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On a mild summer’s morning two years after Olruggio lost Qifrey to the silverwood parasite, an imposter shows up at his doorstep. It wears the same clothes Qifrey did. Has the same smile, too.
He knows: this isn’t Qifrey.
But because that face has haunted him for years now, Olruggio lets it in.
He would never be fooled by such a wooden imitation. When Qifrey offers his fake smiles, his eyes shine with his true feelings. When Qifrey takes his hand, he’ll squeeze, reassuring. There is no light behind this creature's eyes. There is no warmth from this creature’s touch.
And, besides. Why would Qifrey return to the person who had already failed him once?
-
The first thing Olruggio does after leading not-Qifrey into his own atelier is sit him in the comfiest couch, right by the fire. What he means to do after that is demand answers, but he finds himself rooted in place, jaw locked, unable to produce a single word.
“Qifrey,” he says, finally. “How?”
Spent, he stands and waits. And waits. And waits.
It does nothing but stare back at him, smiling pleasantly, blank.
The entity wearing Qifrey’s skin does not speak. It does not respond when spoken to. When he walks forwards to grab it by the shoulders, it does not try to free itself. Even when he shakes it, shouting words he can’t hear himself say over the ringing in his ears, it does nothing but accept Olruggio’s onslaught.
At the end of it, Olruggio is sitting on the floor in front of what may as well be a statue, knees to his chest and head in his arms. (It’s strange. Qifrey used to sit like this, when he was in pain.)
He collects himself in time to hear footsteps behind him. Before they can step into the living room and see the body that looks like Qifrey’s, he turns and says, “Don’t come here. It’s not him. It isn’t.”
“Professor Qifrey!”
Coco and Agott are standing by the doorframe together. Coco’s mouth is open in shock. Agott looks more composed, but her eyes are wide, and her fists are clenched. He can see her mind is going a mile a minute.
And then Tetia runs out from behind them, screaming something incomprehensible through tears, and tackles not-Qifrey in a flying hug. His head slams back against the wall, and he doesn’t so much as wince in pain.
“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry! Professor Qifrey!”
Tetia’s hands ball into his frayed shirt. She sobs into his chest.
“You’re hurting him.”
Richeh, now. He must have made such a commotion that they all came to investigate. Calm, the most level-headed of Qifrey’s students even now, Richeh walks up and gently pulls Tetia away.
Holding Tetia, she stares at the husk in front of her.
“It’s Professor Qifrey,” she confirms.
It’s not.
But when Olruggio looks into its single eye, pale like snow and nothing like the real Qifrey’s gleaming blue, he can’t stop himself from deciding that he will care for it.
-
Once everyone has calmed down, Olruggio has the girls start on their lunch, while he brings not-Qifrey upstairs to the bathroom to clean him off. He runs a bath, checks that the water is warm but not too warm, collects fresh clothing from Qifrey’s room which he hadn’t entered in two years, checks the water’s temperature again, dawdles a bit more, and then faces the problem at hand.
He will need to undress it.
It’s not that they haven’t seen each other bare before, they’ve visited beaches and baths, but there’s something different about disrobing it himself, without his explicit agreement, that makes Olruggio uncomfortable.
Qifrey had never liked to be touched, he thinks. He’d shy away even when Olruggio brushed up against him accidentally. Even if this thing did not seem to mind, Olruggio can’t bring himself to do it. He isn’t someone who should be trusted.
In the end, he removes the outer layers, the clothing most dirtied, and sits him into the bath still in his underclothes. Since this Qifrey is a fake, he does not protest about getting wet, and Olruggio lets him soak while preparing a spell to clean the rest of him without touch, and another spell to dry him off.
After that, lunch goes by uneventfully. The false cheer from the children are unable to convince Olruggio that things really will be okay, but he feels better knowing that the thing that is not Qifrey is safe and fed.
-
Care was to become a load-bearing descriptor. Apathetic as the thing is, it turns out to mean attending to its every function.
The apprentices want to help, of course. And they do, as much as he lets them. Olruggio just can't bear the thought of Qifrey’s intimate needs being performed by anyone but himself, so he designates himself the not-Qifrey’s personal caretaker and has the girls pick up a few more chores around the atelier (only because they wanted to, really, he would have preferred doing it all himself).
