Chapter Text
Coco's life was lined with prayer. Hopes and far off outlandish dreams, because even at her young age she understood that was all she had left to rely on.
Life is unkind on the outskirts of the kingdom. Wealth is a foreign word, health is a blessing many are not privy to.The village had only gotten smaller and smaller over the years. Coco foolishly believed they could scrape by– be spared from the illnesses that ravaged the outskirts villages, watch the morning sun rise and the evening sky fade each day. She hung the sheets to dry underneath the warmth of a late spring sun, she made her bed each morning, she cut fabric until her hands were calloused and painful, and then she would smile despite it all.
She did everything she was supposed to. But fate does not lay its hands equally, and her family had never been in consideration for anything more than the rotting leftovers of humanity.
Her mother, seized by a tremor and a far off stare to her glazed over eyes laid in the bed in front of her. Life; a thin string snapped under the smallest of pressure. Reduced to her true human nature, it shocked Coco to witness. She wheezed, yet she did not stir. It progressed suddenly and all too fast. It started small; appetite decreasing, stamina failing her.
“It’s just my age, Coco, don't look so worried.” She repeated the mantra until she collapsed under it all, and Coco had to drag her into their tiny cottage and from there it only spiraled.
She did what she remembered from her very early childhood for the weeks that followed. The same routine her mother followed when Coco's father had been taken much the same way, vague were those memories as they were. Coco brought wet strips of cut fabric she drenched in the mucky river water, felt her stomach churn as she fed her mother more than the usual amount of stew. And, on the cool floorboards, knees digging into the wood, she would clench her eyes shut, fingernails pressed against skin until blood was drawn from her palms. She would picture her mother, waking with a light in her eyes once again. Her dress would flow in the wind, her steps would be quicker than Coco’s, but she would follow on her heels like a little fawn regardless. Tethered by blood and united by their shared love. Together they would find themselves in their humble garden, surrounded by the wildflowers spread by the wind and the birds. Coco would say nothing, she would let them speak in her place, no longer would she lament her wish of a princess’ life. Money would never be an issue— not as long as they had each other. Coco would never leave her mother, she promised just that after the death of her father. It would be bright and sunny, wonderfully true, they would live.
Coco opened her eyes, and her mothers chest no longer rose. Her cheeks, once flush with life and vigor, pale as the moon that illuminated the dark room.
What were her last words? When had she last smiled? What time was it? Coco had no clue— no thought that something like this could ever happen. She fell backwards, she remembers that moment vividly. Off the chair she sat in for hours, staring and hoping and praying. Tumbling to the floor because her shaking body couldn't support itself. Her mother, the only person she ever had; gone.
That was the day Coco learned, while she shuddered out an agonizing sob, life wasn't simply unkind in nature. It was cruel.
Her feet worked before her mind had caught up, sprinting out of the creaking door, away from 12 years of gentle, soft memories. The home she dreamed from, of wearing gowns and jewels, the home where she was held so tenderly. Where love replaced material goods.
Coco couldn't see it until she ran from it in the night just how wealthy she had been.
Her memory did not serve her well from that point onwards, all she remembers of that night is bloodied bare feet and aching eyes. She had no clue of where she planned to find herself, only that she could not bear looking at the decaying woman that once called her name like she was the only important thing in this world.
The next day, when she had awoken underneath the comfort of a peach tree and on the soft grass teeming with buggy life, a hand grazed her shoulder. She had uttered her mothers name hesitantly before wakefulness found her in full and she recalled just how bright the sun had been when she squinted against it.
“I fear I am not your mother.” He had responded, a soft voice with a languid accent that wrapped around his words. Finally, her eyes had adjusted, and through vision softened at the edges she saw white strands that seemed to glow in the rising sunlight. A kind, inquisitive smile that stirred memories within Coco.
”Mom…” She whispered to the wind that stirred, a firm reminder of just how lost she truly was. It was then, under the peach tree with a stranger crouched on his knees beside her, that she truly sobbed. Warm tears like the streams in the forests, rushing, never ending in quantity. Her hands wound themselves into a worn gray robe, the man hardly registering to her as a stranger when she buried her face into his chest.
”It's not fair!” Coco cried out to no one in particular and yet to anyone who would spare an ear. It had built within her those past weeks, or was it always there?— It was a heavy weight built to squander any dream she dared possess, to smile when her mother took her last breath before her. She was too small for such things.
“I did everything I was supposed to!” Larger hands found her back, a careful trace of the thumb in tiny, quick little circles. His chest rose and fell beneath her. Somehow it made her cry harder.
”Why..?” She could hardly choke the words out, they stuck like the thorns of weeds. on tattered clothing.
