Chapter Text
Qifrey never tires of watching the stars. It had been overcast while they hiked throughout the day. But now, long after sunset, the passing clouds begin to separate, revealing swaths of silver-studded darkness. Pleasantly exhausted, he could easily fall asleep beside Olruggio on their robes spread like blankets, but he stubbornly refuses to squander an opportunity to gaze at the sky rather than the dingy depths of the sea.
That's not the whole of it. But it's easier to blame everything on the stars. His wakefulness. The faint trembling of his fingers. He listens to the susurration of Olruggio's breathing and the oceanic whoosh of his own heartbeat at the thought of putting his hand down and sliding it toward his best friend.
He considers that perhaps if Olruggio is asleep and unaware, it won't be quite as hazardous to long for him — or worse, to act on that longing. Surely the barest touch will be safe. He's holding his breath and walking his fingers across the chasm of his own making when they come, not rushing forward like a battlefront but instantly, terribly, there.
Qifrey flinches away from them, but he doesn't scream. In this lightning flash of a moment, the most important thing he must do, the only thing he must do, is stay quiet. But in the clumsiness of his shock, his fingers press down onto the tips of Olruggio's hair. He clenches his jaw until it creaks as Olruggio stirs, unaware of the audience watching in anticipatory silence. Mumbling Qifrey's name like a question and rubbing his eyes, Olruggio sits up in sleepy confusion. Then he too goes rigid.
"Qifrey," he says again, and this time it is quiet and wary.
A circle of masked witches closes around them, more curious than predatory. The Brimhats are not familiar despite how badly Qifrey wants to recognize the shape of their shadows or their gaudy ornamentation. A man who wears a rattling curtain of beads over his face turns his attention to Qifrey like he's spotted a rare gem glinting from the bottom of a rushing stream. He approaches calmly, but with an inevitability that makes Qifrey begin to shake. Qifrey's body knows a story his mind won't tell him, a story of being hunted.
Olruggio tries to scuttle in front of Qifrey, and the fear in Qifrey reshapes itself into frantic anger. "Don't," he says as softly as he can. More than a breath, less than a whisper. "They're here for me. Don't do anything. Olly. Don't say anything." He can feel his composure beginning to shatter, his throat tightening around tears. Whatever happens here is inevitable because he cannot make it stop, because he must discover what they know of him. But that doesn't mean he has to sacrifice his best friend. "Please," he begs. This time it's more than a whisper, less than a sob.
But he should know better.
"Leave him alone!" Olruggio shouts, arms spreading wide as if he can raise a wall from the earth with his will alone. Neither of them have their wands or quires. Their belongings are tucked away in their packs.
The Brimhats laugh, a raucous chorus of distinct voices, some musical and childlike and others rasping and worn. Qifrey fists the back of Olruggio's shirt and yanks hard enough to pull him against his chest to speak softly and frantically at his ear. "Stop. You can go for help when they're gone. They only want me."
"I'm not leaving you, are you kidding?" Olruggio says back, no caution in his voice, only tremulous bravado. It's a sickening blessing that Qifrey is too frightened for Olruggio's stubborn devotion to awaken his roots. But his love still feels like a knife lodging between Qifrey's ribs.
Another rippling wave of laughter washes over them. And then Qifrey realizes the sharp prick of pain at the bony part of his shoulder is a real blade, sharp and uncompromising. And there's another at Olruggio's bared throat.
"Don't fight," Qifrey gasps. It's a hoarse plea.
Both boys are ungently ushered to their feet. It's only when they're standing that Qifrey realizes he's still holding onto Olruggio's shirt. He opens his fingers, and they feel stiff and achy from hanging on so hard. His belly swoops with a passing, chilling thought that he might not have a chance to reach for Olly again.
"I'll go with you," Qifrey announces as evenly as he can, gaze trained on the man with the beaded mask. There's an air of casual authority to this Brimhat. "I'm the one you want."
The man laughs. His voice sounds much younger than Qifrey expected. "Listen to this boy," he says. "Giving orders to his master."
Reason escapes Qifrey like a whiskercat set off leash. He would shove past Olruggio if he wasn't worried about the shining steel so close to the tender skin below his ear. Forced to remain still, his legs numb and his hands shaking violently, he says with a growl, "You are not my master."