Olruggio feeds it its meals, helps it to clean, brings it outside during the day to enjoy the sun, tucks it into bed at night.
It’s difficult, but when he imagines that it’s for Qifrey, closes his eyes and imagines that it really is Qifrey, sick but not gone, he finds there’s nothing he’d rather do.
He can’t take all the credit, though.
He’s just gotten Qifrey out of the bath, when he hears a knock at the door. It’s Tetia, and she’s holding up a set of Qifrey’s old clothes that she must have dug out of his dresser, and washed and ironed herself. “I think he might feel better if he could look a bit more like himself.”
Without waiting for Olruggio’s permission, she sets to work, doing something truly miraculous where she puts a new shirt and skirt on him, and slips off the old clothes beneath, without once leaving him bare. “It's a lady’s secret technique,” she says with a wink.
She admires her work, hands on her hips, and says, “I’ll trim his hair as well. It’s a tad overgrown.”
Tetia isn’t exactly a master barber, but the trim is simple enough, and after a good comb and fluffing, the tangled mess resolves itself into normal hair.
He has to admit he’s impressed. By the end of it, it almost looks like the old Qifrey again. Like Qifrey, lost in thought, or perhaps just tired and bit zoned-out.
“Oh, one last thing.”
Tetia produces Qifrey’s glasses from her pocket, and sets them on the bridge of his nose.
“There. Much better. Come take a look, Professor Olruggio.”
“I’m not your Professor,” he grouches, even though he is, now, after taking an impromptu offering of the fifth exam, and goes to look at what she’s done.
She’s right. At a glance, he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. But then, he makes the mistake of looking a bit too long. He meets the sightless gaze of a mannequin posed as Qifrey the Witch.
It makes him sick.
-
They’re not sure if Qifrey can see or not. His eyes open. He turns to face noise, turns to the speaker when spoken to, sometimes, but his eyes remain clouded.
As such, it is unknown whether the glasses do anything to improve his vision. However, what they do clearly achieve is to make it easier for Olruggio to talk to him.
Talk at.
Talk at him.
Memories of Qifrey without his glasses are fraught. He only ever takes them off when he’s hurt, so there are few memories there that are pleasant. But, with the glasses framing his face, he looks how Qifrey does when he’s relaxed, at home, doing some menial chore or indulging in an old tome. This way, it’s easy to catch a glimpse from the corner of his eye, and talk like nothing is wrong.
He never replies, of course. But he didn't always back then either, so Olruggio can imagine he's just preoccupied by something else.
“Cold out today, eh?”
Something like that. He'll speak as he potters about, adjusting this and that, fastidious in a way that he's never been before, and still isn't, with his own things.
“We're goin’ to the market later, me’n the girls. Gotta pick up some cured meats ‘cause we’re running low. Agott’s staying behind to look after ya. She says she’d rather study than shop.”
When he says it aloud, he feels a shiver run through him. Is it really alright for him to leave Qifrey alone?
Wasn’t that what he did, back then, that led to this?
-
He has no shortage of things to worry about. Not with Qifrey in this state.
But, the girls keep him up at night, too.
Coco and Tetia have taken to tending to Qifrey in turns. They'll ask if they can help feed him, which he allows, with supervision not because he doesn't trust them but because he can't stand to be away. They'll sit with him on the porch to enjoy some sunlight together, tell him all about what they've been learning and practicing lately.
It warms his heart, but also sends guilt shooting through him. It's his job. He should be the one caring for Qifrey.
In contrast, Richeh is often hidden away in her own room, only able to handle the stress of the situation for short bursts. Olruggio doesn’t know if that’s harder or easier to accept. He brings meals to the door of her hideout, helps her when she brings problems with her magic to him, but both of them know inside that Olruggio is not the teacher Richeh wants to be learning from.
Agott is, of course, a force of nature. By sunlight in the day and candlelight at night, she treats her body like a machine, nose always in a tome, hands always sketching out drafts of her new spell.
She’s working on something to fix Qifrey. It’s an open secret. Her own dream of becoming a librarian has been cast aside to study increasingly obscure, increasingly niche magic, to bring Qifrey back to them.
“Focus on your studies,” he tells them. “I'll take care of this. Qifrey wouldn't want to halt your education. You’ve got exams to prepare for. I’m signing the lot of you up for the offering next season.”
