Archive of Our Own

They are seventeen when it happens for the first time: that strange little tug between his ribs. It feels as though he accidentally swallowed a very small quadryphon; its wings flapping impatiently as it flutters from corner to corner, eager to escape the prison that is his abdominal region. Qifrey presses down on his stomach, wondering if he could will the imaginary bird to stop.

Stop it, he mentally hisses.

The fake quadryphon squawks. Its wings continue to beat mercilessly.

He feels nauseous.

He’s in Olruggio’s room, as per usual, and he can almost hear his teacher’s voice in the back of his mind, sounding far too amused for his own good. (“Spending time with Olruggio again? It’s almost like you two are living together!”)

He tells this imaginary voice to be quiet.

Qifrey feels like he’s filled with imaginary things. Creatures, voices, bones. As if he’s a person at playing at being a person; something that’s been stitched together haphazardly and set loose upon the world.

Sometimes he wonders if someone might have attached numerous strings to his limbs, like he’s some odd, wooden puppet. In his imagination, a puppeteer sits behind a thick red curtain, controlling the marionette that is his body, bending it this way and that so that Qifrey can trick people into appearing more human than he actually is.

He’s seen the puppets in the windows of a toy store once. A little boy made of wood, with freckles and blue eyes and glossy hair, a stiff smile painted across his face. Looking at it felt strange and a little bit unnerving. As if Qifrey was the one behind the large, polished window instead; propped up against a colorful stack of blocks and surrounded by numerous toys.

Luckily, Olruggio had tugged on his sleeve and dragged him towards this little tavern he’d recently discovered. They refused to serve them any alcoholic beverages, but the food was spectacular. Qifrey remembers the look of delight that decorated Olruggio’s features when his best friend was presented with an assortment of delicacies — the sheer excitement with which he scooped a spoonful of stew into his mouth and slathered a heaping amount of butter onto a piece of warm bread.

The thought of it makes Qifrey’s stomach rumble. He knows that Olruggio has a plethora of snacks hidden in every corner of his room. Something Qifrey never thought to do.

Their rooms couldn’t be more different. Whereas Qifrey’s room is virtually empty, save for the essentials such as bed, a desk, a chair and a dresser, Olruggio’s room is filled to the brim with knick-knacks, trinkets and contraptions. Some purchased, some self-made.

He’s been doing that a lot more lately — tinkering away and decorating the pages of his sketchbooks with all kinds of nifty inventions and interesting ideas and concepts. Sometimes Qifrey is allowed to peer at the sketches, but most of the time Olruggio keeps them to himself. Qifrey finds his sudden bashfulness quite comical.

It’s strange to think of someone as talented as Olruggio as a person with their own set of insecurities, especially with the way people speak of him. However, Qifrey is very aware of the pressure Olruggio must feel on a regular basis and how his best friend feels the urge to improve his skills again and again.

Said best friend is currently twirling his pen between his fingers, ink stains covering his skin. Between them, on Olruggio’s bed, lie multiple crumpled pieces of papier. Failed spells.

“I give up,” Olruggio declares with a sigh, arms tucked behind his head before he lets himself fall onto his back. “I’ll try again tomorrow.”

“So motivated,” Qifrey teases, peering at the old versions of a spell he’s been working on for the better part of three months. He’s so close to getting it.

Olruggio raises a finger. “Part of learning is knowing when to stop.”

“You stayed up ‘til sunrise two days ago,” Qifrey points out dryly.

“That’s not relevant right now!”

Laughter falls from Qifrey’s lips, the sound filling the space around them. When he looks down at Olruggio again, he’s rewarded with a glare that’s not half as threatening as Olruggio must think it is. His hair falls across his forehead, the longer strands reaching the bridge of his nose, and he watches as Olruggio’s brows knit together in annoyance. He huffs, releasing a puff of air in a pitiful attempt to get rid of the aforementioned strands. His efforts are in vain, because each dark strand returns to its original spot when they land. It triggers a temporary outburst of irritation, during which he pushes himself upright again with a groan and pushes his hair out of his face.

Qifrey bites on the inside of his cheek in an attempt to suppress the smile he’s wearing. “It’s getting longer.”

“I know,” Olruggio huffs, twirling a few of the strands between his fingers with a sour look. “I need to cut it again.”

His tongue pokes out slightly as he stretches the strands, as if measuring how much he needs to cut so that they will no longer bother him. The look of irritation he wore mere seconds ago is replaced by something else; a calculative look that tells Qifrey he’s assessing the situation and weighing his options. It’s a familiar sight.

Qifrey has noticed that Olruggio tackles every problem with the same dedication and single-minded focus.

Whether he’s working on his spells or creating a new contraption or figuring out how many snacks he’s going to swipe from the cafeteria, his approach remains the same.

It’s …strangely endearing.

As Qifrey ponders this, the quadryphon beats its wings again. He feels that weird little flutter somewhere in his stomach for a second time that afternoon and he doesn’t know what to make of it. At the same time, there’s a tightness in his chest and he notices how his palms feel strangely warm all of a sudden.

It reminds him of the early nights spent in the Hall, the home that never quite felt like a home. Qifrey recalls those first few days – how he’d wake up with a start in the middle of the night, his skin drenched in sweat and his tunic clinging to his skin. He’d clutch at the fabric, forming a fist with his hand, right over his heart, and peered into the darkness as though there was someone there, waiting and waiting to take him away.

He pushes the memory aside, stuffs it in a large chest, and keeps it hidden behind walls of iron.

Across from him, Olruggio tilts his head slightly before offering him a quizzical look. Qifrey remembers to respond to his friend’s earlier remark. “Do you want me to cut if for you?”

The question causes Olruggio’s expression into something resembling wariness. “You handy with a pair of shears?”

“How hard could it be?” Qifrey asks, frowning. He thinks about the times he’s trimmed his own hair, carefully pinching the strands between the blades and removing the parts that had grown too long. He always kept the strands that fell over the right part of his face longer, for it allowed him to hide the scar tissue that covered his eyelid.

In the past, when Qifrey was much younger, Lord Beldaruit had commented on it. He’d mention that there was nothing for him to feel ashamed about, which made Qifrey clench his jaws tightly. While Lord Beldaruit, like him, must’ve experienced his fair share of odd looks and not-so-silent whispers, Qifrey found it hard to take pride in the thing that made him stand out. (It’s still something he struggles with today.)

Not long after that, they found a solution; custom-made glasses that consisted of a black lense and a transparent lense. Completely unique in its design.

Olruggio had been the one to come up with part of the design, spending hours upon hours by Qifrey’s side as they filled their notebooks with a dozen sketches.

“Won’t it look weird?” Qifrey asked, hesitantly.

“It will make you look interesting,” Olruggio told him.

Qifrey didn’t know if he wanted to look interesting, he wanted to look normal. It had been the wish of a child, filled with frustration and despair.

After approximately five or six versions of the design, they found one that suited him best. And, yes, the glasses looked a little odd initially, but when they found a way to enchant the transparent lens with a light-reducing spell, Qifrey quickly forgot about his appearance. He recalls how he’d sighed with relief the first time he’d worn the spectacles.

