Archive of Our Own

Qifrey broke once, back when they were 16.

He could confidently say the day was doomed from the beginning. Firstly, it was Beldaruit’s birthday, the one day a year where all of witch society’s balance and order was effectively crushed under an inescapable gift-giving pandemonium. Actually, ‘gift’ was a generous term for what Beldaruit expected. What he wanted was a revelation, an entirely unique, extravagant experience from each and every member of the Great Hall above the age of 11. No mercy. No exceptions.

What was the probability of such a notion succeeding? There was none. It had never happened once, not even close. At least half of the guests disappointed him each year. And who had to listen to his whining about it? Qifrey. And who had to clean up the foot-thick layer of streamers on the floor after the party? Ding, ding, ding! Qifrey.

His only relief from this torment was Olruggio. Olly and festivities were always an enticing combination: he liked being helpful while setting everything up, and he liked gift-giving, but he hated the concentrated attention of his loyal pack of fanatics as well as Beldaruit's obnoxious reactions to his presents, none of which he could avoid at the party. Equal amounts of good and bad. Therefore, it was a toss up on whether he ended the day in a pleasant or irritated mood.

Qifrey would be lying if he said it didn’t amuse him. Or rather, everything else about being forced into a loud, crowded hall was so grueling that Olruggio’s precarious emotions were prime entertainment in comparison.

Also, Olly helped him with the streamers without being asked. Because of course he did.

Normally these thoughts put him at ease, but today, Olruggio was nowhere to be found. It wasn’t that Qifrey had checked everywhere; it was that he shouldn’t have had to, since they always met up at the same spot, and neither were allowed to bail. They’d promised.

Maybe he slept in, Qifrey considered, shuffling against the cool press of the wall against his back.

It was unlikely. For as awful as Olly’s sleep schedule was, he didn’t tend to miss big events like this, not if he knew he’d be abandoning his socially-adverse best friend in a mob of boisterous witches…

But still. Everyone had their slip-ups. Qifrey weighed the idea of knocking on his bedroom door, just to check. His only hang-up was Olly’s roommate, who already hated him. If he was resting, he would not appreciate the disturbance.

So what? Qifrey thought. I don’t know that guy.

Yet, that doesn’t mean you should trample all over his peace, his suspiciously Olruggio-sounding moral compass argued.

He kept shuffling, weighing, weighing.

Then he sighed.

The morning air was crisp, and he figured if they weren’t at the bottom of the sea, there’d be sunlight streaming in through the windows and birds chirping and such. The Hall was already too busy and noisy to hear a bird regardless; he could tell even from his remote position, tucked under a dim staircase that nobody ever used. A bunch of ostentatious pillars lined the stairs, compacting the space further. Olruggio had run face-first into one a few years ago; it was probably the highlight of Qifrey’s life.

He watched a duo of apprentices amble by, balancing baskets of party hats on their heads. The one in the back tripped on her friends’ robes, and they both went down in a shrieking lump of polka dots.

There’s no way even Olly could sleep through this. I guess he just forgot, or found something better to do.

Before Qifrey could sulk about this too hard, he was suddenly thrust forward by a hand on his back. He stumbled embarrassingly into a pillar and made an even more embarrassing noise, which was probably some sort of cosmic karma.

“No, I did not forget. No, I did not find something better to do,” a voice announced from behind.

Qifrey whipped around. “Wha–Olly!?”

Think of the witch and he shall appear. Olruggio wore the loose white top that was typically beneath his cloak and his hat was nowhere to be found. His hair was a little disheveled, cheeks a little flushed. He may have gained a few eyebags since they were kids, but the deep blue eyes above had never dulled, and they shone as he looked at Qifrey now.

Wait—how did he know what I was thinking?

Olruggio cleared his throat. “And now you’re thinkin’: How’d he know what I was thinking?” He tapped the side of his head. “How does a fish know the way to swim? It just knows. It’s instinct.”

Qifrey stared at him. “Did a fish tell you that?”

“Sinocia did; I think she’s part trout on her dad’s side. C’mon, let's help set up.” Olruggio slung an arm around Qifrey’s shoulders, and Qifrey spent a good deal of mental effort trying not to tense up, but thinking about it made it worse, so he had to try even harder.

Olruggio didn’t notice, or he ignored it. As they walked, Qifrey’s habitual Olly-admiration period ended and he found himself annoyed. “You’re late.”

If Olruggio were any meaner, he might have pointed out that Qifrey was usually the flakier of them two, but he simply frowned. “Sorry. I was talking with Alaira.”

Qifrey raised a brow. He pushed up his glasses, as if they might help him see a hidden explanation. See, they were all friends, but Alaira was a bit more of Qifrey’s friend, while Olly had his own separate group that he spoke with. It was slightly unusual for Olly and Alaira to hang out without Qifrey. He felt a brief, deep ache that was probably good for him.

“About what?” he asked.

Olly pretended to hesitate, then lowered his voice and said, “She knows some apprentices whose professor is gone for the whole week. Apparently, they’re going to try and sneak real booze into the party today.”

Qifrey gasped. “Olly.”

Olruggio raised the hand that wasn’t around his friend in surrender. “Hey, I’m just the messenger.”

“You’re interested, is what you are. I’ll bet you sought Alaira out yourself as soon as you got wind of it, so you could be first in line, huh?”

“Don’t let your imagination run too wild, there.”

“I’m not hearing a denial…”

The further in they got, the louder and more irksome the entire atmosphere became. It was like Beldaruit had drenched the entire Great Hall in his worst idiosyncrasies for his special day. People were shouting things that did not need to be shouted. A loose balloon was bobbing around near the ceiling. There were already at least a dozen streamers on the floor, and the air smelled like overly-sweet pastries.

“It’s unnecessary,” Qifrey muttered. “When you or I have a birthday, we get a pat on the back and that’s it.”

“Could be because neither of us are one of the most skilled witches, like, ever,” Olruggio suggested.

“I don’t know. I’ve seen you invent twice as many contraptions as him in half the amount of time.” Qifrey meant to keep the lighthearted mood up, but it came out too sincere. He ducked his head down to hide his face, which was difficult, because he’d somehow out-grown Olly by several inches in the past year.

Olruggio turned red and flicked Qifrey’s hat, as if he could actually feel it. “Yeah, because inventing is my hobby, not his.”

Hobby was an understatement. Inventing was Olruggio’s calling, really, and it was no wonder he had fans with how good he was at it. Qifrey was glad for him, of course, but every once in a while, late at night when he gave into the crude satisfaction of hating himself, he felt jealous. Not envious. He didn’t want Olruggio’s fame or ingenuity. Rather, he feared losing him to the future.

Put more precisely: Olruggio had a luminous, unswerving path laid out ahead of him. And it was cruel for Qifrey to bog him down; it was wretched for someone with no conceivable path of his own to entertain this delusion that they might bask in the light together.

But I can’t let him go.

I can’t.

When they had almost reached the center of the chaos, some older witch pointed to them at random and said: “You two! Banner duty,” and then dropped a massive roll of fabric into their arms, which they had to detach to catch. They shared an incredulous look at the size of it. Then the witch piled several more on top, and they almost buckled under the weight.

When Qifrey managed to regain his bearings, he gritted out, “Unnecessary!” and caught the corner of Olly’s smile.

The banners weren’t so hard to hang, with their sylph shoes and all, but the words on them were so vexing that Qifrey nearly had to take a break just to calm himself. The main one simply said: Beldaruit’s 47th! Okay. Fine. Whatever. But then the next three were entirely wasted on a list of aggravating rules that were already implied with the universal invitation: Attendance: mandatory! Gifts: mandatory! Enthusiasm: mandatory!

“How do you even measure enthusiasm?” Qifrey grumbled.

“I think it’s whatever the opposite of your current mood is,” Olruggio said.

