Chapter Text
They say time is money.
You spend it as the days pass, and whether or not it’s invested well depends entirely on one’s skills in decision-making. There are those who are foolish when it comes to managing their time, those who waste the time they have on their hands on temporary pleasures and conveniences. Time is taken for granted by the masses as they think they still have tomorrow, and yet, that mindset is replayed indefinitely over a broken record. For most people, the ideal tomorrow never arrives.
On the other side of the coin, there are those who wisely spend the time they have available on their hands. Precious seconds are cared for and put into good use, piling them into hours of studious sacrifices for the benefit of their own futures rather than throwing them away to the depths, never to be reclaimed again. The Knights Moralis belong to this side of the human behavioural spectrum, as competence and drilled-in discipline build up the perfect attributes required for a career as demanding as that.
Qifrey often wonders where he lies on that scale. The coin he tosses lands on its edge, balancing perfectly on its side as the spin on its axis comes to a steady halt. The unlikeliness of rotational force manages his fate as the string that controls it dangles to the sway of its whims.
Ever since that horrible crucial day of when he had embarked to the Tower of Tomes, he began to treat his time as if it were a ticking bomb, a countdown to his inevitable fate. Before that, he used to think that he had all the time in the world. From the moment he was saved and taken out of the dreadful, claustrophobic confines of that coffin and taken into Beldaruit’s care, he believed he was given a chance, given a new life where he could live to the fullest and grow to become an old witch worthy of legends. He spent his youthful days in blissful ignorance, assuming he was a lucky, fortunate man with fate on his side.
How wrong he was. After finding out what he had sought for, searched for, ever since the moment a witch stole everything from him, everything turned out only to be wistful thinking. Ignorance was a safe haven he couldn't hold on to forever. He was bound to know of his true fate eventually, one way or another.
A rich man he was not, the truth turned out to be far from it. If one were to consider time as a currency, he was only a boy drowning in debt he did not owe, debt he could not repay. No matter how hard he were to work for the remainder of his days, he would never be able to get rid of the shackles that bound him down.
On good days, he sees his promise to Olruggio as a second chance; a mercy given to him by whatever higher being there is in existence that permits him to live another day alongside the sky’s kindest, most radiant star.
On great days, he wishes that he had never made that cruel, cruel promise. Those days only end in despair; a tragedy he has relived countless times, a comfort he would never be able to relish within. Sometimes, during the aftermath of those days, when the sun has set and the embers of the night cast shadows into the darkest corners of his room, he allows himself to be honest. Wishes are made in secret, hoping that Olruggio would just let him go and allow him to break their promise.
With his two hands, he can count the number of weeks since his last, most memorable (For him only, of course. The same can’t be said for his dear friend. What memory does he have left of that day, anyways?) adventure with Olruggio, and he has already let the cat out of the bag one too many times. Since then, Qifrey has redrawn that inverted spell over and over, to the point that it has grown to become the spell he finds himself most familiar with within his limited artillery. He eventually resorted to drawing it in advance, a tucked-in paper slip as evidence hidden inside the confines of his cloak. He even went as far as to add an extra flap of fabric to the blueprint of his future cap’s design for convenience and most importantly, concealment.
He now holds that blueprint in his hands as he makes his way to submit it to the establishment responsible for the creation of their uniforms. All witches have the option to do so after the completion of their third trial. A new and unique cap serves as a sign signaling the end of being confined under the safety of their master’s wings and the beginning of embarking to become a fully fledged witch on their own.
“Look at the tassel on his cap,” a voice Qifrey doesn’t recognize mutters, not even bothering to be discreet. Can he really blame them? He never gave anyone who gossiped about him a piece of his mind, after all. He only ever faced forward and moved on. Not even once has he ever batted an eye to the whispers of gossip concerning him. “Isn’t that the tassel of Olruggio of Ghodrey?”
“I bet you he stole it from him,” another voice snickers. He realizes that the witches speaking behind his back are apprentices he’s seen a couple times in passing, whose names he never bothered to learn. “Took it when he wasn’t looking, or something of the sort. Witches of his likes are always up to no good.”
