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Sickness was an old friend of Beldaruit. His life has been defined by it. The frustrating limits of his own body bound to his bed, what the doctors would say over his head as his parents fretted around him when he was younger. It was routine by now, to go down the list of questions doctors and nurses will levy at him as if ticking off a checklist. The answers rarely changed, yes his limbs still ached the same at night as they did in the morning. No he isn’t exerting himself, he knows which boundaries he can push and which ones frustratingly snap back at him. Honestly if he has to hear one more person spout how blessed he is that he was born to parents that could afford him, or how lucky he was to be privy to the secrets of magic he thinks he’ll bring the water crashing down the Great Hall.
Being confined to a bed the majority of his days leads to his immune system being weaker than it should be. So when sickness decides to make itself at home within his body the results are often more devastating than they have any right to be. It was this exact scenario that has found him currently, a common cold has sought to wreck havoc on his body.
A frustrating situation it was, seeing as such a simple cold has made it frustratingly impossible to grasp his own pen. Beldaruit had found magic a comfort when he was a child. His room was always as familiar to him as his own mind, and while he had no shortage of imagination as a child only ever able to dream, there was a delightful joy of seeing his own imagination take shape in the shimmering illusion magic he’s come to master. Even still he has the itch to reach for his ink and a scrap of paper. Yet he is unable to, hands still far too weak from the cold he was just now recovering from.
Beldaruit sighs, eyes skipping over the ceiling of his room as it’s only in his mind's eye that he’s able to picture the dancing figures he’d cast into existence. The want to reach for his pen returns, he has a cluttered notebook of different seals all just needing the last drip of ink to complete. So many fantastical ballets of his own making as he simply lays where he’s tucked into bed. Yet all his body is capable of doing is to spin the rings he keeps on his fingers around in an endless loop.
He blinks away the figures dancing on the back of his eyelids as voices drift from underneath the door.
“I really must insist that Lord Beldaruit must not be disturbed.” The voice of his nurse, Aisline, is stern, scolding in the way Beldaruit has found only those who dedicated their lives to caring for the sick and injured could be.
“If Beldaruit does not wish for company then I will be more than happy to take my leave,” drowsiness slips from Beldaruit as the ever welcomed voice of his first apprentice responds to the nurse. Knuckles knock against the heavy wood of his bedroom door. A familiar five note pattern that Beldaruit and Qifrey came up with when the latter was much younger. It was originally meant as a way for Beldaruit to announce his presence to not startle the skittish child he had taken under his care. He can’t quite remember when the five knock pattern became something mutually used between them. Over time Qifrey had picked it up to announce his arrival as well when it came to seeking out Beldaruit in his room or study.
“Come in,” Beldaruit calls, unable to stop his smile as Qifrey appears from behind the door. It was such a nostalgic sight of seeing his lone eye blinking at him that Beldaruit has to stop himself from reminiscing. Aisline appears not even a step behind Qifrey, her brows furrowed in disapproval as she looks at Beldaruit.
“My Lord, you really should be resting.” She says her arms crossed over her chest.
“Bah, resting is all I’ve been doing.” Beldaruit says, waving off the nurse’s concern with a wide smile. “I’m in desperate need of some good company. Though yours has been grand.”
Aisline raises an unimpressed brow, eyeing him with a tap of her fingers against her arm. She looks over Qifrey with a dissecting gaze, his dear apprentice meets her gaze head on with a perfectly polite smile. He always was a stubborn one. “Fine,” she says with a sigh. She was around when Qifrey was much younger, she must remember the headache it was to keep the boy out of the room during Beldaruit’s sick spells despite both of their best efforts. “Try not to hassle your master too much lamb.”
Qifrey gasps in mock offense, “Would I ever?” he asks as much to the amusement of Aisline who barks out a laugh as she makes her way out of the room. The heavy door to Beldaruit’s bedroom closes with its usual heavy thud in its frame. Qifrey stays where he is, a wicker basket hanging by his knees clasped in his hands. His gaze casts around the room in appraisal.
“My dear child,” Beldaruit calls to the other, beckoning him forward with a tilt of his head. Qifrey finally looks back at him, his steps quiet as he makes his way to the bed. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from you?”
Qifrey hums, a hand deftly dragging a stool kept by Beldruit’s bedside to set his basket on before he responds. “I had this niggling thought in the back of my mind throughout the past week.” He says conversationally, moving to help Beldruit sit up against his pillows. “My days have been so very quiet.”
