible sound; her chest must hurt awfully. Qifrey pulls her into a hug, his heart aching for her. 

She’s so young. She’s so little, and none of these problems should be hers to bear, and he’s such a wretched failure for not keeping them from her doorstep. All he can do is hold her and try to comfort her. 

“They’re not alone, Coco. They have each other, don’t they?” He lets her shake to pieces in his arms, holding her like a daughter. “And we’re going to save them. We’re going to find a cure for this, and even if we couldn’t save Dagdah, we’re still going to find a way to help Coustas.” 

Her sobs slow down bit by bit, and he gathers her into his arms closer as she either calms or tires— he can’t quite tell which. 

“You’re not alone either, Coco.” She takes a hiccuping breath, but she’s gone still in his arms, like she’s at attention, listening closely. “You’re not alone. You have me, you have Master Olruggio, you have all the girls… We’re always here for you, okay?”

“Master Qifrey…” Coco draws a tiny, terrified breath. “What if you… if something happens, then can I ask Master Olruggio for help?”

“Of course,” Qifrey allows. If his control fails, Olruggio may be the only one who can help, anyway. He’s the person most capable of hurting Qifrey in all the world. A terrible danger, and a perfect failsafe: if he fails, all Olruggio will need to do is hurt him badly enough to bring him back. From there, his only concern will be surviving it. 

Over dinner the next night, Coco seems tired, withdrawn. Qifrey watches to make sure she takes enough food, makes sure there is plenty of water and tea, that all the girls are well-hydrated. 

Agott sits next to Coco, engaged in conversation with the rest of his students, and Qifrey is so focused on monitoring all of their well-being that it takes him a long moment to notice the way she leans into Coco’s side. She’s right-handed, but it seems she’s eating with her left hand, her right lying between them on the table. Next to Coco’s, he notices fondly. 

Wordlessly, Agott pushes Coco’s glass of water into her hand. As though it’s become a habit of theirs, Coco responds by lifting it to her lips and finishing off the glass. When she sets it back down, Agott refills both Coco’s and her own. 

Is that how it is, then? Masking care with convenience— no point in both of us needing to refill our glasses separately, here, finish yours now so I only need to pour once— Coco doesn’t even seem to notice she’s being taken care of in this way. It’s very clever of his bright little pupil, and when Agott glances over to him at his separate table, he smiles enormously at her. 

She turns back, nearly hiding at Coco’s side, flushed as she always is when she’s given positive reinforcement. Qifrey returns to the meal before him. 

Olruggio, warm and silent at his side, fills both their glasses in one pour.

Qifrey stills. When had he finished his? He remembers lifting it to his lips, but he hadn’t taken note of the action at the time, almost muscle memory. When did— as children in the Great Hall, stealing away for meals, pouting and fuming and giggling, Olruggio asking him why he never drank enough water— newly moved into the atelier, I’m making some tea, do you want any, the rest of the pot will just go to waste and I don’t want to bother putting it in the stewpot to keep— pouring for him and Agott both in those early days, then for him and Agott and Tetia—

His side is warm. It’s been warm for a long time. 

“Oru,” he whispers, something terribly fragile in his voice, “are you taking care of me?”

Olruggio tilts his head at him, curiosity flaring in those eyes, and then, easy as anything, he says, “Yes. Of course I am. What else would I be doing?”

As though it’s some simple matter. As though it’s a mere fact of them, something he does, something Qifrey deserves or merits or— or anything that would justify it; he says it like it’s as natural as breathing, like Qifrey is the odd one for noting it. Like it’s not one of an ever-growing mountain of debts between them, but instead just… a kindness he’s doing. An expected deed, no cost attached, of course I am, what else would I be doing, of course I am, what else would I be doing— 

Qifrey is such a fool, isn’t he? For so long, he’s acted as though he can ignore the feelings between them, as though Olruggio’s love for him is some flight of fancy, as though each piece of his dedication is a thing Qifrey has constructed or bought. But this—

He stumbles out into the hallway, unsteady; already, his swaying feels too much like that of branches in the breeze, limbs loose with anxiety pooling through them like sap, like blood, collecting in his palms. How much distance can he create? This doesn’t feel like something he can stop, not in time, and his countermeasures will have to be extreme. He wonders if he can manage, before the branches overtake his arms, his hands, to draw a pyreball big enough to set him alight. Each time he’s damaged his own shuddering bark, it’s felt like sawing into a limb; surely, the pain of being burned would be enough to bring him back, wouldn’t it? Getting far enough that no one will see at all feels like a dead hope, an impossibility, but he still has to minimize damages— if he can evade them just long enough to stave it off, if he can just get far enough that none of them will be caught up in it—

