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“She’s gone and lost more of her body parts.”
Olruggio lifted his head sharply. The voice was across from him, two or so people down the table. It was the midday meal, and the main dining hall in the Great Hall was busy. Since Qifrey was absent and had been for the last week, Olruggio had joined one of the long communal tables with a myriad of other apprentices again. The conversation wasn’t involving him; he hadn’t said much since sitting down with his food. He had been up much of the night, a mess of anxiety. Qifrey was back from the capital. He’d arrived early this morning, and Olruggio had yet to visit him in the medical wing, knowing he would need time to settle.
He thought he was the only one who really knew that he and Lord Beldaruit and their retinue were back today. It had all been done rather discreetly.
But apparently not. Apparently word had got out.
“Really?” came the reply to the first voice. Olruggio was listening intently now.
“Yes,” said the first. Olruggio’s eyes found the speaker and glared. It was Raneul, because of course it was; that waste of good paper was always sticking his nose where it shouldn’t be, for all the wrong reasons. Olruggio felt himself rising out of his seat, the spoon in his hands lowering toward the bowl in front of him.
“It’s ghastly,” he went on. “I heard from one of the nurses-in-training. I can’t believe they allow people to do this sort of thing. And already missing an eye–ugh!”
The other apprentice in conversation with him murmured something of an assent. The witches around Olruggio had tuned in, too, attention caught by both the subject matter and Olruggio’s sudden and silent rise from the table. The dining hall was still bustling and filled with noise, but for Olruggio, everything had narrowed down to this one single moment.
“I always knew something was wrong in the head with that one,” concluded Raneul, with a sneering confidence.
Then, everything happened very fast.
Olruggio didn’t know how he got to the other side of the table; he must have climbed over it. But his hands were suddenly full of Raneul’s cloak and he had half-dragged the boy out of his seat and onto the floor. Blonde hair flew around a sputtering, flushed face. All around them, other apprentices had jumped up and away, bowls clattered. An ewer of water had tipped over, flooding the table top, and someone was already shouting for an intervention. But Olruggio registered none of it through his rage.
“What are you–” said Raneul, but Olruggio cut him off.
“Keep his name,” he said, with a cold calm, “out of your mouth.”
Despite the situation he had found himself in, Raneul had the gall to smirk. “You’ll notice I didn’t say a name, Olly,” he said. He tried to tug away from Olruggio, but the dark-haired young man’s grip was like a vice. “But I admit, you’re right, I am talking about your poor little girlf—“
Olruggio did not hear the rest of Raneul’s sentence. No one did.
He threw him to the ground and was on him. Raneul cried out as Olruggio’s fist connected with him, any part of him–it didn’t matter where his blows landed, just that they did. One, two, and then Olruggio was being hauled off of him by two adult witches who had run over to the scene as soon as it had begun.
Voices, admonishments, swearing and more–none of it brought Olruggio out of his anger. He was breathing hard, his cloak unbuttoned and askew, the knuckles on his right hand burning with pain. The grip on him was very firm, as it was obvious all he wanted to do was rip free of it and tackle Raneul to the ground again. That slime was being helped up by another witch–there were flecks of blood on his collar–and, spotting them, Olruggio felt nauseous at the sight despite his anger. Still, how could he–how dare he–
“Olruggio,” said the witch holding him back. “Dean’s office. Now.”
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What happened next was a series of talks with the witches who had been monitoring the dining hall, his master, the dean, and more–Olruggio lost count of how many witches asked him to explain himself. He refused to back down completely. He knew he was in the right–about confronting Raneul, anyway. Yes, hitting him had been wrong. Yes, he was sorry for that. Yes, he knew that wasn’t like him, he was a respectable young man who didn’t deign to rabble-rouse. Yes, yes, yes.
“And what about what he said, hey?” asked Olruggio for what felt like the nth time. He was back in the dean’s office, seated in a low chair in front of her desk. One of the deans, Labelle–a round-faced, serious woman–and her assistant, Yris, a younger man with soft eyes and a stiff stature–looked at each other.
“While what you claim he said about young Qifrey was undeniably rude and uncalled for, it’s not enough to mete out punishment,” said Labelle, “especially given that Apprentice Qifrey was not present to hear such language.”
