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The snow starts falling harder during their welcome home party, somewhere between toasts with prism lemonade and helpings of roast quadryphon, vegetable stew, and mariberry pie. With everyone crowded around the hearth, where a merry fire is crackling, Qifrey doesn’t notice the drop in temperature at first. It’s only when he goes to the kitchen that he spies, from the window, the thick layer of white beginning to cover the landscape.
He finishes refilling a pitcher with water from the vapour bubble — any more sugar this late at night, and the girls will be bouncing off the walls, perhaps literally given their sylph shoes — then returns to deliver the news.
Coco’s eyes light up, and she and Tetia immediately race to the window to see. Agott follows, hanging back some ways to make it clear she isn’t excited, merely curious. Richeh appears to be using a variation of her crystal ribbon spell to decorate Olruggio’s cloak while he dozes on the carpet. She’s intent on her work and only joins the others when Tetia calls out to her, exclaiming that the snow is sparkling prettily as it settles.
The party keeps going a little longer after that, fuelled by good food and company. Qifrey follows the conversation more than he takes part in it. He’s starting to get one of his headaches, deep in his skull where the silverwood seed lies dormant. Some quiet would soothe it, as would being away from the fire. Its brightness, contrasting with the surrounding dimness, makes pain spike in his eye.
Yet it would draw too much attention to himself to make his excuses and leave early, tonight of all nights. He’ll be fine, though. He can tell this isn’t one of his bad episodes, marked by waves of searing agony. This ache is almost gentle in comparison. In a way, it’s his personal welcome home. Qifrey is always a little happier when he returns to his atelier after some time away. So naturally, he’s also prone to being in a little more pain.
His physical state aside, Qifrey finds himself reluctant to put his foot down about bedtime. He likes seeing the girls enjoying themselves, smiling and laughing, after everything that happened in Ezrest. They’d been so strong and helpful during the crisis, and Qifrey is beyond proud of them for that, but he hopes they won’t have to put on brave faces again for a while.
At last, when even Agott can’t quite hide her yawn, Qifrey stands and begins the process of chivvying his apprentices to their rooms. Yesterday, after briskly dusting out the atelier with the help of a wind spell, Qifrey had retrieved everyone’s winter clothes and thick duvets from storage, and left these folded and stacked in their work spaces. Now, he reminds them to stay warm tonight under the winter bedding, and be sure to use their snugstones. Here on the Naakiwan Downs, the first snowfall of the year tends to arrive decisively.
With a chorus of goodnight, Master Qifrey and are you sure you don’t need any help cleaning up, the girls head off to bed. Their voices and footfalls fade into the distance as they make their way to their quarters.
Olruggio, meanwhile, has stirred from his impromptu nap. He’s still on the floor, but he’s sitting up now, one leg bent at the knee, upon which he rests an elbow. In the flickering firelight, he looks rumpled and a little dopey, softer around the edges than usual.
Qifrey is so fond of him, his heart squeezes in his chest like a tightening fist.
He hasn’t slept long enough to muss up his hair much, but Qifrey gets an urge to smooth a hand over it anyway. That cylindrical cushion, which Olruggio had been using as a pillow, doesn’t offer quite enough support — Qifrey knows this from many a snooze on the couch himself. He wants to card his fingers through Olruggio’s flattened hair, massage the tight muscles down the back of his neck. The longing is so strong that for a moment, he can practically feel the silky strands and warm skin.
Instead, Qifrey makes himself look away and busy his hands with picking up empty plates.
He knows Olruggio can doze lightly, resting while remaining aware of his surroundings, but he isn’t sure how deeply he was sleeping earlier. “How much did you hear? The snow’s getting heavy.”
“Aye, I’ll have to hurry around to the neighbouring villages tomorrow.” Olruggio grunts and rubs his neck, tilting his head like he’s got a crick. Qifrey’s hands twitch.