The dark hallways of his home, his prison, spiral out before him. He follows one path and another as though he’s running for his life, hearing the heavy footsteps of Olruggio running behind him, confused and concerned and calling Qifrey’s name, calling for him to wait, to slow down. He’s shedding leaves behind him like breadcrumbs for Olruggio to follow, like golden thread spiralling out behind him if he ever decides to turn back. This will be difficult to explain away, part of him muses. Will Olruggio understand too much, see right through to Qifrey’s soul and— he has his cap, so if he has to—

Through this way, and over there— Qifrey pulls the door open and darts out of the atelier’s side entrance, cold air wrapping around him like silks. He breathes in sharply, hoping the sting of the cold will help at all, and stumbles around the side of the house like it will bring him respite. The wall comes up behind his back without his notice, and he slumps into it with a horrified breath rattling through his blooming lungs. Nails dig crescent moons into his thighs. 

All this time, Olruggio’s been modeling care so well and so purely that Agott picked up the habit just from observation. All this time without Qifrey ever noticing. How much is Olruggio willing to do for him? It is one thing to allow him his transgressions, to place the casting seal under Qifrey’s hand and bid him erase what he must to stay by Olruggio’s side, but there is a world of difference that stands between the stomach-lurching pain of grand gestures and the quiet, poisonous ache of mundane daily care. It is not just that Olruggio is willing to be broken for Qifrey. It is that he will pour him water, bid him drink, coax him to sleep and eat and—

There is a careful barrier, built over years and years of practice, within Qifrey’s mind and heart. It encircles a word he cannot say, cannot think. 

Somehow, without his notice, Olruggio has chipped a hole through clear to the other side.

When he looks up, leaves brush the bridge of his nose. Olruggio stands before him, having caught up, having followed; his heaving breaths leave delicate clouds in the air, and Qifrey is like a rung bell, his body vibrating as he stares at the dear face of the man who loves him. The man who has been loving him, in every quiet moment Qifrey tried not to notice. He reaches a hand out, rests it at Olruggio’s unprotesting jaw. He can be selfish, for now. It will be too late soon.

“Oru,” he whispers, his throat already beginning to close, “I hope you will not blame yourself. I do not think—” He is forced to pause, coughing up leaves, his limbs beginning to stiffen. Branches have begun to grow from his eye, reaching out toward Olruggio, trying to hold him safe-close-warm to Qifrey’s sprouting body. “I do not think I can walk this one back,” he recovers, a wry smile on his lips. “My dear friend. You have cared for me so well. I can only hope—” 

This time, when he chokes, it cannot be blamed on the tree blooming from him; it is emotion alone that crowds his throat, now, want and need and sorrow and guilt and love and love and love. 

“I can only hope that it is not an imposition,” he whispers, stroking the corner of Olruggio’s jaw with stiff fingers, “to ask you to care for me… one last time.”

“Qifrey,” Olruggio says, comprehension and horror dawning over his face, “this— you can’t mean— is this a silverwood tree? You…” His face flickers. “Why does this feel familiar? Why does it feel like I’ve lost you the same way before?”

Qifrey looks at Olruggio, for once the one trusting rather than the one trusted. 

“You have,” he murmurs, voice so soft. “Each time, the relief of you discovering me is too much— the relief of you knowing my secrets, of no longer keeping them from you. And each time, you come to me with the same wretched solution.”

“A memory seal. If it’s the relief of me knowing, then the guilt of taking it from me and anxiety of keeping it— can you draw it? How much can you still move?”

“Not enough,” Qifrey answers, the prison of his own gnarled and twisted branches already too thick around him. “And even if I could, I… Coco knows my secret, too. This was inevitable.” 

“We’ll erase her memory too, we’ll—” Olruggio’s voice is panicked, now, and Qifrey tilts his head what little he’s able. When he smiles at Olruggio, his eyes crease shut so he won’t have to bear witness to his dearest companion’s sorrow. Oru is so close to his heart. He can’t bear to see him panic, to see his grief on Qifrey’s behalf, even now. 

“I’m tired of lying to you, Olruggio. I beg of you, don’t make me do it again.” He peels his eyes open, steals a glance at the starry night sky one last time. “If anyone can do it, it’s you,” Qifrey whispers. It is a confession, a plea, desperate begging from a foolish bleeding heart. 