“Here I thought you would like your peace and quiet,” Beldruit remarks, leaning back into the pillows that Qifrey fluffed up for him with a sigh. While Beldaruit never wanted to be accused of hovering, he found that in the time after Qifrey had graduated from his apprenticeship and before he had taken Riphlin into his care, his days had felt- empty. Vinanna delighted in poking fun at his supposed empty nest syndrome. Needling him endlessly about his melodramatic sulking during tea whenever she graced him with her presence. As much as it ruffled his non existent feathers to concede to Vinanna, she was right.
Beldaruit wasn’t necessarily surprised when Qifrey had built an atelier outside of the Great Hall. It was a long time coming, the more humorous part was the collective outcry of other witches when Olruggio had followed him. Truly Beldaruit had thought it was common sense by then and even now, those two would follow each other to the ends of the earth if it meant staying together. So he never begrudged Qifrey his space, but he did mourn it in a way people do with mundane things. Meals once shared in company, whether it be just the two of them or in the delightful company of four when Alaria grew out of her trained decorum, were taken quietly. Where once laughter accompanied by the sound of thudding footfalls and scheming whispers hidden behind hands were swallowed by empty halls. Beldaruit tried not to invade the carefully constructed space Qifrey had built for himself within the Naakiwan Downs. Their correspondence had whittled down to simple official matters, especially when Qifrey had set in his application for the fifth test.
It was only after he and Olruggio ran into each other when the man was visiting the assembly on business that the solution was offered. Such a simple solution that Beldaruit felt himself immensely silly for not even thinking of it. He had sent a letter to his dear apprentice, not one of importance but for simple correspondence filled with nonsensical gossip he had picked up from the hall. To his delight, and immense relief, Qifrey had responded in kind with silly anecdotes from his days. From their letters, lunch had started becoming a regular thing between the two.
Qifrey huffs hands finding his hips in quite a splendid display of indignation. “If I had truly wished for peace and quiet I wouldn’t have taken the fifth test. Nor would I have taken on four pre-teen girls as apprentices.”
“Come now, my grand apprentices are delights.” Beldaruit says with a chuckle.
“Oh I will never deny that,” Qifrey says with a wave of his hand. His eye widens as he continues, a flush of embarrassment colors his cheeks. “However I would rather not have to try and explain what it means that Olly’s second cousin is a cuck over breakfast.”
“Qifrey!” Beldaruit scolds, unable to bite back his laughter at the way he imagines that conversation to have gone. “Please tell me you aren’t speaking like that in front of your students.”
“It was midnight, the girls were supposed to be in bed and Olly had just finished a commission so we had a drink or two.” The white haired man grumbles voice slowly climbing higher in embarrassment, hiding his flushed face behind his hands.
“Well is it true? About the cousin that is.” Beldaruit can’t help but ask. He wasn’t quite close to Olruggio to know the man’s family drama from the source, though he does hear snippets of it here and there. What he wouldn’t give to have tea with that man even once, the dark haired witch is well traveled and is sure to knows something entertaining.
Alas it’s true what they say, witches are incurable gossips.
“Bah, this isn’t a conversation we’re having.” Qifrey drags his hand down peering at Beldaruit with an unamused look. “Speaking of Olly, I have something I wish to give you.” He says suddenly, hand falling from his face as he steps over to the basket he had brought with him. Qifrey rustles through it for a moment before stepping back towards him. Beldaruit reaches out to take the small wooden pendant Qifrey holds out to him with an inquisitive hum. “The girls have taken to calling it a snugstone.”
Snug was apt description for the small pendant. It was warm, the same way a cup of tea would be when freshly poured. “Your Olruggio made this I presume?” Beldaruit asks looking over the wood with a more discerning eye. The bark was sanded smooth around the edges, an engraving etched on one side that Beldaruit was confident in assuming was done by Olruggio’s hand.
“Olly had made it to help with sleep, but I found it could help with some aches as well.” Qifrey says nodding to the pendant. “He may have made a couple too many, I thought you would find some use for it.”