Olruggio gets up and returns his cushion to its usual spot on the couch. “I did hear you fussing over ‘em,” he teases, giving Qifrey a smirk. His low voice is extra gravelly from having just woken up.
Qifrey sniffs. “They could do with some fussing.”
He sees Olruggio’s expression soften for an instant, before he clears his throat and brushes at his cloak. When his hand meets unexpected texture, Olruggio frowns and looks down at himself.
“What on Estus…?”
There are tiny sparkly dots covering a small section of his cloak. In crystal ribbon form, this spell of Richeh’s is shimmery but translucent, and the studs she’s made this time are hard to see against the velvety black fabric. They’re most obvious when Olruggio holds that bit of hem at a certain angle to the fire. Then, they catch the light like a patch of starry night sky.
“Richeh’s doing, I take it?” Olruggio murmurs.
“Inspired by the passage stars,” Qifrey confirms. “She even came up with a name for the spell. Bedazzling, I think it was.”
“Whatever will she come up with next?” Olruggio chuckles and runs his hand over the bedazzled section of cloak.
Qifrey frowns. “Don’t you dare remove them.”
“Of course not,” Olruggio says, indignant. He lets go of his cloak and reaches for an empty soup bowl.
“Oh, leave it. I can manage,” Qifrey tells him. “The four of you spent all day cooking up this feast; the least I can do is clear up. And you must be tired, if you didn’t feel Richeh fiddling around with her spell.”
Olruggio waves a hand dismissively and picks up a cup, placing it inside the bowl. “It’s fine. They missed home-cooked food. And it helped take their minds off worrying about Coco, especially Agott.” He picks up another two cups, holding them by their stems between his fingers. “Where’d you find her? I didn’t want to ask in front of the other girls.”
Qifrey stacks a plate on top of another, noting with absentminded pleasure that the girls, even Richeh, have finished all their badland beans. “Her old cottage,” he answers after a pause. “She was sitting with her mother.”
Olruggio is quiet for a moment. “How d’you think she’s doing?”
Before Qifrey can arrange his thoughts, they hear rapidly approaching footsteps and both turn towards the sound.
Tetia pokes her head around the corner, with Brushbuddy perched on her shoulder. “Master Olruggio,” she chirps, “can Brushbuddy have a snugstone too?”
Olruggio splutters. “Excuse me? What’s the furry noodle need a snugstone for?”
“Brushbuddy seems to like curling up on them, but our snugstones will be inside our duvets, and we’re worried it’ll be too stuffy,” Tetia explains.
“Pwee pwee,” Brushbuddy chimes in.
Pursing his lips in an effort not to laugh at Olruggio’s expression, Qifrey remarks, “Sounds reasonable to me. Perhaps a small one, so the warmth is just right for a creature that size?”
Tetia nods earnestly. “Something like the ones you used for the decoys would be perfect!”
Qifrey has heard about how they’d combined Agott’s Pouch of Calling with Olruggio’s snugstones to try and lure the valance leech into the circle of floating platforms. The plan stopped working, but it was an ingenious idea, and their Boilfire Dragon subsequently succeeded on the same principle.
“We might have some pebbles in the back garden that would work,” Qifrey begins — then stops, noticing the shifty look on Olruggio’s face.
“No need for that,” Olruggio says gruffly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pouch. He unties the bow at the top, takes out the mini snugstone within, and holds it out to Brushbuddy, who inspects it briefly before grabbing ahold of it with both front paws.
Tetia squeals. “Thank you, Master Olruggio, you’re the best!” she exclaims in a rush. “Okay, goodnight again!”
“Goodnight, Tetia,” Qifrey says warmly.
As she turns and leaves, he sees Brushbuddy rubbing one rounded cheek against the snugstone with a high-pitched sigh of contentment. It’s the cutest thing Qifrey has witnessed all week, and that’s saying something, since he and the girls had checked yesterday on the tenants of their abandoned brick oven — a family of hallow-hares, extra round with their winter coats, huddled together and twitching their pink noses.