Today is a good day, Qifrey thinks to himself. Any day that is built up of discomfort and anxiety is a good day, because it is a day where the silverwood beneath his skin and bone remain static.
“Qifrey, wait up!” Now that is a voice he can recognize. One he could recognize even in his sleep. One that used to belong to someone he looked forward to meeting. Nowadays, he dreads every response he gives to that voice, wary of risking yet another slip-up regarding the promise they made to one another. “I can’t believe it, you didn’t even wait for me! I was wondering where you were lurking around, y’know. I thought you had lost your way again.”
“Why would I need to wait for you?” He parrots, face mildly irritated as his head slightly tilts to the side. He really just wanted to finish his task and go back to sulking in his room.
“Because I want to submit my design together with yours, duh!” A beratement. “Besides, I knew I was right, you did lose your way! This isn’t the right hall to pass if you wanna go to the uniform tailor. In fact, it's the complete opposite, for stars’ sake.”
“Oh.” His cheeks take on a slightly darker shade as his lips press to a thin line. His eye droops down as he clutches the blueprints tighter in his grasp. He was never good with directions. Was there even anything he could do without the need of a helping hand?
He hears an exasperated sigh. “C’mon, I’ll bring you there,” a firm hand clutches his arm as he feels his weight begin to drag to the pull of his friend. “I’m still mad you didn’t bother to submit cap designs together, by the way, don’t think this lets you off the hook.”
Don’t let this be a great day, he relinquishes his previous thoughts as he feels the crawling of roots seep and slither deep within his flesh. Please, please, I don’t want to do this again. He has to let go of his arm, of his best friend that never fails to bring him warmth and comfort. He doesn’t want to ruin the moment, needing to reach into the depths of his cloak where a certain spell remains hidde—
Olruggio comes to an abrupt stop as Qifrey almost trips over his two feet. His friend’s grasp on his arm becomes painfully tight, nails biting down the fabric that hides his slender figure. Olruggio’s never hurt him before. Physically, at least. That trail of thought is ignored when he catches sight of his ornament swaying harshly as Olruggio whips his head left and right, honest confusion painting his features.
“What’s wrong?” Roots discreetly subside as a quiet panic takes the place of his previous comfort. He can’t help but feel a small sense of masochistic relief at seeing his friend’s worried expression. The roots of the silverwood recede, scratching against his nerves. Small blessings. “Olly?”
“This isn’t what the hall looked like when I passed by just earlier,” Olruggio forgoes his tight grasp, hesitantly taking a few steps forward and stretching his arm out as if to shield Qifrey from potential danger. “Look,” he nods his head towards the direction of a nearby wall. “There used to be some ink marks vandalised against that wall. It’s gone now. Some of the stones are cleaner, too. They look polished.”
Silverwood roots retreat entirely. The flesh beneath Qifrey’s skin has never felt so free. He doesn’t know which is worse; the pain he had felt when weblike woods sank into every fiber of his being, or the prickling anxiety that gnaws at his bones in the present as fear —no, something else— courses throughout his composure.
“What?” Qifrey asks rhetorically, suddenly feeling breathless. He knows what this entails. They’ve been teleported not out of their will, to a place that is the Great Hall, but not the one they’ve familiarized themselves with.
The Brimmed Caps. A part of his consciousness whispers out, venom dripping into every syllable. There is a side of him that still yearns to seek them out, to get back what they stole from him all those years ago. They’re right here. They used forbidden magic to—
The distant sound of hooves trodding lightly upon cobblestone brings him back to reality. Familiar. It sounds like Beldaruit’s seal chair as it scampers across the Great Hall, but that’s impossible. He should currently be in Ezrest and is yet to return in a few weeks for reasons he won’t admit to Qifrey, reasons that are obvious to anyone with knowledge of his medical hardships.
