Chapter Text
Beldaruit had been teaching Ancient History at the Zozah Cantonal University for twelve years, and in all that time he had never once made it to his office before his colleague Professor Lagrah arrived. This was, of course, not for lack of trying. Beldaruit would arrive at seven-thirty, sometimes seven-fifteen, and there Lagrah would be, already at his desk with a cup of coffee and the day's crossword half-finished.
"One of these days," Beldaruit said, maneuvering his wheelchair through the door of the office they shared.
"You'll get here first?" Lagrah looked up from his crossword. "I doubt it. I think you're fundamentally incapable of beating me, it might be a character flaw."
Beldaruit smiled and wheeled himself to his desk—the one by the window, which the university had installed the lowered countertop for after he'd pointed out that the standard desk height was inaccessible.
He had office hours from nine to eleven, then a lecture on the Gilded Age at noon. His phone rang at 9:45, just as he was explaining to a sophomore why her thesis statement needed to be more specific than "The Ancient Pact is important."
"Excuse me," he said to the student, and picked up. "Professor Beldaruit speaking?"
"Good morning Professor, this is Officer Haas from the municipal police. Do you have a moment?"
Beldaruit looked at the sophomore, who was now engrossed in her own phone. "I do. What can I help you with?"
"I'm calling because we have a situation, and your name came up in our system as someone who's been through the foster certification process. Are you still looking to foster or adopt?"
Beldaruit's heart skipped a beat. He'd been certified for six years now. Six years of waiting, of calls that went nowhere, of children who were placed with families who had two parents or parents with a less demanding job or parents who didn't use wheelchairs. He'd started to think it wasn't going to happen.
"Yes I am."
"Can you come down to the station? There's someone here from Child Services who'd like to speak with you. It's—it's a complicated case."
"How complicated?"
There was a pause. "I think this conversation needs to happen in person. Are you available this afternoon?"
Beldaruit told the sophomore they'd continue this discussion during his next office hours, cancelled his afternoon lecture (something he never did) and drove to the local hospital.
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Beldaruit had been using a wheelchair for eight years, ever since being involved in an accident with a drunk driver. He'd adapted to this new way of living, after a mourning period dedicated to his spine that had lasted approximately three years. He'd learned to navigate the world at sitting height, and he'd discovered that people either treated him like he was invisible or like he was inspirational for doing completely ordinary things like buying groceries.
The hospital was accessible, at least. He found the fourth floor, where Officer Haas was waiting for him by the nurses' station with a woman in her forties who introduced herself as Addina, the social worker assigned to the case.
They moved to a small conference room with fluorescent lights and a table that was too high for Beldaruit's wheelchair. He'd learned to ignore these things.
"Thank you for coming," Addina said. She had a closed folder in front of her. "Officer Haas said you're certified for foster care?"
"And adoption. I've been certified for six years." He'd had this conversation before. Usually it ended with them thanking him for his time and placing the child with a married couple in the suburbs.
"I see." Addina exchanged a look with Officer Haas, then she opened the folder. "Two weeks ago, a hiker found a child in the Thristas National Park, fifteen miles from the nearest road. A boy, approximately seven or eight years old. He was severely dehydrated and hypothermic" She took a shaky breath. "He has no memory of who he is or how he got there."
Beldruit's fingers had found each other, lacing together in his lap. It was an old habit, he did it during faculty meetings too, when he was deciding how to respond to one of his colleagues.
"No memory at all?"
"None. No name, no recollection of parents or family. It's as if he simply… began, fourteen days ago, under a tree. Extensive testing has ruled out acquired brain injury; his memory loss is consistent with trauma-induced, dissociative amnesia."
The word trauma rattled him.
"The boy arrived at the municipal hospital with a number of injuries in various stages of healing." Addina's mouth thinned, as if she'd tasted something particularly sour. "Multiple healed fractures of his ribs, arms and legs, several of them healed incorrectly, suggesting they were never properly treated. Scars on his back that appear to be from a belt or similar object. Cigarette burns on his arms and torso, various ages. Ligature marks on both wrists. He shows signs of prolonged malnutrition—stunted growth, dental erosion, vitamin deficiencies." She said all of this steadily enough, but Beldruit saw that she pressed her fingers white against the edge of the folder. "His right eye was severely infected upon admission. The medical team attempted to save it, but the damage was too advanced. It had to be surgically removed five days after he was brought in."