“I don’t know, I think they look nice on you!” Olruggio said at the time. “Makes you finally look smart too.”

The latter comment earned him a pillow to the face.

Qifrey touches the rim of his glasses as the memory fades. Olruggio looks a little contemplative before suddenly crawling off the bed and rummaging through a drawer in his desk until he’s able to procure a pair of shears. “Alright. Do it.”

“Now?” Qifrey asks, frowning. He glances up as Olruggio approaches the bed again, silently wondering when and how Olruggio had gotten so tall all of a sudden. For the past years, Qifrey had been the one to tower over him, but this past summer, it seemed that Olruggio’s body had undergone a few changes.

It irritated him.

“Yeah. Of course,” Olruggio replies, twirling the shears in a way that could not be safe. His voice has gotten notably deeper too. There was a time where it would crack occasionally, which led to many fits of laughter (Qifrey) and many angry looks (Olruggio), but now it sounds smooth and rich. A bit gruff at times, too.

Qifrey doesn’t want to spend too much time thinking about it, so he says, “Come sit then. I’m not going to do it standing.”

He waits until Olruggio lowers himself onto the bed once more, shifting and moving until they’re able to sit across from each other. How often had they sat exactly like this when they were younger? Legs folded in front of them, ankles crossed, and knees touching slightly.

Now, as Qifrey’s knee brushes against Olruggio’s, he feels a small pinprick along his skin. Like a zap of lightning. This didn’t happen when they were younger, he notes.

Once more, the quadryphon has made a home of his bones. It feasts on his fifth rib, devouring it in greedy gulps, but Qifrey ignores it, forcing himself to exhale and focus on the task at hand.

Olruggio is frowning at him — thick, dark brows covered by equally dark hair, and his lips twisting in displeasure. It paints a rather comical sight.

Qifrey presses his lips together in an attempt to suppress a smile as he takes the shears from him. Carefully, he combs his fingers through the strands that fall across Olruggio’s forehead. They feel soft and pleasant against his skin and he tries not to think about how he could probably spend the rest of the afternoon doing this. “Stop looking so angry. I thought you trusted me.”

“Maybe I changed my mind,” Olruggio mutters, exhaling roughly through his nose.

“Too late,” Qifrey teases. “Sit still, okay?”

A short hum is the only response he gets.

Olruggio closes his eyes then, which already makes Qifrey feel a little more at ease. It’s not that Olruggio makes him nervous — that would be preposterous — it’s just that his gaze is always so intense. As if he’s able to peer into Qifrey’s soul merely by glancing at him. Sometimes, he suspects Olruggio of doing so; of looking past layers of flesh and bone until he finds the center of him, something gnarled and covered in endless roots.

Nausea sweeps through his stomach.

He shouldn’t be thinking about that.

Carefully, he raises the shears to Olruggio’s forehead, pinching the dark strands between the blades and watching as the ends are carefully removed. They fall between them, gathering in Qifrey’s lap and landing atop Olruggio’s leg. Amidst this slow but careful process, Qifrey’s gaze drops to Olruggio’s mouth, watching as his best friend tugs his lower lip between his teeth. He must be nervous or concerned about the outcome. The thought sends a flash of amusement through him.

As if Olruggio could ever look bad.

Qifrey has seen the way boys and girls within the Hall look at him, as if drawn to him by some invisible force. Sometimes he feels the urge to scowl at them, especially when they start to swarm around him. Olruggio remains indifferent to it most of the time, only complaining about it in private on occasion.

It comes with being a prodigy, Qifrey supposes.

A term Olruggio vehemently dislikes. Doesn’t mean shit, he said once. I like makin’ things. I’m not more special than any other witch; I just want to help people.

As Qifrey mentally repeats that last sentence, a cold sensation spreads through his chest. Simultaneously, the corners of his mouth lift into a smile, but the happiness he’s supposed to feel remains notably absent.

Instead, he feels guilt. Like a rot, it seeps into his bones.

Sweet, dutiful Olruggio, he thinks. Far too good for m—

“You about done?”

The sudden question, coupled with the look of impatience Olruggio offers him, eyes now opened and brows drawn together, startles Qifrey. He flinches, a noise of surprise exiting his throat as he nearly drops the shears.

“Ah, shit careful!” Olruggio exclaims, ducking away when Qifrey almost pokes his eyes out with one of the blades.

When he raises his head again, Qifrey’s eye widens. A mixture of horror and amusement gathers in his belly and he instantly slaps a hand over his mouth with a startled laugh.

Olruggio brushes his fingers through his hair, glancing up when the strands fall over his forehead and attempting to assess the length of his hair. Qifrey notices the exact moment that it dawns on him that a few of the strands are much shorter than the others because he releases a strangled noise, eyes going wide. “Qifrey!”

Rather quickly, Qifrey raises his hands in defense. Laughter, loud and unstoppable, crawls up his throat, and he feels a sudden warmth flooding his cheeks as he shuffles back on the bed. “You startled me!”

With a groan Olruggio gets off the bed and darts towards the mirror attached to the wall. He releases a shrill, muffled shriek, which only fuels Qifrey’s amusement more. His shoulders shake with laughter, both hands now folded over the lower half of his face to stifle the noises that threaten to spill over his lips. It fails miserably and he makes an attempt to string together a proper sentence in between rounds of laughter. “I’ll fix it! I swear!”

“You better!” Olruggio exclaims, taking a few hasty steps towards the bed before he all but dives on top of Qifrey.

Within a matter of moments, fingers curl around Qifrey’s wrist, the weight of another person’s body pressing down on him, and he releases a shriek of his own when Olruggio’s knee digs into his stomach. There’s a moment of resistance, his wrists twisting and turning in Olruggio’s grip as more laughter — loud, uncontrollable laughter — bursts from his chest. He tries to knock Olruggio off him, but it seems that his best friend has the upper hand, which he uses to dig his fingers into Qifrey’s side as punishment. By now Olruggio’s laughing too. “You think this is funny, huh?”

Qifrey’s stomach hurts, each muscle contracting almost painfully to funnel the joy that inhabits his body. Laughter is a strange thing, he thinks. It’s a fascinating, bodily response to happiness. The fact that one is hardwired to make sounds when feeling entirely delighted or thoroughly entertained is a strange but beautiful thing.

Olruggio has always brought that out of him.

There’s no one else who could make him laugh this much, he realizes. In the few years that they’ve known each other, he’s managed to fill the chambers of Qifrey’s heart with a sensation he thought long lost. Like raindrops slipping into the earth, fragments of joy seeped into him. These fragments began to coagulate, gradually turning into something solid and real.

There’s a part of me that’s real, Qifrey would think at night, his palm pressed over his heart. The happiness I feel around him is real.

He feels it now too; a maddening sensation he’s unable to control. It should scare him a little, but, strangely enough, when Olruggio is near, Qifrey isn’t afraid. There are times when he would look to his side, into the face of his closest friend, and think: I feel a little braver now.

As the laughter begins to subside, his muscles feeling a little heavier, a sense of relief envelops him. Olruggio’s face hovers above his own, choppy bangs and all, and Qifrey bites down on his own bottom lip with a snort. Briefly, silence stretches between them, the sound of their combined breathing deafeningly loud in the small room.