“—and he just rushed to find her, without a care in the world for his injuries! I’ve never seen my dear apprentice so determined to find someone, with exceptions to…” There’s a pause, followed by the melody of an awkward chuckle he knows by heart, the sound scratching his brain in all the wrong ways just as it does every time his master catches him about to run off. “…those who have wronged him, of course. Y’know, them. Do you know what I mean, my dear Riliphin?”
…Impossible, Qifrey hesitates, but is it really?
He feels Olruggio’s deathgrip upon his poor arm once more. “Do you hear that?” A harsh whisper is screeched directly into his ear. He has to hold in a wince. “Isn’t that Beldaru—”
Qifrey interrupts his friend with a harsh palm slapped against his mouth as he pushes him against a nearby wall. His head turns to the side to give his ear easier access to search for the footsteps that have approached closer than he would have preferred. Blueprints he had been holding are hazardously dropped and scattered across the floor, accompanied by the tangle of their sylph shoes.
After he is sure that the murmuring voices and trodding steps of who he assumes should be Beldaruit and his companion are long gone, Qifrey lets out a breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding. He turns back to Olruggio, only to pause at the sight of his friend, a deep, scarlet hue, deathly still against his touch.
Qifrey hesitantly relinquishes the hand enclosing Olruggio’s mouth, “Olly?” He takes one or two steps back, taking in the awkward form of the boy in his presence. He subtly tries to wipe his palm against the fabric of his skirt. It was kind of wet. “Are you okay?”
Olruggio’s blank face cracks, switching from horror to offense in the blink of an eye, “Am I—” he lets out exaggerated scoff as he waves his arms around with emphasis, “Are you— we were, ugh, just—” what the hell was that!?”
“Um,” Qifrey puts his hands together and begins to fiddle with his thumbs in circular repetition. “I don’t really know myself. I heard them coming closer, so I—”
“But why would hiding be your first instinct?” He sighs, exasperated. “Besides, who exactly are you trying to hide from? Wasn’t that just Beldaruit?”
“...I don’t think so,” he pauses, finding the right words to string together, but each attempt made in his head sounds more ridiculous than the last.
“Qifrey,” he says his name like a plea, but really, they’re both powerless in this situation. "Now's really not the best time for your cryptic replies.”
“I am not trying to be cryptic,”
“Your manner of speech is as cryptic as ever, believe me,”
“Then tell me, Olruggio,” he crosses his arms, small buds of irritation blooming by the second. “How exactly would you suggest I change my manner of speech?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe just — y’know, start by telling me directly whatever point you’re trying to make instead of constantly beating around the bush!” He exclaims, not unkind, as he waves his hands around with each emphasized syllable. It’s a habit of his he is yet to outgrow. “Unfortunately, I’m not fluent in the language of abused shrubbery.”
Qifrey sets his mouth into a flat line, not wanting to give Olruggio a window to his thoughts. Maybe that’s just my language, he thinks to himself, half humorous and the other half miserable. Technically, I am abused shrubbery, am I not? That makes me fluent.
“I’ve already told you,” Olruggio continues, not seeming to notice his inner turmoil. His voice is softer, most likely due to Qifrey’s lack of response. “You don’t have to dance around your words with me. We’re friends, right? What would be the point, if we can’t speak our minds honestly to one another?”
Qifrey’s arms drop down to his sides as he takes the effort to look at anything that isn’t Olruggio. That’s just unfair. If only he knew the irony in his statement. It wasn’t Qifrey’s idea for him to spend the rest of his life being untruthful to his friend, for them to be partners in pain. It’s Olly’s.
Partners in pain, he had called them that day, not friends. Maybe they’re somewhere in between, because, really, can he call himself his friend if can give him nothing but half-truths and tampered lies?
A moderate gust of wind cuts him out of his thoughts. It can’t be natural, because they’re in the Great Hall –independent to whether it’s the same one they’ve familiarized themselves with– and that comes with the implication that they’re deep within the depths of the ocean.
The two boys whip their heads, only to see a (wrinkly-er) Beldaruit in all his glory, sitting atop his infamous seal chair. He holds out his pen and a piece of paper, but they slip out of his grasp as a look of utter bewilderment paints his weathered features.
“What is this!?”