The final banner said: Hope-You’re-Doing-Well-Daruit, which they decided to burn upon first sight. Some things were just too far.

Once they finished, they slumped against an ornate stone wall, distant enough that they could see the products of their labor all spread out. Qifrey had to admit that the banners, along with the other decorations that were now up, made for a pretty gorgeous venue (so long as you ignored the words and forgot who the party was for). There were string-lights all along the ceiling that reminded Qifrey of something Olly would make. Beautiful…

Abruptly, Qifrey’s hat was pulled from his head. He turned to narrow his eye at Olly, who was twisting the ribbon around his hand.

“Look at all these people,” he said. “Someone will step on it. Like last time. Then the whole thing’ll fling off and we’ll have to chase it.”

Qifrey scowled at the ‘like last time,’ but the image of Olruggio tenderly holding his hat was too overwhelming to keep up the ruse for long. Sometimes he had these awful thoughts like: would he hold me the same? With care? Gently? His unsureness of the answer had less to do with lacking faith in Olly’s capacity for softness, and more with his own undeservingness of it.

He remembered he was supposed to reply. “Playing fetch with my hat would still be better than this.” He gestured vaguely at the scene around them.

Olruggio tilted his head. “Why does it irritate you so much? I know you don’t love the crowds or the noise, but is that all?”

Qifrey was silent for a while. He shrugged. “I don’t know. I wish I could enjoy it. I just can’t.” He almost had to laugh at how true his words were, how applicable to his entire life.

Olruggio nodded like it made perfect sense, then perked up. “Well, in that case, I’m sure nobody will notice if two average witches like us go missin’ a little early, eh?” He elbowed Qifrey.

Qifrey gave a thin smile. “Not even your fanclub?”

Always a joy to see how fast Olruggio turned bashful. He gripped the ribbon tighter. “I told you to stop reminding me about that.”

Qifrey snorted.

He really, really wished he could enjoy this.

***

The next quarter of the day was both too dull and too busy at once. Sometimes they’d be running around like wild animals trying to stop kids from eating the confetti, while others they’d be shoved aside and told to stay out of the way. Several clock marks in, Olruggio looked about ready to keel over and take a nap, and Qifrey’s eye stung from the lights. They both sat on the ground in silence, too drained to speak.

Should it really take a whole day to set up one man’s party? Qifrey thought miserably for some time, but the answer didn’t change his predicament.

He dragged himself back up from the floor.

It was about one more clock mark later when a witch suddenly burst into tears and yelled: “It’s done! It’s finally done!”

There were a few murmurs as everyone glanced around, then the Great Hall exploded in cheers. The streamers were perfectly placed; the confetti was ready to be dropped; multicolored cakes on top of long tables surrounded the area. Everything everywhere had Beldaruit’s name on it. Party hats were replacing witch hats at an alarming rate.

Qifrey could only muster a relieved sigh. I thought it would never end.

But the worst was yet to come. Per Beldaruit’s rules, everyone in the Hall now had exactly one clock mark to dress up and get ready for the main party. The dress code was: something magnificent! and yes, people had indeed gotten kicked out for being too boring in years prior.

Maybe I should try that, Qifrey considered. Getting kicked out seems like a mercy.

A nice thought, but futile. By virtue of being Beldaruit’s very own apprentice, he could show up in a paper bag and still get let in. Besides, he didn’t want to stand out any more than he already did, and in this case, dressing normally would be abnormal.

Regardless, the mad dash of everyone trying to fix their hair and choose an outfit during the same time slot was a specific kind of torture. Sinocia once admitted that they had an extra medic on shift just for this part. Many hairpin-related casualties.

Olruggio knocked their shoulders together. “See you on the other side,” he said, as if preparing for battle.

“Don’t be late this time,” Qifrey replied, to be annoying.

Olly rolled his eyes.

Qifrey only ended up tripping over three and a half children on his rush back to his room, which was a personal record. Admittedly, Olly had a point about the ribbon on his hat being a hazard, so he bundled it up in his arms as he ran. When he arrived at his room, he threw the hat on his bed and promptly got to rummaging around in his closet.

See, his speed was not only motivated by trying to beat the crowd, but also by trying to avoid Beldaruit himself, who could be anywhere, and would undoubtedly spot Qifrey from a mile away. Frankly, Qifrey didn’t have the strength to get his hair ruffled by a middle-aged man holding a flute glass of wine right now.

He found an okay-ish shirt (that Bel had bought—and therefore couldn’t criticize), and threw it over his head. Then he stared at his reflection and wondered what else he was supposed to do.

These things didn’t come naturally, and he’d never had enough confidence in his future to figure it out. You know, the whole growing up situation. Perhaps it was a side effect of not being born into the world of witches, or maybe of his own failure to interact with his peers as a child.

(That wasn’t all his fault. They looked at him like he was from a different world.

And he was.)

He supposed he was meant to put on jewelry or something, but he didn’t own any, and besides, the thought of anyone noticing made him want to draw a vaporization spell on himself. He could imagine Olruggio going, “Oh, that’s new” and reaching out to touch it, and that was too much to bear.

He messed with his hair, then pulled at the collar of his shirt, a slight press of embroidery beneath his fingertips. The pattern imitated falling leaves. Everything felt like a cruel joke. Somehow, almost half a clock mark had passed.

His hat rolled off the bed. He messed with his hair again.

Whatever. I look fine.

So he tugged himself out of his room and made a looping, winding path back to his meet-up spot with Olly. Some others had begun to emerge as well, in groups, linked at the elbows, laughing and expressing their excitement for the party. A day off! one apprentice cheered. Qifrey had never seen it that way, but he supposed it was right. A day without any instruction—that went for almost every witch in the entire Hall. Beldaruit had essentially carved out his own annual holiday.

Because he thinks he deserves it, Qifrey wondered, or as a kindness to the others in the Hall?

He let the question dissipate, and leaned back against the cool material of the stairs. Olruggio arrived early on this occasion, expression falling when he rushed in and found Qifrey already there. “Aw, I was sure I’d beat you this time.”

“Never,” Qifrey said, though the word faltered a bit at the end, as it always did when he was forced to witness Olly wearing anything other than his uniform. He dressed in something intricate that seemed to be from his hometown of Ghodrey, lots of gold swirls and decorated lapels and double buttoned cuffs. His hair had been tamed and framed his face in a graceful black halo. Qifrey wanted to brush it back with his fingers. Or something. He pulled at his collar again.

“You look nice,” Olly said, flushed and fidgeting.

I was thinking the same of you, Qifrey thought to say, but what came out was: “Hopefully not. I’m trying to get turned away at the door.”

It somewhat worked, as Olly smiled. “If you keep up that grimace, you might have a chance.”

They walked together, and their arms were linked the same as those other witches, but somehow when Qifrey did it, he felt fake, underpracticed, as if it were something you needed to train. At one point, he accidentally jostled them a bit, and an unproportional shame jolted down his spine.

“Sorry,” he muttered, pulling away.

Olruggio let go, but confusion flickered through his eyes. “What for?”

Qifrey’s dramatic teenage brain suggested a lot of heartwarming responses like: oh, y’know, for existing, or: everything. Instead, he pointed ahead and said, “Uh oh. Hats.”

There was a young witch standing at the party entrance, balancing a box of those spotted party hats on top of a wind spell. Each had a glittery pom-pom attached to the tip. Qifrey’s grimace deepened.

When he tried to rush past, the witch cleared his throat and said: “Um. You have to take one. Beldaruit said so.”

Qifrey might have shown that boy just how astonishingly much he did not care, but Olruggio grabbed two hats and nudged him through the door, calling back: “Thanks!”

“The banners never mentioned hats,” Qifrey grumbled under his breath as they weaved through the thickening crowd. “He just made that rule up now.”

“He made all of them up,” Olruggio said, donning his party hat like a king’s crown. He had to raise his voice, as there was already an endless stream of chatting, screeching and giggling filling in around them, cornering them.