-
Days turn to months, and the comfortably warm winds of spring fall away into winter’s biting cold. With it, their days begin to simplify, streamlining into a somber routine.
Going outside isn’t an option anymore; it’s too cold and they worry Qifrey will catch something that his weakened body can’t fight off. They stop dressing him in his normal clothes and replace them with loose garments, the old tight shirts and complicated straps too unmanageable for clumsy hands and a responseless body. Meals happen in bed, because it’s easier to sit him up against a few pillows than it is to walk him downstairs and feed him at the table. (Safer, too. That’s the real reason, even if everyone would rather forget.)
Today, Olruggio is giving him vegetable soup. There's a slice of fresh bread to go with it, but he's torn it small and soaked it into the broth, because it's easier to feed it to him that way. He can eat, remembers to open his mouth, chew, and swallow, but it takes prompting and patience, and it’s harder with food that isn’t mostly liquid.
He touches the spoon to Qifrey’s lips, presses gently to insist when he doesn’t respond immediately. It takes a moment before they open, barely, just enough for Olruggio to tip the contents into his mouth. He brings the spoon back to the bowl for some more. This time there’s a piece of carrot. He cuts it in half with the spoon first, because even though Qifrey can chew and swallow, they've learned the hard way what happens when his body forgets momentarily.
A drop spills onto Qifrey’s lap. Olruggio goes to wipe it off, but it’s already stained the white skirt. Like blood on snow, it’s seeped and spread into the fabric.
He looks up, already mouthing an apology, but freezes. Qifrey’s lips are slightly parted.
Olruggio can’t look away.
Pure, clean. Like snow. Olruggio doesn't dare take the first step out, doesn’t dare trample over the serenity. He will ruin it. He's already ruined it, and left the remains buried beneath the surface.
“Your lips are cracked,” he says roughly, tearing himself away. “They’ll start bleeding soon. I’ll get you something for ‘em.”
He shuffles away after that, soup left sitting on the table by Qifrey’s bedside. He’ll have someone help him finish later.
-
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. It would just be wrong if he did.
-
As he had predicted, Qifrey's lips soon go from cracking to bleeding. Olruggio goes out to town and purchases a balm for the lips. Heaven knows he's never used the stuff before, but he applies it twice a day and hopes it will relieve him of any discomfort.
He's doing so now, squatting in front of Qifrey. He has four fingers braced gently on his face as his thumb traces slowly across his lips, trying to spread the oil evenly. The window is open, and the snow outside makes everything inside brighter, too. The light catches on Qifrey’s lips, the balm making them glisten, and for a moment, Olruggio can't help but think-
Qifrey’s pale eye stares down at him, expectant.
“Wha- Qifrey?”
He blinks and it's gone. A trick of the light, it must have been. Qifrey’s gaze, or lack thereof, is as hollow as it's always been.
He’s sure now. Even if he were here, mentally, Qifrey would be blind, the decay of his vision progressing past the point of no return even as he rested dormant within the silverwood. His singular eye is a washed-out gray, doesn’t respond to stimulus, and there’s never been a hint of recognition there, not since Qifrey returned to them.
That’s not so bad. He’s gotten used to the idea, because he had known far before he recognized it explicitly. He’ll take care of what Qifrey can’t, anymore. After all, his role is to be Qifrey’s watchful eye. It was supposed to be his duty to stand by Qifrey’s side.
-
He must have looked particularly miserable that evening, because over dinner (late, because it had taken a bit longer than usual to feed Qifrey that day), Richeh says, “Professor Olruggio needs to take a break.”
It can’t have been planned. The other three stare at her in silence for a moment before catching on.
“Yeah, we’ll take over for a while!” Tetia chimes brightly. “Right, Coco? Agott?”
“There’s really no need-”
There’s a mess of all four of them telling him how he needs to rest, how they can help, how they really want to help because Qifrey is important to them too. Nobody can do this alone forever, they say.
Olruggio bows his head, and refuses. He cites the fact that Qifrey would not want his students to care for him, even though the real reason for the refusal comes purely from himself.
-
Why didn't he, back then? Push a little harder, instead of back away.
-
“-and I could never give up on you,” he says. “Even for a short while.”
For some reason, he is putting Qifrey in his favourite clothes today, even though it’s a struggle and never comes out quite right. He throws the dress over Qifrey’s head like an oversized scarf, and works his arms through the holes.