“What about the girls?” Olruggio begs. “What will come of them? They need you, Qifrey, you can’t leave them on their own—”

“They’re not on their own.” His gaze returns, as ever, to the only star that matters. “They have you. I hope I’m not imposing to say so.” The branches are moving, now, growing from his palm, too near to Olruggio’s face— he’ll be caught up in it. “Please take a step back, my dear. Another.” He does. The branches continue to reach for him. “I apologize, I cannot control them. They follow my heart. They’re seeking what makes me feel safest.” Olruggio takes another step back, and Qifrey hears him sob, his vision becoming quickly blocked by foliage. “It’ll be alright, Oru. It’s as I said.” With one last smile, he lets Olruggio go. 

“If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

The last thing he sees is a star streaking across the sky, a guiding light there and there and gone. 

Within the safe cocoon of his trunk, time seems to pass oddly. It flows like a river; sometimes, he feels bright morning sun warm his leaves, warm what little of his face still peers from between gnarled branches and tangles of wood— other times, he feels chill night air, wind spilling across him and sending bits flying. Days pass in what feel sometimes like minutes and sometimes like weeks. 

His real body, tucked away within wood, aches still. Every growth hurts, his head pounding, his body active fertilizer for a tree that is him, too. The branches sprouting from his eye socket, from his hand, his arm, his face, his sides, they feel like a wound has been opened and not allowed to close. The pulsing of things within the tree, too, is a sensation utterly foreign to him and at once oddly familiar. Sap flows through him like blood-water-ink and he feels its course, feels the veins it traces through wooden limbs he doesn’t want to claim as his own. Insects find homes within him and he feels their little bites into his leaves, his wood— not the sting of a bugbite on his own body, but the pain of small chunks being taken out of him. 

Worst of all is his head. The pounding headache he is familiar with, skull-splitting pain of something growing in an empty space too small for it by far, is nothing compared to this. He is awash in hot pain and confusion, his head screaming for mercy, a branch as thick around as his wrist protruding from his face like some wretched birth. 

He is a horror. Tiny legs crawl across him, tiny mouths peck away at his limbs, and within, there is nothing but pain and blood turning black and sticky where it pours from his wood-wounds. 

Sometimes, the pain too strong or the days too plentiful, it all catches up to him in unanticipated tidal waves, crashing over and through him. He passes out, and within the tree, he is treated either to a dreamless sleep as dark as ink or to wretched, vivid nightmares— an eye plucked out, a seed planted, the helplessness of a screaming child who does not know where he is and does not know what he has done to deserve this, please, he wants to go home, and he does not remember what home means to him but he just wants to go back put an end to the pain there is a knife in the meat of him cutting deeper deeper deeper so the seed will have a wet, fertile ground in which to grow and his eye is bleeding, tears streaming from the remaining eye’s corner, made helpless and useful, made experiment and breeding ground—

He wakes expecting the tree to have retracted around him, the panic and horror of the dream world too much for it, but it does not seem to listen to those impulses. The cycle continues. His dreams will offer him no respite. 

Have days passed? Weeks? The worst has come and there is nothing he can do, now, to thwart it. He allows his thoughts to drift to Olruggio.

Even when they were children, some part of him knew Olruggio held his heart. His dearest friend, the sky’s kindest, most radiant star… what monster, cold-hearted and detached, would he have to be for such a companion to not capture his every errant thought, his wandering eye, his ill-considered daydreams or fantasies that had him clawing against his legs to send branches back whence they came? It has always been Olruggio, for him, even when he wanders— the thing that drives him back, time and time again, is both the pain of missing and being missed by Olruggio and the sheer, devastating relief of no longer hurting him. 

What would it be like, he wonders, to hold Olruggio in his arms? To reach for Olruggio first, rather than waiting to be reached for? To take Olruggio’s hand in his, to cradle his jaw, to press a kiss to his waiting lips— would Olruggio permit such a transgression? Would Qifrey be allowed, if he wished it? 

Olruggio loved him in return, he recalls. Loves, maybe, still. Even knowing.

The sun on his face is like a kiss, sometimes, slipping between branches and brambles to alight on what little of his face is still bare to be alighted upon. Warm and gentle, the one solace he has here, other than his quiet imaginings of his dearest friend. Joy and love and peace make the tree grow more, in fits and spurts, screaming out of him like something being extracted— it hurts so terribly, but knowing that he does not need to stop it, that he is not hurting others with his pain, is such a relief that he nearly tears apart with the force of it. 

Sometimes Olruggio comes to speak to him. He hears that beloved voice through the rustling of his leaves and perks up, reaching for him, yearning for him. It feels like he’s been stuck this way for months, for years; at some point, hadn’t he wanted to keep himself from reaching for Olruggio? He feels his roots stretch towards where Olruggio stands, his branches moving to encircle him, keep him safe and here with Qifrey where time passes like thick honey syrup and sunlight is golden and warm when it reaches through his branches. He’s selfish and hungry, starved for the real thing after glutting himself so on imaginings, and he wants nothing more than to hold Olruggio and keep the world out, wrap the both of them in that shining world the sunlight promises. 

