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He laid underground, his presence revealed to you in a whisper by the wooden legs that took your steps. Before you, a lead you couldn't do anything but follow. Blood still ran under the wet soil. A small body, already still, you thought.
No. A breath of life brushed against his cheek.
His chest rumbled, and little by little an eye opened. You took note of the absence in the other socket, a mark that wouldn't go unnoticed. Being different is something you’re well versed in.
A sound crawled to the surface from the depths of his rugged throat.
The witches took it.
That’s all you got to understand before heading off, far from the darkness of Thristas. To your side, the kid was kept in a cold embrace by the knights.
Once you made it to the Great Hall, a meticulous inspection took place. His small body seemed to try and swallow itself up in its neverending tremor. No traces of ink were found carved on his skin, and the socket was not completely empty, although, to truly understand what lay dormant in it, you would have to dig between the shadows the pact tried to ignore.
What will become of the child?
You know well what you must do.
The cold wind rises, freezing up to the last one of your bones. Every single joint in your body screams in pain, yet, your open hand reaches to him. Between you ink stained callouses, the gift of magic emerges once again.
This time, you promise, will be different.
When despair knocks at your door, it will become your sword and shield.
Inside the walls of the Great Hall, neither the cold nor hunger will ever find you again.
And, under my wing, you will be safe.
Qifrey, do you agree with that?
At first, he never gave an answer longer than a monosyllable. His stare was fixed on you, sharply examining even the slightest movement, carefully planning his own.
The blue of his eye seemed lifeless to you during that time, a closed window that kept the insides of young Qifrey an enigma even to himself. As months went on, you noticed the raging sea reflected on it, drowning him from the inside.
Even so, time has barely allowed you to catch brief glimpses of the depths he’s made of. You still remember the last time you saw his tears. That night where the cries refused to die drowned on his sheets.
You knocked on his door. Silence. A bit longer. A few steps. A little clack on the knob. It opened. Behind it, his hand hiding his face, in a futile attempt to hide the storm that kept you two awake.
The drops still ran and fell from his chin, where a scar was bright in red. His hands had become skilled with the pen, but the mastery of the razor he insisted on using every morning still seemed far away. Even further away seemed to be those days when his whole hand fit in yours, and, walking by your side, his gaze wandered through the world, as if he was a stranger to it. With the same sense of strangeness, the world he now knew looked back.
Still, you could swear never in your life you saw him so vulnerable. To this day, you believe what you were allowed to see that night was a thing to never be seen again.
Master Beldaruit, what are you doing here?
Every syllable was tense, twisted, threatening to break down at any moment.
Ah, my motives are well known to you.
His head twisted, eye hidden in the shadows embracing his back.
What’s the reason for your sorrows, my dear Qifrey?
He pressed his own face, trying to stop the tears from flowing. His lips quivered, twisted, fought until a sob broke free. Then another. And then many more. The storm couldn’t be restrained anymore.
His hand reached for the armrest of your sealchair, anchoring it. Your hand caressed his. His knees collapsed on the cold floor. His head took refuge in your lap. Your fingers ran through his hair, the way they hadn't in a long time, when you hoped the nightmares that tormented him would slide away along with them. Once again you felt the damp exhaustion from crying, tainting every strand, but this time the root of it was lost to you. You didn’t know what else to do, not while he still writhed in pain.
Was it, perhaps, the ghosts they tried to bury him with?
Maybe, but you couldn’t shake off the weight in your chest telling you there was more to it. Something that had been growing for a while. Something that, no matter how hard you tried to catch, fled from your presence to never be dissected.
Little by little, the storm became drizzle. A feeble sound slid from his lips.
Have you… ever loved someone?
In any other instance, this would have been funny. The peculiarity of the situation would have made it easy to be the annoying Master Beldaruit that made him protest and whine until his face turned red and he was a child again. This night, though, your hand was still on his hair, and his cries were so mournful the only thing you could feel was the growing pit on your stomach.
So you thought of an answer.
You know magic is your one true love; in it you find the wonder to face each day, the freedom of your soul, and its lines set the rhythm of your heart. You know in education you find purpose; the sparkle of marvel in innocent eyes drives you forward in a way that transcends the limitations of the flesh.
If you ponder on it a bit more, "love” is not an over-the-top adjective to describe what you feel for the one you found barely a seed, about to be one with the earth. The one that despite the fear, the pain, the neverending rumors, and the questions that have only found nebulous horrors as answers, has dug from the underground to wake up each day as a witch worthy of protecting the gift of magic.
You thought none of those were the answers he was looking for.
My dear apprentice, is a broken heart the cause of all this?
The exposed half of his face showed a clear frown.
I asked first, he muttered.
I don’t know. Those passions seem to elude your master. Still, my ears are open for whatever it is your heart needs to say.
His face sank back into your robes. From beneath the fabric, a murmur emerged.
I’m not sure how long I’ll keep going like this.
He dried his tears a little before getting up. His gaze, elusive as always, was red and exhausted like you’ve never seen before.
Oh, Qif…
Before you could say anything else, a door was on your face once again.
Not a single word has been said about it since, but that night still haunts you when you try to sleep.
By the next day, life seemed to be back to its usual routine. The melancholy that accompanied him for years was still there, it was only novel to see it bared again from that fake smile he had trained to near perfection.
You still remember that distant day where Qifrey came back, but something had changed. From then on, the melancholy on his gaze has been clear as day to you. You always see it when he’s with that friend, the one whom you know is where his soul finds home.
You know he’ll never offer an answer to his poor old master, but, piece by piece, you have tried to put the story back together. As the years have gone by, you have learnt things that helped you understand, even if just a little, the root of all of this pain.
That’s why, when he announced he would be taking his own apprentices, fear came over you. Could he see beyond the torment that lives within him?
Every single day, he proves once again to be worthy of the place for which he had sweat and bled. Even then, you can’t help but see that frightened child, consumed by pain and rage.
Now, the child sleeps at the hospital. The chills of hearing those news still run through your body. He will be fine, he has always been, you lean on that.
Before you, there’s a girl with tender leaves for hair and the sweetest smile; right behind her, a foggy tale that you choose to believe out of love, and a familiar melancholy. Once again, every fiber of your being shivers against the cold wind.
On your chest, the warmth of the first time you offered your hand takes place once again, but your mind remains clouded.