“Come on, lift your arms.”
Qifrey obeys, and the fabric finally falls over his body. It’s a bit of a rumpled mess, but Olruggio goes to do up the braided neckline anyways. Qifrey won’t notice the difference. Once that’s done with, he drapes Qifrey’s cloak over his shoulders. To help him keep warm, even though the hearth is roaring and he’s got a snugstone beneath the sheets.
He takes Qifrey and settles him gently against the pillows behind him, pulls the blanket snugly over his body and folds his arms nearly on his lap. The body is compliant under his grasp, happy to do whatever Olruggio instructs but making no efforts on its own.
There’s nothing left to do here, but Olruggio doesn’t want to go yet. He pulls up a stool beside the bed and sits, chin in hand, just so they can spend a bit more time together.
Looking at Qifrey, bundled up in a thick quilt, smiling vaguely at nothing, Olruggio wonders if he’s really happy.
That placid smile is nothing new. Frankly, it’s Qifrey’s signature expression. It’s what he schools his features into when he’s upset or angry, and those are things that have defined much of his life.
Olruggio is the one who can see past it. The way it trembles when his composure begins to slip, how the curve shifts when he’s made a decision he doesn’t like - that’s how he reads Qifrey. It’s rare for his false smile to truly be empty, for there to be nothing behind the facade.
But, isn’t that what this is?
Qifrey smiles, content, and there’s nothing more. There’s no concealed hatred, no vengeful fire brimming beneath.
Perhaps he really is happy. It would be nice, if that were the case.
-
“The girls are getting ready for the fourth,” he says. “They’re working hard. I think they’re nervous, especially Agott. But they’ll be fine. I don’t remember it being so bad.”
Lately, he can’t stop staring at Qifrey. He’s very pretty, framed against a picturesque winter backdrop. He fades into it so that it seems like he’s a part of the scenery itself, a wandering sprite visiting the land of humans. His pale hair and pale clothes and pale eyes are the prettiest snow-white.
“There’s a fairy tale by the name, isn’t there?”
He didn’t know the specifics, but it must have gone something like:
A beautiful princess cursed by fate. Trapped in her tower, pricked by a poisoned thorn that forced her into an endless slumber, until-
Until-
This is anything but a fairy tale. He shakes his head violently to clear the errant thoughts.
-
The silverwood takes its host when they’ve found peace.
Some days, this knowledge is all that keeps Olruggio sane. That Qifrey, at the final stages of his curse, had been at peace. That he had been happy, found tranquility, even as the parasite’s branches tore from his skin.
Had he stayed that way, peaceful, trapped in the silverwood’s embrace?
Once, he had hoped that Qifrey had died. He had hoped that the tree, finished with its victim, would finally give it release. It seemed a kinder fate than to be suspended, motionless, powerless, for as long as the silverwood’s life continued.
It's clear now that he didn’t, and his body had been held in a stasis for all that time.
Perhaps silverwoods have some mechanism to keep its victims in that state of peace. Forces them into kind dreams, perhaps, consolation of the life they lost. Something like that must be the case. Olruggio couldn't accept otherwise.
It scares him, though, now that Qifrey is freed.
If he was truly at peace, which the silverwood required, then has Olruggio pulled him from that rest?
What must it be like, to be living in this sorry state of undeath?
He is kneeling in front of Qifrey, who sits politely upright at the edge of his bed like nothing at all is happening. He has both of Qifrey’s hands in vice grips. Qifrey does not seem to notice Olruggio’s overlong nails digging into his palms.
“Where are you?” he begs. “Where have you gone, Qifrey?”
Qifrey can do nothing but sit, half-bent, his gaze unable to find Olruggio.
His eyes feel wet. He presses his face to the skirt over Qifrey's thighs to hide it from himself. Instead, the tears begin to flow, and he finds that he can't pick himself back up this time.
Something touches his hand.
He jerks up, staring into the faded remnants of Qifrey’s eye.
It’s Qifrey’s hand that is touching his own.
“Qifrey…?”
It can't have just fallen. It wasn't a mistake. It wasn't his imagination. It's an offering, but it seems that single movement is all Qifrey has in him.
“Qifrey, I- I'm sorry. I'm alright now.”
Maybe the relief in Qifrey’s eye is just Olruggio's imagination.
