Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The Silver Eve Procession was always a delight to witness.

Well, perhaps it would be better to say that it was a delight to hear.

Fate was oft unkind, and it wasn't one to sway for those who have already suffered greatly. Blessings were, in turn, mere morsels never to be taken for granted; which was why Qifrey would rather not wag his tongue over such meagre pittance, for he had still received more than he ever thought he deserved.

He could see, a little—albeit very, very poorly. The world was but a smear of dizzying colours and shapeless masses one would rather shut out completely than bother deciphering, but Qifrey could recognise a fair bit of it, somewhat. He could make out the floatforms hovering high overhead where the demonstrators performed, along with the sea of caps and heads that crowded the town square. He was merely fortunate to have found a seat nearby before the procession had begun proper, lest he would've gotten swept away to realms unknown.

For now, at least, he hadn't anywhere else to be, nor anyone else to look toward, for Richeh was manning her own stall further away from the performance, whilst Tetia had her own business to see to. It was Agott, Coco, and Olruggio whom he would be watching; and with any luck, the crowd will be most invigorated upon their arrival.

That would certainly make identifying them much easier.

"May the next demonstrators please step through the window-way!"

Raucous cheers and thunderous applause, horns blaring, a witch's entrance into the spotlight; a splash of brilliant lights, spattering sparkles, a grand spectacle, a calming spray of mist descending upon the audience...

"Hmm? Is this... some sort of incense?" wondered a curious lady just within earshot.

"It smells like lavender," said a gruff old man.

"Oh, I bet this could be used to air out a stuffy room!" came another voice amongst the crowd.

So it seemed.

Qifrey needn't stare blankly into the sky to find his apprentice standing proudly on stage. This was undoubtedly the hard work of Coco, who had done well to keep her spell under tight wraps over the past few weeks—and it would've worked to keep Qifrey in the dark were it not for the lingering fragrance that wafted about her and Agott's room for so long after her experiments.

But she needn't know that.

There were flags raised, others kept down. Murmurs and remarks surfed like ripples in the ocean, stirring conversations both inquisitive and critical.

Qifrey kept half an ear out for that, if only so he could relay the better comments to his apprentice once the procession ended. It was the most he could do now as a teacher with little sight to inspect his own students' spells.

The next demonstrator arrived with a flurry of golden lights and a surge of wind. It tugged at Qifrey's mantle and ruffled his hair as the impish breezes of Naakiwan Downs oft did, yet this one came with a rather... peculiar fondness for lingering around.

How strange.

"Woah! Mum, mum, look! Is that a dolphin?"

"Oh, what a cute little deer!"

"There's even a finch!"

Interesting.

They made neither sound nor touch, but it seemed that they took material form nonetheless. Qifrey squinted his eye as he watched the audience before him, where among them were small, flittering shapes that danced over their heads like pyreflies.

Was this Agott's work? Who else was so fond of drawing magic in the shape of adorable creatures? Dolphins, finches, deers... Why, those signs were quite esoteric to the everyday witch, and fashioning them with such precision took a fair bit of expertise.

There was a light brush along Qifrey's left cheek—little more than a tickle—and he hummed along to a weightless little creature that settled upon his shoulder.

"Oh, hello there. And what may you be?" he wondered.

The spell answered with but a silent flutter of what may be its wings; another finch, perhaps, or a different bird. Regardless, it lasted for nary a while more before dissipating like a dying candle flame. The utter cries of disappointment were clearest among the children, though the adults were no less saddened by the sudden end to this demonstration.

"Could be useful as a portable nightlight..." mumbled a mourning woman.

"I would bet the children of the orphanage would adore a bright companion to aid them to sleep during the warmer seasons," said another.

"It may work wonders in theatre. Such special effects are few and far between as it is."

Flags were raised, cheers erupted, and from the disappointment rose support and interest.

Qifrey himself fiddled with his own flag left on his lap. He supposed there was no harm if such a spell were to be made avail to all—if for no other reason than to support his dear apprentice. The thought of having a companion by one's side at all times was certainly endearing, but... one that was silent failed to stir much sentiment within him.

After all, with vision like his, even standing about the familiar setting of his kitchen seldom proved unsettling. Qifrey couldn't quite shake off the paranoia that whispered in his mind that there were eyes upon him just within arm's-reach, yet far beyond his notice.

He shook his head to return to the present. It wouldn't do to daydream whilst the procession was ongoing. Whatever would Olruggio say if Qifrey were to have missed him? Oh, something along the lines of, "How could you have missed me, you cruel witch!"

Yes, something like that.

Fortunately, he needn't have waited long before he recognised the next demonstrator leaping unto the stage by no means of his own.

"There he is! It's the fire witch!"

"Olruggio of the Torch!"

Such vigor, it was utterly infectious. Why, if Qifrey could spot even the slightest hint of that black-cloaked witch amidst the vast ocean of the sky, he would be waving his arms trying to catch his attention from the ground. Alas, for what descended upon the audience right then and there were glittering stones no larger than a coin. 

It was akin to a light shower of hail—much like a previous demonstration of Olruggio's with his phantasmal fireball years ago. However, as one just so happened to pelt against Qifrey's cap, it fell upon his waiting hand and pulsed a gentle, golden light. It was cool to the touch, akin to any inconspicuous stone, cut to a smooth finish and rather lightweight.

How peculiar.

Familiar as it was, Qifrey was certain he hadn't known of this invention.

"What's this?"

"A plain ol' rock?"

"Wait, mine just flashed something!"

"What is it?"

"It's... it's me?"

"Let me see that. Hold your horses, it's got your face stuck in there!"

Interesting...

A stone that records what it 'sees'?

Fascinating magic as it may be, Qifrey couldn't exactly find much reason for it. Perhaps, as a mere trinket to be sold, it needn't serve a purely functional purpose, but to display it during the Silver Eve Procession was... bizarre.

Nevertheless, the crowd gave their verdict on the matter. And as the applause rose to a thundering cacophony, Qifrey simply resigned himself to pressing the tip of his flag to his temple, if only to direct his gaze away from the sky where the lights and spectacle was beginning to hurt alongside the next set of horns. How quickly it stung like a burgeoning headache...

The next set of demonstrators were soon to begin. Those already finished would be free to spectate amongst the people, and it wasn't too long before Qifrey overheard a jovial voice he knew so well.

"Master Qifrey! Master Qifrey! Did you see us? You could tell whose spell was on, right?"

Coco's enthusiasm was as never-ending as an eternal spring. Even amidst the bustling world of formless, vague silhouettes, she alone stood out like a star in the dead of night.

Coincidentally, behind her were two other stars, each with their own brilliance. They trailed her shadow and came to a stop around his lonely bench, to which the witches all took their seats at his sides to rest their weary legs.

"It was certainly a show." Though Qifrey struggled to describe anything clearly, he mused about what he could, "That fragrance spell was undoubtedly the work of Coco's, I take it? And those adorable little creatures made of light has Agott written all over them."