A small grin forms on Olruggio’s lips and—oh, there it is again. That strange flutter. The quadryphon must’ve returned.

There isn’t much time to ponder the existence of the hypothetical creature that lives between his bones, because Qifrey chokes on his next inhale. An ever familiar sensation crawls along his spine, sharp, painful, and sudden. He can feel it moving beneath his skin, scratching at him from the inside, itching to be freed. Panic lances his chest and he can barely stop his body from jerking when a stab of pain tears through him.

Above him, Olruggio’s eyes widen, and Qifrey can only think oh no, please, not now as he pushes at his friend’s chest with every bit of strength he can muster.

With a gasp, he pushes himself upright, one of his hands reaching for his throat. He’s going to choke, he’s going to cho—

“Qifrey!”

Olruggio’s voice is a distant echo and suddenly there’s a hand on his back. “Don’t,” he rasps. Instinctively, Qifrey ducks away. In doing so, he throws himself off the bed.

His knees throb with pain, but it’s not enough. He needs something else. A burning sensation appears behind his eye socket, the parasite wriggling through layers of flesh to free itself from the depths of Qifrey’s bones. Sometimes, he thinks it can speak. He can almost hear it laughing at him, mocking him. Other times, it has a calm, soothing voice like that of a mother.

Surrender, it appears to whisper.

But Qifrey is stronger than he was five years ago.

“Tell me what to do!” Olruggio cries out.

“Water,” Qifrey instructs him between gasps. “Use—use a water spell on me.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Olruggio scrambling for a piece of paper and his quill. Even in this moment of panic, his hands are steady. His visage becomes a little cloudy when Qifrey realizes what will come next.

He needs to catch the tears.

“I’m so sorry, Olly.”

—₊‧࿐ ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆࿐‧₊—

It happens again, six months later.

Fortunately, there haven’t been many incidents since then and Qifrey finds new ways to keep the Silverwood at bay. Water seems to help at times. Which is both fortunate and unfortunate, he supposes. Olruggio doesn’t remember anything, of course, so Qifrey’s secrets live inside of him a little longer, nestling into the crevices of his body much like the Silverwood has done. One day they will become too large to contain and he knows what will happen.

An amalgamation of sensations live inside of him. Shame, guilt, fear — they have all made a home of his bones, feasting on his psyche. They are the monsters he must battle at night, when the back of his head comes into contact with his pillow and his eye falls shut. In the silence of his bedroom, endless thoughts — both loud and quiet — plague him night after night. Over the years he’s learned when to ignore them and when to give in to them. It feels like balancing oneself on a tightrope while peering into the abyss that lays beneath. One wrong step and he goes tumbling down into the darkness.

Who will be there to catch him?

Olruggio?

Speaking of Olruggio—

Qifrey’s leg bounces impatiently as he waits for his friend to emerge from a room in the Medical Spire. He tugs on his fingers, nails dragging across skin in a way that will surely leave angry, red marks if he keeps doing this for the foreseeable future.

How long has he been sitting here? One clockmark? Maybe two?

Before coming here, he’d been thumbing through a book Lord Beldaruit had given him sometime ago. A tome filled with information about the various creatures that lived across the Zozah Peninsula. He learned about the scalewolves, which shed their scales during mating season, and found himself thoroughly fascinated by a passage about dragons and dragonlike creatures. But Qifrey was equally fascinated by the smallest of lives, such as the unnamed small, beetle-like creatures with green bodies and orange wings. Or the bumblebees that could alter their colors to blend into their surroundings, much like chameleons. None of this information brought him closer to his overall goal, but it was fascinating regardless.

Halfway through a passage about aquatic life, more specifically whales, Alaira had rushed into Qifrey’s hiding spot in the library. When she’d shouted his name, a sense of panic coloring her voice, the librarian — an older woman with bright blue eyes and thick, blonde hair that was braided into a crown of sorts — regarded both of them with a stern look and not-so-subtly suggested that they leave the area. Qifrey barely had the time to feel mortified by the entire ordeal, because Alaira had tugged on his sleeve and dragged him outside. “It’s Olruggio!”

Immediately, panic seized Qifrey’s throat. It felt like someone pressed down on his trachea, cutting off his airflow. Terror became the ache in his chest, a sharp, burning sensation, while his legs carried him towards the Medical Spire. Doctors and witches alike passed him, most of them barely paying attention to him, and he remembers how Alaira had sat with him for at least a clockmark before she, sadly, had to leave. “Will you be okay?”

“Yes,” Qifrey lied, hoping he sounded a lot more sure than he felt. “Thank you for staying. I’ll come find you later.”

Alaira had pressed her hand to his forearm then, golden eyes filled with concern, and nodded twice. “He’ll be okay.”

“I know.”

Now, as Qifrey shifts on the small chair he’d claimed that afternoon, he secretly wishes she would’ve stayed. His gaze darts across the small hallway he finds himself in, observing its wooden floors and stone walls. There is an endless row of doors, all of them leading towards separate rooms where numerous witches are being treated for various reasons. Olruggio is one of those rooms.

It’s not the first time they’ve visited the Medical Spire and he highly doubts it will be the last time, but he wishes Olruggio were a little more careful at times. With a groan, Qifrey slumps forward, the heels of his palms digging into his eyesockets. He exhales slowly, his brain stitching together a number of images to create multiple scenarios. A cut? A fracture? A burn? How severe is the damage? Will they keep him here overnight?

Question after question pours into his mind, until the soft, creaking sound of an old door being opened causes each of his thoughts to come to a sudden halt. There are multiple voices. One female, one male. “And please, be careful next time.”

It’s Olruggio’s voice, deep and familiar, that causes Qifrey to raise his head. “I’ll try my best.”

He watches as his closest friend slowly makes his way down the dimly-lit hallway, his steps pausing when he catches sight of Qifrey. “Qifrey?”

Almost immediately, Qifrey gets to his feet. He rushes forward, steps hurried, heart pounding within his ribcage and relief sweeping through his bones with large strokes. It feels like he’s lost control of his body, for his limbs move of their own accord. He’s a marionette again — the doll on strings with hands, arms, and legs that don’t quite feel right. Someone is controlling him, pulling on the imaginary string attached to the top of his head.

Run, the puppeteer says. Run to him.

So, Qifrey the Puppet runs.

Shiny wooden shoes meet wooden floors. His body might be false, but his friend is real. His friend, who’s in pain. Qifrey has to do something about it.

The distance between them gets smaller and smaller, but his feet don’t pause in time, and it sends him crashing into Olruggio, who staggers backward as Qifrey wraps his arms around his neck tightly.

He smells a little like tinder and smoke and cinnamon. It’s so familiar.

They almost tumble to the floor, but it seems that Olruggio managed to catch himself at the last moment. He places a careful hand on Qifrey’s back, who doesn’t even notice that he’s breathing heavily. “Ow—careful!”

Rather quickly, Qifrey pulls away, keeping his hands on Olruggio’s shoulders as he gives him a brief once over. There are bandages around his hands and wrists and a smaller piece is attached to his left cheek. It makes him look a little ridiculous and Qifrey would laugh at the absurdity of it all if his stomach didn’t feel like it was trying to eat itself. He searches for more bandages, further proof of injury, but he finds none. “What spell was it?”