“The girls miss you,” Olruggio tells him, and he droops. His poor girls… he wouldn’t keep them from the world, wouldn’t cloister them away where they would have nothing new to learn, but he wishes he could soothe their worries, gentle their missing him, keep them from the dangers out there. They’ve lost so much, all of them, and hadn’t he promised Coco…? 

He hears Olruggio take a sharp breath in.

“The girls miss you,” he repeats, “and I miss you. This was so stupid of you, Qifrey, putting your trust in us. Not letting anyone share your burdens just so the weight of them would keep you human, but how much were you actually looking for a solution, in all that time? Or were you only looking for the Brimmed Caps? Was your thought that you’d find them and then you’d be free, that you’d hunt down the ones that did this to you and get them to undo it? Did you want them to cast forbidden magic on you to take back what they did?”

There’s a soft pressure against his trunk. Is Olruggio pressing a hand to him? Leaning against him for support? Tipping forward, his forehead gentle against Qifrey’s smooth bark?

“Or did you just want to punish them?” Olruggio’s voice is small, now, and almost scared of his own musings. “Did you think there was any hope at all for your own recovery? Or was all of this just… your own selfish want for vengeance? If they can’t give back what you took, you’ll take something from them…” He sighs, and Qifrey feels the pressure shift. “No. I can’t believe that about you. You didn’t want to leave us, any of us. It has to be… you still hoped they could undo it.”

That’s right, Qifrey longs to say, I would never have left you if I could help it. I wanted to find a cure so I could stay. I never wanted to leave you all alone.

“I wish you were here,” Olruggio says, quiet like a confession. “We’re going to get you back. We’re not going to give up on you.”

The pressure leaves, and he wishes to lean in, to grab Olruggio’s arm, to keep him make him stay protect him from it all it’s safe here and warm why can’t he just stay stay stay if he leaves Qifrey will be alone again, he was too close to start with will he be swallowed up by desperate, grasping branches will he hate Qifrey for keeping him close—

“We’re not going to give up on you,” Olruggio says at a greater distance. He’s outside of Qifrey’s reach, now. He’s leaving Qifrey all alone. “And when we find a cure, I’m going to yell at you until your ears fall off, okay? For now, just… hold on.” 

Hold on. He can hold on, for Olruggio, for his dearest friend, for the girls, for them all. A branch shifts and he jolts in pain, not that he has anywhere to go. The ache of growth is everywhere, inside and all around him, a cage as much as it is a state of being. Roots trace pathways through his veins and he feels them creeping within him, lighting up nerves and pain pathways and silencing them, replacing them. There’s a pounding in his head, an ache in his neck from the weight of branches pouring from his eye, searing pain everywhere else branches have pushed their way through his skin. His bones creak in the wind. He thinks something is making a home of him, and he feels the scratching of its little claws. How long can he hold on? Where did Olruggio go? Why did Oru leave him, was he not good enough, he kept it down for so many years, he did everything he could to keep it from coming out even more often, dedicated his life to the cause of not having to erase Olruggio’s memory even more, to the cause of balancing his pain just enough, and was it not enough? Is this one failure too many? What if Olruggio doesn’t want to save him, what if he’s too much work like this? The girls miss him and it’s all his fault for leaving them. Perhaps he is monstrous enough that he deserves to be abandoned here, left behind with his pain and his greenery and little else. Left behind with whatever is brave or stupid enough to make a home of him.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. 

The branches are so thick that he can’t even see sunlight when he feels it on his limbs, now, so thick that the world is a distant memory, no more or less painful than the agony he’s caged in already. Wasn’t he holding on? Wasn’t he waiting? Wasn’t Olruggio going to save him?

He wants Olruggio, he wants Oru, he wants to be held and comforted, he wants to collapse into arms that he can trust will be there to catch him. With a sudden, childish desperation, some tiny part of him wants Beldaruit. Deep in his chest there is a tiny, hidden child who wants to collapse at his master’s knee and be told it will all be okay. There is a child who wants to steal away into Oru’s room and curl up in his blankets and know that whenever he comes back from lessons, he’ll huff like he’s mad but then join Qifrey, throw his blankets over them both, curl at his side— it hurts, it hurts, is this not enough to make it go back? Shouldn’t the tree want to grow painlessly, shouldn’t it want to wrap the bearer in a sweet fog of dreamlike freedom, shouldn’t it make you want to let it grow?