"Is... that so?" Now, why did she sound so taken aback? "Could you actually see them? I tried to make them easier to notice, but light is a tricky thing."

Yes, indeed, but much like all other forms of magic, they obeyed only the spell's command.

"You look chuffed to bits," Olruggio said, "yet not a comment on my spell?"

Oh, dear. Qifrey needn't an eye to catch the feigned ire that sizzled just beside him. That fool just so adored playing up the act; how could he not tease him in kind?

"Oh, do you mean this?" The stone remained in Qifrey's grasp, held up for everyone's attention but his own as he gave him a smile. "I must say, I haven't the slightest clue what you made. I had thought it was another rendition of your phantasmal fireball from yesteryears' procession."

An amused huff, a moment's pause, and a warm hand came to envelope his own to bring the stone closer between them. "Quite off on that, Qifrey. 'Tis a prism that records a snippet of things that happen around it. Little more niche than my usual contraptions, but I'd reckon it has its uses."

So it seemed. At least the audience had figured it out for themselves. Qifrey simply wondered, "Whatever inspired you to make this?"

"Hmm?" That curious hum was akin to surprise, as if Olruggio couldn't fathom why he asked such a normal question. He rubbed his neck and turned away, oh-so obvious in spite of hiding in a smeared world. Qifrey watched on regardless, tipping his head aside in a vain attempt to discern whatever expression the witch wore.

"Well, I suppose... 'tis more a personal project than anythin' meant for sale," Olruggio said. "If it sells, then it sells, but I ain't fussin' over it. May as well show it off, ey?"

"Really?" How strange. Forgive Qifrey for his doubts, but he had an inkling that it wasn't that simple.

Olruggio did not falter on his claims, however. No, he instead remained obstinate, digging into his cloak for something small, something else...

"Here," What was passed to Qifrey was an identical stone, one that was much, much warmer, so much akin to a snugstone, yet closer in shape and size of a phantasmal fireball. The old was taken, and his fingers were gently coaxed over the new, where a soothing pulse began to pour along his skin like rippling mist.

How strange.

It felt like... smoke, from a fireplace—from home. It smelled of fresh bread baking in the oven, wafting in the air without errand or fuss. It brought to mind a quaint, quiet morning, basking in tea and crumpets in the comfort of the common room.

"Not the best, but I feel it's a good token to keep on hand," Olruggio said with a dulcet sigh, as if he dared not disturb the witch from his reverie. 

Funny he should say that, of course, for what else were the other trinkets they each carried on their persons? Both of them, and the girls, they all wore a piece of each other as a witch did their cloaks and caps. Qifrey of all witches needn't any convincing to take on just one more precious item. Besides, was Olruggio not the most esteemed and accomplished inventor? How little did he think himself to claim it 'not the best'?

"We'll help make it into a pendant you can wear," Coco so graciously offered. "Master Olly's worked real hard on it for weeks. He'd even got—"

"Oi! Not snitchin'!"

Well, that only made it more interesting.

Perhaps Qifrey shall have to bribe his apprentices for the sweet gossip later.

In any case, they lingered for the rest of the procession, supplementing the audience's wondrous confusion with such helpful commentary. Coco spared no expense with putting every demonstration to words, whilst Agott paired her with the finer details from an studious, analytical eye.

Olruggio, meanwhile, seemed rather content to watch in silence, for he had his arm wrapped around Qifrey's, and his head nestled right against his shoulder without a care in the world. It was only then did Qifrey notice the hood he donned. Perhaps that was why the poor witch had yet to be swept back into the mob again, like moths to a flame.

Qifrey let a smile bloom wide across his face as he rested his cheek atop that hooded head. The procession could have ended clock marks ago for all that mattered. He hadn't even the care to wonder when exactly his apprentices had pleaded that they return to their tent, merely that it was the end of his listless little daydream.

Alas, for such bliss was as fleeting as a gust of wind.

𑁍ࠬ ܓ  °  ⋆  .✦ ݁ ˖

Come nightfall—rather, the closing dance ushered in by another set of deafening horns—the audience dispersed to explore the other stalls around the city. It was only then that Qifrey took his cane and followed everyone's guidance through the puzzling, tumultuous sea.

Fortunately, it wasn't too far a walk, nor had they been accosted by strangers looking to buy their spells. For what it was worth, Qifrey kept his eye peacefully shut to the world whilst finding his way through guidance alone. He walked without hurry, and without much worry for any obstacles that may stand before him. He need only trust the path paved along by the witches who so patiently aided him.

Through the narrow, winding streets; past the bustling stalls that smelled of fresh produce and cooked meals; up a steep flight of steps; over a stone bridge... 

Qifrey listened to the chatter, the comments, the passing remarks. He felt the ground steady beneath his shoes as he walked from heel to toe, never quite daring to lift his sole up from the glowing stones. Though it stretched the journey out for longer, none saw fit to hurry him. If anything, both Coco and Agott seemed eager to take their sweet time running off to whatever sights caught their interest before drifting back.

Were Qifrey to turn his gaze upward, all he would find were dazzling lights spattering the city's narrowed skyline, akin to a pond reflecting a swarm of pyreflies as he sat at the bow of a rickety, old boat. Such brilliance wasn't reserved for the grandeur of Silver Eve, rather the sway of the moon, no matter the occasion. It was nothing new, yet...

Charming as the lights were, they now served to only worsen the ache in his temples. How his eye stung so fiercely were he to stare too long at any particular light too bright, piercing through his skull as the Silverwood does—

"Qifrey? You aight there?"

"Hmm?" Oh, had he gotten lost in his thoughts? How embarrassing.

"You just flinched," Olruggio said, as if he needed to explain at all, yet there was nothing but worry in his voice—and it was then did Qifrey notice he was squeezing the witch's poor hand with far too punishing a grip.

"Oh, my apologies, Olly. I suppose my thoughts flew off for a moment there..."

Clearly, he was not believed in the slightest. Olruggio was never so quick to don a mask, nor had he ever felt the need to dull his true feelings when it came to Qifrey. He was utterly unabashed with his concern, as an ired master would a lying apprentice.

At the same time, he was not a witch without propriety, and Olruggio was patient for the foolish witch who knew nothing else than lying through his teeth.

Qifrey slackened his grasp, though it was soon returned with a more insistent hand lacing its fingers over his own.

"We'll be talkin' about this more later," Olruggio sighed.

Ah, of course. Talking; how Qifrey both adored and abhorred it.

When Coco and Agott returned once more, they were soon to finally arrive at their tent. Qifrey knew it was so when Olruggio had held up the flap to allow them all entry, and Qifrey shuffled in to bask in the wonderful silence at long last.

"What a day it was," he sighed from his weary lungs. He hadn't thought Silver Eve could ever become more taxing than he was accustomed to.

Qifrey found himself a chair by the wall—an unoccupied one, thankfully—and he set his cane aside to lean back and lay his arm over his burning eye. He could swear spots of colour still lingered in the dark like phantoms. It was all he could do to not groan out his utter misery.