Next to him, Olruggio makes a grumbling noise and stuffs the cloth back in his pocket.
It’s too late, though. Qifrey knows now. “You brought a little pouch back with you.”
“Forgot it was in my pocket.” Shrugging dismissively, Olruggio gathers a couple more plates, and makes for the kitchen at what, for him, is practically a brisk pace.
“All the way home from Ezrest, and the whole of today?” Undeterred, Qifrey trails after him with his own armload of plates. “Olly. You felt bad for the decoys, didn’t you?”
Olruggio places the dirty dishes on the kitchen table and returns to the living room to collect more. “If you already know, why’re you still asking me?” he grits out.
Qifrey watches Olruggio stack the remaining cups and a couple of plates in his arms — he seems to be taking all the larger, heavier ones — then picks up the rest himself. He’d meant to tease him a bit, but between the snowfall dampening the sounds of the countryside, and the ordinary domesticity of their bedtime routine, the night has taken on a tender quality that Qifrey doesn’t want to abrade. A closeness he rarely allows himself, with Olruggio.
So instead, on their way back to the kitchen, he softly says, “Just making a point. You have a very kind heart, my dear friend.”
Probably too kind for his own good.
“I do not,” Olruggio mutters, while angling his body so the brick half-wall won’t snag his cloak and ruin Richeh’s work.
They start sorting all the dishes into stacks of ideal size for the dimensions of Qifrey’s usual washing spell. They don’t need to speak to coordinate; they’ve done this enough times to have a tacit understanding. Once the dishes are assembled, Qifrey flips open his palm quire and deftly draws the seal.
Meanwhile, Olruggio adjusts the black cords he uses to tie back his billowy sleeves when he needs them out of the way. It’s a bit awkward for him to do with one hand, but he’s developed a trick of pulling the knot tight with his teeth. So now, it’s just a bit distracting for Qifrey.
Olruggio crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against the table while watching the dishes spin around in a bubble of water and soap. “A snugstone for Brushbuddy. Always one last thing, isn’t it?”
Qifrey hums. It does take a while to get the girls to bed some nights. A small cup of halftea with milk; a pretty water sculpture with soothing colours in it; a clock mark longer to show him their Silver Eve contraptions-in-progress — each of his apprentices has asked for things like these right before bedtime. Qifrey doesn’t mind. It isn’t really about the request anyway, at least not always. Rather, it’s about wanting reassurance, wanting comfort. Wanting to know that if they need him, he’ll be there.
Accordingly, Qifrey has developed a habit of lingering in the living room or kitchen, until his apprentices seem to all be down for the night. He can always recognise, without being able to name, when that specific quality of peacefulness settles over the atelier.
It arrives now, while Olruggio begins to whisk clean dishes from Qifrey’s spell directly into his drying one, which he’d scrawled quickly on his own palm quire. The feeling is not just quiet or stillness. In sentimental moods, Qifrey thinks it might be the magic of this old building itself, once a shepherd’s lodgings, later renovated by him and Olruggio, then gradually filled with his apprentices’ lively presences. The magic of home.
Moments like these are when it almost feels real. When Qifrey can nearly delude himself into thinking that he can have this life, allow himself to be as content as it should be making him.
But because of the silverwood within him, any comfort he indulges in can only ever seem… borrowed, from a version of himself that does not exist. A version of himself that never became host to this dendritic parasite, never had to flinch from an affectionate touch or a warm hug, never learned of happiness as something inextricable from a cold writhing under his skin.
Olruggio takes the last of the dishes from him — a tall, heavy stack — dries them, and waves Qifrey off when he tries to help put them away. “Not with that arm,” Olruggio says, glancing at his right shoulder.
Qifrey gapes at him. “It’s been six weeks. It’s already healed.”