Though it could be that, once a bearer gets to this stage, they never come back. There’s too much growth, and… and there’s no point in staving it off. Does the tree need to trick you at all, once it’s gone this far?

Qifrey shudders from within the carapace of bark. 

He’s beyond saving, isn’t he? This will be his life, now, this endless pain, this stillness, this failure. His only companions are the things that scratch at his bark, try to find refuge in his branches. Silently, he begs them to leave before it gets them too. Do the birds that pick at his twigs find seeds darting closer to their mouths? 

Not enough for him to hurt them all by being taken from them, is it? His girls will suffer the loss of a teacher, Olruggio will suffer the loss of… however he has chosen to categorize what Qifrey is to him, but that is not enough pain. The birds and squirrels, anything bold enough to come this close to the atelier, anything that nibbles at his edges, he’s putting each of them in danger of becoming a sapling themself, of spreading this cursed tree far and wide, taking it along to where it can take someone else. He is a disease vector, a child coughing in a crowd. Who knows how many infections he will cause?

Something taps against his bark.

How long has it been? It feels like days, weeks, months. He can’t keep track of time in here; each second drags on for an eternity, but he feels the world beyond moving too quickly for him to keep up. If they find a way to save him, will he awaken to a changed world? Will his girls have grown up without him? Will Oru—

There is still tapping on his bark, like knuckles against a door. Qifrey tries to open his eyes, tries to see who or what it might be, but nothing is visible with how deep he’s hidden within his own branches. 

Then, before he can think, fire. 

Qifrey screams in pain as he’s set alight. He can feel it against his outer branches; scorching pain, something vital being sapped away, skin blackening and blistering, peeling away— not skin, bark, black with woodcruor, ink-blood-sap pattering against the ground, flesh turning to charcoal— where is Olruggio? Where are the girls? He was right outside the atelier, is the house on fire, without him there to protect them is anyone getting out okay, is he going to be the kindling that lets their home be set alight with all them inside? The smell of his own burning flesh hits his nose and his scream cuts off in favor of a retch, violent from the back of his throat, as he falls into the fetal position, the pain too much to take—

As he falls into the fetal positon.

Wait.

What?

Qifrey’s eye opens. The flames around him have drawn back almost entirely; Coco is stamping on a stray ember, but she stops and looks at him when he looks up, an expression on her face somewhere between breathless relief and bone-crushing horror. In front of her, though, is Olruggio, a closed compact held between his hands. He presses a button on the top of it and Qifrey hears a quiet click before he is falling back into the grass, Olruggio on top of him, arms wrapped firmly around his shoulders and a face pressed to his neck with almost violent fervor. Qifrey’s eye slides closed again, and once more he wishes he could cry. Tears are the only valid response to this.

“I thought I lost you,” Olruggio whispers into his neck. His arms tighten around Qifrey’s shoulders and Qifrey carefully places a hand on Olruggio’s back in turn, so tentative that if there were a butterfly resting there, it would have survived.

“I—” Qifrey starts to reply, heart in his throat.

“Not yet, Master Qifrey!” Tetia interrupts. “Please hold still for a moment!”

Qifrey freezes obligingly, words halfway out of his mouth. Tetia dances closer, stomping out another ember on her way, and reaches for Qifrey’s glasses, knocked slightly askew despite the bonding agent he uses. He’ll blame Olruggio for that. 

“May I?” Tetia asks, hand an inch from the glasses. Bewildered, Qifrey nods. Olruggio still has not moved.

Carefully, Tetia reaches for his tear-stricken face and plucks his glasses from it. She cheerfully flicks the black lens and Qifrey flinches as it flies out of its frame. Then, baffling Qifrey, she deposits the frames in Agott’s hand.

“We… we all worked on it,” Coco says, stepping closer to him. The ground under her feet is stained black with soot, or possibly with ink— it’s hard to tell. “The— the theory behind it, I mean. Agott and Master Olruggio did most of the work, but—”

“Nonsense,” Agott interrupts without looking at Coco. She’s fixing a new lens into place, some seal inscribed on its inside with familiar artistry. It is complex, a sprawling knot of tiny, intricate seals. Glancing at it gives Qifrey little idea of what it does, and he doubts examining it for longer would give him much better an idea. “We all worked on it more or less equally. You did much of the theory. Don’t discredit your contributions; you must advocate for yourself, or no one will know how much work you did.”

“And Richeh drew the smallest ones,” Richeh adds. Agott nods.

“And Richeh drew the smallest ones.”