She had tired herself out thoroughly. The weeks of little sleep and sparse food caught up to her in that moment, the world seemed to move without her will. She pulled away from the chest she had buried herself into, and Coco could never live to forget the eye that met hers. A pale blue, brimming with life. His eyebrows rose in concern, a taut pull to the skin and straight teeth that told of money to worry his bottom lip.
”What is your name, little one?” Of all the questions he could have asked he had chosen simplicity.
“Coco.” Her voice didn't sound her own. It was far too hopeless in cadence.
“Coco…” He tried the name for his own, a fondness she easily picked up on finding his features. “What a nice name. I'm Qifrey.” He did not offer a hand, instead he moved to his feet and Coco felt the ground leave underneath her. Qifrey heaved her up into the crook of his arm, perched upon him. He was tall, and what a sight it was to be above it all. Pastures stretched before her, trees that bore fruit, fields that grew wheat. How far had she run last night fueled by grief alone?
”Would you like some breakfast?” Her mother had instilled within her the fear never to trust another on the outskirts. Certainly not one who offered food. But never had Coco met a stranger on the outskirts so sincere. She nodded with a quivering lip. What else could she possibly do anyways?
Such things always seem inconsequential in the moment, a simple nod, a simple agreement that led to her current forever. He led her along, through tall grass that brushed Qifrey’s calves, until the soft thud of boots on grass turned to the crunch of gravel. Ground was beneath her feet once more, and she entered the small cottage behind Qifrey, and found it more homely than she could have imagined anything could possibly be.
There were green little plants in the window placed there for the sole purpose of looking nice. It smelt warm, the fire was steady with thick logs instead of twigs and pine needles that caused an awful amount of ash. The worn couch had quilts strewn across the back, the dining table was set in preparation, a candle that uselessly flickered even while the curtains were wide open. More tears fell then, because she hadn't known she could ever enter a building and feel so warm.
“I hope you don't mind stew.” Qifrey had said, hanging his thick coat on a rack holding two smaller ones.
”I don't mind…” Coco replied, not entirely focusing on his words, her gaze drifted quickly and she swiped at her raw eyes. There was a rug. She still can remember her awe of such a simple thing.
Clad in stockings, his feet were quiet against the floor, he passed the threshold from dining room to kitchen, Coco following close because she knew nothing else in life. He puttered around, hands opening cabinets to pull out bowls and spoons and the like, but Coco had not paid much attention. Her eyes were caught on the rows of jars organized within the glass doors of a giant cupboard, various herbs, ground and whole leaves, pushed tightly and capped off with a cork. Some held labels, though Coco could not read, others were clearly strange mixings that Qifrey did not bother to mark. There were vials as well, small little things that kept what was inside a mystery. She would learn their contents one day, learn the curves and the syllables of Qifrey’s handwriting until it became a wonderful familiarity, but for now she stared with her mouth slightly agape feeling horribly out of place. A little poor girl had no business being in here. She surely sullied the ground just stepping on it with her grimy feet. Qifrey said nothing though as he poured a steaming soup into four bowls. It was thick and substantial, nothing like the watery thin lukewarm bowls she had been feeding her mother.
“Why don't you sit down, I'll call the girls.” Coco felt he had been behaving far too calmly for someone inviting a stranger into their home with greased hair and a blotchy face, let alone the fact Qifrey asked Coco nothing but her name. So she did what she was told, and sat a little numbly on a creaking wooden bench.
“Richeh! Tetia!” The calls were distant, and two doors sounded off when they opened. Whispers held their tongues— at least speech quiet enough Coco could not pick up on it, and two girls came from the narrow hallway. Young, certainly about Coco's age if not the same. One with a messy spread of pink hair that her hands worked quickly to tie it up into two small pigtails. The other, a pale blue that ran down the course of her back like a beautiful riptide. They stared, not unkindly, but exactly as someone who awoke to a strange decrepit girl sitting at their dining table would.
“My name's Tetia!” The girl with bouncy pink curls broke the silence, a different accent than Qifrey and as present in her tone as his. She bounded over, choosing her seat beside Coco on the bench.
“Where did’ya come from? And where are your shoes? Mr. Qifrey said you’re stayin’ for breakfast-“
“Tetia.” The other girl spoke now, taking her seat across from them. Her voice was much lighter in quality, and she tucked a long strand of hair behind her ear when she looked down into her bowl. “She’s quite the loud one.”
“Let's not scare her away, Tetia and Richeh.” The bench in front of Coco creaked with weight when Qifrey took his seat as well. Coco blessed the meal with a trembling voice when Qifrey insisted, and picked up her spoon.