"Eyup. Up to entertain an old love?"

How silly. 

"For you?" Tired as it was, Qifrey let a chuckle slip by, "Always."

The sound of wood skirting along the ground; an old, dulcet sigh. The rustle of a heavy cloak, a creak of worn-down shoes...

At Qifrey's side was a warm and familiar presence, a steady ghost that enveloped him in such bristling comfort once dangerous. It was enough to make a starving witch ravenous, no matter if indulging still brought along its own cruel punishment.

Oh, how the heart yearned, yet the body refused to let die the habits ingrained after countless burns.

Olruggio's voice was tender as it was jovial. "I take it you enjoyed yourself today?"

"Quite so." Despite it all, Qifrey wouldn't have missed it for the world. "What about you, Olly? Have you enjoyed this year's procession yourself?"

"Same as always."

"Hmm."

There was... some more rustling, a little more movement through the frosted glass of his vision. Qifrey tipped his head toward that brilliant star, if only to listen well to the subtler tells; that of... the gritting of one's own teeth where a searneedle would oft instead be gnawed, the idle taps of one's foot as the indecipherable silence dragged for longer, and the poignant stare that bore a hole through his skull.

Olruggio could never hide his concern well. Qifrey could read him blind. Why, till just the recent past, that little fact was akin to a poisoned dagger. Guilt, for worrying him so much; along with relief from the mere assurance that Olruggio still cared... Qifrey still knew not how to react to it as a sane man would, just that whatever first came to mind was, in all essence, wrong.

For starters, he needn't give in to the instinct of jolting away upon a mere brush of Olruggio's fingertips—even though he did... right then...

Again...

"Sorry 'bout that." The witch was hasty with his apology. Qifrey hadn't the time to collect himself. "You were lookin' a ways away. Are you sure you're fine?"

Alas, not even Qifrey knew himself. Such was the case with everything as of late. It was all he could do to admit that much aloud before the one witch he trusted with his own life.

However, he had enough tact to hold his tongue, for now. Qifrey reached a blind hand toward Olruggio, who met him easily with one bearing no attempt to snatch. No, he let him run his fingers over his knuckles, taking a moment of reprieve, before Qifrey took his partner by his wrist.

"Come, Olly. Let us retire to our room. We can talk there."

𑁍ࠬ ܓ  °  ⋆  .✦ ݁ ˖

Given the hour, and the suspicious atmosphere in the air, it had been easy to leave closing the tent to Coco and Agott. They needn't much convincing—if anything, the two of them seemed quite eager to shoo off the adults.

Qifrey had chosen the very wise decision not to pry into that, ever. Some things were best left alone, as Olruggio once said in a panic. Thus, did he follow his lead through the window-way and step into their shared room.

Qifrey shuffled his way toward the bed whilst the door was locked with a removal of the knob. There was a clatter behind his back—the very knob placed aside—then footsteps, a rattle of the torchlamp, then a swish of one's heavy cloak taken off and hung up.

Once his hand found the surface of the desk, Qifrey placed down his cap and slipped his own mantle off his weary shoulders. It was a weight finally relieved, light as it was, bringing with it a grand end to an eventful, exhausting day. Still, the evening was yet young; and he hadn't forgotten the witch just within arm's-reach, either.

The bed made for a more pleasant seat, at least. Qifrey made himself right at home as he shimmied aside till his leg bumped against the bedside drawer. He set his cane aside and patted a kind hand to his side, where that familiar warmth was most welcome to dip the mattress.

Except...

"Olly?" There was no dip in the mattress, no familiar warmth, nor steady presence. What he received instead was a hefty grunt as Olruggio sank to his knees.

"Let me help with your shoes."

What in the— "You needn't trouble yourself," Qifrey hastily said. "I can undress on my own."

"Well, I want to. Surely you can spare lil ol' me that grace?"

Oh, what a weasel. How could Qifrey ever deny him anything? He could do no more than stay his tongue, biting back the arguments set to fall with every little favor Olruggio felt need to indulge.

Perhaps a sane mind would reason that it was no more than an affectionate gesture, but...

Well, Qifrey was far from sane. 

After all, would a sane man shiver upon the mere action of having his shoes slipped off his own clothed feet? What of the gentle hand cupping his heel as a warm and callused thumb caressed his ankle? And the careful guidance of placing his foot upon the plush rug? The dextrous motions unfurling the hem of his trousers?

"Everythin' fine so far?"

"I am perfectly calm." Mind not the grating snap with which Qifrey spoke.

"Right."

The other shoe; the other foot. Caresses, strokes, gentle and electrifying.

Would a sane man dig his fingers into the blankets for dear life over that?

"Your robe next," urged the weasel.

"I think I will pass on that," Qifrey insisted just as adamantly.

Perhaps his expression betrayed him—or perhaps it was the tension that coiled his body tight as a spring—but Olruggio pushed no further. A mere sigh escaped him before Qifrey next found him settling at his side at last.

Despite himself, Qifrey couldn't help but turn his face away, if only to conceal what he may be revealing unwittingly. It was unfair. He thought himself above the need to hide now, yet all fell back to the shields he cultivated; like its own twisted brand of comfort.

"I would say it's not like you to shut yourself in, but we know better than that by now," Olruggio said.

Laughter rang hollow in Qifrey's chest. "I don't mean to do it; anymore..."

"At least you're self-aware," he huffed. There was a shift in the bed—a hand braced for him to lean back. "Secrets are a right, y'know? Keep 'em if you really want. Although, now that we're here, I don't suppose you're feelin' the mood to share your troubles a little?"

Perhaps. After all, if not with Olruggio, then who else?

It never got any easier, fighting the lump in his throat when he dared muster the strength to use his words. Qifrey could feel his heart threatening to burst out of his chest. The sensations of Olruggio's hands along his skin lingered even after they had left... It made it terribly difficult to focus.

He twiddled his thumbs, worried his lip, furrowed his brow, and yet, it did little to ease the trepidation his body so thoroughly believed.

"I'm not quite sure what is there to say," he began, much like always, "I suppose... my deteriorating eyesight is grating on my nerves more than I thought it would."

"Has it gotten worse?" Olruggio asked.

What, his eyesight, or his nerves? Qifrey shook his head either way. "Merely the excitement of it all, I'm afraid. Silver Eve is never light on the spectacle. There is always... so much, and too much of anything is just..." exhausting, infuriating, even excruciating. Richeh knew it best out of everyone.

Olruggio must understand, too—what with his propensity for burning himself out to cinders. He knew well that a body wound too tightly responded poorly to even the most careful touch.

"Too many people, too much noise, and too many lights a ways too bright, I take it?"

A quiet hum was all he received.

"Then, your thoughts began to spiral?"

A stiff nod motioned his affirmation.

Fortunately, mercifully, Olruggio delved no further than that. He could deduce the rest from there—and knew the dance they always shared.

And yet, he still couldn't bear to leave it be, as he always does. That selfless witch...

"Dare I suggest somethin'?"

How courteous. "Have I ever been able to stop you?"