Beldaruit presses the flat piece of wood between his palms with a hum. The pendant subdued warmth soothes the ache in his fingers allowing for him a measure of relief. Perhaps he should ask about obtaining one for Riphlin, Beldaruit muses. The Great Hall is often chilled, a side effect of being removed from the natural warmth of sunlight and the highly supervised use of fire spells within close quarters. There weren’t many avenues to pursue warmth within the confines of the underwater witch haven. “It is quite nice, do give him my thanks.” He says content to sit with the pendant
“I’m sure he’ll be asking after your thoughts on it at some point.” Qifry says with a wave of his hand. Qifrey turns back towards his basket before speaking over his shoulder, “Mrs. Aisline said you didn’t have much of an appetite over the past week.”
Beldaruit leans back against his pillows with a huff tucking his newly acquired snugstone into his duvet. Its warmth slowly suffuses through the heavy blankets, enveloping the bed pleasantly. “Did she now?” He sighs. Qifrey pulls out a gently steaming tureen from his basket, taking careful steps towards the table beside the head of the bed. Beldaruit can’t help but perk up at the sight of the serving dish, it's been quite a while since he’s had the pleasure of enjoying Qifrey’s cooking.
“It’s nothing special, but it is the only thing everyone can agree to eat when they’re sick.” He says while opening the lid to reveal a deceptively simple chicken noodle soup. A mix of shredded chicken, noodles, and various vegetables swirl within a crystal golden broth. The scent alone is enough to make Beldaruit’s absent appetite wake up with a grumble of his stomach.
Beldaruit has always been an abysmal cook. He’s long become accustomed to the food provided specially for him by select chefs within the Great Hall. Though he would never wish to discredit the various chef’s accolades and meals, Beldaruit holds a fondness for his dear apprentice’s cooking. It’s come such a long way from when his dear child was still needing a stool to reach the kitchen counters. It makes him painfully nostalgic to think of the unevenly chopped ingredient, or the seasoning that could range from too sparse or too heavy handed. What fun it was back then, to be the first person Qifrey would badger to taste test his cooking when his friends weren’t around. Beldaruit wasn’t the one teaching the boy how to cook, Aisline was more adept at guiding his apprentice in that aspect back then, but the joy he felt when the meals became more cohesive was just the same as when teaching magic.
“My dear child, you didn’t have to bring all of this for me.” He admonishes with a smile as Qifrey pulls out a shallow bowl and spoon from his basket.
“Too late for that now,” Qifrey says spooning out a portion of the soup before handing Beldaruit the bowl. Beldaruit lets the steam from the soup dance around the air as he takes a tentative sip from the soup’s broth. He could see why this soup was easy to agree to when under the weather, the taste was delectable with the broth smooth and easy on a testy stomach. “I take it that the soup is passable then?” Qifrey asks not quite hiding the self satisfied smile.
“Passable?” Beldaruit squawks, lowering the bowl to his lap to give Qifrey a mock scolding look. “Truly where did you ever learn such impishness from?”
“Forgive me if I hold my tongue on that. It would be considered sacreligous to give the true answer,” Qifrey quips, taking the bowl Beldaruit hands back as he finishes the portion of the soup. Beldadruit waves off the offer of seconds, already feeling quite satisfied with his fill and not wanting to ruin it by making himself sick. “I’ll let Aisline know you can keep the soup, I make far too much of it.” Qifrey says as he drops the bowl back into his basket with an absentminded hum.
Beldaruit readies to pass on his gratitude but pauses when he sees the look on his dear child’s face. Qifrey’s brow was furrowed, his gaze stormy in a way that both revealed far too much and very little as fiddles with the lid of the tureen. “My dear boy,” Beldaruit calls, he pats the space on the bed beside him when Qifrey looks back at him with a raised brow. “Would you indulge me for a moment?”
“Are you sure? You were just sick.” Qifrey frets, looking at Beldaruit as if he’s gone mad. A familiar expression and one Beldaruit would never admit out loud to baiting out on purpose sometimes. It truly was fun to see how absurd he could be before he gets called out, a game for no one but himself really.
“Bah, It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to have you to myself.” He says, patting the top of the duvet again with a tilt of his head. “You wouldn’t deny an ill man now would you?”
Qifrey squints at him in a one sided glaring conteset before sighing in resignation. “You really do need to stop using that as a guilt trip, one day it won’t work.” He grumbles already kicking off his boots as he makes his away around to the other side of the bed.