“Nothin’ special. Just a light spell I’m working on.”

With a scoff and a raised brow, Qifrey says, “You mean to tell me that a simple light spell did this?”

Olruggio chews on his bottom lip before rubbing the back of his neck. “I messed up somewhere,” he says, sounding equal parts frustrated and disappointed as he glances down at his hands. “S’fine, though. Just a few burns.”

Behind him, the doctor who helped him, a woman with deep brown skin and dark hair looks a little skeptical. She plants a hand on her hip. “That is a slight understatement. Regularly apply the salve and change the bandages every day.”

She then glances at Qifrey and raises her brows, offering him a look that says make sure he does as instructed.

He nods at her, then looks back at Olruggio, who seems to be observing his hands and is likely calculating how much time it will take before he’s able to properly draw again.

It’s then that another voice echoes through the hallway, a little high pitched. “Ah, Olruggio!”

A brown-haired girl who appears to be similar in age as the two of them looks mildly surprised as she approaches the group. In her arms rests a wicker basket filled with linen cloths, and now that she’s a little closer, Qifrey notices that her dress is similar to that of the doctor, but slightly different in color. She must still be an apprentice. Her hair is tied back in a long braid that stops somewhere along her waist and her eyes are a vibrant shade of green, reminding him of the leaves of a large tree.

There’s a look of concern, but that is quickly replaced by a small grin. “Did you burn yourself again?”

Qifrey watches as Olruggio’s expression sours, a dust of pink settling on his cheeks as he looks away. “I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

Laughter, soft and melodious, spills from her lips. “You never change.”

She turns to Qifrey then, “Apologies! Where are my manners? Is this your friend? The one you mentioned before?”

“Qifrey, yeah,” Olruggio explains.

Qifrey inclines his head towards her, forcing a smile onto his lips even though every part of him longs to tear Olruggio away from the Medical Spire. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you. My name is Sinocia; I’m a doctor’s apprentice here.”

Olruggio clears his throat. “She’s helped me out before.”

“Olruggio’s one of our regulars!”

A brief conversation between the two follows, during which it becomes rather obvious that the two are a little more than acquaintances, but less than friends. There’s talk of the salve the doctor had offered Olruggio and Sinocia nods in understanding, eyes momentarily widening before she explains the ingredients in the salve and how they work.

Behind them, the doctor nods approvingly at her explanation and takes the wicker basket from her. “Very good, Sinocia. You’ve not been neglecting your studies. I’ll bring these away. Could you prepare the fifth room when you two are done? Ask Ermile to help you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sinocia replies with a nod and a bright smile. Once the older woman has left, she visibly deflates, her hands hidden behind her back as she leans against the wall.

“Tough day?” Olruggio wonders.

At this, Sinocia’s lips are pressed together tightly. A line appears between her brows. “Not more than usual, it’s just…” she trails off, a sigh born from frustration crawling up her throat. “I don’t think Ermile likes me very much.”

Next to Qifrey, Olruggio makes a noise of surprise. “Ridiculous. Who doesn’t like you?”

Within seconds, a smile splits across the lower half of her face, the sound of laughter filling the small hallway. “You’re too kind.”

It’s then that Qifrey feels it again. That weird flutter in his stomach. Though, this time, he feels a little nauseous, too. His chest seems to constrict as though there is a foreign object stuck behind his sternum.

For a moment, he’s scared that the Silverwood will stir to life inside of him, its thick, gnarled roots stretching beyond the confines of the makeshift prison that is Qifrey’s body, but the parasite, fortunately, remains dormant.

No, the foreign sensation crawling across Qifrey’s bones is something else entirely. A beast of his own making.

Like the Silverwood, it slithers and crawls, and he likens it to a viper — dark scales and venomous fangs and all. It burns through the lines of his stomach like acid, eating away at the flesh it finds there.

He tries to swallow past the discomfort, making an attempt to ignore the tightness in his jaw and the way his hands feel a little warmer than usual, but his efforts are futile.

In front of him, Olruggio is still talking to Sinocia and Qifrey almost feels silly for coming here. It’s clear that he isn’t neede—

“Sinocia,” a deep, female voice calls from the other end of the hall. In the distance, a girl approaches them, carrying two wooden buckets. The first thing Qifrey notices is her height. She towers over each of them, her expression neutral as she regards the trio. Her hair is cut short, much shorter than Qifrey’s or Olruggio’s, and the color kind of reminds him of wheat.

Something peculiar happens then. Sinocia perks up, hands still hidden behind her back and a chuckle escaping her throat as she regards the girl with a look he finds difficult to decipher. It’s not fear, nor is it excitement. Nervousness perhaps?

This must be the girl she mentioned before. Ermile. The one who apparently doesn’t like her.

“Sorry! I’m all ready if you are,” Sinocia tells her before turning to Qifrey and Olruggio. “So good to finally meet you, Qifrey. And good luck with your hands, Olruggio. Be a bit more careful next time, will you? Or don’t; that way I can watch again when you get treated. It’s very educational.”

Olruggio makes a noise in the back of his throat. He looks mildly annoyed, which amuses Qifrey somewhat. “I was careful.”

Qifrey knows this to be a lie.

“Sure you were,” Sinocia says with a hum. It’s then that she walks over to Ermile, extending one of her hands. “I’ll take that.”

“Are you sure? They’re heavy,” Ermile tells her.

“Sure. How bad can it be?” Sinocia asks, wrapping her fingers around the handle of one of the buckets. Almost immediately she stumbles forward with a little yelp, but, luckily, she manages to catch herself in time, cheeks reddened and eyes wide. “See… totally fine.”

As Olruggio snickers at his friend, Qifrey’s gaze inadvertently slides towards Ermile. What he finds on her face surprises him. A smile plays on her lips, small but unmistakenably fond. Her gaze is softer than it was a few moments ago and he peers at Sinocia again, who seems entirely oblivious to it.

Then, the beast inside him goes silent. It halts its onslaught onto Qifrey’s body, no longer devouring him from within. The viper retracts its fangs with a final hiss, which almost feels like a warning. I’ll come for you again, it whispers, retreating into its cave built from sinew and bone.

The nausea he felt moments ago appears to have vanished, leaving behind a peculiar sort of emptiness. He’s aware that Olruggio’s talking, mumbling and muttering about this and that, but each word merely passes through Qifrey like a spectre. His body moves on its own, each step careful and quiet as he follows Olruggio down the hallway — not next to him but just one step behind him.

As he touches Olruggio’s shadow with his feet, a careful tap each time, Qifrey realizes that the emptiness he felt in the absence of that painful, nauseating feeling might be relief. He exhales slowly, his fingers curling into a fist at his side. And then he feels it again: that strange flutter low in his belly.

Leave, he tells the quadryphon.

Birds, snakes; how many animals will hide in the forest that is his body? Will it ever be just his?

When they exit the building, the air feels a little cooler than a few clockmarks ago. It’s then that Olruggio glances over his shoulder, bandaged hand rubbing at the back of his neck, and a hint of red blooming on his cheeks while a sheepish grin forms on his lips. “Sorry for worrying you, but I’m glad you came today, Qifrey.”