"Doesn't mean I won't ask."

Yes, yes, that was but a rhetorical question.

Qifrey took heed of that gruff sigh, as a haggard witch would fuss over their beloved. He could picture in his mind the very prospect of Olruggio growing fine white hairs just because of him.

The weight on the bed was lifted, and heavy footsteps trembled the wooden floors beneath Qifrey's bare feet. A curious hum left him at that, for whatever could that oh-so ingenious mind be planning this time?

Thumps and steps, rustles and rattles; gold, jewellery, the torchlamps idle sway, a rumple of something rigid—was he digging through his rucksack? No, perhaps he was... flitting through the cabinets on the far side of the wall.

A finger tapped against a wooden surface, drumming a steady rhythm whilst Olruggio's voice carried far.

"You trust me, don't you?"

Not an ounce of hesitation stalled Qifrey. "Quite so."

"Y'know you can always be upfront with me, ey?"

"I haven't any reasons not to," he affirmed.

"Well, even if you do, you needn't pull your words."

Ominous. Now Olruggio had the poor witch's undivided interest.

"What's this about, Olly?" Could he spare Qifrey the suspense and be out with it already?

The cruel witch did not answer. Instead, there came more commotion, more curious leads that only confused Qifrey all the more. It was... a swish of fabric—not so heavy, akin to a washcloth—and a swivel of the drawer knob before it was shut with a quiet thud. From the pitch-black darkness illuminated only by a golden, bleary torchlamp, Olruggio was no different to a ghost that appeared from the depths.

He returned to Qifrey's side soon enough, bearing a most curious prop held out in the open, yet far beyond his comprehension.

"Care to try somethin' with me?"

"Depends on what it is."

"Well, then, have a feel for yourself."

Whatever it was turned out to be... something light, and soft.

Oh, it was a strip of cloth.

Quite a ways thinner than a towel and certainly unfit for wear. It was no ornament, nor a scrap of fabric. Qifrey ran his fingers over the strange cloth till he reached its ends—no more than... a forearm's length and just as wide. Its texture was akin to fine linen, and its weight could be likened to the material of his robe.

Wherever could this have come from?

"If you don't mind, I'd like to blindfold you."

Oh? How unexpected. Qifrey felt a rather strange sensation pulling at his chest for that mere suggestion, but he dared not name what it may be. "What for? I can't see worth a thing. What have you got to hide, Olly?"

There was a rather indignant huff, and Olruggio's voice suddenly pitched itself a lot higher than usual.

"Not for me to hide, you fool! It's t'rest your poor eye!"

Ah, of course.

"I only jest," Qifrey teased. "However, my eye is perfectly fine, thank you very much."

"You're overstimulated, is what you are," Olruggio said.

Perhaps so.

That would explain why he'd felt so... fidgety all day.

"Are you willin' or not? I won't press if you say no—and not sayin' yes is as good as that."

Why, that was good to hear. With such devotion, what else was Qifrey to do if not to return it in kind?

"Olly, you could ask me for anything, and I would say yes without question."

If that had flustered the witch, then he supposed the silence was a welcome break in their conversation; if silence happened to involve an amusingly explosive sputter and wild gesticulations.

"Oi oi oi! W-what's all that about? What d'you mean by anythin'?"

For once, Qifrey was thankful for all the years he had spent perfecting such a composed smile. It made it all the sweeter giving one Olruggio's way. 

"I said what I said," he said.

Despite all that flailing about, Olruggio hadn't once smacked Qifrey up the head—not that it was expected, of course, rather that it did not go unnoticed. For all that the witch was dramatic, Qifrey knew no fear at his side. It endeared him, if anything, afflicting his heart with such a swell of pure, unfettered fondness that it hurt.

Oh, to terrorise Olruggio like this was its own pleasure. Qifrey would never tire of it. However, he grew ever more curious over this bizarre proposition.

From the gold-lit silhouette, Qifrey reached over toward its arms. The very tips of his fingers carded along the loose sleeves of Olruggio's top, and from there he found his wrists, his hands, and the strip of cloth clasped oh-so tightly like a lone tether keeping him afloat.

"I speak no lie," Qifrey assured with utmost sincerity. "You have forsaken your own memories for my sake countless times. It is only fair that—no, rather, it is just as I feel toward you, without obligation.

"Now, how about we get on before the hour draws late?" There was still lots to do at dawn, after all, and Qifrey will not have them oversleeping.

"Fine, fine." At least Olruggio was eager to oblige, for his own exhaustion must be wearing down on him. He shifted closer till Qifrey felt his leg brushing up against his own, with their skirts tugged and pulled with each deliberate movement, granting a few hints and clues as to where Olruggio intended to be.

It all happened so slowly, yet Qifrey dared not hasten them. He could only stare upon the strip of cloth that was kept in his open grasp, with such gentle guidance raising it up toward his face. This way, at least, he knew exactly when the dimly-lit world would extinguish, when the soft linen would be draped over him and pulled to a knot behind his head.

"Not too tight, I take it?" Now, that voice seemed so far away, yet Qifrey could swear that he felt it thrumming beneath his skin; like... thunder, or ceremonial drums quaking the very earth. It was nothing like the piercing growth of Silverwood, but it invoked its memory—its reflex—all the same.

A deep breath in...

And out...

"Snug as a bug."

"Grand."

Qifrey settled on a small smile, one that was swiftly taken away when Olruggio next laid his lips atop the blindfold.

Never had he felt both regret and relief so viscerally in tandem.

"Uhm... Olly?" It was a miracle how his voice remained steady. If Olruggio could glimpse what exactly he does to Qifrey... Why, he would never hear the end of it.

Such a warm presence, heavy in the most welcome ways. How his voice rumbled even more than before as he murmured to the blindfold, his breath ghosting along snow-laden hair and cold cheeks...

"I know you once said you still aren't partial t'bein' touched too much, but would you try?"

"Try?" Oh, how his own breath did just the same, warming his lips and rolling down his chin like mist. "In... what way?"

Shoulder to shoulder, with the arm braced behind crawling over to tug at Qifrey's robe right upon the small of his back, Olruggio let a few thundering heartbeats pass before he answered.

"Till you've had enough, or till your body learns there's no need to flinch because of that damned curse."

"That could take a while," regarding the latter, he meant. But for tonight... Qifrey supposed, "I haven't any objections. I just... hope we don't go too far."

A quiet, dulcet hum. "Just say the word, and we stop, no questions asked."

Easy enough.

A smile returned, and Qifrey pressed his head a little more toward those kind lips. "I shall follow your lead, then," he said. "What first?"

"First? Well, I'll be reachin into y'pouch for a moment."

Oh.

"Very well." Qifrey shall stay his tongue on why he needn't do it himself.

The only disappointment was Olruggio leaving his space, taking with him his most pleasant, bristling warmth. It was instead replaced by a careful hand slipping into the pouch tied to Qifrey's sash. After searching around for a short while, Olruggio pressed his prize into his hand.

"Your spell from the procession?" How strange.