Beldaruit grins in victory, reclining back into the pillows as Qifrey curls up at his side with a huff. “I think I’ll keep for a bit longer, it hasn’t failed me just yet.” Beldaruit sighs, a tension that has long been accompanying him eases as he welcomes the presence of his child curled beside him. Qifrey’s head comes to rest on his shoulder taking Beldaruits hand in his to mess with the various rings Beldaruit wore absently. Fluffy white hair tickles Beldaruit’s cheek as he watches Qifrey spin one of the rings on his pointer finger around in an endless loop. “I’ve never fancied myself a gambling man y’know,” Beldaruit says quietly. “I won’t try to take a gamble about what’s on your mind right now. However you and I are both aware that magic that allows telepathy is forbidden. So I would much rather you allow me to know what it is that is making frown like that.”
Qifrey hum in acknowledgement of the words spoken to him, switching his attention onto a different ring stacked on Beldaruit’s middle finger. What a wonderfully frustrating man his apprentice has grown into, always quick to fret over those he cares for yet denying others the chance to do the same in turn. “You could’ve sent a missive that you weren’t feeling well.”
“Dear boy,” Beldaruit sighs.
“Or you could’ve had someone write for you, I know you have people for that.” Qifrey says. Which was true, Beldaruit sometimes employs scribes to help with correspondence and transcribing letters when his own hands have grown sore. Being one of the Three Wises often called for tedious interactions, as much as Beldaruit loathed it. “But you didn’t, why?” He asks quietly.
“You have long since graduated from being my apprentice and no longer hold any obligations to me as when I was your master.” Beldaruit explains, folding his hands across his sternum when Qifrey stops fiddling with his rings.
Qifrey sits up, his warmth leaving Beldaruits side as he turns to peer down at him with an offended look. “I don’t know whether I should be offended for myself or for you. Do you truly think you’ve taught me to be so shallow?”
“I didn’t wish to needlessly worry you.” Beldaruit sighs, “My health should not be such a concern for you. After all, you have your own student to worry about now.”
“Not a concern for me? What, are you going to tell a child not to worry about their father?”
It’s not often that Beldaruit finds himself dumbfounded anymore. He’s lived a life full of experiences after all. Being around children for majority of your spare time is sure to lead to quite a few entertaining moments as well. Yet here he was, mind playing the last word Qifrey spoke on repeat. Beldaruit would never wish to lay claim to the title of parent for any child, knows it's not his place to assume. And yet, the warmth and joy that alights in his heart when Qifrey alludes to such a thing is something he wishes to keep. It takes a beat for Qifrey to realize what he said, his cheeks flushing red as he looks away.
“No.” Beldaruit answers with a smile fighting at the corner of his lips. “No, but I don’t think a parent would want their child to worry themselves sick in turn.”
“My point still stands.” Qifrey mutters falling back into the pillows a quiet oof. “I’m going to worry either way. I’d much rather worry with a soup prepared than imagining twenty different tragedies.”
Beldaruit considers it for a long moment. When Qifrey was first taken under his care he fell quite ill. While his memories were taken from him, his body remembered whatever horror he suffered either way. He was so used to being in survival mode that finally being somewhere he perceived as safe allowed all things his body was suppressing to finally be addressed. Qifrey was famished and dehydrated with a fever, most concerningly of all was the infection that had been festering within his empty eye socket. The doctors speculated that it was a mix of the stagnant rainwater he was left in and the physically traumatic manner the eye was taken that caused it. Beldaruit shudders to think back on that hellish time that lasted for what felt like an eternity.
The doctors and nurses never did try and sugarcoat how low Qifrey’s probability for surviving was. How horrible it was, sitting by the medical cot and grieving for a boy that was still technically alive. How many versions of the boy that didn’t even have a name yet did he mourn? What a hell it was, knowing if Qifrey had passed on that cot Beldaruit would’ve been the only one who would care to mourn him. A miracle, the doctors and nurses said, when the fever broke and the treatment for the infection took.
Beldaruit doesn’t think he’s worth twenty different tragedies. He knows death will greet him one day, whether it be in sickness or in a kinder moment. For all he’s thought about it, he’s never considered that others might see it as a tragedy.
Beldaruit hums an old lullaby that never did have words, urging Qifrey back to his side with a tug. He can’t quite shelter his boy like he used to, can’t cradle his child in his lap anymore and soothe tears from a stormy eye. But, can still tuck Qifrey’s head under chin while he has him for a moment. “I’ll ask Aisline to keep you informed if something is to happen again.”
Qifrey exhales, body going boneless against his side. “Thank you.”