The bird flaps its wings faster.

It takes to the sky, shooting up Qifrey’s spine with impeccable speed, much like a Pegasus Carriage. In its ascensions, each of Qifrey’s ribs snap. A dozen little cracks happen all at once, but pain remains absent. Instead, it feels like the quadryphon has lodged itself within his throat, preventing him from uttering a reply. He tries to cough it up, but it’s impossible.

His heart beats rapidly as he continues to observe Olruggio’s face — who seems blissfully unaware of the predicament Qifrey currently finds himself in, choking on feathers and strange, unnamed emotions. Warmth gathers in his palms and he feels that same warmth in his cheeks, crawling along his skin until it reaches the tips of his ears.

Olruggio still smiles at him. Somewhere in his trachea, quadryphon moves again, slower this time.

Briefly, he wonders if someone had cast a spell, something that traps someone in a single moment. A way to freeze time and make a single heartbeat last a little longer. Within his chest, Qifrey’s heart slowly pumps blood through his body. He can hear it rushing through his ears like a waterfall, deafening and overwhelming.

The assault of sensations must last barely three breaths, four at most, and yet he thinks a clockmark might’ve passed. Before he’s able to discern what might ail him — the Silverwood, the bird, the snake — his gaze darts from Olruggio’s eyes to his mouth to his cheeks.

In a startling moment of clarity it comes to him.

Ah, he realizes between ten or twenty heartbeats. It was always going to be him, wasn’t it?

The bird goes silent.

—₊‧࿐ ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆࿐‧₊—

And then something happens. A few weeks before Qifrey’s nineteenth birthday.

It’s the final night of Silver Eve, the festivities reaching their peak now that the ending ceremony is coming closer and closer, and Qifrey feels a bit overwhelmed by the sheer number of people that are currently navigating the streets of Ezrest. It’s been four days of socializing and eating and observing all kinds of intriguing displays of magic, and while he has enjoyed himself thoroughly, fatigue has draped itself over him like a heavy cloak. The November chill has settled into his bones and he can feel the beginnings of a headache behind his eyebrows.

Nevertheless, it’s been wonderful. He and Olruggio have been darting across the festival grounds, observing the various contraptions they find along the way and stuffing themselves with food. It’s interesting that Olruggio chose not to sell his wares this year. (“S’not ready yet,” he’d mumbled, hiding a stack of papers in the drawer of his desk.)

“Will they ever be ready?” Qifrey asked him at the time, mildly amused by the huff of frustration he received in return.

Now, Olruggio has disappeared among the sea of people, in search of more food and drinks while Qifrey has positioned himself atop a small bench. He rubs his hands together before blowing into his palms. His fingers feel a little stiff, so he flexes them experimentally. Out of the two of them, Olruggio is the one who tends to run hot. Oftentimes, he’d clasp his warm hands around Qifrey’s own in an attempt to chase away the cold.

He smiles to himself, but that memory shatters when someone plops down next to him and nudges his side twice. “Hi loner,” greets his new companion, an all-too familiar voice piercing his thoughts.

With a chuckle Qifrey glances up to find Alaira next to him, her eyes glittering with excitement and something akin to mischief. “Where did you come from?” He asks.

Alaira folds one of her legs over the other before leaning back against the bench’s back rest. With a graceful flick of her wrist she gestures around the festival grounds, pointing at a few stalls. “Oh, here and there. Just making rounds.”

The way she says it leads Qifrey to believe that she’s hiding something from him, but he refrains from prying. “Ever so mysterious.”

“You know me,” she says with a wink. “Have you been enjoying yourself? It’s a miracle you’re still here. I assumed you and Olruggio would’ve run off already.”

“He’s getting us some food,” Qifrey explains, using his chin to gesture into the general direction he last saw Olruggio. “Probably got stopped by a dozen people along the way.”

“He is very popular.”

“Well, he is very talented.”

It’s then that Alaira offers him a look, as though she might be analyzing the lines of Qifrey’s face, looking for something that’s unmistakably there, but Qifrey schools his features into the perfect display of neutrality, only offering a hint of a smile towards the end of her observation. “Hm?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Alaira murmurs with a wave of her hand. Her brows shoot up then, eyes widened slightly as she nudges him again. “Look who we have there! Didn’t think we’d see Easthies out of his room.”

Sure enough, when Qifrey scans the crowd, squinting slightly behind his glasses, he spots a familiar figure in the distance. Easthies’ dark hair is a little longer now than it used to be and he continues to wear a general look of displeasure regardless of the surroundings, which hasn’t changed all that much since Qifrey first met him a few years ago. His witches’ robes have been replaced by the signature black and red uniform worn by the Knights Moralis and Qifrey can’t help but scowl a little when he catches sight of the group. “He looks like he’s enjoying himself.”

“Do you think he’s ever smiled a day in his life?”

“Probably hurts his face.”

There’s a taller boy next to him, broad-shouldered with hair the color of autumn leaves. There appears to be a sense of camaraderie between them, which is surprising to say the least. It must surprise Alaira as well because a sense of disbelief seeps into her voice as she asks, “Since when does he have friends?”

Chuckling, Qifrey replies, “I wondered the same thing.”

Their conversation is interrupted by the arrival of a third person. “Sorry for the wait. But, look what I got us—” Qifrey hears behind him, “oh, hey Alaira.”

With a glance over his shoulder, he spots his best friend carrying two cups of some kind of hot beverage. Tendrils of steam rise from the drinks, but Qifrey doesn’t recognize the smell. A flush decorates Olruggio’s face and Qifrey spots a paper bag tucked under his arm, likely filled with an assortment of snacks and baked goods.

“What’cha got there?” Alaira wonders.

A grin forms on Olruggio’s lips. “Mulled wine. Tastes great.”

They’re all of drinking age this year, which Olruggio seems to be enjoying thoroughly. “And how many have you had already?” Qifrey wonders, a teasing lilt to his voice.

“Barely any!”

“Your cheeks are red, Olly.”

With a chuckle Alaira gets to her feet. “I’ll let you two argue in peace. See you later?”

“I’ll come find you after I’m done here,” Qifrey promises. “Depends on what time we get back.”

“No rush,” Alaira tells him. “I have plans of my own.”

So mysterious.

Narrowing his eye, Qifrey presses his lips together to suppress a grin. It appears to amuse Alaira, who laughs and wiggles her brows before darting off.

“What’s gotten into her?” Olruggio wonders, frowning as he steps over the bench to occupy the spot Alaira vacated.

“Probably a girl.”

Olruggio releases a quiet ‘huh’, handing Qifrey one of the cups before dropping the paper bag between them. Warmth instantly spreads through Qifrey’s palms, gratitude unfurling within his chest as he brings the cup to his lips. Immediately, the strong, but sweet scent of cinnamon greets him. It’s accompanied by traces of orange and star anise, which causes the corners of his mouth to lift into a smile. “I don’t think I’ve had this before,” he tells Olruggio, carefully blowing on the warm drink. Once he takes his first sip, he’s surprised by the taste of it. A rich, but sweet flavor coats his tongue as hints of berry swirl together with honey and ginger, which leaves Qifrey immediately longing for another sip.