"I haven't told you about what it's really for."

Interesting. Qifrey was all ears.

The stone remained as it was, warm and soothing and everything inviting. It once again brought to mind the image of home, where the roaring hearth chased away all worries. Olruggio's presence served to only magnify it, as if the star itself was threatening to blind Qifrey through the cloth.

"The seal carved inside captures certain events reflected upon it," he explained. "Unfortunately, it ain't the most accurate, and it lasts nary a week, but again, 'tis a personal project. Nothin' about it needs to be perfect."

Ah, but it begged the question, "What exactly inspired you to make it in the first place?"

Of course, 'nothing' was in itself a perfectly reasonable answer, but Qifrey could sense something else inside this innocent prism he held. Olruggio was hardly one to ever act without purpose. Whimsical as he was, there was almost always a reason spurring him toward invention; a spark that ignited his brilliant need for intervention.

"That's a topic for another time," Olruggio confessed. "Just take that it never hurts havin' a reminder of what's at home. This one right 'ere is a memory of exactly that."

"Hmm." So it was. The common room, the kitchen, the most frequented of places that rarely saw no visitor.

"Ephemeral, but that's precisely what makes such memories precious," Qifrey mumbled.

"Aye. And right here—" over the rustling and shifting came another stone which Olruggio then pressed between both their clasped hands raised to their heads, "This here's a blank one. I reckon we could fill it up with a memory of our own."

How romantic. "That sounds lovely, Olly, but why would you want to record this?"

"Why not?" Olruggio argued. "Bein' with you, takin' time to ourselves... Is that not worth inscribin' into a magic stone?"

"Perhaps." All was subjective, Qifrey supposed. He hadn't much will to debate, so he pressed on with a rather pointed tug at Olruggio's sleeve.

There was a sigh right then, casting a teasing billow of mist upon his lips. Then, came the sudden thud of slippers kicked off without a care, and the shifting of the tides as Olruggio pulled away to coax Qifrey further into bed.

The old stone was forgotten, lost to the dark as Qifrey let slip his grip. The blank one was taken back, where there was a strange rustle of... something.

"The girls had the right idea, fashionin' this into jewellery," Olruggio said, before Qifrey felt him reaching round his shoulders. The stone was set just below his collarbones, dulled by the flush material of his bodysuit—its weight was akin to a pendant strung up by a length of ribbon. The ends were fastened at his nape with a simple knot tied over twice, and Olruggio gave it a firm tug to test its give.

Satisfied, with only a near-silent hum, he then dared set his hand upon Qifrey's shoulder.

"Is this fine?" he asked.

"So far." One needn't mind the way Qifrey tensed despite himself. Olruggio was sure to have noticed, anyway, yet he still asked, as if voicing it aloud made it any more bearable.

He closed his eye to the sensation of Olruggio tracing his thumb down the length of his collar bone and rubbing gentle circles above his clavicle, how he pressed his other fingers oh-so carefully at his levator scapulae and stayed for however long it took for Qifrey to wrest back control over his shivering, uncooperative body.

When he breathed, it came out like... staggered gasps—akin to bubbles of air rising up to the surface—as if he were drowning, or had his lungs struck with something...

"Easy there, Qifrey." Such a calm, unwavering voice, from a selfless witch that understood and knew everything. 

Qifrey couldn't hide from him any more; certainly not here, blinded and at his mercy. He supposed there was a strange comfort that came with that—though that same bit of comfort was just as terrifying.

He did his best to quell the trembling in his limbs. He did his utmost to command his own body on how to breathe correctly, and not to overreact over a trusted man laying his hand on him.

"Keep your head with me, aight?" There was a firm squeeze down where his shoulder and arm connected, just enough to send shivers down his spine without causing a fright.

Qifrey hated how his smile wavered, but he nodded once, reaching up to place his hand atop the witch's own. He couldn't quite manage to still his trembling fingers, but even that little seemed to be enough. It was always enough.

How unfair.

He wondered just how little he had ever given compared to Olruggio. Much like a baleful Silverwood, sapping away all that gave it life, it was a revolting feeling, a knife plunged into his flesh and twisted without—

No.

Such spiralling thoughts only gave way to utter misery. It distracted from the present, where all was well—where he was safe and comfortable and harboured no repercussions for daring to indulge.

"Olly."

"Aye."

Qifrey bit the inside of his cheek. He muddled over his quarrelling thoughts as they played a childish game of push-and-pull. The way his heart hammered against his chest made it all the more absurd when he finally swallowed down the lump in his throat.

"Could you... help me undress?" Just his robe would do. His robe, and his sash, and perhaps... the bindings of his collar, too. 

"'Course," Olruggio said, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

Well, it likely was. For a genius like him, few things could ever stump him. Olruggio was no different to a blazing torch that would never extinguish, always ready to lend a helping hand to those who desired it.

And as he slipped his fingers underneath one strap of Qifrey's robe, he waited all the while it took for him to relax.

A deep breath in...

And out...

Next came the second that went as easily as the first, left to bunch idly around his waist. Qifrey reached for the knot in his sash, if only to help along—because a witch was nothing without their hands—and he certainly still had his.

Until, well, he didn't, for Olruggio had decided so, by way of taking his wrists and returning them to the bed where they had been clutching the poor quilt.

"Let me. You needn't lift a finger," the kind witch assured.

If only it didn't give Qifrey pause. It was something he had heard plenty of times before—just as often as he had said it himself. Strange, then, that this roused a novel sensation he couldn't place.

Was he... flustered? No, his heart fluttered, yet his body shuddered as if ice-cold water had been poured down his back. It was neither ire nor fondness, least of all relief, or even comfort.

Olruggio waited, and waited, and waited still, oblivious to the inner turmoil that rattled Qifrey to his core. Or, perhaps, he knew perfectly, intimately well what exactly he did to him. And as he waited so cruelly and undoubtedly watched, Qifrey was left to swim in uncharted waters.

And when time took its needle toward their stalemate, Olruggio sighed once more and deflated the tension—once more—with such a tender, feather-light kiss between the witch's eyes.

Oh.

"If you want somethin', ask. The worst I'll likely ever say is no—"

"I want that." More of that, for as long as Olruggio will oblige. He pulled at the witch's sleeve, pressed closer, and tipped his head toward that beautifully dulcet voice luring him into those kind and gentle lips.

It should be embarrassing how quickly he'd blurted it out, but Qifrey hadn't the wherewithal to compose himself on that. For as long as Olruggio had waited, Qifrey had wanted. He had long come to stifle those very desires for his own life, yet now...

Qifrey wanted, and wanted, and wanted. It was a trickle slipping out from a hairline fracture, before the dam cracked with that mere invitation, even if it burned just as much.

"Please?" he murmured when the silence stretched for over fifteen frantic heartbeats. When Olruggio sighed, it came off more as a silent huff rolling warm air down his nose.