Kneeling on the floor to stow some serving bowls in a low cabinet, Olruggio snorts. “For a gash like that, Sinocia told me the surface would close within a month, but it can take up to three for the tissue to regrow properly. I try not to fuss in front of the girls, they were scared enough when you got hurt. I know you don’t want to worry them either. But when it’s just us, Qifrey?”
He turns to look at him over his shoulder, his expression soft. “You can let go.”
For a moment, warmth blossoms in Qifrey’s chest. To be cared about like this; to have one’s recovery monitored without one even knowing. To be partners in caring for the children in their charge, too.
Then the warmth collapses in on itself, and frigid roots wriggle through his ribcage instead. It’s the silverwood, responding to Olruggio’s offer of comfort. It tunnels through him to his right shoulder, woody boughs rising to just below his skin.
Over the years of hiding his condition, Qifrey has learned that exposing himself to things like water and cold can force the silverwood to retreat — but only temporarily. Once a part of his body has been lignified, it feels like it becomes a weak spot, where it’s easier for the tree to burst through subsequently. Leaves sprouting from where his right eye used to be. Branches from his shoulder, where he’d been struck by that boulder in the Serpentback Cave.
Biting his lip, Qifrey covers the spot with his left hand, casually rubbing it as if soothing a sore muscle, nothing worse. “Thanks, Olly,” he says quietly, “but I’m fine.”
Olruggio is the person who makes him feel safest in all the world. And that’s exactly why he can never let himself find solace with him.
He catches a flash of hurt in Olruggio’s eyes, before he shrugs it off. “Right.”
It’s far from the first time Qifrey has had to shut him out when he longs to let him in. Tonight, though, a sudden impulse makes Qifrey blurt out, “Actually… I could use some tea.”
The way Olruggio lights up at that, sets off a twinge in Qifrey’s chest. Whereas other people might be cheered upon receiving a thoughtful gift or affirming words, Olruggio seems to respond best to being allowed to help people.
“Willowgrape, I suppose?” Olruggio asks. It’s Qifrey’s favourite marktea, good for promoting sleep and recovery after a long day. Qifrey nods, and Olruggio fills a teapot with water from the vapour bubble, then opens a cupboard and retrieves the tall wooden stand used for brewing marktea, along with two round slips containing the pressed willowgrape leaves.
Taking two porcelain cups and two saucers from the same cupboard, Qifrey says, “Here,” and holds them out so Olruggio can drop the marktea in temporarily. That frees up a hand for Olruggio to carry the teapot.
This is another familiar routine: that of their quiet nights together. With Qifrey busy supervising the apprentices’ Silver Eve preparations, and Olruggio scrambling to meet his deadlines, the two of them haven’t had the chance in some time. On other occasions, they make snacks or cocktails together, grown-up food not intended for the girls. After the celebratory dinner tonight, though, some simple tea is just the thing.
In the living room, they set up on the couch, and Olruggio starts brewing the tea. Normally, this is Qifrey’s task, but this time, he sits back and watches him work. Olruggio heats the water by suspending the teapot over the fire. While waiting for it to boil, he sets the marktea slips in the empty rings of the wooden stand, even aligning them to face the same direction, the way he knows Qifrey likes to do, even though it makes no difference to the flavour.
When he pours the hot water, he swirls it carefully over the willowgrape leaves. Steam rises around his hands, which are used to heat and do not flinch. They are working hands, with the calluses typical for a witch, but also faint smudges of brown where Olruggio’s skin has healed darker from burns over years of experimenting with fire magic.
Perhaps because of the late hour and his low but present headache, Qifrey gets a little hypnotised, watching Olruggio. He startles slightly when Olruggio holds out a cup of tea.
“Oh, thank you,” Qifrey murmurs, accepting it and taking a small sip. It’s just the temperature he likes, which he knows is a little hotter than Olruggio prefers.
He can feel Olruggio’s gaze on him, level and considering. To his relief, however, Olruggio next asks not about Qifrey, but Coco. “Before Tetia came, you were saying…?”