The room was very quiet after that, the only sound coming from the buzzing overhead lights.
"We've run his fingerprints, his DNA, checked missing children databases across the peninsula. Nothing. Whoever he is, he was never reported missing, he never even was in the system. As far as official records are concerned, this child doesn't exist."
"Which means whoever did this to him was probably his primary caretaker." Officer Haas added. "But we have no way of knowing that for certain. No family's come forward. No school's reported him missing. Nothing."
Beldaruit felt something hot and furious settle in his chest. "Why are you telling me this? Why not place him with a family experienced in severe trauma cases?"
Haas and Addina exchanged yet another look.
"We've tried," Addina said, and she had the decency to look him in the eyes. "The families we have available have either declined to take him in, or they have other children in the home and we can't risk placement until we know more about his behavioral patterns. He needs a quiet place, somewhere he can retreat to when things get too hectic. Be with someone who understands trauma, someone who can handle the possibility that he may never recover his memories or—" She stopped again.
"Or that he might recover them and not be able to cope?" Beldaruit finished.
"Yes."
"And you think I can handle that?"
"You have the space, you've been pre-approved, and frankly, Professor, you're one of the only options we have right now."
Officer Haas cleared his throat. "Professor, this child has been through something horrible. The investigation in his case is ongoing, we believe he may be a victim of trafficking. There will be hearings, interviews, psychological evaluations. He'll need extensive therapy, medical follow-ups, probably years of support. He has nightmares. He's terrified of enclosed spaces. He flinches at sudden movements and loud noises. The hospital staff has been incredible, but he needs more than medical care."
Beldaruit sat back in his wheelchair, thinking. He'd wanted to adopt for years, had wanted it before the accident, had wanted it after when the well-meaning friends and family had suggested he reconsider given his changed circumstances. He'd done the training, filled out the paperwork, waited.
"Your file… it stood out to me," Haas continued. "You've dealt with your own physical challenges, and when you applied, you wrote that you wanted to provide a home for a child who needed one, not a child who would be easy."
Beldaruit remembered writing that. Late at night, frustrated and maybe a bit drunk.
"I'd like to meet him," he said.
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The boy was in the pediatric wing, in a private room at the end of the hall. A nurse named Sinocia led Beldaruit there, briefing him as they went.
"He's doing better," she said. "Talking a little now. He chose a name for himself yesterday—from a book I was reading to him. Fantasy novel about witches. He heard the name Qifrey and said he wanted that one." She smiled slightly. "It suits him."
They reached the door. Through the crack, Beldaruit could see a small figure in the hospital bed. White hair. Painfully thin.
"He's quiet most of the time," Sinocia continued. "But he'll answer questions if you're patient. He likes animals, I think. Birds especially, a police officer brought him a field guide and he's barely put it down since then."
Beldaruit knocked softly, then entered.
The boy—Qifrey—turned his head. His left eye was bluer than the sky, while the right side of his face was covered with a medical patch.
"Hello Qifrey, my name is Beldaruit. I'm a professor at the university in town. May I come in?"
"Okay."
Beldaruit wheeled himself into the room, stopping near the window. "I heard you picked your name yourself. Qifrey, that's a good name."
"It's from a book." Qifrey's fingers touched the bird guide on his lap. "The nurse read it to me."
"So I've heard." Beldaruit nodded toward the bird watching field guide on the boy's lap. "I also heard you like birds. Did you know that crows can recognize individual human faces? They'll remember if you're kind to them or if you threaten them, and they'll tell other crows about you."
Qifrey's eye flickered down to the book, then back to Beldaruit.
"I used to watch birds when I was younger. I'd go hiking and bring binoculars and try to identify them all. I was terrible at it, kept mixing them up." He smiled slightly. "After my accident, I thought I'd have to give it up. Can't exactly hike when you use a wheelchair. But then I found out about bird feeders. Now I have three in my garden, and the birds come to me."
"Is that why you are in that? An accident?" Qifrey was looking at the wheelchair.
"Yes, I was in a car accident," Beldaruit said. "It hurt my spine, and now my legs don't work the way they used to. So I use this to get around."
Qifrey considered this. "Does it hurt?"
"Sometimes. Not as much as it used to."
"Okay." Another silence. "My eye still hurts."