Qifrey let out a betrayed gasp. “Don’t do this to me.”

Olruggio ignored him and stuck the second hat right onto Qifrey’s head, slowing a moment to give a proud look at his work. “Phew, look at that. You’re a proper party animal now.”

Qifrey groaned and grabbed at the pom-pom. “I don’t like it. It doesn’t match my outfit.”

Olruggio blocked him from taking it off. “Oh, since when do you care about that?”

“I have hidden layers, Olly, more than you could dream of.”

He didn’t know exactly why his mouth dared to form these words, words that were nothing more than light banter to Olly, but cut himself up somewhere deep inside. Possibly, this was what came naturally to him: a twisted, subtle, almost subconscious level of self-injury. A promise, half a decade old, had bound him to this way of life—but still, what did his skill at it say about him?

Amusement fluttered across Olly’s expression, though he was too perceptive for it to last, and it morphed into concern. “It’s too busy here, isn’t it? Let’s try and find a gap.”

They eventually managed—people had cleared out near one of the cake tables. It took Qifrey a moment to understand why, but then he saw that the baker of a large, tiered willowgrape tea cake had put a candle in upside down. Witches could get superstitious about the strangest things.

If it’s bad luck, Qifrey thought, then I should get closer—maybe it’ll cancel mine out.

Olruggio followed his gaze. “Huh. Hard to light a flame like that. I’m sure there’s a contraption that could rectify it. Or a light that floats above the cake entirely.” He spun his finger in the air.

Qifrey leaned against the table. The tablecloth had mini-Bels all over it. “Despite his passion for magic, Beldaruit can be old-fashioned about things like this. I’ll never understand him.”

“No?” Olly asked, leaning to match him. “Haven’t gotten any closer all this time?”

Qifrey squinted harder at the cake. Willowgrape is my favorite…. “Not at all.”

Olruggio abruptly reached forward and plucked the candle out of the cake. He wiped the top with a napkin and put it back in the correct way. “Sometimes old-fashioned methods work too.”

How typical of him, to fix something so small, to take the time out of his day. Qifrey’s lips curved up a smidge. “Would you look at that? You’ve defeated the curse in just one move.”

“It was simply no match for me,” Olruggio joked. “Have any other terrible misfortunes for me to drive away?”

Oh, Olly, if only you knew. “If I make it through today, that’ll be fortunate enough.”

A small pause.

Olruggio, who was fine with the party thus far, seemed suddenly wary as he replied, “Likewise.”

It was Qifrey’s turn to follow his gaze. In the distance, rapidly approaching, was a witch holding out a basket that had “gift collection” written on it. Worse, the girl was one of many who’d been trying to get Olly’s autograph, and she fumbled to free her palm quire from pocket with her free hand while she walked.

“Ugh,” Olruggio groaned.

“Gifts already?” Qifrey asked. “Beldaruit isn’t even here yet.”

As if summoned by Qifrey’s complaint, the lights of the venue dimmed, and a magical countdown of glowing blue appeared in the sky, beginning at 100 and steadily decreasing. Gasps rippled through the room.

“Shit,” Qifrey said under his breath. The crowd grew denser until their gap was no more than a tiny bubble of respite. He pressed his back against the table. The knowledge that he would now have to stand here, trapped, while listening to the same gaudy birthday speech that Beldaruit gave every year, as witches came around demanding he hand over a birthday gift and swooning over his best friend, made him queasy.

Qifrey had already been buried alive once. He did not wish to recreate the conditions, especially not while wearing a pom-pom.

“Maybe we should…come back later,” he said, twisting his shirt in his hands. “I’m sure they’ll still be collecting gifts once the speech is done.”

“It wasn’t this bad last year,” Olly added. “I swear the room is shrinking…”

Their eyes met. They scooted closer together so that their shoulders were almost touching.

“Where to go, though?” Olruggio whispered. “They won’t like us roaming the halls at a time like this. It’s disrespectful.” He eyed the countdown, which had reached 72.

“Beldaruit won’t stay mad,” Qifrey said. “He’s used to me.”

“But my professor won’t like it. Besides, I doubt whoever they sent out there to catch runaways will care for that explanation."

Qifrey knew he was right. The blue numbers went down, and down some more. How were they already at 60? Qifrey could picture the instant Beldaruit appeared, searching for his apprentice first out of everyone. It made him shiver.

Then Olruggio snapped his fingers, the way he did when he figured out a missing piece for a contraption. “Hold on. You’re right, he is used to you, because he’s your professor!”

Qifrey gave him a slow, unimpressed look. “Wow. I never knew.”

Olly glared back. “I’m not done. What I mean is—you have access to all his private rooms, right? Like, his bedroom and whatnot?”

“Yeah,” Qifrey said, readjusting his glasses. “Trust me, it’s not very exciting.”

In truth, he hardly went over there. Long ago, he’d wished to be far, far away from everything and everyone—including his professor—and that was the singular wish that the occupants of the Hall had been eager to accommodate. Now Beldaruit always came to find him, not the other way around.

“But they’re also the only places in the Hall that we can be certain will be empty,” Olly said. “He’ll be here, and nobody would dare invade such a high-ranking witch’s space while he’s away. They probably couldn’t get in if they tried.”

Ah. Qifrey got it. Use his apprentice privileges to his advantage, eh? Even if some hall monitor caught them, there wouldn’t be much they could do without risking getting themself in trouble too.

“It could work,” he began, “but I don’t know if it’s the best…”

Some boy bumped against him and splashed a few drops of a mysterious liquid onto his shirt. Upon noticing his victim was Qifrey, the boy yelped, “Yikes!” and disappeared back into the chaos.

“....idea.” Qifrey scowled. “I take it back. Beldaruit’s room sounds like the most thrilling place in the world right now.”

Olruggio’s gaze was stuck on the autograph girl, who was still fighting through the crowd to reach him. “Agreed.”

Both of them straightened up. Despite being teens now, and not being allowed the same bouts of mischief and adventure that they reveled in as children, the spark had not quite been snuffed out in either of them. There was a satisfaction in evading authority, in daring to carve out a life away from the Hall, that could not be replicated. It spun the world into a simple perspective: as long as they stuck together, no force could drown out their spirits…

Something pulsed painfully beneath Qifrey’s heart.

Or, he thought, I guess that’s the lie I like to tell myself.

“You ready?” Olly asked, glancing down to where Qifrey was gripping at his shirt, above his chest. He hadn’t realized he’d been doing it, and quickly tore his hand away.

“Ready,” he echoed.

They danced through the crowd like quadryphons spinning through the open air, being forced apart and back together again by a torrent of buzzing partygoers. Qifrey hated the feel of it, bodies pressed against his own. The heat of them made him ill. So many voices, so loud.

But at least it meant that the eventual relief was a grand one. He burst out of the crowd, and the freedom washed over him at once, a wave of fresh solace. He took a deep breath and slowed to a stop. Olly was right behind him, slotting into the space at his side where he always belonged.

They’d ended up back at the entrance, where the witch handing out hats was still standing. He stared at them in disbelief. His wind spell had weakened, and the hat box sagged pathetically as he spoke. “You…I don’t think I’m supposed to let you leave—”

“Bathroom,” Qifrey said flatly. He leaned in and added, while gesturing to Olly, “Emergency. Stomach ache. Terrible, terrible stuff.”

Olruggio did his best impromptu I’m-about-to-hurl abdomen hold, swaying a bit.

The witch nodded slowly, then faster. “Oh. Okay. Um. Okay. Go ahead.”

Qifrey and Olly hurried past, and by the time that boy’s gears turned enough for him to call back, “Wait! Must you go with him?” they were already down an adjacent hall.