A noise of surprise climbs up his throat and he glances at Olruggio with wide eyes, who regards him with one of those conspiratory, but smug grins. “S’good right?”

“We should’ve had this way sooner.”

“Right! I have snacks too, look—”

The bag is filled with an assortment of baked goods: fried balls of dough filled with jelly or custard, some contain raisins, while others are sprinkled in a fine layer of powdered sugar, and Qifrey snickers when Olruggio releases a satisfied moan after his first two bites. “This is so good. I love Silver Eve.”

Qifrey couldn’t agree more.

Around them, people continue to eat, drink, and dance. The streets are teetering with crowds, witches and non-witches gathering in clusters to celebrate their shared love for magic. Qifrey finds that he quite likes Ezrest — the size of it, the freedom to go wherever one pleases. The stifling walls of the Hall occasionally leave him feeling as though he’s trapped in a too-small cage. Oftentimes, he fantasizes about a life outside of the Hall. Somewhere where he can feel the sun on his skin and relish in the scent of grass and soil while a gentle breeze tickles his cheeks.

For as long as he could remember, Qifrey has longed for freedom. In all of its forms. He longs to rid himself of the parasite inside of him, to escape the waters that surround the Hall, and maybe erase the odd feeling that’s been festering inside of him for months now. In between sips of wine and bites of food, he sneaks a glance at Olruggio, who’s prattling about a contraption he saw amidst his hunt for sustenance. He mentions some of the older witches and something about a party he’d been invited to, and Qifrey feels a peculiar tightness in his stomach at the prospect of Olruggio being surrounded by boys and girls alike, all of them fawning over him as they often tend to do.

He attempts to squander the feeling, digging his fingers into it and forcing it to become smaller and smaller, but it puts up a decent fight. Like a caged animal it snaps its jaws at Qifrey, refusing to be erased despite his many efforts.

He tries to wash it down with another sip of mulled wine, only to find that his cup is nearly empty. Simultaneously a warm, hazy feeling settles between his temples. His eyelids feel heavier. As do his limbs, he realizes. It’s not entirely unpleasant, but a part of him is all too aware of how the Silverwood might react if Qifrey dares to let his guard down too much.

“Did you hear what I said?” Olruggio asks then, startling Qifrey.

As Qifrey wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, he shakes his head. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “A party you said?”

“Yeah,” Olruggio tells him, digging into the bag and pulling out what looks to be a piece of caramel candy. He plops it into his mouth with a hum. “Could be fun. Do you want to come with?”

Qifrey’s lips twist in distaste. “Parties are more your thing than mine. You can go. I’ll head back earlier.”

Frowning, Olruggio shakes his head. “I’m definitely not goin’ on my own. Are you crazy? Only reason I said I’d go is if you would come.”

A gentle flutter travels through Qifrey’s stomach. He hates it.

He’s about to apologize for potentially ruining Olruggio’s inital plans when Olruggio lowers his cup and pushes himself to his feet. “I know what we can do.”

Surprise washes over Qifrey, who idly runs his thumb along the rim of his cup. He secretly longs for a second serving. “What? Don’t you want to see the closing ceremony?”

Olruggio makes a face, waving a dismissive hand at the suggestion. “We’ve seen it plenty of times. I’ve got a better idea. Do you trust me?”

More than anyone else, Qifrey doesn’t say. More than myself.

“Sometimes,” he says instead, grinning when Olruggio rolls his eyes.

“M’gonna get some more wine and snacks and then you have to follow me.”

Don’t I always, Qifrey thinks. I’d follow you anywhere Olly.

—₊‧࿐ ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆࿐‧₊—

Somehow, Olruggio has managed to smuggle out a bottle of the mulled wine he’d purchased earlier, mentioning that they can heat it themselves with a pyreball or a different fire based spell, and stocked up on a few more snacks before leading Qifrey away from Ezrest. They manage to draw a Windowway Spell, which takes them away from the large city and its crowds. Soon enough, the familiar area of the Naakiwan Downs greet him, nothing but rolling hills that stretch as far as he’s able to see.

Instantly, a wave of relief washes over him. Here, there is nothing but silence and the smell of grass.

Qifrey inhales deeply, gathering every bit of cold air into his lungs, his eyelids falling shut. A breeze ruffles his hair, strokes his cheek with the loving touch of a mother, and something inside his chest squeezes.

Sometimes, he thinks about his mother. Who she might’ve been, what she might’ve looked like, what her name could’ve been. Did he have a mother to begin with? Or was he raised by his father?

Or someone else entirely.

Did they look for him? Or are they mourning a boy with a different name?

Night after night, these questions plague him. They are the phantoms drifting through an old, abandoned castle, passing through walls and haunting dilapidated rooms. There, within the ruins — between collapsed walls and destroyed roofs — they search for answers, memories, images. Endless doors lead nowhere; nothing but a vast emptiness.

How much is a life worth?

Did his have any worth to begin with?

As Qifrey opens his eye, gazing at the sky above them, he forms a fist with one of his hands. He brings it over his chest and swallows once. When he’s here, he feels alive. He feels like there are endless possibilities. Each star above represents a dream, a small miracle, a wish.

“Figured we could watch the falling stars from here,” Olruggio says, drawing Qifrey’s attention towards him. “Should we find a good spot?”

Another flutter appears between his ribs.

(Olruggio might be a miracle too.)

With a nod, he follows his best friend until they reach the top of the largest hill they can find. There, they place their cloaks on the ground like two makeshift blankets. It’s close to midnight, he thinks, based on how the stars and moon are positioned. He tells Olruggio as such while Olruggio pours them both another cup of mulled wine, which they successfully manage to heat. The familiar taste of berries and spices fills his mouth and Qifrey releases an appreciative hum. “This really is amazing.”

“I know, they should sell this all year.”

They remain like that for a while, discussing the past four days and how this year’s festival compared to the last. Olruggio mentions the royal family and catching a glimpse of the crown prince, who seems to be quite fond of magic. A vague memory pierces Qifrey’s mind; long, blond hair and a handsome but peculiar face. Delicate features.

There was something intriguing about him. And slightly unsettling.

“I heard he’s getting married soon,” Qifrey mentions. By now, they’ve both laid down on their sides, facing one another rather than looking towards the sky.

Across from him, Olruggio makes a face. “Already? I thought he was pretty young.”

“Well, he is the crown prince.”

“Still. I would’ve taken off.”

A huff of laughter travels through Qifrey’s throat. “Good thing you’re not the future monarch then.”

Olruggio releases a too-loud snort. “Could you imagine me with a crown?”

“King Olly, beloved by all. I am but your humble servant.”

They both laugh, a little louder than before, and Qifrey attempts to stifle the sound by folding his hand over the lower half of his face. Somehow everything is a little funnier now.

Must be the wine’s doing.

Olruggio rolls onto his back, one arm tucked under his head. For a moment, he’s staring at the sky, as though he might be able to peel back every single layer of the universe.

Well, it’s Olly, Qifrey thinks. So that might be entirely possible.

“Nah. When I get married it’ll be on my own terms. At an age I’m comfortable with.”