Agott hands the glasses back to Tetia, who doesn’t ask this time before putting some of Qifrey’s adhesive— where had she gotten that?— on the bridge of them and replacing them on his nose. The positioning seems important; she fiddles with them for a long moment before pressing down on the bridge to let the adhesive seal into place. A pleasant coolness settles over Qifrey’s missing eye, like a cool breeze blowing. He startles. Olruggio’s arms tighten around him.

“Thank you, girls,” Olruggio says into Qifrey’s neck. “I’ll explain everything to Master Qifrey now. There are snacks in the kitchen.”

The girls accept this dismissal, wandering into the house, and Qifrey waits for the explanation to come. Olruggio is so warm, and Qifrey privately thinks that no one would buy a snugstone ever again if they knew that this was an option. This does not change the fact that he is offering no explanation, that his grip is desperately tight around Qifrey’s shoulders, that he does not appear intent on letting go or letting Qifrey sit up any time soon. 

He hasn’t let Olruggio stay this close for this long in… a long time. With something bordering on mourning, he closes his eye, anticipating a headache and a gentle bloom, but—

But there is nothing. There is only a cool breeze against his missing eye and nothing emerging; the vague beginnings of a headache, but it recedes almost immediately. 

Huh.

After another few silent moments, heat begins to move to Qifrey’s face. Olruggio is very close, and very warm, and holding Qifrey like he almost lost him— which, technically, Qifrey supposes he did. But still, it is doing things to Qifrey’s poor heart, warmth gathering high on his cheekbones. Olruggio’s face slots closer into Qifrey’s neck. Qifrey tries not to have a heart attack on the spot.

He braces for the headache again, and again it does not come.

“Olruggio,” he asks after a long silence, “what— what’s going on?”

Olruggio breathes out a long sigh into the crook of Qifrey’s neck and Qifrey shivers minutely. His cloak will undoubtedly be ruined by grass and soot stains; it may even take a counterclock spell to get it back to any semblance of cleanliness. 

“What happened,” Olruggio says gruffly, the grit in his voice sending tingles through Qifrey all the way to his scalp, “is that you were going to die rather than ask for help.”

“I couldn’t—” Qifrey begins to protest. Olruggio digs his chin into Qifrey’s collarbone. 

“I know. The girls came running out after me, and when Coco saw, she… she told me everything.” His arms tighten around Qifrey, and Qifrey’s hand flexes where it rests at the small of Olruggio’s back. “How long have you— how many times have I— I’ve been such a fool. Skies above, I’ve been such a fool.” Olruggio’s frame shakes, either laughter or tears; it’s hard to determine which, and whichever it is, it makes little difference. Qifrey brings his other arm up, bundles Olruggio impossibly closer to his chest, pets at the small of his back.

“So— so you know, then. What I’ve done, what I’ve been. Everything I—” Qifrey chokes back a sob, suddenly; the tears don’t come, but the lump in his throat, strangling him, does. “Olruggio— Oru, even after everything I’ve done to you, how can you bear to touch me? I’m rotten, and I’ve brought you down along with me. You were never meant to be— to be something else I’ve ruined.”

“I was already ruined,” Olruggio murmurs. “The moment I met you, the moment I saw you— I’ve never been able to think of anything but you. If it had taken years longer, if you had been sabotaging me all along just to stew in your guilt, if you had needed to break me each time just to fix yourself, I would still hand you the seal, Qifrey. If the spell took all of my memories, and I was left empty, so long as I saw you even just once, I would follow you wherever you could not stop me. I am yours.” He’s so heavy atop Qifrey, the weight of him warm and achingly unfamiliar— every stolen moment had to be stolen doubly, and Qifrey has only ever let Olruggio hold him like this when he was weaker than he’d ever been, too weak to push him away even knowing the cost. But now, somehow, his heart full to bursting in his chest, there is no ache in his head, no branches starting to grow. His missing eye is colder than before, but not painfully so. 

“What did you— what is this? Why am I not—”

“Nothing will take you from me again,” Olruggio swears, solemn as a priest. His breath is hot and Qifrey feels lightheaded. “The seal— a modified counterclock. We had to establish a ‘safe’ state, some starting position.”

“The fire,” Qifrey says. His arms aren’t even blistered; all of the damage had been to his tree, enough pain to scare it back into hiding while sparing Qifrey as much as possible. Whose work could it have been but that of his dear friend?

“The lens… it recorded that state. It is continuously returning the seed to it, again and again, while also bringing itself back to its own original state. A spell that doesn’t decay.”

“There are so many seals inscribed here… smaller and more of them, so they would take less magic to maintain themselves? Even with constantly returning themselves to their original state, a larger seal would take a significant amount, but with them at this size…” Qifrey is astonished. Richeh’s little trick, adopted by Coco, something the girls all fall back on time and time again— his girls are so clever, so wonderful, and his heart swells with pride as the lens blows a cool breeze against his eye. “Why is it cold?”