“Go on.” Qifrey had said, and her stomach twisted. She was starving, and yet she felt so very sick all the same. But Qifrey, Tetia and Richeh all looked at her expectantly, so she lifted the spoon to her lips.
Warmth flooded her, her tongue, down her esophagus, until it settled wonderfully in her tummy. She did not taste much on account of just how fast she ate, nor did she do a very good job of chewing the carrots and potatoes, but it certainly was one of the best meals she had eaten in quite some time.
It was when Qifrey had sent the other two off to study that he approached where Coco sat and kneeled to her level. His eye held a seriousness she had yet to see in it.
“Coco,” He started, and the way in which he quietly said her name nearly made her flinch. “What happened to your mother?” She knew such a question would come, obviously one would want to know where the scraggly child that devoured a bowl of soup had come from.
“I…” She tried to swallow down the tears, but they surfaced anyway. It was an ugly noise, but it was a true and honest grief that came with it. She hung her head and yet again that hand found her shoulder. “She… She got ill and…”
“I understand-“
“I tried everything!” She lifted her eyes to meet Qifrey’s, a desperation finding her mind suddenly and unexpectedly. “I did what I was supposed to! I didn't eat much, I cared for her and only her, and yet… How did she…?” Anguish was a new emotion. She was too young to understand her father’s passing in full. Her mother told her he soared high in a better place, and she smiled with childish certainty. Now, the only solace she had was even if her mother cannot fly, wherever she ended up must be better than such cruelty. And that anguish came in rushing, thrashing waves of breathlessness. Of anger, confusion and sadness all conveyed in a single cry.
“It is wonderful here.” She startled at the feeling of his chest rumbling underneath her with his words, she hadn't even realized she had been wrapped in a hug. “The birds are loud, the crops are fresh and grown from our very own garden. We do not have much here, it's humble certainly, but it's a wonderful place to stay. The fields are vast, Richeh and Tetia run wild every day.” Coco sniffled, sweet reassurances reached her ears and suddenly exhaustion had heavied her body.
“It is not your fault, Coco. Please, do not blame yourself.”
The days passed quickly, many were clouded, other times she finally saw through to the sky above. She ran with the other two, laughing, a childish glee to it all she never thought she could get back. Qifrey taught her to work a pen to form ideas, finally she could put words to her most favorite of children's tales, devouring the small books with large, clear font Qifrey would bring home from his travels.
Coco’s favorite moments, though, were certainly when Qifrey would sit the girls down and explain the herbs and contents of the vials in the cabinets. He would mix them together in a hand made mortar, Olruggio, who takes up a fickle residence in the cottage made the majority of furniture and odds and ends Coco had come to learn. Qifrey would gingerly apply a salve to a small cut or bruise, and like magic would it mend.
Dreams tend to shift in life, but Coco certainly found her true dream within that moment. To care, to be able to smile reassuringly to a teary eyed friend and fix their woes. Not to fail her mother. A crown was such a silly thought when faced with true magic like Qifrey’s.
He would, on occasion, have the girls pack a small sack of nuts and raisins, and together they would walk through town. Qifrey stopping every few feet or so to check up on his distant neighbors, to soothe their wounds with a dashing smile and the promise to return to ensure an infection does not fester. And not a single thing was ever asked for in return. Such selflessness was foreign and it was exactly what Coco needed when her mother’s life was failing her.
Coco told him just that, a quiet evening when Olruggio had taken out the other two to fetch some logs to further the fire, and Coco was left with the remainder of her writing.
“Mr Qifrey?” Something delightful was wafting through the kitchen, and even without looking up Coco could guess just how hard at work he was mixing together spices.
“Yes, Coco dear?”
“You do your work for free, right?”
He continued stirring the pot, and a small smile crept up his face. “I do charge private clients so our cottage does fall to ruin, but I offer my services for free to those in need.” He set the wood spoon down and rummaged through the top cupboards. Miscellaneous jars were set aside on the countertop until he found the exact one he needed, a red powder that would surely make Coco sneeze if she got too close. “Illness does not discriminate. It happens to the wealthy and to the poor, but treatment is not equal whatsoever. A passing cold to a more fortunate soul could be deadly to someone on the outskirts of the kingdom.” He sprinkled a pinch in and then some for good measure. He always generously estimated when he made food— it must've been the reason each dish tasted unique no matter how many times they ate the same thing.
“You understand that painfully well though.” Coco nodded to that, and looked back down at her own work. She had been copying her favorite quotes from a picture book, an exercise to improve penmanship Qifrey had said.
“Do you think I could one day, too?”
“Heal others?”