“What does it matter if he was there or not?” said Olruggio. His patience after an afternoon of this was wearing thin, and he was growing more and more concerned he would not be able to see Qifrey before the medical wing closed to visitors for the day. “What that waste of–what Raneul said was vile, and he–” Olruggio paused, trying to speak diplomatically. “He didn’t address Qifrey in the way he should be addressed.”
What he wanted to say was more along the lines of: if that scumbag calls Qifrey a girl one more time when I'm around, it will be the last time he ever has a pair of working lips.
The dean and her assistant shared another look. “While again, it is unfortunate he did not exhibit proper respect for a fellow apprentice, Raneul claims he was simply commenting on facts and regrets they were expressed in such an insouciant manner.”
“Insouciant?” repeated Olruggio. His blood was boiling. “Facts?”
“Apprentice Olruggio, please,” said Yris, raising his hands to indicate that Olruggio settle down. “Enough of this. You are quite lucky Apprentice Raneul’s nose is not broken. His lip is split and he is badly bruised.”
“That’s not even half of what he deserves,” said Olruggio, without care or thought to the consequences.
The dean’s eyes narrowed. “We understand Apprentice Qifrey is your friend, but this is unacceptable behaviour. If you wish to be a good friend to your fellow apprentice, your energy would be better spent on addressing their current needs rather than assaulting fellow students who spoke out of turn.”
Olruggio, who was not often prone to violent thoughts, wanted very badly to grab the pen case on the desk directly in front of him and throw it across the room. “His needs,” he said slowly, enunciating with care, “include him being treated with respect, Dean Labelle, and that includes referencing him in such a way that he has well defined a long time now.”
Dean Labelle went a little red high in her face as she caught the edges of Olruggio’s ire. He was furious with her, too, for refusing to refer to Qifrey as he should be; simply not using feminine terms was in line with Raneul’s disgusting outburst.
“Though I acknowledge your concern for your friend, you are not the one who speaks for him,” she said, emphasizing that final word in the same way he had. “This incident will be going on your permanent record, Apprentice Olruggio, and a letter detailing the events will be sent to your parents. Your master will mete out a punishment as he sees fit in the coming days. You are dismissed.”
Olruggio stood, gave a slight bow, and left without another word, as whatever words were left in him would have most likely resulted in a second addition to his permanent record.
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“Olly!”
Qifrey’s voice was bright.
Olruggio had made it just in time–a half hour until visiting hours were over. He had practically run to the medical wing, and had almost begged the nurse at the desk if he could make a quick visitation. She had been on duty when he had come in earlier to get his split knuckles bandaged, and nodded her assent, bewildered as she was seeing the young man still in such a harried state.
But the delight in Qifrey’s greeting had been worth the day’s delays and grievances.
“I made it!” Olruggio said, throwing up his hands in triumph as he strode into the room. Qifrey was in a solo ward, given that he needed a few more days of care before he could be discharged and settled back into his own dorm. He was propped up in the bed by a large pillow, a blanket covering him from the waist down. His glasses were on, as they often were now, even when he wasn’t reading or drawing. He wore a large, loose, cream-coloured shirt; the sleeves were rolled up.
He was drowning in the fabric. It made him look even more gangly than he already was. A couple of summers ago, Qifrey had shot up in height while Olruggio had not. Now they were both sixteen, he didn’t expect he would catch up, but they both still had some growth left to go.
“Come, sit,” said Qifrey, patting the bed.
He sounded tired but cheerful. Some of the anxiety in Olruggio diminished. He had been worried he would walk in on the boy looking pale and exhausted. But he looked like his usual self, apart from the general air of weariness.
Olruggio sat. He drank in the sight of the dear friend he hadn’t seen in a week. Was his hair a little longer? It certainly looked unkempt. Right, Qifrey had said bathing would be difficult for a while. Had no one offered to wash his hair thoroughly?
Qifrey’s smile faltered a little at Olruggio’s staring. “What?” he said. “What’s wrong?”
Olruggio jumped. “Nothin’!” he said. “They’ve been taking good care of you?” he ventured.
Qifrey looked at him carefully. “Yes,” he said. “It’s still quite difficult to get out of bed on my own, but I can move about just fine when I’m up. The pain has mostly subsided. Now I just ache, but willowwort powder helps with that.”
“And it went well? The doctors’–” Olruggio faltered, unsure what to ask of him.