“We thought it could use a warning system. If you just rely on it, it might break and you wouldn’t notice until it was too late.” Olruggio’s voice goes dark at the prospect. “We’re not losing you again.”

“Ah!” Qifrey smiles, a genuine one, borne of pride and love for his clever, clever children. “So it expels cold air when it is activating, higher levels when it is working harder— if it ever fails, I’ll notice that it’s no longer cold and know that I need to repair it before something occurs!” 

“Just so.” Olruggio falls silent again. He seems content to just stay atop Qifrey for the rest of their natural lives, interlinked, limbs locked together like tangled roots. Qifrey’s still being eaten alive by his carefully cultivated guilt. 

“How can you… how can you forgive me for it? I’ve hurt you so horribly, Olruggio, I’ve erased more memories from you than should ever be taken, I’ve stolen your life—”

“Willingly given.” Olruggio shimmies an arm out from under Qifrey and tugs on his ribbon. “It isn’t stealing if I offer it to you willingly. There is nothing you could take from me that would not be yours to take.” He curls the ribbon around his wrist, tucks his face so close against Qifrey’s neck that he can feel Olruggio’s smile and his stubble through the fabric of his turtleneck. “You think you have stolen my life? It was yours always, Qifrey. I am yours. If one day it had taken your sword through my heart with your hand on the hilt to bring you back from this state, I would have bound you in place and run my chest through of my own accord, just for the hope that your guilt would keep you alive for as long as I could manage to haunt you.”

“I don’t deserve a loyalty like that,” Qifrey whispers. “Oru, what have I done that you would–”

“Don’t be a fool. ‘Deserve’, ‘don’t deserve’, it means nothing at all. You are mine. I am yours. I have always been yours. There is probably some version of us out there where you care for me not at all, and still I am yours; only there, I am your punishment. Here, I am lucky enough to simply be yours.”

He knew this. He had seen this, again and again, Olruggio’s unending loyalty to him, Olruggio’s faith in him, Olruggio’s bottomless belief that something in Qifrey deserved to be saved. That something in Qifrey was worth his company, his trust, his l—

Qifrey cuts off the thought by instinct, knowing that even thinking the word is enough to send him over the edge at times. Only…

The realization hits him like a freight train. If the spell works, if the seal is in full effect, chugging along easily, cold so he knows it’s working— “Olruggio, how much— how strong is this seal that you and the girls created? How careful do I have to be?”

“It should be able to take anything you throw at it,” Olruggio answers easily. 

Not needing another word, Qifrey flips them over, strengthened by his want, his conviction, his love, his love, his love. Olruggio comes detached from Qifrey’s shoulder with a startled exclamation, so his mouth is a little open when Qifrey’s crashes into his. Their teeth clack together, and his nose smushes against Olruggio’s, and it isn’t their first kiss, not to him, but it’s the first one he has known will make it— the first one where his hands are not already inching for the seal hidden within his cap, where his hands are free to roam across Olruggio’s stubbled chin and strong shoulders and tangle in the curls at the back of his neck, where he can pull back and marvel at Olruggio’s shocked expression and his spit-slick lips, where he can lean back in, slowly, carefully, tenderly, and slot their mouths back together with all of the love he has never been able to let free. He kisses Olruggio breathless, his dearest companion a raging bonfire below him, warmth pouring through him like he’s drinking liquid fire. His eye is almost painfully cold, but all it does is bring a smile to his face, giddy and silly and so wide it breaks their kiss. Qifrey laughs softly, delightedly, against Olruggio’s face, chins bumping together. 

“I like your spell,” he whispers. He feels like a teenager, giggly and drunk and aflame with Olruggio in his arms, under him, staring up at him like he hung every star in the sky. Staring up at him like there’s anything worth looking at. If only Olruggio knew the view he was missing out on: his own lovestruck face, open with awe, flush spreading up his face above the line of his beard, his lips kiss-bruised and spit-slick. 

Olruggio is too stunned to offer a response, and Qifrey can’t help but kiss him again and again and again, pulling back only to breathe him in, the charcoal and ink smell of him, the tinge of metal on the edge of it from his forge. 

“I love you,” he murmurs between kisses. “We haven’t— I know we haven’t talked about it, and it might feel soon to say it, but I love you, I love you, Olruggio, I’ve always loved you, Oru, Oru—”

Olruggio leans up and kisses the corner of Qifrey’s eye as though kissing away tears, and Qifrey shudders. 