“For no price.” Coco tacked on a little eagerly and a little sheepishly. Perhaps it was a silly thought for the girl who still wrote her ‘S’ backwards to get into medicine, but Coco was always one to dream wildly.
“Coco.” His voice had softened around the edges in the kind of way one would when they were to disappoint. But Qifrey did no such thing. “You could do anything you set your sights on.” Conviction. Not the sort of words one would say to placate a child, not like when she voiced her dreams of being a princess.
“Would you like to learn?”
“Yes!”
Smiles came easier in time. Most things did. Her mother went from a tangled ball of grief to a bundle of warm memories. Much like a reheated stew over flame she's come to learn. Cold in certain places, but mostly the right temperature. Vaguely, maybe. At least Coco could think of her now and not cry on the spot.
Qifrey taught her, just like she asked, yet it was hard to tell who worked the other harder. Coco, though her reading was not great and her handwriting was worse, found herself memorizing herbs and vials and mixtures with a proficiency that astounded Qifrey.
“A tea for sleep…” Coco mused aloud, Richeh and Tetia were patiently waiting and watching with empty cups. The sun had set long ago, and after a rainy day the three were as restless as ever. Qifrey suggested such an idea, and had Coco be the one to carry it out.
“Chameleon.” Not the correct word, she knew that. Those were the strange little creatures who could change color she saw pictured in an encyclopedia.
“Chamomile.” Qifrey lightly corrected, but he knew it to be in vain.
“Purple Weeds…”
“Lavender.” Coco began to wonder if he did it only to assure himself.
“And… Vaccine root!”
“Close dear, Valerian root. But you are right! That combination will have you all well rested in no time.” And sure enough it did. She swore Richeh and Tetia had fallen asleep even before Qifrey had finished tucking them in. It felt nice, a strange buzzing energy within her that came with the knowledge she was the reason they would sleep so very soundly.
She continued on with mundane little concoctions such as that. Fragrant smelling teas and oddly colored creams she rubbed on Tetia's elbow with an excited smile. There was only so much she could do, and that was something she understood. But, what she could not fathom, was how limited Qifrey himself was.
His knowledge was grand and expansive, many years of apprenticeship with a well renowned physician. He knew the whereabouts of every herb and healing flower imaginable, he could pull cures from the back of his brain and list off ailments like the prayers Coco once lived by.
They were looking through a textbook together by the fireplace situated comfortably on the rug. Qifrey explained each they came across in simple terms. Rashes, lumps, the serious scary things. But what caught Coco's attention the most were the untreatable, the only aspects of them Qifrey could explain were the gruesome symptoms. Rattling coughs, masses under the skin that fed off the afflicted's life, dizzy spells that debilitate those affected.
“The royals have been working tirelessly on this one.” He tapped his finger against the ink drawings of something eerily similar to her own mothers symptoms.
“The royals?” Coco asked as she leaned toward Qifrey, personal space had slowly grown to be a thing of the past while in Qifrey’s cottage.
“Ah, I suppose I haven't taught you much about them, have I?” She shook her head, thoroughly intrigued.
“I only know them through outskirt rumors.”
“Not many know much about them, afterall. The only reason I am a bit more in the loop than others is due to my old master.” Qifrey said, “He always had his nose in business it did not belong within.” A chuckle sounded from his chest, low and fond in nature.
“They are quite the severe bunch, only one daughter and heir to their name. And even in her young age I'm quite sure they work her rigorously. They are much more suited for medicinal means than.. ah… ruling a kingdom in my opinion.”
“But they help people?” Qifrey’s lips pulled tight at her words,
“I believe that was their original intention. But wealth can be a dangerously greedy sin.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well…” He started, gently adjusting the glasses on his face as he usually did when he thought. When was it Coco began noticing such absentminded actions?— Just like her mother?
“When they find a cure, they hold onto it.”
“What?! Isn't the point of a cure to help?”
Qifrey nodded wholeheartedly, “You are very right, it is.” It made no sense to Coco, so he continued quickly. “High ranking physicians will eventually catch wind, and in hand they’ll bring bags of gold, coins, jewels, anything to get the royals to hand it over so they can profit off of it as well.”
“I'd like to give them a piece of my mind!” Qifrey laughed, and he loosened her tightened fist. He worked his fingers dutifully so he could press his palm against hers in full. His eye held an adoration Coco felt very warm under the gaze of.
“Wouldnt we all?” Qifrey flipped the page, bunions, he read aloud. Like onions, she had thought.
“What are their names?” He paused during a particularly gross description of wrinkled feet Coco was only half listening to him regale.
“Hm?”
“The royals.”
“Ah.” He closed the book, and Coco was secretly glad she no longer had to look at that particular drawing any longer.
“The Royal Arklaums.”