"But of course," he said, taking far too much amusement—far too much endearment—out of such brash forwardness. He cupped the blind witch's shoulders, bare of the sleeves of his robe, and rubbed firm circles with his thumbs that sent shivers all throughout Qifrey's body, before leaning in to return exactly what he sorely missed.

With how fervently Qifrey shivered, it was near impossible to feel much of anything; not the callused hands over his bodysuit, nor the soft lips atop his blindfold. Warm... That was as much as he could feel, the sensations muffled, yet at the same time, all the more intense. 

It felt strange. Indescribbable. It didn't hurt in the way he was all-too familiar with. It did not spark any instinct for flight. He hadn't the slightest idea how to take it, even if he had gotten exactly what he asked for.

Should he... reciprocate?

No, Olruggio had already dismissed his meagre attempt. Should he say something, then? Should he...

"Relax for me, Qifrey." 

Oh.

Oh, of course. He should... probably do that.

Olruggio shifted to lay another kiss, this time atop of one eye—the scarred and hollow one, kept tightly shut at all times. Even the blindfold couldn't keep his warmth from seeping through, turning such a paralysing sensation into... well, something inexplicably not.

It felt like nothing Qifrey had ever experienced before in his life.

And as Olruggio slipped his hands down his arms and trailed over his sash, Qifrey realised that the storm raging on inside his head had gradually begun to clear. It made every sensation so much more overwhelming, yet he couldn't bear to pull away, push away, or remain frozen in place.

He shivered feverishly, grabbing the loose pool of fabric nested around him for whatever anchor they could give. Qifrey let a sigh tremble from his quivering lips when Olruggio had finally unwound the knot of his sash and took it away to who knows where, and all he had to pay for it was the brief eternity of separation that spurred a rather undignified whine from him.

All he had to pay for that was a chuckle far too endeared for such petulance. Honestly, Qifrey hadn't noticed he had turned away, either, if it weren't for an apologetic peck against his temple.

"Quite starved for affection, aren't you?" Olruggio teased.

"Is that a genuine question?" Qifrey huffed.

A kiss at the corner of his eye, another that lingered beneath his brow. "Nah, just an observation, love."

Oh.

For some reason, that little nickname did wonders for the shivers plaguing him, like a pyreball cast under a cold winter night. It seemed to melt away the fever he was struck with, leaving him with nothing else but a strange buzzing akin to pins and needles dancing along his skin.

How bizarre.

"Love..." It sounded off on his own tongue, yet also correct, in a way. "Love... Can you say that again?"

Quiet laughter, silent pondering, rustling, waiting, wanting.

"Y'have no idea how badly I've wanted to hear that from you."

Was that so? Qifrey would dare say he could hazard a competent guess, but he had nary a moment to tip his head before his cheek was taken into a warm and callused palm...

"Look at you, blushin' up like a beautiful lass. Can't say that I dislike it, though."

"I don't suppose you meet such people on the regular?" What with his line of work, and all. Qifrey was hardly anyone striking, let alone approachable.

"What of them?" Olruggio said, "They could have everythin', but I never cared for that. You, on the other hand..."

"Flatterer."

"Had all our years together to become one, love."

Ah, of course; and between them both, it was Olruggio who brandished that silver tongue of his far better than Qifrey could his own. How he caressed his cheek and snuck the tip of his thumb beneath the blindfold... Why, Qifrey could swear he was shaking out of his own skin, somehow, someway.

How his voice rasped as if his throat was parched, coming out like a sputtering flame whilst his composure became as slippery as a skittish brushbug.

"Olly... this—it feels..."

"Good?"

Yes—and no. Qifrey filled his chest with air till the stinging burn became a sharp ache. For each gentle stroke of Olruggio's thumb, Qifrey felt his head swelling up with clouds.

"I don't know." His body couldn't seem to decide. It veered from too little and too much so inexplicably and inextricably, without rhyme or reason. It was as if his body and mind were at war with each other, turning the sweetest touches into something almost nauseating.

"S'alright. Nothin' to be ashamed of." Yet, such kind assurances quelled him more than bold promises ever could, keeping his attention tethered to the present by a sturdy rock.

When Olruggio shifted his hand lower, he left one last kiss over Qifrey's cheek, right where the ghost of his finger remained like an imprint. He carded through snow-laden hair, careful to not pull at the blindfold, grazing the barest tips of his worn nails along his scalp...

Not for the first time this evening, Qifrey shuddered, just as he arched toward the very source of that which dragged out the most embarrassing sounds he hadn't thought possible.

Something else burned inside him right then; humiliation, certainly. His hands flew forward and found purchase with Olruggio's tunic, yet rather than confusion or amusement, there was simply... silence.

Why did Olruggio suddenly stop?

"I..." Qifrey gulped down a ball of hot air and clamped his mouth shut. He pressed his lips flat, stifling whatever else may slip out and tear a bigger hole in this precious bubble. Apologies, explanations, excuses, he bit them back in favour of sitting in his silent shame, till Olruggio decided what to do with him.

But it seemed even he was stunned. "Was that..."

"I don't know. I just—" He truly hadn't the slightest clue what possessed him to make such a sound. His throat still itched from it, and his ears rang with its incessant echo.

"It's fine, Qifrey. Nothin' embarrassin' about it," Olruggio so kindly assured, eventually.

For that, he received a most pathetic groan, because Qifrey was beginning to believe he was being humoured with for the sake of keeping the peace. Were it not for Olruggio's endless patience, he would've called an end to this long before now.

Every pause, every surprise, every startled reaction, every kind word uttered; it did wonders for a wary heart, yet bore down on a weary mind that could only think the worst. It was exhausting having to bear it. Qifrey couldn't imagine what it was like having to witness it.

Loud was the firm squeeze on his shoulder, rousing him from the depths of his thoughts.

"Oi, keep your head here, love." Quiet was that voice, trailing another bout of mist, another flurry of shivers throughout every nerve. Olruggio bore a fond smile against Qifrey's bare cheek. "No use bein' shy with me. You know that, right?"

"I... do." Out of anyone, only with Olruggio would Qifrey dare lay himself bare. It was just... well, he supposed reacting poorly to such novel—once-dangerous—sensations was part and parcel of the freedom he only recently gained.

"It's still embarrassing," he murmured, if only because such emotions were not exactly entwined with the Silverwood. Qifrey was not above shame. It was natural to want to shrivel up into a ball and disappear upon committing an act most undignifying, right?

Why was Olruggio laughing?

"If that's embarassin', then the things I've blabbered down five pints of wine will ruin my reputation," he teased.

That was... an odd comparison.

But Qifrey couldn't lie that it did not help.

A frail laugh sputtered out, and he wished he could roll his eye. "You are ridiculous."

"Only for you, love," said the ridiculous witch who always just knew what to say. "Now, care to sit up a little for me?"

Well, with a smile like that, how could Qifrey possibly refuse?

Awkward as it may be, he followed Olruggio's guidance somewhat devoutly, listening and heeding well to his gentle words as if they were a siren's lulling song. It certainly helped to quiet the more incessant worries that simmered beneath Qifrey's skin. Blindly did he allow the witch to slip his robe down his hips and pool it round his knees, before shuffling back and coaxing him to crawl forth. 