“Ah.” Qifrey replaces his cup in its saucer. “Coco returned to her home village to try using counterclock on her mother.” He holds up a hand. “Before you object that it’s not to be used on a person, recall the exceptions that the Three Wise have recently made in Ezrest.”
Olruggio sucks in a breath and releases it slowly. “It’s hard to wrap my head around, but I wasn’t going to bring that up. I’m just thinking — it didn’t work anyway, right? It’s been too long. Was Coco very upset?”
Qifrey recalls the brittle smile she’d given him, the one that reminded him too much of his own when trying to force a happy expression. “She tried to hide it,” he says, brow furrowing.
“Hmm.” Olruggio drinks from his own cup of tea, looking thoughtful. “We’ll have to watch for that.”
His voice has gone gruff again, the way it gets when he’s worried about the girls but doesn’t want to admit it. Often, this results in him using his role as Watchful Eye to justify paying such close attention to their welfare, be it physical or emotional.
They might be Qifrey’s apprentices officially, but part of Qifrey had always known that Olruggio never stood a chance of staying uninvolved. He’s the type of person to look out for anyone who is lucky enough to fall into his orbit. A benevolent star, always giving off light and warmth.
For a while, they sip their tea in companionable silence. When Qifrey finishes his cup, Olruggio makes him another one, more dilute since he’s reusing the marktea slip. Qifrey murmurs his thanks again, but keeps his gaze lowered. The light from the fire is aggravating his headache.
He doesn’t think he’s being obvious — he’d done this earlier too — but now that Olruggio isn’t dozing and distracted by four girls, he notices.
“Hey,” Olruggio says, looking at him closely. “Does your head hurt or something?”
A bolt of anxiety shoots through Qifrey, but he reminds himself that people get headaches for plenty of mundane reasons. “Yes,” he admits, “but it’ll be fine by morning.”
Olruggio frowns. “Switch seats with me,” he says, moving the tea things out of the way. “The firelight’s making it worse, isn’t it?”
Qifrey’s anxiety doubles, and he stiffens. “A little,” he says, much more cautiously.
The last time he had had to erase Olruggio’s memories, it happened because Olruggio saw the transparent glyph on his glasses and inferred that his failing vision was why he was pursuing the Brimmed Caps again.
If Olruggio’s noticing his sensitivity to light… Qifrey’s stomach clenches. He can’t be about to figure out his secret again. Not so soon after the last time. Not tonight, after such a lovely party with the girls. If Olruggio’s suspicions had started during the meal, would a memory wipe take some of the celebration too, or worse still, all of it? Qifrey couldn’t bear it if so.
Compared to the inner turmoil he’s experiencing, Olruggio is laidback, merely clicking his tongue and chiding, “You should’ve said something. I would’ve made you erbe tea instead. Here, I’ll get you some now.”
Erbe, made from tranquileaf, is a natural painkiller and fever reducer. Considered a home remedy, even witches can take it without needing a doctor’s prescription.
Standing, Olruggio gestures for Qifrey to move over to his spot on the couch, then descends the steps to the kitchen.
Qifrey stays frozen in place for a moment, considering his options. It’d probably be best to return to his room soon, especially if Olruggio is going into full caretaking mode. If he keeps being so kind and considerate, there’s no way the silverwood will behave itself.
But then again, for now, Olruggio doesn’t seem to think anything out of the ordinary is going on. If Qifrey starts acting weirdly at this juncture, it might raise his suspicions and galvanise him putting the pieces together.
No, he’d better stay put. Decision made, Qifrey scoots over to where Olruggio had been sitting. Immediately, the dimmer light helps his headache. And the round cushion Olruggio had been leaning against is still warm from his body — he’s always run hot, perhaps due to the cold climate in Ghodrey, where he was born. Qifrey settles in with a long exhale.