It’s strange to hear him talk of marriage like that. And yet Qifrey shuffles a little closer, a question on his lips. “Does that mean you’ve thought about marriage, Olly?”

As expected, Olruggio sputters. Even with barely any light present, Qifrey knows that his friend’s cheeks are most likely an adorable shade of pink at the moment. “No! Well—not more than usual—”

There’s an urge to keep teasing him — he makes it so damned easy after all — but there’s also a heavy feeling at the bottom of Qifrey’s stomach. Does it mean that Olruggio found someone he might want to spend the rest of his life with? He’s not sure if he wants to know the answer to that question.

And yet, there’s a kind of perverse curiosity inside of him. Even if the outcome will hurt him, Qifrey wants to know, he needs to know.

“That means you think about it semi-regularly then,” Qifrey points out. “Why? Someone caught your eye?”

Tell me, he silently coaxes. I have to know.

Briefly, his mind wanders towards Sinocia. His lips form the syllables of her name until Olruggio interrupts him. “Maybe.”

Qifrey chokes on his next inhale. It’s a miracle he manages to keep his voice even as he quietly asks, “Who?”

Olruggio still isn’t looking at him. He’s folded both of his arms across his eyes as though he might be able to disappear if he presses down hard enough. His chest rises and falls with deep breaths and Qifrey wonders if his own lungs might’ve shrunk three sizes. Breathing seems impossible all of a sudden. His fingers feel numb.

When Olruggio doesn’t answer him, he adds, “Is it Sinocia?”

With a start, Olruggio glances at him. “What?”

His eyes are impossibly wide, shock painted across his features, and Qifrey wonders if the intensity of Olruggio’s reaction is a confirmation of his own suspicions. “You seemed very friendly with her.”

“Because she’s a friend?!” Olruggio exclaims. “I—no, of course it’s not Sinocia. Did you not see the way Ermile looked at her?”

He did, but that didn’t mean that Olruggio couldn’t have feelings for the girl as well. Though, Qifrey refrains from voicing that thought. He mentally goes through a list of names instead. If not Sinocia, who could it be? The tightness in his stomach persists and he pushes back against another wave of nausea. “I just assumed that—”

His words are interrupted by the sudden but soft gasp that rises from Olruggio’s throat. His eyes are still wide, no longer looking at Qifrey, but at something behind him it seems. Quietly, he says, “Qifrey, it’s starting.”

With one of his hands he points behind Qifrey and then upwards. When Qifrey angles his head, peering over his own shoulder, he immediately understands the source of Olruggio’s astonishment. It starts with one of them; a flash of light so bright and so quick that one might miss it if they blink. Fortunately, another one follows suit, and then another, and another. Streaks of white light decorate the heavens as countless shooting stars cut through the skies. They travel from one corner of the universe to the other in rapid succession, a swarm of heavenly bodies that illuminate the darkness and cast their glow on those below.

It’s at this moment that Qifrey feels comically small. Excitement thrums within his chest and he’s quite certain he might’ve stopped breathing for a bit.

He remembers witnessing it for the first time, utterly speechless at the sight of this cosmic miracle. That same feeling courses through him right now. For a brief moment, he is able to forget all that troubles him as his mind tries to make sense of something that’s much larger than himself.

There are times where he wished he could be a star, something bright and warm without a physical body. He would travel and travel, discovering each secret the heavens kept from him. And then when it’s time for that light to disappear, he would simply let himself fall.

It’s Olruggio who breaks the silence after another moment. He’s rolled onto his back once more as points at the sky, gesturing at a cluster of stars. A constellation perhaps?

“They call that one the ‘three-in-one’,” he tells Qifrey. “Named after three ancient witches who existed hundreds of years ago and who were rumored to share a single consciousness.”

“Really?” Qifrey murmurs. “I’ve never heard of that story. How did they manage to achieve that?”

Olruggio releases a quiet hum, smiling at the sky. “Nobody knows. The legends vary. Some say they were star-touched, others claim they experimented with forbidden magic. Some call them friends, but many describe them as lovers. Seems strange, though. Sharing a mind with two others.”

“Loving two people simultaneously,” Qifrey mumbles, more to himself than Olruggio. “That’s a lot of love.”

A chuckle passes through Olruggio’s lips. “A lot of love indeed.”

Qifrey’s thoughts involuntarily steer towards their earlier conversation and he folds his hands together over his stomach, tugging at his fingers as he keeps his gaze skyward. “Olly,” he starts, licking his lips. Above them, the stars continue their trek, leaving trails of light in their wake. Inside of him, the snake and the bird are running amok, turning Qifrey’s body into a battlefield. Desire and envy bleed into one another, slowly pouring over his bones until and settling into every crevice.

He makes an attempt to ignore it.

“About what I said earlier…” a pause, an inhale. “I hope that whoever it is—I hope they make you very happy. You deserve it.”

For a long moment, there is only silence. Fear begins to snake along Qifrey’s spine, a startling cold sensation, and he wonders if he might’ve made a mistake. When he cautiously turns to look at Olruggio, he finds that Olruggio is much closer to him than before.

His face is but a hairsbreadth away from Qifrey’s own and the sudden proximity startles him. There’s an urge to dart back, but it seems as though his limbs are entirely frozen. It’s a miracle he manages to keep breathing.

“They do,” Olruggio’s voice is quiet, a deep rumble that causes the hairs on Qifrey’s arms to rise. “He does.”

He.

Qifrey’s heartbeat seems to exist in every part of him. It’s in his chest, in his throat, in his stomach. A constant, rapid pulse that might destroy him from within in a way the Silverwood never could. Wouldn’t that be ironic? That the most human part of him ends up being the thing that kills him.

Thoughts regarding his inevitable end are pushed aside by the feeling of Olruggio’s palm against his cheek. The warmth of his hand bleeds into Qifrey’s skin, who, rather than pulling away, finds himself leaning forward when Olruggio moves closer. Eyes the color of the night sky beckon him forward and the smell of smoke and cinnamon wraps around him once more.

It’s safe here.

I shouldn’t, he tells himself. I musn’t—

That first brush of Olruggio’s lips against his own halts those thoughts entirely and brings a stillness to his mind. Everything goes quiet until there’s an eruption deep inside his chest — something cataclysmic and overwhelming. It’s as though two of the stars above them had crashed into one another.

In their death, something new is born.

It’s a soft kiss, so very gentle, and Qifrey carefully parts his lips so that he might reciprocate Olruggio’s affections. I want this too, he means to whisper. I have wanted this for so long.

One of his hands settles on Olruggio’s side and he allows himself to be pulled a little closer until they are pressed together entirely. He attempts to make sense of the various sensations: the tingling in his lips and fingers, the scent of Olruggio, the warmth of his best friend’s hand and roughness of his palm.

It’s all too much, yet not enough.

One kiss becomes two, and two become four, until Qifrey loses count. Somehow, each kiss feels even better than the previous one.

For a few moments, there is nothing but peace. A sense of comfort so strong that he wishes it could last forever.

That’s when he feels it.