It was eerily quiet, with almost everyone away at the party. Also cold. Hollow eyes carved into relief sculptures of ancient witches blurred past. Windows gave glimpses into the dark depths of the sea. Qifrey had to look away. He elected instead to look at Olly, who was beet red and irked.

“Alright, I get your idea, but—!” He threw his hands up. “Out of every excuse in Zozah!”

“Discomfort makes people more agreeable,” Qifrey replied, trying to emulate his master during his rare moments of solemnity. “They’ll do anything to make it go away.”

They had to pivot as they reached a corner. Qifrey realized that, oh, he was meant to be leading the way, as this was Beldaruit’s room they were talking about. But he wasn’t used to coming from this angle, and the directions spun in his head. He hesitated a beat more, before taking them down a way that looked familiar.

Probably. Maybe.

Olly went on with his ranting. “Sure, but you didn’t have to say emergency and all that. Next thing you know, I’m walking into rooms and they’re chanting: ‘Olruggio of the Torch-ered Gut.’”

Qifrey let out a surprised laugh. “Oh, stop. I thought all the praise made you quake, anyway. Perhaps a hit to your reputation is a kindness.”

“Perhaps this, perhaps that. The possibilities are limitless as long as you add that one little word, right? Perhaps I’ll burn your bedsheets tonight.”

Qifrey shrugged. “So what? I’ll take yours.”

“You’ll try.”

“And if I fail, I’ll tell Beldaruit you were mean to me.”

“Excuse me? Are you five years old—?”

“Shhh,” Qifrey cut in, suddenly concerned. He skidded to a halt and motioned for Olly to do the same. It was difficult to explain, but sometimes it was like he could sense the magic in the air, a sort of ancient instinctual reflex. Could be connected to my childhood, he considered. The one I don’t remember. How helpful.

He turned left and right, up and down, surveying the junction they’d ended up at. There was an ocean themed mural on the wall that Qifrey took an immediate dislike to—which was a bit of a bad sign, as he felt he would have recognized it if they were actually on the correct path.

“What is it?” Olly asked in a low voice.

“Something’s odd about this.” Qifrey ran his fingers over the textured paint strokes of a swimming sea creature. “I thought we were close, but...”

“Please, Qif,” Olly complained. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you with navigation.”

Qifrey followed the arc of a wave as it reached for the sky, then crashed back down. “Too bad you have no choice, then. Just give me a moment.”

“A moment’s all we have.” Olly’s voice was tight, urging, hurry, hurry.

Qifrey was too preoccupied to share all of his friend’s anxiety, so sucked in by the swirls of blue in front of him that everything else faded into the background. The sensation of any cool surface made his stomach churn, so alike to touching something wet, but he couldn’t stop.

If it’s a trap, I’d better get ahead of it. It’s not unheard of for a kid to set up some stupid prank that gets you all turned around, and I’m already struggling without it.

A bubble caught his eye. Circles were important to witches, and the scarcity of them in this painting made the few that were drawn stand out even further. His hand stilled when he reached it. He tried pressing on it, but nothing happened. He tried turning it, and much the same.

“Olly,” he said, “besides pressure, how might one toggle a spell?”

“Slotting in a missing piece,” Olruggio replied automatically. Then he came to his senses. “Must we discuss this right now—?”

“What else?” Qifrey interrupted.

Olly sighed. “A hinge. Rotation. A button. There are lots of ways. You know this.”

“Not as well as you.” Qifrey searched hopelessly for any piece he’d been missing. He tried each method again. Nothing. “Is there anything? Anything that people tend to miss?”

Olruggio snorted. “Oh, yeah. They always try spinning to the right but never to the left. You would think…Qifrey?”

Qifrey must’ve made a noise. Or maybe it was him scurrying backward that alerted Olly. Either way, they were on the same page now, that page being: gaping at the painted wall, which was shifting into an entirely new scene. The blue waves flipped into orange flames. A jelly became a tooth on a massive, scaled dragon, and the seaweed its spines. The transition was jarring, like someone hacking at the old image with a knife. Qifrey’s brain struggled to process it. He blinked once, twice.

“It…it worked,” he sputtered.

But the show wasn’t over yet. In a flash, the dragon peeled itself off the wall and lunged at them.

The movement was so fast, so sharp, that Qifrey only managed to toss up an arm before the beast was crashing into them.

Or—through them.

It felt like nothing, but the visual experience evoked enough fear to make up for it. The dragon, made of mist, or light, or plain deception, dove straight into their bodies, then scattered into a million particles, spreading throughout the air and onto the floor. Then those faded as well.

Qifrey’s heart had damn near given out. It startled back awake, a too-quick rhythm, just as he regained enough rationality to process the spell.

Illusion magic. Some very intense illusion magic.

Olruggio had half-thrown himself in front of Qifrey, which the latter tried very hard not to think about. They both slumped in relief and spent a few moments letting their adrenaline simmer down, the only sound their shaky breaths.

Olruggio found his voice first. “Stars above. Who made that?”

Oh, but it was obvious. Beldaruit, Qifrey thought furiously. Did you think that would be funny?

He felt an urge to throw his party hat on the floor and stomp on it. He knew it was unfair, when he was the one who’d been poking around, and on the man’s birthday to boot. Yet the feeling didn’t go away.

What’s the point of being taken in by an exorbitant, remarkable witch, when I am troubled, and all of the remarkable parts about him make me flinch?

He could have had anyone else.

There Qifrey’s mind went again. Baggage, always baggage.

Olruggio made a noise that was almost a laugh. “Ugh. The more I think about it, the more silly I feel for freaking out.” He was peering up at the dragon, which remained on the wall despite the whole pop-out-and-eat-you bit being over with. “It’s sort of cute when it stays put.”

Qifrey forced himself to follow suit. He supposed it was a little silly, especially since all he talked about was wanting to see a dragon. If it had happened to someone else, he might have even found it entertaining.

Still. “I never thought I’d say this,” he mumbled, “but I miss when it was an ocean.”

“The fish were better,” Olly agreed.

Qifrey groaned. “I’m banning you from bringing up fish again.”

“You wish. Now let’s go before our luck runs out.”

If nothing else, the dragon fright had proved that they were near Beldaruit’s quarters. It was exactly the sort of spectacle he’d have leading the way to his abode.

Sure enough, they shortly arrived at a doorway inscribed with the looping pattern on his hat. Qifrey squinted at the entrance curiously, as he’d never seen it, or gone through that way before. Witches were often fond of secret hideaways and such, but he never imagined Bel liked to have one.

The doorway itself was decorated with a spiral pattern, like ram horns. There were crystal flowers of blue and gold scattered between, and dangling gold tassels above.

Maybe secret isn’t the best descriptor for this place, Qifrey amended. I guess I just never asked.

He and Olly shuffled forward, nervous and hurried at once. Qifrey touched the door. Unlike the paint from earlier, the door’s material stayed at a nice, neutral temperature that he appreciated. There was a knocker, also golden, attached in the center, but he couldn’t imagine who’d be trying to come in this way to begin with.

I wonder how he would’ve reacted if I had shown interest, his thoughts went on. It wasn’t hard to guess. Qifrey even glancing at anything that didn’t involve escaping or risking his life was always a delight to his professor. It was also quite rare, and had only really begun recently.

Except for dragons, he thought. I’ve always admired them.

Like the one on the wall.

Is it possible that he…?

That same pain from earlier resurfaced, throbbing behind the scar tissue of Qifrey’s missing eye. He pushed past it and pushed the door open in tandem. There was no locking mechanism, so it went easily.

He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but the reveal of the room was oddly anticlimactic. He’d seen Beldaruit’s bedroom before, and whatever this one was for, it lacked the same splendor. It was largely white and blank, with a wooden frame sitting in the middle, holding up nothing. Two dull tables bracketed it in, with bottles of liquids Qifrey didn’t recognize on top.

Assuming the frame was for another bed, what was the purpose of having so many? Perhaps he’d been planning on another apprentice.