"I imagine it does," Beldaruit said gently. "Do you want to tell me what happened to it?"
"The doctor said it was infected. She said they had to take it out so I wouldn't get more sick." The boy's hand went to the patch. It was blue, dotted with white. "I don't remember it hurting before. I don't remember anything before waking up here."
"The detective mentioned that, it must be frightening." He wheeled ever closer, Qifrey didn't seem to mind. "When I was in the hospital after my accident I couldn't remember parts of it either. Not the crash itself, not the first few days after. The doctors said that was normal, that sometimes our brains protect us from things that are too hard to process all at once. Maybe that's what your brain is doing, protecting you."
The boy's hand moved to the book, fingers playing with the edge of the cover.
"May I?" Beldaruit gestured toward it.
Qifrey hesitated, then pushed the book slightly toward him. Not quite offering it, but not holding it back either.
Beldaruit picked up the book, opening it to a random page, occupied by a great blue jay, wings spread mid-flight.
"Blue jays are corvids," Beldaruit said. "Same family as crows. They're smart too. Mean, sometimes. They'll steal eggs from other birds' nests." He turned the page, this one showing a robin. "These are friendlier. I have about six robins who've claimed my yard as their territory. They fight about it constantly."
He kept turning pages, talking about each bird; their habits, their calls, the times he'd seen them. After maybe ten minutes, Beldaruit closed the book and gave it back. "I should probably go. Let you rest." He started to turn his wheelchair toward the door, then stopped. "Would it be alright if I came back tomorrow? We could look at more birds."
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He came back the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that.
He brought books. He brought a sketchpad and colored pencils when he noticed Qifrey watching the nurse draw a smiley face on his medication schedule. He brought a chess set and taught Qifrey the rules, and discovered the boy had a natural talent for it.
Qifrey began opening up, asking questions about Beldaruit's wheelchair, about the university, about what his house looked like. On the fifth day, Beldaruit brought his laptop and showed Qifrey pictures of the bird feeders. A bright red cardinal was there, gorging on seeds
The boy's fingers reached out and touched the screen carefully, like the bird might startle.
On the sixth day, the social worker came to visit Beldaruit at the hospital.
"He's responded well to you," Addina said. They were in the conference room again, this time without Haas. Just Beldaruit and Addina and a lot of paperwork. "Better than to anyone else. The nurses say he watches for you now, it seems like he gets agitated when it's past your usual visiting time and you haven't arrived."
"I was late yesterday," Beldaruit said. "Department meeting ran long."
"He noticed." Addina looked down to her folder. "The hospital is ready to discharge him, he needs placement."
"I'll take him," Beldaruit said.
Addina eyed him for a long moment. Then she pulled out a pen and slid the first form across the table. "Then let's get started."
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It took another week to finalize the paperwork, pass the home inspection and get the clearances. Addina gave him a list of trauma-informed therapists, pediatricians who specialized in abuse cases and resources for foster parents of children with severe PTSD.
"He's going to test you," she'd warned. "Push boundaries. See if you mean him harm. And he's not going to tell you when something's wrong, you'll have to learn to read him."
"I'm good at reading," he'd countered.
They brought Qifrey to Beldaruit's home on a Saturday.
It was a small house on the edge of town, single-story for obvious reasons, with a ramp up to the front door and wide hallways. The tour didn't take long. Kitchen first—"there's food in the fridge, help yourself to anything, I usually eat around six but we can adjust"—then the living room—"the TV works but I don't watch it much, mostly I read, those shelves over there are historical texts but these ones are fiction if you're interested"—then the bathroom—"towels are in the cabinet, I'll get you your own toiletries tomorrow"—and finally, the bedroom.
The room was small but bright. A twin bed against one wall, a dresser, a desk under the window. The walls were pale blue. The afternoon sun came through the window and made squares of light on the floor. Qifrey stood in his doorway holding a plastic bag with the clothes the hospital had given him; two shirts, two pairs of pants, underwear, socks. Everything he owned in the world.
"This is your room," Beldaruit said. "It's not much right now, but we can get whatever you need. We will have to go to the shops to get you more clothes anyways, we can get posters or new paint as well, whatever you like."
Qifrey walked in slowly. He touched the bed, the dresser, the curtains on the window. Then he turned to Beldaruit.
"I can stay here?"
Beldaruit smiled, both sad and fond. "As long as you want."