Qifrey paid half a mind to the ruckus Olruggio made of putting it away; how his robe rustled and brushed along his trousered leg, taken in, folded up, and placed aside far into the dark where he couldn't find.

Now, at least, he could breathe just a little easier and let loose some of the warmth he had soaked so thoroughly.

Olruggio returned no sooner than too long, first with a graze of his fingers over Qifrey's own, before the bed creaked with his movements and signalled his presence right in front. For what it mattered, Qifrey shuffled toward the source of that warm, welcoming weight, lured by the pull of its gravity till he found himself bracketed by a pair of firm, steady legs.

Strange.

Since when did Olruggio shed his own skirt?

No matter.

"My collar," he mumbled instead. "Could you..."

Qifrey needn't explain. He needn't point or plead, either. Olruggio understood perfectly.

"Of course."

Slowly, tenderly, he dragged the back of his fingers up Qifrey's arm, never once leaving him to the absence of his touch, granting him a tether to where he was at all times. Shivers wracked through his body once again, bearing little else but pleasant chills, rather than tightly-knitted dread. The longer they indulged, it seemed, the less he felt so utterly beholden to his body's overreactions. And though his mind continued to sweep him under its irrational fears when he dared let down his guard, Olruggio was always patient with pulling him back ashore.

It felt... nice.

More comforting than a hot and hearty meal; sweeter than pride over his apprentices' accomplishments; better than gazing upon the unabated stars of Naakiwan Downs; and even more cathartic than the relief that came with letting out his secrets...

A deep breath in...

And out...

Such a foreign state of being. Why, had Qifrey a morbid sense of humour, he may find it amusing. To take Olruggio's hands drawing up his shoulders and settling upon the delicate strapwork of his collar as little more than utter bliss... One may find it sad indeed, akin to a poor owlcat lost and abandoned finally getting its first pets.

Qifrey couldn't help the way his body slackened, even if his joints remained stiff. He braced his arms unto the bed, on each side of Olruggio. He wondered if those wandering hands knew how exactly to unbind the tedious mess of his stifling collar.

It was amusing to feel the way Olruggio fiddled about, tentative as if he were studying its structure, where each strap went and settled, braided into a fine piece of work that took a whole ritual to do and undo day in and day out. Qifrey would think that most would resort to ripping it out without care for propriety within a minute. It took a studious eye and a caring heart to mind their fingers as they began unhooking the topmost strap from its fixture.

Qifrey let out a sigh most content. Certainly, to have callused hands against the supple flesh of his throat was... strange, but it tickled more than anything. It burned in such a way that itched at him, leaving behind fiery trails that sizzled with a fresh surge of pins and needles. And as he swallowed down nothing but air, Qifrey felt a bead of sweat roll down his forehead and dampen the top of his blindfold.

Olruggio must not have noticed, his attention searing a hole through Qifrey's collar instead. Even his voice was a tad distant as he finally unravelled the first band. 

"Not too rough, am I?"

"No." If by 'rough', he meant his treatment, then absolutely not. His hands, however, with all their calluses befitting a genius fire witch, was by all means... rough.

Qifrey hadn't a complaint about it, however.

In fact, he might dare admit he liked it, for some unexplanable—perhaps even improper—reason.

A quiet hum, a breathy sigh, a wordless, thoughtless noise akin to a brushbug's contented chirps. He couldn't explain why exactly he made such sounds, merely that his body was reacting where rationality knew not how. That was practically all that this was this entire evening, wasn't it? Just a suggestion that tumbled into something... strange, yet rather enlightening.

The second strap was unfurled, and Qifrey took a deep breath in...

And out...

Next came the third, slowly, methodically; then the next, and the next...

A deep breath in...

And out...

"There we go," crooned the kind witch whose smile was oh-so clear in his voice. The last of the bindings were undone in due time, left to dangle like stiffened cords he knew not what to do with. Nonetheless, Olruggio gathered them, smoothed them down, careful to not disturb the idle pendant still wrapped loose around Qifrey's neck, and settled his hands to the crook of his shoulders.

"Anythin' else?" he asked.

Qifrey could only tip his head aside. What else indeed? He was already dressed down to his inner clothes...

"What about the bindin's over your thighs?"

Oh, that— 

"I—uhm, no, no! Nonononono!"

His arms flailed about in his sudden panic, and in the chaos that surged, he had fallen unceremoniously onto his back and kicked his legs.

That was far too much, far too soon. The mere thought of having Olruggio's delicate, beautiful hands on—why, Qifrey tossed aside that rambling thought before he could shrivel up and die.

He laid on his side, pulled his knees to his chest, and buried his face into his forearms whilst he clawed at his own scalp. He was vaguely certain his foot had landed against something at least several times, but the clamoring cacophony inside his head snuffed out whatever sense he had left to spare.

To think, and think, and think. Those same intrusive thoughts that oft disturbed him at the worst times, whenever the Silverwood would chance to slither upon him. It was instinct exacerbated by long-worn habit that steered him through the motions he so abhorred.

Thinking, thinking, and thinking... Drowning himself in senseless thoughts. Things, like... imagining a storm collapsing the very roof over his head, or the prospect of a thief breaking into the atelier, or—or...

"Qifrey..."

Or the idea of disappointing Olruggio enough to finally chase him away...

"Oi, look alive 'ere."

An ired voice was hardly enough to breach the ice; so was the quiet tapping atop the bed. Qifrey merely shrivelled up even more, closer to a death he knew full-well wouldn't come, yet believed it all the same.

It wasn't till a lengthy stretch of time had passed when Qifrey could next perceive something outside the eye of the storm. Whether it was the exhaustion fettering his bones, the aches in his muscles, the trembling of his limbs, or the thin sheen of sweat tacking his hair against his face. It all came back in a trickle, as grogginess would pave the way for coherency. When his errant mind had run its course, it left a dishevelled, frantic mess of a witch who hadn't even the strength to remember what had brought this on.

His heart still pounded against his ears, a song as old as rhyme; whilst his thoughts drifted silently, listlessly, wearily, a tale as old as time.

"Feelin' better?"

And that... was but a constant Qifrey could never get used to.

His sluggish lips had forgotten the shape of words. All he could muster was a pathetic groan that ached his lungs. He refused to unfurl from his own limbs, as if they served any use in shielding him from scrutiny, judgement, and mutiny.

Olruggio was still nearby. Evidently, he hadn't once left; not for safety, or ire, or for a doctor to see to the crazed witch. He never had—and he never will. Always such a brave face...

"S'aight. No need to flap your tongue if you don't want to. Nothin' embarrassin' about it."

But this was not just embarrassing. It was much, much worse. It was something... fundamental; something inherent. Something—

Oh, Qifrey hadn't the strength to sort it out.

For what reason did Olruggio laugh?

"Kicked me right up the jaw, you did." 

How dare he dismiss that as a joke...