And then I came along, and he realized how unrewarding it is.

If there was any doubt that the space did indeed belong to Beldaruit, there was a portrait of him, young and smiling, on the wall opposite the bed frame. It appeared out of place among the otherwise empty walls, and Qifrey felt more intrusive looking at it than he did barging in here in the first place. In fact, there was such a sense of abandonment permeating the room that it was more like rummaging through ruins of an ancient civilization than breaching someone’s privacy.

Qifrey was unnerved. He’d accepted the possibility of Beldaruit noticing his stuff had been tampered with and getting upset, but would he even notice if they did anything to this place? Somehow that was worse, as if they were disrupting ghosts that were meant to stay in the past.

“It’s too dark,” was the first thing Olly had to say on the subject. He stepped forward to find a light, which felt braver than it should have.

“I’m surprised they let him have this area if it’s not being used,” Qifrey said. “Or that they haven’t barred the entrance.”

“If he wants to keep it, there’s not much anyone can do.” Olly opened a drawer on one of the tables, and closed it again with a frown. “Maybe he’ll make it into a daycare, or something.”

“Or something,” Qifrey echoed. “It’s all just kind of strange.”

“You’ve really never been here before?” Olly asked.

“Never even heard of it.” Qifrey stared out the still-ajar doorway, feeling a vague sense of amazement at how close, and yet far, his navigation had gotten them.

He supposed they could risk going out in the hall again to find Bel’s actual bedroom; they hadn’t encountered a single monitor last time, after all, and maps existed for a reason.

But despite his unease—or because of it—there was a sense of clarity in these “ruins,” and it sparked an uncommon curiosity in him. Unless Olly wanted out, he was determined to see this break from the party through.

“Lamp,” Olly announced, pulling one from the other table’s drawer. “And dust. Lots of dust.” He coughed. “There’s a gown in here, too, like they give patients at the medical spire.” He held it up.

Only, it’s older, Qifrey considered, eyeing the faded design on the pale fabric. He thought again to the bottles, and questioned if they might be medicine. Had someone here been sick?

Enough, he shooed the questions away. He hadn’t come here to give himself a bigger headache. It wasn’t his job to investigate. “Well, I would put it down,” he said, as the room lit up from the contraption. “It looks gross.”

“You look gross,” Olly said as he complied. The movement caused specks of dust to float up from his hands and sleeves, glowing orange in the fresh illumination.

“Is that so?” Qifrey asked. “That wasn’t what you said earlier.”

“And now you’ll never know which one I really mean.” Olly straightened up and leaned to poke Qifrey.

Qifrey dodged. “Except that you can’t look at me when you lie. Say it again.”

“Ah, ah, ah. What am I, your loyal owlcat who does whatever you say?”

“Deflection,” Qifrey said flatly.

“I will not be ordered around—”

“Deflection.”

Olruggio tried to poke him again. This time, he had too much momentum, and Qifrey dodged too late, and the two of them went tumbling into the wall, right under Beldaruit’s portrait. The frame half-dislodged from the wall, and the whole thing tilted, dangling from only one corner.

“Get it, get it!” Olruggio said.

“I’m trying.” Qifrey rushed to steady the frame, waiting a few moments before letting it go. He sighed in relief as it balanced itself back out.

They both slumped against the wall. Olruggio breathed out a laugh. “Man. Aren’t you glad a witch can’t be in two places at once? Imagine if Beldaruit saw that.”

“I’d prefer not to imagine,” Qifrey said.

They were standing so close. Or closer than Qifrey was used to. He could almost feel the heat radiating from Olly’s skin. The lamp had been left to the side, and it brightened the curve of his right cheek, reflected in the corner of his right eye.

As long as he looks at me like that, Qifrey thought, I think I can endure. I think I have to.

He opened his mouth to say—something—but then, from behind:

“Imagine if I saw what?”

Qifrey and Olruggio froze.

You could have heard a feather hit the floor in the silence that followed.

For Qifrey, it wasn’t the same heart-dropping sensation as the dragon. It wasn’t, Oh no, what’s happening? I’m scared!

It was rather the slow horror of realizing: Holy shit. I am an idiot.

He turned around.

More than that. I am the stupidest person who has ever been born. Ever.

Beldaruit was in the doorway. But not really. The look of Beldaruit, the form of him, the voice of him, but not quite as tangible. Wisps coming off of his hair and a blurriness around the edges gave him away. He was dressed in polka dots from head to toe, just like those awful hats. There was a ribbon hung loosely around his neck that read: I’m the Beldy-day Boy!

Qifrey almost hurled on the spot.

“Can’t they, Olruggio?” the smoke sculpture Beldaruit chirped with a strained smile on his face. “Can’t a witch be in two places at once?”

Of course, if you were Beldaruit you could. How could they have forgotten, even as they figured out the spell of the mural? How didn’t it click that as long as they left a trail, they weren’t safe? The lack of monitors—that had probably been part of the…well, illusion all along. Everything was a damn illusion with him! That was his whole thing!

Olruggio did not reply. He was stock-still, besides a few twitches of the jaw. The respect he displayed for Beldaruit was slightly greater than what Qifrey did, and that distinction showed now in his hesitation.

Qifrey did not hesitate. He stepped forward. “Don’t you have a party to enjoy?”

Beldaruit’s strained smile stretched wider and strained further. “And how am I meant to enjoy myself without my dear apprentice among the crowd? Or while worrying that he and his friend have found themselves in danger?”

Qifrey gave a tiny, stubborn shake of his head. Olruggio shuffled closer to him.

“You know how I feel about crowds,” Qifrey said. “We just stepped out for a moment.”

Beldaruit’s smile dropped entirely. “Yes, yes, I understand. If you’d simply notified me beforehand…”

“Well, you know where we are now, so you can stop worrying.”

Smoke-aruit rubbed at his temples. “Dear me, you cannot fathom how untrue that is.” His fingers slid down and tapped at his chin. “Hmm. But you’re right, in a way. It is my special day, and I shouldn’t dwell on these unfortunate events…” His seal-chair plodded a few paces toward them. “You know, if I recall correctly, I haven't received a gift from either of you yet. “

His grin returned, and he did a dramatic hair flip. “What do you say? A proper trade off?”

Olruggio wordlessly started digging through his pockets. Qifrey could almost hear his thoughts: Why not just give it to him? I was planning on it anyway. Then we’ll be free.

But…

Qifrey’s hand hovered over his own pocket, and fell away again. His chest constricted; the tightness spread down his body.

Nothing. I have nothing of worth to give.

He sent a desperate look in Olruggio’s direction, and Olruggio paused. Words passed between them without having to be said out loud. Qifrey begged: don’t worry about me. Leave me here. He won’t stay mad at me. I’ll talk to him.

Olruggio replied: don’t be ridiculous. We’re sticking together.

His next words were out loud, but a whisper into Qifrey’s ear: “Payback. For the dragon.”

Qifrey was confused for a few moments, then understanding jolted into him. The dragon had leaped through them, leaving them disoriented. Despite that, it was them that remained whole afterwards, while the dragon shattered and faded. A simple concept—tangible flesh always beats its imitation—which he’d disregarded, because the idea of going through Beldaruit in the same way was…unconventional.

But it made sense. They could destroy Bel’s smoke-form, and the unexpectedness paired with the connection to his magic being severed would surely leave him dazed for at least a short while.

They would have an opportunity to run once more. As for where to go—there was only one place Qifrey could reliably reach from almost anywhere in the Hall.

“The stairs,” he whispered back.

The cavity beneath their meetup spot was nearly impossible to see from most angles. If they wanted a chance to hide, that was it.

Their eyes met for what must have been the tenth time in one day. They both sunk into position, prepared to dash.

Beldaruit tensed, sensing the formation of a devious plot. “What are you—?”