Olruggio returns, holding not only a slip of erbe tea, but also a small jar of honeytree nectar. They have some left over from making custard; it keeps for ages.
“To wash away the bitterness,” Olruggio explains. “Finish your willowgrape first.”
Qifrey obeys, downing the rest of his cup so Olruggio can brew the erbe in it.
He leaves the slips of willowgrape in the stand when he pours the hot water, such that the last traces of their sweet aroma mix with the erbe, neutralising some of its medicinal scent. Olruggio also conjures some ice to rapidly cool down the tea, before handing it over.
The girls have rarely had to drink erbe — when one of them catches a cold or some other ailment, Qifrey usually takes them to see a doctor in Kalhn. He doesn’t take chances with their health. But when nursing them thereafter, tranquileaf is a common treatment, and Qifrey always serves it cold. He’s found that it’s less bitter that way, the tongue slightly numbed.
To have Olruggio use the same trick with him… It’s an odd feeling, but not unwelcome. The silverwood stirs with some interest. Qifrey keeps his expression neutral and hides his face by sipping the erbe.
No sooner has Qifrey set down his cup, than Olruggio is ready with a spoonful of honeytree nectar. He looks so serious, holding it out to Qifrey, that he can’t help but give a huff of laughter. “Honestly, Olly, you’re being ridiculous. Even Richeh puts up with drinking erbe without us making this much of a fuss.”
Olruggio shuts him up by sticking the spoon between his lips. “Hold that in your mouth until the bitterness fades,” he instructs. The corner of his lips quirks. “Needless to say, no talking.”
Giving him a mock glare, Qifrey takes the spoon out of his mouth, leaving the honeytree nectar to bloom, sweet and syrupy, over his tongue. He drops the spoon in his empty cup, sucking contentedly on his mouthful of sugar.
It does feel a little like being a kid again. Qifrey can still remember the first time he had a pointed cap pastry from that vendor in the Great Hall. The cone-shaped pastries are Olruggio’s favourite, and he’d dragged Qifrey along to try them early in their friendship. As a child, he used to load his with all the sweetest toppings.
Olruggio is watching him with a peculiar look on his face, a mix of satisfied and indulgent and something else that Qifrey can’t name.
“You could do with some fussing,” he says quietly.
Qifrey blinks and swallows the rest of the nectar all at once. He does it so quickly that he chokes and starts coughing.
Olruggio leans forward and thumps him on the back a few times. Because they’re sitting facing each other, he has to reach around Qifrey to do it, and ends up giving him half a hug, or perhaps a third.
After Qifrey’s coughing subsides, Olruggio lingers in that position, and his hand gentles from thumping to sort of… petting his back, soothingly. It makes Qifrey’s right shoulder throb, and he is thankful that Olruggio is focusing his attentions on his left side.
This is the most physical contact that Qifrey has gotten with him in a while. Except when Olruggio was holding him up in the Serpentback Cave — but Qifrey had been barely clinging to consciousness, so he doesn’t count that. At the time, he only vaguely knew that Olruggio was there, which meant that Qifrey was safe, and the girls would be looked after.
That thought is enough to remind him: he isn’t allowed this much touch. Qifrey pulls back, out of Olruggio’s embrace. He isn’t safe here, he reminds himself sternly. He can nibble on these kernels of stolen comfort, but he mustn’t let them sprout.
He clears his throat. “I should go to bed,” Qifrey says, reaching for the teacups to clear them away. “You too. You’ll have a busy day tomorrow, with how this snow is coming down.”
Olruggio helps gather the rest of the tea things. “Have you ever noticed,” he says conversationally, “that you spend most of your time fretting over the girls, but the moment anyone tries to worry about you or help you, your walls go up?”
“Not at all,” Qifrey says in a slightly strangled voice, and flees to the kitchen.
There’s no point; Olruggio follows him there, and gives him an exasperated look while Qifrey speedily washes their teacups. “Honestly, would it kill you to let me take care of you?”