-
In retrospect, it's hard to tell which parts of Qifrey were real, and which parts were lies imposed by the silverwood.
He would have sworn that Qifrey didn't like to be touched, but then he remembers an off-handed comment Qifrey made, to Beldaruit, where he claimed that he didn't mind being petted by his master, not at all.
Olruggio treats the memory as a nudge to pet Qifrey's hair himself. He just means to touch it once, at first, but his hand sinks into an impossibly fluffy mess and he can't stop himself from running his fingers through it over and over again. Qifrey doesn't seem to mind, though he doesn't seem to mind much of anything, so Olruggio spends the next little while like that.
He was so soft.
There had always been something charged between them, obviously. In between moments of domesticity and comfort, snatched glances, furtive smiles. Olruggio had always wondered why they never went farther, and for some reason he had never taken the initiative himself. Perhaps he had been worried about losing what they already had?
It was hard to recall. This moment between them now, leaning against each other and combing his hair with his fingers, was the most intimate he could remember them, somehow.
He looks at Qifrey’s lips, their soft, pretty red. He can't help but reach to brush his fingers against them.
-
When he's in a good mood, Olruggio thinks that he would be happy to live the rest of his life like this.
He wakes early each morning, like Qifrey used to, and allows the winter morning air to assault his senses. Qifrey is always awake already, eye open even if the rest of him remains motionless, so Olruggio makes sure he's comfortable before heading down to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for everyone.
Crepes have become a household favourite, mostly because they're a tad easier to make than pancakes, and they're fun to fill up with whatever the girls feel like on each particular morning. They pair well with anything from fruit preserves and cream to ham and cheese, so there's no problem when someone wants something sweet and someone else wants something savoury.
After he's eaten his own, he’ll roll up a small one for Qifrey and feed it to him in tiny bites.
“It's not as good as yours, but I'm getting decent, eh?”
Qifrey doesn't reply with words, but he gets his answer from how easy it is to have him finish a meal, how much of the treat gets consumed before they resort back to porridges and soups to make sure Qifrey has eaten enough.
“We all miss your cooking,” he says, fondly, and rustles Qifrey’s hair. “I hope you’re not miserable having to eat mine.”
-
He's taken to sitting on Qifrey's bed and having Qifrey lie on his lap while he reads, or tinkers with an unfinished contraption.
Qifrey seems to feel safe resting on top of him.
Once, he shifts himself to bury his face into Olruggio's stomach. That might have just been the pull of gravity, or the result of Olruggio adjusting his own position without noticing it, but he grins and pulls Qifrey closer, anyways.
Caretaking is supposed to be hard, unpleasant work. He can't bring himself to agree, though.
No matter in what form, there's nothing he wants more than to be able to be with Qifrey, and care for him.
-
Qifrey has always been a pristine, meticulous sort of person. The type who could wear white while drawing, cooking, gardening, and never find himself sullied.
Olruggio isn't like that. They call him a genius, but he's the unrefined sort, rough around the edges. He's not fit to be with Qifrey. Fire and snow don’t go together, and Qifrey hates water.
After all this time, he can't understand why Qifrey chose him. Can't understand why he would free himself from the silverwood only to place himself in Olruggio’s hand.
-
“Are you happy?” he asks, one day. The question comes out of the blue, surprises even himself.
It's a strange question even in the best of times. Olruggio has no idea why he asked it at all. Knowing the answer won't-
“Yes. I am.”
Qifrey smiles at him, warm and tender. There is something bright in the corners of his eyes that must be the beginnings of tears.
Stunned, he sits, waiting for what comes next.
Nothing does.
Qifrey had always liked for things to look effortless, Olruggio thinks, laughing wetly. Speaking, suddenly, like it's no big deal only to steal away again.
It must have been important to him to share it, if he has mustered up the ability to speak just to answer.
“I'm glad.”
-
“Qifrey,” Olruggio says. He's found himself kneeling by his dearest one’s bed again. “I asked you if you were happy, and you said you were. That meant everything to me.”
He hesitates then, unable to find the words to express a simple feeling.
“I just wanted you to know. That I am happy, too.”
-
There is something in the silence, now that everything is laid bare.
Olruggio reaches out to touch Qifrey’s face.
-
His hand brushes his cheek, and trails down to cup his chin.
-
He exhales, leans forward;
-
his eyes flutter shut
-
and their lips meet.