It all happens so quickly. Between one breath and the next, roots burst forth from his body with the kind of speed he hadn’t anticipated. The Silverwood casts its vengeance upon him, somewhat delayed but just as merciless as Qifrey knows the parasite to be. He wonders if it might’ve lured him into a false sense of security; allowing him to experience a moment of joy and comfort before viciously reminding him of what will occur should he dare to seek respite.

He’s only half-aware of the guttural scream that leaves his throat.

Every part of him feels as though it’s being crushed. Pain lances his chest, tearing through him with a viciousness that leaves him feeling dizzy. He thinks he might throw up.

It’s always those first few moments that are unbearable. Then, a blissful stillness follows. The pain subsides and petals begin to grow from the buds that are scattered across the various stems; a beautiful but terrifying sight. The human part of him shrinks as the tree continues to grow, all slithering roots and sharp branches. It embraces him fully; the mother and her young.

Close your eyes child, the Silverwood appears to whisper. Return to the earth with me.

It’s so easy to listen to the parasite — to give it what it wants.

He thinks of the puppet and the puppeteer as the Silverwood seizes control of his body. Numerous strings go taut, rendering him immobile; nothing more than a shiny, wooden toy.

Perhaps this is his punishment for being selfish. How could he ever think that something as warm and wonderful as Olruggio’s love could ever truly be his?

I should’ve learned to let you go.

Qifrey is so very tired. His lips begin to form the syllables of an apology, but he doesn’t get any further than the nickname he bestowed upon his best friend a long time ago. “Olly—”

“Qifrey!”

Within a matter of moments, one of the branches snaps. Then another. A few more follow, until Olruggio’s face is in front of him; that familiar look of horror present in his eyes. How many times have they done this?

When will it be enough?

“What is going on?” Olruggio asks, voice wavering as he presses one of his palms to Qifrey’s cheek. “What is this? Did I—”

A broken laugh spills from Qifrey’s lips. They feel a little dry. “No, Olly, this isn’t your fault. It’s mine, really.”

“What are you talking about? How do I get you out of this?” He sounds more panicked now, and Qifrey wonders if he’s imagining the wetness that clings to the corner of Olruggio’s eyes. This might be the first time he’s seen him cry.

The realization pierces his chest like a silver dagger, blood seeping from an invisible wound. He swallows thickly. “Don’t cry, please. It’s not worth it.”

Another palm settles on the other side of Qifrey’s cheek. The vines rustle, instinctively reaching for Olruggio, as they’ve always done, and Qifrey inhales deeply. Stop it, he commands. Not him. They don’t listen, deciding to curl around Olruggio’s wrists as if to keep him there. He watches as they slip between his fingertips, greedily taking whatever both Qifrey and Olruggio will offer.

“Don’t say that,” Olruggio tells him, a tinge of anger coloring his voice. By now, the first of Olruggio’s tears have made their descent. Qifrey wants to look away. “Tell me how to fix this, please. Let me help you.”

He closes his eye with a shuddering exhale.

He came so close to having everything he wanted and now, he must give it up again. A moment of happiness shared between the two of them will be forever lost — erased from Olruggio’s mind as though it had never existed in the first place.

It’s so damned unfair.

The first tear doesn’t surprise him, neither does the second or the third. They slide across his cheek, each one a shallow cut on his own skin. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “Olly, I’m so sorry.”

A thumb wipes at his cheeks, then at the corner of his eye. Shortly after that, he feels a gentle pressure against his forehead and it takes him a moment to realize that Olruggio has leaned forward, allowing his forehead to rest against Qifrey’s. “Don’t be. We’re going to fix this. I promise. I’m not losing you, Qifrey,” he whispers.

Qifrey’s throat constricts around another sob, but he manages to nod. He swallows twice before clenching his jaws and forcing himself to remember an ever-familiar script. On an exhale, he tells Olruggio everything, like he’s always done.

The experiments.

The Silverwood.

The temporary solution.

Olruggio listens and listens, his palms continuing to pour their warmth into Qifrey’s cheeks. “So I won’t remember any of this?” he asks eventually, teeth worrying at his lower lip. “Not even the—”

“You won’t,” Qifrey tells him. “I’m so sorry.”

Hurt flashes through Olruggio’s eyes and Qifrey watches as his best friend looks away for a moment, seemingly coming to terms with the fact that this moment, this night, will be lost to him forever.

“Alright,” he says after another moment, voice hoarse and eyes red-rimmed. “Do it.”

“Olly—”

“If this is how we save you, do it,” Olruggio decides. The hurt Qifrey saw just now remains present, but there’s determination too; that trademark fierceness that he adores so much. “I might not remember, but you will. You will have to remember this night for us, Qifrey. Be the keeper of our memories.”

Qifrey bites at his lower lip, a burning sensation forming behind his eye once more. “I will.”

“We’ll find a way to get rid of the Silverwood. I promise,” Olruggio tells him. “I’ve probably said this before, haven’t I?”

A wet laugh falls from Qifrey’s lips. “You have.”

Olruggio smiles. “Good, because I mean it.”

There’s a moment of silence, during which Olruggio closes his eyes and inhales deeply. He brushes his thumb back and forth across Qifrey’s cheek, the line between his brows temporarily deepening before he gazes up at him again. “This is probably the worst time to say this but,” he murmurs. “If I’m going to forget this soon, I want you to know that—”

He pauses, teeth digging into his lower lip as though he’s torn between remaining silent or speaking his mind.

Despite Silverwood’s grasp on him, Qifrey notices the thundering beat of his own heart. There’s an urge to tell Olruggio that he’s not worthy of hearing whatever words his best friend wants to bestow upon him, but there’s another part — a hopeful part — that longs to hear them.

(Could it be?)

A cycle of breaths is exchanged between them and it feels like they are suspended in time, existing in a world between worlds. In this world, the tree ceases to exist. Its roots and vines disappear until there is nothing but Qifrey, Olruggio, and the stars.

Carefully, Olruggio says, “I love you. Even if the memories of this night are gone, that will never change.”

Hearing those words pushes every bit of oxygen from Qifrey’s lungs. The Silverwood stirs again, wrapping its roots tightly around him, pulling him further in, but he makes an attempt to resist it.

Despite it all, he smiles.

How tragic, he thinks. For everything I want to be just out of reach.

Perhaps there will come a time where all of this will seem like a distant memory, a forgotten dream. He prays to the Stars that Olruggio is right.

Inside of him, a handful of words stir to life. He knows that he should keep them caged, push them further down until they are completely buried in the mausoleum that is his body, but Qifrey finds that he’s not strong enough to do so.

They pierce his ribcage, crawling out of him and allowing themselves to be shaped and molded by his tongue.

As he closes his eye, he whispers, “I love you too, Olly.”

—₊‧࿐ ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆࿐‧₊—

The sun caresses Olruggio’s skin, delicate golden lines are draped across his face. He looks peaceful.

It’s just after sunrise when he blinks awake, using the heel of his hand to rub at his eyes. “Ah, damn, did I fall asleep again? I shouldn’t have drank so much,” he murmurs, voice a little raspy. Then, sounding a little alarmed, he adds, “The shooting stars! Did we get to see ‘em?”

Qifrey has his legs tucked against his chest, arms folded atop his knees. He pinches the fabric of his sleeves before offering his best friend a smile.

“Yes, Olly, we saw the stars.”