“Oh yes,” said Qifrey, smile returning. “It’s amazing what they can do in Ezrest. They’re really advancing so much. I couldn’t ask after too much, of course, but look–can you pass me that pouch there?”
He pointed to a leather pouch on the bedside table, beside his hat. The dark ribbon at its tip was pooled around it in a spiral. Olruggio reached over it and passed the pouch to him. Qifrey carefully opened it and pulled out a glass vial. In it was a pale gold liquid.
“They’ve given me this,” he said. “‘Essence of maleness’”, one of the surgeons said, which is a rather ridiculous name if you ask me. But much like ink-making, apparently you can distill and separate components. In this case, they distill those found in animal bodies that make them… grow. And change. According to sex.”
Olruggio looked on, wide-eyed. “So you…?”
“Are going to grow a terrible little moustache like you,” said Qifrey, smirking.
Olruggio’s hand shot up to the hairs on his upper lip. “Hold on a tick–”
“I’m sure yours will always look much better,” said Qifrey, beaming. “Besides, I can’t really picture myself with a beard. Can you?”
Olruggio looked at his friend and tried to imagine it; a silvery moustache, with a short, dignified beard. The mental image made his heart stutter for some reason.
“I could see it,” he said. “How long will the, uh–essence–take to work?”
Qifrey deflated somewhat. “Oh, months, if not years,” he said. “It will be gradual, anyway. It has to be transfused into muscle or fat every week or so. I’m to come to the medical wing to have a nurse do it. Master Beldaruit is in heated talks about whether or not I should ever be taught to do it myself to save everyone the time and effort. But that would be breaking the rules. Regardless, it may be worth it. Don’t want me inconveniencing anyone, I expect.”
Olruggio bristled. He hoped no one had said that to Qifrey outright.
“Don’t look like that,” said Qifrey, smiling slightly again. “I’m back and I’m pleased. I may feel like a herd of pegasi ran over me, but it’s for good reason. How was your past week?”
Olruggio blinked. “Uh–” he said, eyes flitting down to his right hand, which was carefully covered by his sleeve. Well, as much as it could be covered, anyway. “Fine. Pretty unremarkable. I’ve been havin’ a time with the ice-making seals–”
Qifrey cut him off. “What’s that on your hand?” he asked.
“Nothing,” said Olruggio stupidly.
“It looks like a bandage.”
“So it is,” said Olruggio, bringing his hand forth and marvelling at it as if he had never seen it before.
“Don’t play coy. What happened?”
Olruggio was a terrible liar, especially when it came to Qifrey, who he could not bear the idea of lying to.
“Split my knuckles,” he mumbled.
Qifrey stared. “What?”
“I split my knuckles,” he said a little louder. He offered his hand, showing Qifrey the pinkish stains on the white bandage where the blood had leaked through.
“How?” demanded Qifrey, looking concerned.
“I punched Raneul in the face.”
“What!?”
Qifrey had paled, looking shocked. In all their years together, he had seen Olruggio angry on several occasions, had even seen him get in the faces of other apprentices, but never had he risen to such violence. Olruggio flushed red with shame.
“At the midday meal,” he muttered. “It’s why I was so late seeing you. He–”
“Was being an ass? I can only imagine,” said Qifrey. He rolled his eye. They were both well aware of Raneuel’s delight in getting under people’s skin. He adored gossip and rumours and finding out what made people squirm–he was rather adept at sound and echo-based spells for this reason. He had probably heard about Qifrey’s return by using one to eavesdrop on the nurses. Despite his terrible behaviour and untoward interests, he somehow still had friends, a fact that Olruggio loathed to see.
“He’s always been terrible and yet you’ve never hit him before,” continued Qifrey. “What happened, Olly?”
“I don’t want to say,” said Olruggio, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was… well, he was spouting off about you.”
Qifrey went quiet. “Oh,” he said.
Olruggio wanted to kick himself and Raneul both. Heart pounding, he went on: “It was all nonsense, coming out of his sad little mouth. But I couldn’t let it continue, the way he was talking about you after what you just went through, and–”
“I know many of the witches here don’t like or accept me,” said Qifrey slowly, “in a multitude of ways. But I don’t need you to fight them off for me.”
Olruggio froze. He didn’t know what he had expected–he knew Qifrey was aware of how people spoke of him, how some even spoke to him, and he had taken it in stride. But didn’t he ever tire of it? Didn’t he want to just–just make them shut up?