Though Qifrey can only get a glimpse of the Brimhat leader's glittering eyes, he knows there's a predatory curl to his lips. "That's where you're mistaken, witchling. Call me what you like, but you are mine."
A sudden, uncanny wind whips around Qifrey and pulls him into an ungentle embrace. He cries out, but the sound snags as the air is squeezed from his chest. He's lifted off the ground as surely as if he touched his sylph shoes together. Olruggio whirls with panic, earning himself a graze that wells up with a dark line of blood. He screams Qifrey's name, baring all that he is, all of his kindness and persistence, all of the fear that once drove him to force Qifrey to make a promise he doesn't know how to keep.
It is no surprise, after such a display, that they take Olruggio too, tugging him into the sky like a lure on a line. Qifrey loses sight of him, but hears the precise moment when his raging screams choke off into silence. It's agonizing not knowing what that silence signifies.
The stars smear into ribbons as Qifrey is hauled carelessly through the sky, fighting for every breath before losing to darkness that comes on like a rainstorm and pulls him into the cold.
***
Olruggio has a horrible, stuffy headache. He groans, trying to burrow deeper into his bunk, but the pillow doesn't smell familiar and the mattress doesn't give the same vaguely oppressed creak he's used to. Weird. Feeling a stinging pull at his neck, he reaches for it and finds his skin sticky and scabbed. There's a shallow cut there.
Memories flood through him, violent and scary and no, no—
He sits up too fast. The room darkens and spins sickeningly for a while before he can manage a good look at it. It's as sparsely decorated as the Great Hall dormitory, but instead of many bunks, the room only contains two narrow beds. There's no one on the other bed, but in the flickering lamplight, he can see the snowdrift tufts of Qifrey's hair in the corner. Qifrey sits on the floor, his face carefully turned away though he surely heard Olruggio waking.
There are no windows, but there's an earthy, damp smell that's nothing like salt or sea mist. The musty air gives Olruggio a prickling sense that he is underground, and it feels wrong.
"Qifrey?" he asks. There's a plain white pitcher and two mugs on a narrow table near the door. His throat hurts, so he climbs out of bed to see if there's water in there. Feeling naked without shoes on — and unsettled that someone took his shoes in the first place — he swings his legs over and pads barefoot across the room. "Qifrey, I can tell you're awake," he says as he gives the doorknob a jiggle. Unsurprisingly, it's locked.
There's no urgency to his movements. His instincts are telling him that there's no sense in flailing around and wasting energy. Somehow, he knows that Qifrey is not physically hurt. He'd be able to tell if he was. He'd smell blood, or he'd hear him making distressed sounds. Instead, Qifrey takes shallow, unhappy breaths and fails to make himself invisible despite what appear to be his best efforts to shrink.
Olruggio sticks his nose in the opening of the pitcher and inhales deeply. He doesn't detect anything but the faintly metallic odor of a deep well. "Hey, this is water. I'm pretty sure." Having no access to magic is even worse than having no shoes on and being dressed only in the underclothes he sleeps in. "Qifrey. Do you want some?"
It feels important to pretend like this is normal. Like they weren't stolen away by Brimhats on an overnight assignment to locate a herd of sparrowdeer and count the yearlings without being detected. Like this is simply a detour, and soon they'll be arguing about the best way to post up waiting for the herd — on the ground under the cover of leafy camouflage (Olruggio's idea), or up in the trees on sturdy limbs (Qifrey's).
It's really hard to pretend that everything will be all right, but Olruggio can't let himself consider the alternative. Especially considering what they did to Qifrey when he was little. The notion of anyone mutilating a small child hovers right at the edge of his awareness, toothy and mean. If he gives in, he'll panic and he won't be able to help Qifrey.
He pours himself a drink, gulps it down, and then fills the other mug. "Did you hear me? I asked if you wanted water."
"I heard you," Qifrey says, clipped. His voice is stuffy like he has a winter cold, but Olruggio knows it's because he's been crying, and that at some point he made himself stop crying. The knowledge turns his stomach. He's always, always hated it when Qifrey tries to hide what he's really feeling like Olruggio is too stupid to know. Or, worse, like he doesn't think Olruggio could help.