That was as far as he got, for he soon no longer had the ability to speak. Qifrey and Olruggio trampled over him without mercy, and his smoke-form dispersed, bursting in a cloud of polka-dots and glitter. Without turning back, they ran down the hall, faster than before.

Olruggio had grabbed the light, and it sliced through the dimness of the Great Hall in one long streak. Neither boy spoke, and neither dared to look anywhere but forward. This time, directions streamed into Qifrey’s mind with ease. Because Olly and I found this spot together; I’ll never forget my path to it.

Somehow, the air had gotten colder. It lashed against Qifrey’s face. He thought back on a night where he and Olly had been traversing some village at night, giddy with the nervous excitement of doing something they weren’t meant to. The village had been packed with big, drooping trees that had heart-shaped leaves; when one fell, it whipped through the air faster than it seemed the wind should be blowing it. That night had been cold too, and Qifrey was hit with an odd sensation of his past and present leaking into each other.

The leaves in his memories had just brushed the ground when the staircase came into view. The space beneath it was almost pitch black. He and Olly slid into the shadows like myrphons diving beneath the shore. It welcomed them, unlike the brightness and bustle of the party a short distance away. Everything felt still and quiet. Personal.

Olly’s lamp gave a valiant effort to fend off the darkness, but only managed a sickly yellow dome. When Olly set it to his side, it formed a vague silhouette of him on the wall. He sat down, and Qifrey followed.

The floor was hard enough that no position was comfortable. Qifrey drew his knees to his chest, and there was a small stretch of silence as they gathered their thoughts and breath. They threw their party hats aside.

Finally, Olly said, “That felt—weird.” His unsettled features were made more prominent by the way the shadows gathered beneath his eyes and caressed his cheekbones. Against the yellow light, his irises were a dull gray-green.

Qifrey was a bit caught off guard. Olly had appeared determined to go along with the plan, and Qifrey hadn’t considered that his actual feelings on the matter didn’t match.

“He couldn’t feel it,” Qifrey reminded him. “Kids run into his smoke sculptures on the daily.”

“I know,” Olly said. “I’ve run into his sculptures. But usually he’s expecting it. The way he just—poof, gone, with that expression on his face.” He made an exploding gesture with his hands. “A little too realistic for my tastes.”

But that didn’t need to be spelled out, did it? Olly would feel bad for a floor tile if he stood on it for too long. Guilt pressed down on Qifrey for not considering that, and also for not feeling wrong about destroying the illusion in the first place. After all this time, these intricacies of human behavior were still lost on him.

What makes something disturbing rather than compelling? What differentiates happiness from a lack of sadness? Will I ever properly learn?

“I, um…shouldn’t have made you do that,” he mumbled into his pants.

Olly stared at him. “What? It’s no big deal. It was my idea anyway.”

“But if I had given him a gift, or at least shut the door behind us…” Qifrey sniffed. “You know what I mean. It was preventable.”

Olly shrugged, and he seemed suddenly relaxed, as if the unease was a layer of clothing he could simply shed and toss aside. “Yeah. Well. I sorta thought we both knew everything we do is dumb and were choosing to ignore it. We won’t be allowed to get away with it forever.” He squinted across the room at a clock that didn’t exist. “Speaking of that, I think I missed my meeting with Alaira. I wonder if she pulled it off.”

Qifrey scoffed. “Thank my lucky stars. If we’d had this conversation while you were tipsy, I might’ve gone crawling back to the party of my own volition.”

“Eh?” Olly said, offended. “Sinocia always says I’m more pleasant with a drink in me.”

“Always?” Qifrey asked. “Who in the world is providing you alcohol, and why is your medic friend endorsing it?”

Olruggio linked his fingers behind his head in a rather smug manner. “You have your secrets. Allow me to have one of my own.”

“I believe that’s two.”

“Same thing.”

“Not really.”

“Yes really.”

Qifrey gave up on arguing after that, and they fell into a brief, comfortable silence. He watched Olly’s silhouette on the wall as it mimicked his every movement, only without features or detail—a shell of a person, the leftovers of one. Sounds familiar, Qifrey thought.

Olly dropped his arms and broke in with: “You really didn’t get him anything, huh? What were you planning on telling him?”

Qifrey hesitated for a long stretch, hand hovering over his pocket once more. Eventually, he said, “That he was lucky I even showed up.” His face warmed a twinge. “Though I guess I didn’t do that either.”

Olruggio laughed, and it was the sun rising, the clouds parting. “You’re so…”

“So?” Qifrey said.

“I don’t know.” Olly shrugged again. “You’re so Qifrey sometimes. And it sounds mushy but I just think, ‘there’s no universe where we haven’t crossed paths,’ because I can’t imagine one. Who would I be talking to right now instead? Nobody else fits. It’s only you.”

It’s only you.

Pain. Pulsing, hot pain. Where it always began, in Qifrey’s empty socket.

He needed to change the topic of conversation, quickly.

But first…

“...I think you’d do alright on your own,” he hedged. “If something happened to me. I think you’d be alright.”

It could happen. It probably will. How do you feel about that?

It was the reaction Qifrey feared most. The amusement drained from Olly’s face, leaving him pale. He leaned away as if he’d been struck. “Don’t say that,” he demanded. “Why would you say that?”

Qifrey backtracked. “I’m not having a premonition or anything. I’m only saying you’re an amazing witch, with or without me. I’m trying to compliment you. It came out wrong.”

If Olly had taken it as simple praise, he would’ve blushed and got all embarrassed. Instead he turned his head away and stared down at his hands. “It’s not true,” he said. “If I’ve done any good, I’ve done it thinking of you.”

Qifrey’s socket continued to throb, the ache spreading deep into his core. He did his best to push it down as he replied weakly, “Okay. Got it.”

He hoped that’d be the end of it, but Olly set to rummaging through his pockets like he’d done earlier. Whatever contraption he’d stuffed in there didn’t fit well, and he struggled to tug it out. When he managed, it looked like he was holding a peculiar sort of worm, though it was difficult to see the particulars under the dim light.

“Wyrm, not worm,” Olly said, reading Qifrey’s thoughts, as he tended to.

“Dragons again,” Qifrey said. “Lots of those today.”

Olruggio rubbed at the back of his neck. “That mural incident kinda ruined it, huh? I’m sure any other day you would have liked it better. Watch.” He joined the wyrm’s mouth to its tail, completing a ring, and the contraption lit up. It projected a gorgeous image of the same wyrm, but in motion, above. The beast slinked around, a mirror reflecting a dozen sunset colors—orange, pink, yellow, etc.—then dove back into the ring, light withdrawing. It left sparkles in its wake. Like twinkling stars.

Qifrey’s heart almost burst with wonder. It was the exact sort of magic that he loved most. He must’ve looked pretty stupid then, lips parted and eye wide like an overexcited child.

“Doesn’t do much except look pretty,” Olly said, sheepish. “Still, I thought you’d enjoy it.”

Qifrey reached out to touch it. “It’s beautiful, Olly.” Confusion mixed in with his amazement the more he pondered the contraption. “But if it’s for Beldaruit, why does it matter if I like it?” What he really meant is: this seems perfect for me, not him.

Olruggio gave Qifrey a flat look. “That’s the point. That’s what I’m trying to prove to you. Even this, a birthday gift for someone else, I made it for you. I was hoping he might just give it to you since you’re his apprentice, however ridiculous that is.” He busied himself with putting the contraption back away, and his next words appeared to take great effort to get out. “My inspiration is you, Qifrey. It always has been. I don’t know why you still don’t believe it.”

My inspiration is you.

It’s only you.

Qifrey could burst into tears right then and there. Why was it that he, the person who couldn’t ever enjoy it, attracted the loveliest people? Why now, of all times, must Olly say something like that?

His pain increased tenfold. This curse of his was never quite manageable, but the agony he felt now, both mentally and physically, was at an extent he hadn’t endured in a long time. His mouth opened and closed a few times, though no words came out.