"I'm sorry." Out of anything, and everything, Qifrey could at least apologise. Though his voice may rasp and his chattering teeth nip the tip of his tongue, he threw aside what little remained of his pride and let the first rattled cry crawl from the ashes of his composure.

It wasn't meant to garner sympathy. It wasn't meant to do much of anything, really. It was just... overwhelming. Slow as the flames had simmered, it took only a startling spatter amidst braving the finer embers to remember why fire was to be avoided at all cost—even if such risks no longer existed.

Even if this was nothing close to fire.

"I think that's enough for tonight," Olruggio said.

Qifrey hadn't any arguments against it. He laid as still as a guilty man on trial, awaiting his verdict. No tears dampened his blindfold, nor did it aggravate his skin to keep it on.

"If... you'd like, I'll take the other bed."

Foolishly enough, Qifrey hadn't realised there was a second bed in this room at all. Regardless, the thought of being touched any more sent a dreadful shiver down his spine.

Olruggio hadn't pressed any further. He took his silence with grace and shifted about. He was in no hurry, nor was he clumsy with his movements. Qifrey could hear it all, and he felt the weight in the bed crawling toward the edge before fading away altogether. What remained was the stifling warmth, the ghost of his presence, before a blanket was tucked over his feet.

"Want me to take off that blindfold for you?"

"I'll... do it myself," later, once his fingers were no longer so numb. Qifrey didn't mind stewing in the dark for longer, either. What difference did it make, anyway?

There were no objections. Instead, there was... the rattle of a carafe, a stream of water pouring from the spout. A heavy thud was placed upon wood, along with... other things—many things—that Qifrey hadn't the care to decipher.

"I've left some water for you right 'ere," Olruggio said with a drum of his fingers over wherever 'there' was. The bedside table, most likely. "Try to drink up before you sleep, aight? There's a snugstone for you, as well; and if you need anythin' at all, I'm still around."

Always so kind, so altruistic.

It was over far more quickly than it began. What had been a slow, meandering, experimental crawl had ceased to a grounding halt in nary an instant. Qifrey couldn't decide if he was grateful for that. It wasn't as if he had wanted to put a stop to it, just...

Oh, forget it. A timid, yet hopeful, sliver of his mind reasoned that this was already boundless progress. Just imagining the Qifrey of yesteryear—nay, even last week—why, he wouldn't be able to tolerate half of what he did this evening. That was something to be proud of, right?

After all, it wasn't as if Qifrey hated any of it...

Once the footsteps had ceased, soon, too, did the distant commotion fade. Olruggio was never one to lie awake for long—least of all after a busy day such as the Silver Eve Procession. That made it all the sweeter that he would spare his precious evening on Qifrey. A witch of his grandeur suited the dazzling ballrooms of wealthy clients, yet Olruggio oft preferred a much simpler, more... intimate affair at home, or with Qifrey.

He always does; as certain as the clock marks tick at rhythm.

And just as certain as Qifrey's utter incapability in accepting it.

He listened to the soft snores that eventually rumbled and kept pace with it to ease his own heart. He breathed in... and out... till it no longer hurt; till his mind had calmed to regard the ruins of his composure.

Pins and needles, the cold night air, the soft blanket tucked over his feet, the absence of any stars. Qifrey eventually found the strength to twist his head into the bed and nudge the blindfold loose. It did nothing to help with compartmentalising the world around him, but there was an iota of relief that came with the cooling breeze against his closed eyes. It was with numb hands that he patted his face dry of sweat, folding over the strip of cloth and running it over his hair before leaving it aside.

Then, like a moth to a flame, he found himself cradling the very hearth still woven around his neck. The pendant remained a strange tether to the loneliness that swarmed him. He couldn't quite explain it, nor could he ever study the spell engraved into it, but it was no longer a mere stone. Rather, it pulsed with its own radiant heat, as gentle as... a loving embrace.

The memory it roused burned, but it did not hurt. It sent a strange, yet somewhat pleasant sensation rolling over every muscle in his body, as if beckoned him to relax, and to mind the way he rested before he received an earful come morning.

A spell that recorded memories and replayed them like an image reflected upon a mirror, then frozen. Fascinating. Qifrey still wondered what exactly had inspired Olruggio to wrought a spell like this. Did he...

No, no, they were past that.

But it was difficult to muffle such theories.

A long and weary sigh, a shiver up his arms, and Qifrey kicked the quilt higher, tucking himself under the covers for all the good it would do. He made an attempt to quiet his mind and drift off to the ambience of gentle warmth and soft snores, but it seemed he was much too restless to even lie still once the tension began to seep from his body.

Like a writhing brushbug, he was; and Olruggio's snores may as well be the most alluring scent of conjuring ink.

Surely, he would not mind if...

No, no, he had already burdened himself with giving Qifrey his space. One shouldn't impose...

Oh, but... the pendant was but a taste of what was. The real memories still fresh were much more intense, yet also... nice, in a tentative way.

Despite his body's instincts, Qifrey wanted. He craved it, even, in such strange, unexplainable ways. He craved it like the sweetest ambrosia, the most addicting drug...

He abhorred the cold, and he hated the loneliness of an empty bed even more. Stewing in his own mind that knew only to steer itself down a whirlpool of misery and false hope. Olruggio would be most displeased if Qifrey kept to himself again.

Surely... it could not hurt, then?

Like an impish child, Qifrey silently wrapped his quilt over his shoulders and inched his feet over the edge of the bed. He crawled out of his stifling safe haven and soon found himself standing amidst total darkness.

Fortunately, it made no difference to him. Navigating the world without his vision had become a bitter reality that had long gone dull. He needn't his cane nor a minder to help him along. All he needed was to take one step at a time.

Left... right... left... and right... 

Treading lightly on his toes, landing carefully on his heels. He searched through that alone, following the witch's rhythmic snores as he hugged his quilt tighter round himself. The floor was cold beneath his bare feet, but it was a journey short-lived, regardless if Qifrey made a poor attempt to steady himself when he first brushed against the wooden leg of the second bed. 

Carefully, then, did he reach down to feel for the mattress itself, where there was already a dip in the plush blankets guiding him toward the heart of a slumbering witch. A frail smile befell Qifrey at that. Perhaps he may be wrong, but he would hazard a guess that Olruggio had left a fair bit of space for one's taking. Why else could Qifrey sweep his hand over the bed to find little else but a cold, barren nest?

Daringly, now, did the brazen witch settle himself upon that space. He dared not disturb the lion in its den, keeping his hands out to feel for even the slightest sliver of warmth. He dared not touch, nor did he utter a sound as he laid his head down. He dared not seek out a stray pillow for himself. This... was as far he could bear.

Any closer, and he might very well ignite on the spot.

With his quilt as a cocoon and the pendant his hearth, Qifrey took solace in getting this far. It certainly helped to quiet his mind. No longer did it spun an errant whirlpool till he was nauseous. He needn't wonder if it had anything to do with Olruggio's mere presence within arm's-reach.

Perhaps such miracles were simply... a right he so deserved.