"Yeah, well, I'm bringing you water."
"I didn't ask you to."
"I'm thirsty. You must be thirsty, too."
"Right." Qifrey's voice thickens and Olruggio recognizes the sound of angry tears threatening to overflow. "So you'll keep doing whatever you want and not what I told you to do."
"You don't get to tell me what to do. That's not how being friends works."
Qifrey makes a small, wounded sound and says nothing more.
Making plenty of noise because he's on Qifrey's blind side, Olruggio makes his way to the narrow space Qifrey has managed to cram himself into. When he gets a solid look at Qifrey, he fights not to gasp. Some of the lukewarm water splashes out of the cup and over his knuckles. Qifrey isn't hurt, but he looks ghostlike and ill, the hair at his brow storm-colored with sweat. He kneads the tender, pink skin at his wrist, worrying at his own flesh viciously. He's wearing a sleep gown that's too big for his frame.
"If you were my friend," Qifrey finally says, flinching minutely at the barbed edges of his own words, "you would have listened to me and stayed quiet." Olruggio can tell that he's trying to look tough, but he only looks haunted by his own terror, and unsettlingly vulnerable with his lanky arms bare.
With a sigh, Olruggio gets on the bed next to Qifrey's head instead of wedging himself in front of him. He's learned over time that Qifrey doesn't respond well to being cornered, especially in small rooms. It surprises him to see Qifrey in a tight space at all, but this situation isn't exactly normal. No matter how hard he's trying to pretend that it is. He holds the water out to Qifrey. "Fine. I'm not your friend. Drink this."
Qifrey eyes the mug balefully for a while before taking it in shaking hands and draining it in a series of birdlike sips. He's breathing funny and Olruggio hates the sound of it. He hates that he can't wrench Qifrey to his feet and lead him on a directionless chase until he's panting with exertion and frustration. Qifrey is more complicated than any spell, so small victories, like getting Qifrey's body all worked up so his mind forgets why he was worked up in the first place, are as satisfying as a magical breakthrough. But in this oppressive room, Olruggio doesn't have any of his tools. He only has Qifrey's raw anger and the sick animal fright beneath it.
"You're welcome," Olruggio says, trying to sound sarcastic and annoyed. His voice catches on a splinter of his own growing fear, and Qifrey's sky-blue gaze flicks to him briefly, a moth-flutter of a glance. It should make him feel good that Qifrey's worried about him. But it doesn't. Because he's starting to understand that maybe… maybe worry is exactly what Qifrey wanted to avoid when he tried to act heroic and brave and reckless and unworthy of being saved by his best friend.
This would all feel a lot better if Olruggio had actually figured out a way to save Qifrey.
"Also, I'm sorry," Olruggio mumbles, taking the mug from Qifrey's cold fingers and letting it fall on the mattress beside him. He flops onto his back to stare at the ceiling. He wants to try to hold Qifrey's hand, but he can hear him rustling miserably again. "But you wouldn't have listened if I told you to be quiet and let somebody hurt me."
"Shut up," Qifrey whispers. It sounds, horribly, like he's begging.
Olruggio puts real effort into staying quiet for a while. When he can't stand listening to Qifrey's teeth chattering anymore, he finally asks, "So uh, do you think you can learn something from them? That's what you used to want, right? To find the Brimhats?"
"Not like this," Qifrey bites out. He sucks in a breath that sounds like it's whistling between clenched teeth. Then he exhales shakily. "Not with you."
It shouldn't hurt Olruggio's feelings so much that Qifrey would gladly leave him behind. He knows he's being childish, and worse, that the strangers who took them are probably going to do something bad to them. But he wants Qifrey to look at him with a ferocious glint in his eye, with the manic courage that used to drive him away from the Great Hall before he released his white-knuckled grip on revenge. He wants Qifrey to clasp his hand and tell him that if he was going to face down the monsters from his past with anyone, he'd want it to be with Olruggio.
"Yeah." His eyes well up with tears, and he scrubs them away quickly, careful not to sniffle audibly. "That makes sense."
He can't think of anything else to say after that.