And then Olly leaned over to embrace him, and he did burst into tears.

He didn’t cry often anymore. He usually preferred to suppress as much as he could of his emotions, especially in front of others. But for some reason, after everything today, he couldn’t hold back. He broke, hot tears spilling down his left cheek and trickling down his neck.

Olly held on tight, saying soothing things like, “It’s okay, it’s okay now.”

But it wasn’t. It was the furthest thing from okay.

Even this wet, miserable hug had a timer looming over it, like the one counting down to Bel’s arrival at the party. Qifrey could imagine sinister branches crawling up his gut, clawing at his flesh, reaching for his empty socket. They soaked in Qifrey’s tears and his love and his awful imitations of joy, and it fortified them until he could hardly breathe.

He would be lying to say he didn’t consider it at that moment—letting go. Letting his curse take him. He often did.

It would be so easy. No more pain. No more dread for the future. No more being strong, fighting, hurting everyone around him in his struggle for survival.

However, as it always did, the weight of Olruggio’s ribbon quickly pulled him from his fantasies. He wasn’t in physical possession of it now, but all the same it lay wrapped around his neck, the ghost of a shackle, a promise.

I have to live. However sorrowful of a life I live, it must go on.

The heat of Olly’s body against him burned him from the outside in. He gazed over Olly’s shoulder at the blob of darkness that made up his shadow, and continued to gaze at it as he slowly tore himself away from the embrace, if only to avoid the look on Olly’s face.

Coldness again. The scent of smoke lingering on Olly’s clothes, the tickle of his hair, his breath—all ripped away. Qifrey wanted to strangle the person who had taken it from him, though it was himself.

Olly may have let it go—he wasn’t unused to Qifrey dodging affection—if only for the fact that Qifrey continued to cry, hard, sniffing and gasping and curling in on himself. He couldn’t stop. I wanted that hug, I needed it. And he had ruined it; he’d had no choice.

He never had a choice. He was born unlucky. However many years he’d known that, it still wrecked him.

“Qifrey,” Olly whispered, reaching a hand out to wipe away the tears.

Qifrey was forced to face him as he pushed the hand away. “I—can’t.”

“Can’t what?” Olly asked. “I thought the words had simply meant a lot to you. But this is something different, isn’t it? Tell me what happened.”

“No, no,” Qifrey choked out. “Nothing.”

“The party?” Olly went on. “You’re overwhelmed? Bad dreams? Please tell me.” There was an edge of desperation entering his words.

“No,” Qifrey repeated.

“Please, Qifrey,” Olly begged. “I can help you.”

“No.” Qifrey was trembling so hard he had to dig his hands into his shirt fabric to keep it hidden. “You can’t. You can’t do anything for me.”

Hurt twisted Olly’s features into an awful frown. “You don’t mean that. We don’t have to talk about it now—but—but don’t speak like that. What else am I for, if I can’t be there for you?”

“It’s not you.” Qifrey’s voice was thick, and he hated the sound of it. “You’ve done what you can. You’ve always been good to me.”

“I’ve done what I can, but I can’t do anything? So what? I’m working toward an impossible goal, trying to comfort you?”

Yes.

“It sounds ridiculous put that way,” Qifrey admitted, sniffling.

“It is ridiculous.” Olly poked him in the chest. “You are being ridiculous. I don’t know what brought on this mood, but if you think it’s going to drive me away then you’re sorely mistaken. I can’t stand the thought of being useless, dead weight as you suffer beside me. We can’t be that way.”

“You’re not useless—“

“Then let me in! Let me do something, anything for you.” He bowed his head, dark hair falling over his face. “You know that’s all I’ve ever wanted.” His hands wrapped around Qifrey’s wrists, warm and firm. “Do this for me. Please.”

Qifrey stared down at him for a long, long time. Again, Qifrey thought back to that night with the heart shaped leaves. He remembered he and Olly sitting together, watching them flutter through the sky, how the two of them had been pressed together, how the air hadn’t felt so cold that way. How the stars had broken through the darkness, Olly remarking, you can’t get beauty like this back at the Great Hall. He’d meant the stars, but Qifrey had meant him. And Qifrey had wanted to stay in that moment forever. He’d thought he might die to get to live that reality.

Then Olly had backtracked. He’d said: well, not yet. I think we oughta fix that when we get older, eh?

And now Qifrey backtracked on his own previous thought. My life is not ‘sorrowful.’ One measly word could never capture the utter pain, the utter joy, the treacherous hope that it, too, is something we can fix. All of it, warring inside me, leaving me only scraps to take control of.

Allow me a scrap now.

He ran his fingers over Olly’s hair, barely brushing against it. “Could you do something for me, then? A favor.”

Olruggio looked up, surprised. “Anything. I already told you that.”

Qifrey turned to the hall. He considered the party, the Bels on the table, the cakes, the streamers, the wall with the dragon, the abandoned room, the destroyed illusion. He sucked in a deep breath. “...Bring me Beldaruit. I don’t think I have the nerve to do it myself.”

Thank goodness, some of the despair seeped out of Olly’s face, but it was replaced by confusion. He pulled back from Qifrey. “I thought you weren’t afraid of him.”

Qifrey dried his face with the back of his hand. “Yeah. I thought so too.”

They looked at each other for a while. When Olly finally retreated, he left his light behind. But he took the warmth with him.

***

Beldaruit found Qifrey, as he often did, curled up and feeling spectacularly unsure of himself. In Qifrey’s hand were the contents of his pockets: his shame, his broken contraption. His attempt at a gift, so sad that he’d elected to go without one at all.

See, he hadn’t always planned on being a terrible, ungrateful apprentice. It simply came naturally.

There was the sound of hooves, then a gasp. “Qifrey!”

When Beldaruit said his name, it was in the tone that someone would say, “my boy,” or “c’mon, buddy” to their child who was weeping over a bad exam grade. It was so strange: juvenile and tender compared to the others in the Hall’s sneers and harsh whispers. Sometimes Qifrey wanted to shake Bel and ask: Have you seen me? Do you know who you’re talking to? As if he were unknowingly manipulating his professor into thinking he was greater than he was.

“Professor,” Qifrey murmured. He dared to glance up, and Beldaruit’s form was large and stark above him. Real Beldaruit, no wisps of smoke or blurry edges.

“Qifrey,” Beldaruit repeated, quieter, and he eased his sealchair into a sitting position. “What are you doing out here, all by yourself in the cold? You’ll get sick.”

Qifrey fiddled with his unusable contraption. It was meant to be a sort of butterfly, but he didn’t have Olly’s flair for invention, and he hadn’t wanted to ask for help. “Waiting for you. The party is over, isn’t it? I didn’t interrupt?”

“It’s over. Oh, it was magnificent! I wish you would have seen it.” There was a brief, dreamy look in his eyes. “So many gifts, such astounding craftsmanship.”

Shame draped itself over Qifrey’s back, a physical weight. “Are you angry that I left?”

Bel tilted his head, pale hair falling over the side of his chair. “Angry? No. Come here, come closer.” He waved his hands.

Qifrey shifted closer until he was sitting against the side of Bel’s chair.

“Well,” Beldaruit amended, “perhaps I’m a bit peeved. The learning opportunity of all the Hall’s greatest witches joining together, showing off their inventions—it’s simply irreplaceable. Magic in the highest sense of the word.” He was always so animated when talking about his interests, so full of life.

“Is that why you do it?” Qifrey asked. Meaning the party, the spectacle.

“Mmm. I’ll tell you why. Sometimes when one is training to become a witch, they get caught up in the physicality of it. Muscle memory. Draw a circle, draw another, draw it again. But what is a circle? What could a circle be? A ring, a coin, a plate, a wheel? The art of it is easily lost.”