“I’m sorry,” said Olruggio. “I know, I know I shouldn’t have decked him–I got angry, and I was already worried about you, and then…”
“Oh, you should have hit him,” said Qifrey, surprising him again, “but I wish you had waited until I was there, at least, so we both could do some damage and then share the blame.”
Olruggio stared at him, lips parted in shock.
“I’ve wanted to throttle that little weaselfish every time he so much as looked at me, let alone anything else,” said Qifrey, his gaze like ice. “He’s got it out for anyone who doesn’t fit into his embarrassingly narrow view of the world. How sad for him. He should be so much sadder, however.”
Olruggio laughed–a short, barking laugh that was tinged with his surprise. “Wow,” he said. “I didn’t know you hated him so.”
“He’s not worth my time, so I keep it close to my chest,” said Qifrey, his expression warming again as he looked to Olruggio. “And coincidentally, now I can keep it even closer.”
He raised a hand and gently, almost reverently, pressed it to the flat plane of his chest. It was so stunningly intimate a gesture that Olruggio immediately felt a flush creep onto his face. But he was glad to have witnessed it nonetheless.
“Was that a joke?” asked Olruggio after a moment, grinning.
“Perhaps,” said Qifrey. “I’m allowed to joke about myself, am I not?”
“Only if it’s good-spirited. Or else.”
“Or else what?”
“I’ll deck you, I suppose,” said Olruggio, shrugging. “I’ve a reputation to uphold now, I should think.”
“Oh yes, you’ll have quite the rough-and-tumble status now,” said Qifrey, playfully mocking. “Surely no one will think of you as kind-hearted Olly, the apprentice who tears up when he sees a particularly beautiful ray of sunlight, any longer.”
“Hey!” said Olruggio, voice rising. “That was one time–”
“And I should hope it will be more than just the once!” countered Qifrey.
Again, Olruggio was floored. “What?”
“I should hope you never lose that sense of wonder and appreciation for the tender parts of life,” said Qifrey softly. “It’s what makes you you, Olly, and it’s something I love about you. Don’t get hard-hearted on me.”
Olruggio felt as if an arrow of flame had shot right through him. Everything felt hot, all at once, almost violently so, from his gut to the top of his skull.
Something Qifrey loved about him?
“Olruggio?” came Qifrey’s voice out of the haze. “Are you quite alright? You look pale.”
“Yes, I–” stammered Olruggio, “I’m, uh, hungry, I think. I haven’t eaten since midday, after everything happened, and I–”
“Don’t miss dinner on my account,” Qifrey said. “The dining hall will be closing soon. You can visit me tomorrow morning if you’ve the time, and–could you bring me one of the mountain apple hand pies? It’s been so long.”
Qifrey decried the lack of mountain apple pastries in Ezrest, but Olruggio wasn’t completely listening; he was enraptured by how animated Qifrey was, how cheerful he seemed. His friend was nowhere near as closed off and dour as he had been years ago, but seeing him like this– pale, tired, exhausted from his surgery and recovery, but smiling and laughing all the same– made it feel difficult to breathe properly. He felt light-headed.
“Go!” said Qifrey fiercely, bringing him back to earth. “If you starve on my account, I’ll never forgive myself.”
Olruggio was up on his feet before he realized it, ready and willing to obey. “Right,” he said. “Mountain apple hand pie. On it. I’ll bring one.”
“Tomorrow,” said Qifrey. His eye was full of light in the otherwise dim room as he looked at Olruggio. “Tomorrow, please, so I have even more to look forward to. Though even if you visited empty-handed, it would be quite enough.”
Olruggio felt the world tilt again. Why did he feel like he was going to be sick and feel as if he could tear down a whole mountain apple tree to lay at Qifrey’s feet at the same time? He nodded and, smiling, said his goodbyes before leaving the medical wing and making his way back down the hall.
As he walked, his mind racing, he put his hand to his chest, carefully, lovingly, as Qifrey had just minutes ago.
Behind the cage of his ribs, his heart was beating so fast it almost hurt, making the ache in his knuckles pale in comparison.
He would bring Qifrey a mountain apple hand pie tomorrow. No, he would bring him two, and he would make sure they were as warm as if they had just come out of the oven.
If that would make Qifrey look at him like that once more, he would do it. No matter what.