“I’ve loved you since before I knew what love was,” Olruggio promises, warm breath fanning across Qifrey’s face. “It isn’t soon, you damned fool. You’ve made me wait more than long enough.”

“I’m sorry,” Qifrey whispers. 

“Don’t be.” Olruggio pulls him down and kisses the next apology out of Qifrey’s mouth, and the next, and the next. It sets a fire in his chest. He feels like he’s shaking apart above Olruggio, like he’s about to collapse any second now. Clearly, Olruggio can tell; he pulls Qifrey down atop him, holding him in place easily. “You should get some rest.”

“We should get some rest. Did you sleep at all, coming up with a cure for me?” When Olruggio laughs, Qifrey rises and falls with his chest, bumping around. 

“Fine. But you’re not going down to wherever it is you sleep, you understand?” Olruggio tightens his grip on Qifrey. “You’re staying with me.”

A gentle laugh shakes Qifrey’s frame. “Very well. I’ll be imposing on you for now, then.”

“You’re not imposing. It’s your own house, Qifrey, don’t be a fool.” Olruggio begins rubbing circles on Qifrey’s side with his thumb, the mildest thoughtless tic more soothing to Qifrey than a warm bath and hot soup and a thousand solid nights of rest put together. Olruggio is here. He’s here, and he isn’t going anywhere, and neither is Qifrey; neither of them has to, ever again.

“I’m going to have to explain myself to the girls, aren’t I? And make up for scaring them.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Olruggio says, but the tone of his voice says yes. After a moment’s pause, he adds, “Coco was the most scared of all of us. She feels guilty for not managing to solve it before it was— before you were already too far gone to help her find a solution.” 

Qifrey’s eye slides closed, and the cool air from the seal relaxes, nothing more than a gentle breeze. “She’s so young,” he says brokenly. “She shouldn’t have to deal with this, any of it. I—”

“But,” Olruggio interrupts him, “she is working with Agott right now. We’ve developed this seal already, and I’ve given her some scrap wood. She’s working on a new version, one to be fitted around the leg.” He pauses for a moment. “It’s the most hopeful I’ve seen her since Silver Eve. You forget, Qifrey, that she wasn’t just fighting for you.”

“She’s got a whole world she’s made it her duty to save,” Qifrey murmurs. “I don’t know how we can show her it isn’t her job to do so.”

“We can’t. Once someone like that has it in their head to save everyone at their own expense, there’s nothing you can do to convince them otherwise.” This sounds pointed, and Qifrey is glad his eye is closed so he doesn’t have to avoid looking at Olruggio right now. “But we can show her she isn’t alone in it. If she’s going to make this her duty, we’re going to lend our aid. We’re going to support her. If all we can do is be there silently, then we will be there silently.”

“Heh. You’d know a thing or two about that, wouldn’t you, my friend?” Qifrey squints his eye open, smiles at Olruggio’s chest. “All this time… goodness, no wonder it was happening more often. You saw that I was hurting, and you decided to be there for me so seamlessly that I didn’t even notice your comfort was working. You have a dangerous power over me, Oru.”

“Right now, I’m hoping I have the power to make you sleep for an uninterrupted eight hours,” Olruggio says, turning Qifrey in his arms. With no warning, he sits and then stands, Qifrey cradled to his chest, squeaking with alarm. He wraps his arms around Olruggio’s neck frantically and pretends not to notice the smug grin tracing its way across Olruggio’s face. Olruggio walks into the house, beelining for his room. 

“I still need to explain everything to the girls—” Qifrey protests. They’re up, he can hear them in the house, and won’t they want an explanation? Won’t they worry if their teachers just disappear?

“We can explain in the morning,” Olruggio answers firmly. “For now, we’re going to sleep.” 

The door to Olruggio’s room closes behind them with a solid thunk. Olruggio doesn’t bother with the ladder up to his bed, instead floating them both up with his sylph shoes, and Qifrey privately thinks that it might be because he doesn’t want to let go of Qifrey for that long, sweet and clingy thing that he secretly is. This theory gains strength when Olruggio won’t take his hands off of Qifrey even for long enough for them to get into bedclothes independently; Olruggio gets them both sorted, refusing to let Qifrey do anything but ‘lift your arms’, ‘bring this leg up’, ‘hold still’. 

There is a flush building in Qifrey’s chest and spreading out across him, flowing through his veins, dancing through his body. There are tingles down his spine and warmth in his cheeks and hot blood pounding from his heart. Cool air blasts against his missing eye. 

Warm in Olruggio’s sleep robes, in Olruggio’s bed, in Olruggio’s arms, Qifrey privately finds it’s no price to pay at all.