“I think you told me the same thing when I was ten,” Qifrey said, unable to hide how little he was impressed.

Beldaruit snapped his fingers. “Yes! And there it is. That right there. The age where a witch suddenly gains authority over what is childish or not. More importantly, where they decide that childish lessons have no room in their newly sophisticated mental repository. Much of my teaching journey has been trying to pin down the moment when the switch happens and stop it—but alas, I was too late for you, my precious student. Nor have I succeeded with anyone else. Perhaps it's only natural, though I do still wonder what good a little fun and creative pursuit could be for a group of even the most enlightened witches…”

“A bit of a long-winded way to say you think we’re all bores,” Qifrey said. “Is that why you’re always whining about the gifts, then? You urge everyone to put pleasure over procedure for once, yet they all fall short.”

“The gifts!” Bel was much too loud for this time of night; his voice echoed off the walls. “A little known fact: I have a wide range of interests and an endless store of appreciation for every present I’ve ever been given.”

“You literally complain every time—?”

“However! Even through my appreciation, I’ve picked out patterns. Habits, in this current generation of magic wielders. This is how I know that the dullness you speak of is not an individual failing but rather a widespread disease. I have one”—he leaned down to waggle a finger in Qifrey’s face—”single day a year to observe the spread of this disease in a contained, Beldaruit-controlled environment, and to prepare my countermeasures. My complaints are merely a show of frustration over all the work I have to do. And, I admit, an attempt to connect with my moody apprentice.”

“Moody?”

“I wish to encourage you to see how each gift may be improved upon, pushed past its limits. But you always seem so uninterested. It breaks my big Bel heart.”

Qifrey tilted his head up to try and get a glare across. Beldaruit smiled in response—then it faded.

“Have you been crying?” he asked.

Qifrey swiftly looked down. His eye must have been red, or perhaps there were still lines from his tears. “No,” he said. “Just sensitive to the light.”

Qifrey couldn't see Bel’s hand movements from his angle, but it was obvious he was fidgeting by the tone his voice took on. “Listen,” he said, “when I claim I wish for my special day to be special for all, I mean that for you as well. I understand that much of my celebrations go against your comfort, but I’ve always trusted you would come to me if there was truly an issue. Which is to say, if you’re uncomfortable—”

“No,” Qifrey cut in. “It’s not that. I don’t care about your party.”

“Ah, I see. Kind words.”

“The party is…fine, with the glitter and all. It’s just—me. I’m, I don’t know, confused? All the time.” He pulled the pieces of his failed gift in half. “And I guess events like this remind me of it the most.”

He knew what conclusions Beldaruit would come to from that. After all, Qifrey had come under Beldaruit’s apprenticeship with no birthday of his own. Nothing of his own. It didn’t take a genius to realize how that could be upsetting.

Beldaruit paused for a long moment. He eventually said: “Allow me one more long-winded speech.” He cleared his throat. “Could a circle be a bubble?”

Qifrey was initially perplexed, until he suddenly understood. “The mural.”

“Indeed. I saw that you had fallen for my little trick. How you turned yourself around enough to end up back there is beyond me. I haven’t spent a night there in years.” He sucked in a breath. “It was a…darker time. I had fallen ill. The mural was for the medics that came to visit while I was bedridden; I hoped to repay them in some way. I recovered a bit before I took you on as an apprentice, and afterwards I changed what had been a pegasus into a dragon.” He gave a small laugh. “Not that I thought you’d ever see it. But my mind was full of you, then. Which is to say, I was also confused. Very much so. Great witches of old, I thought I’d forget to feed you once and find you next as a corpse; I was so anxious.”

Qifrey found it hard to imagine. Beladruit had shown signs of stress, of course—who wouldn’t, with such a flighty apprentice—but, all things considered, had taken the role on with finesse.

…In most ways. Admittedly, there were things that Qifrey resented him for. Qifrey remembered laying in bed at night, thinking things like: it’s awful of him to keep me here, with all the water. He is trapping me. He’s trapping me here with these people that hate me, and it’s not worth it because I won’t be a good witch anyway. He won’t even give me a map. How will I get my memories like this? And so on.

Qifrey had taken it as purposeful harm. And he would be lying to say he’d gotten over it all.

But, hearing now how Bel had worried so hard…

Maybe Beldaruit hadn’t always done what Qifrey needed. Yet it was impossible to say he hadn’t tried.

“I’m sorry,” Qifrey said, and it came out pathetic and shaky—like most of his deliveries on this wretched day. “For being like this on your birthday. I’m sorry. It should have been a good day for you.”

“It was a good day,” Beldaruit said softly. “Why, I get to tweak and redistribute dozens of wonderful gifts. How could it not be?” There was the light scratch of nails against a hard surface as he dragged his hand down the arm of his chair. “Better than that, you’ve taken the time to talk to me. Knowing a fragment more of how you feel means everything. It’s how a witch looks inward, and improves himself as a teacher. Thank you.”

Qifrey’s eye stung, and he promised to slap himself if he cried one more damn time tonight. “That sounds complicated,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “I’d never be a teacher.”

Beldaruit slowly brought his hand to Qifrey’s hair and gave it one good ruffle. He leaned over to give a smile along with it. “You never know. It’s worth it. Trust me on that, if nothing else.”

How could he say that? With me as an apprentice?

Bel’d hand moved down to pluck the contraption from Qifrey’s lap. “It’s worth it, because you can tell your student things like this, and they must listen: I know how to help this project of yours along. A lovely idea, really, but we can—”

“—push it past its limits?” Qifrey suggested. Goodness, it sounded even stupider and more childish coming out of Qifrey’s mouth than Bel’s. He stood to lean over the back of Bel's chair.

Beldaruit grinned harder and nodded. “You got it. See how easy that was?”

“No,” Qifrey said flatly.

“Well—baby steps.”

Qifrey wiped his cheek one last time. Perhaps I will have a gift to give after all.

***

“And he still made you do this?” Olruggio asked, drawing a wind spell on his quire to help gather the streamers from the floor. “After all that talk of how you’re his treasured apprentice who he adores more than anything?”

“Nah, I volunteered,” Qifrey replied, brooming the old fashioned way. “He did make me put the party hat back on, though. Compensation, he claimed.”

Olly flicked the pom-pom, sending glitter into the air. He laughed. “Good move on his part.”

“Shut up.”

The Hall was quiet and empty, and seemed much larger that way. Their speech carried far and wide, to the other few witches burdened with clean up. They glared at the chattering, probably thinking something like, these dumb teens are way too loud! Preposterous.

Qifrey did not care. He’d had a long day, and they could stick their complaints up their asses.

He kicked a half-deflated Belda-balloon to the side. Olly chased after it, seemingly recovered from the day's events.

Qifrey would have been envious, but he knew it was mostly for show. Olruggio felt things very deeply and only put on a brave face for others’ sake. Undoubtedly, he’d be stewing over Qifrey’s breakdown for a while.

Which was why Qifrey should have felt guilty. But he didn’t feel that either. Not all the way. There was still a little, of course, and he knew it wasn’t exactly healthy for Olly to do that to himself…

However, just for right now, Qifrey let himself feel appreciation instead.

He’d been going over the conversations he’d had with both Olly and Bel—and the truth was, he was still very, very confused. There was no simple solution to any of his plights or anxieties. There was no way to erase the times he’d hurt others or himself in pursuit of a relief he would never find. There was, at the moment, no way for him to properly receive or reciprocate the love he’d been offered.

Yet the fact that he had picked himself up to go clean up streamers anyway indicated some change in himself that he did not want to let go of.

If there is no relief, he considered, perhaps there is at least resilience.

Perhaps he could find purpose regardless.

He still wasn’t sure. It would take years for him to work out the mess of himself, years likely filled with great suffering.

But, well…

Olly tripped over the balloon and laughed as he fell straight into a pile of pink streamers.

It’s worth it.