Yes, in fact it could, Qifrey thinks a little hysterically.
Out loud, he says, “I take care of myself. You’re one to talk, staying up late so you end up sleeping past noon, and surviving on thornbark tea when you have deadlines to meet.”
Olruggio takes the teacups from him and dries them off. “I can sleep in because you sort out breakfast and lunch for the girls. And you bring food to my room all the time so I don’t waste away in there, too focused or stressed to take a break.”
He opens the cupboard and replaces the cups, along with the wooden marktea stand. Then he pauses, looking at the boxes of tea rather than at Qifrey. “I meant what I said earlier. Except it’s not really fussing, it’s just… being there for you. I feel like I’m always a little worried about you running off on your own, hiding away when you need help. Like you did when we were younger.”
Frowning, Olruggio nudges a box of tea so it aligns with the rest. Qifrey can just make out the label: wood sorrel. “But somehow, I don’t really remember acting on that worry. Or, I don’t know,” he breaks off, rapping his head a couple times. “My memory’s kind of fuzzy. Must be getting old,” he jokes.
Utter cold creeps through Qifrey’s gut. It’s not that at all, he wants to tell him. It’s that you’ve had your memory erased dozens of times since you were only a kid. It’s that you have a best friend who repeatedly does to you the worst thing that’s been done to him.
Qifrey bites his lip. Because of course, he can’t say any of that. It would give him a moment’s selfish relief from this strangling guilt, at the cost of Olruggio having to lose his memories again.
Ever since hearing about the argument Coco had made, comparing counterclock to memory erasure, it’s occurred to Qifrey that he and Olruggio are living through their own version of counterclock over and over. When Custas drew the seal on Dagda’s chest to rewind his death, it caused his body and mind to reset once a day. With them, it’s Qifrey’s body and Olruggio’s mind that get reset, every time Olruggio discovers the secret. It isn’t a solution. It merely prolongs the suffering of those involved as they thrash against the trappings of an inevitable fate.
He’d said it himself when he introduced the spell to Coco. The counterclock seal is but a fleeting, fruitless struggle against the immutable current of time. Fate is always waiting when the clock reaches its moment once again. To give in to the silverwood implanted in him has always been Qifrey’s fate. He was never meant to be saved. The only reason he has been spared so far is that Olruggio chose to share the burden of that fate with him.
Olruggio turns away from the wood sorrel and looks at Qifrey at last. “I guess I just… wish I could help you more.”
He doesn’t remember about the silverwood. He doesn’t remember their pact. Yet somehow, he’s ended up saying exactly what an Olruggio who did know would say, in the moments before another memory wipe.
Qifrey knows he is toeing the line here, risking this evening. But he can’t leave him like this. He has to try to let him in. Not all the way; he can’t. But just far enough, to stop him looking so helpless.
Choosing his words carefully, Qifrey says, “You help me all the time. When you can’t, when I won’t let you, you forgive me, and then you try again the next time, because helping is in your nature. It’s nothing extraordinary to you, even though it means everything to me.”
Olruggio’s eyes have gone wide. “You never talk like this. Did I spike your tea by mistake?”
Qifrey stifles a laugh. He’s gotten tipsy around Olruggio before, but he’s never let his guard down. What alcohol cannot achieve, Olruggio can simply by being sad at him.
“Did the erbe help, at least?” Olruggio asks. “How’s your head?”
What Qifrey hadn’t mentioned earlier, for obvious reasons, is that erbe doesn’t touch the bad headaches. Those, he has to grit his teeth through, at most telling his apprentices that he’s feeling a little under the weather, and then riding out the worst of it inside his locked bedroom with a seal of soundproofing on the inside of the door.
This time was milder and the erbe had helped at first, taking the edge off the pain. But then it had had to contend with the worsening headache caused by Olruggio being far kinder than Qifrey deserves. Now, even the light in the kitchen is enough to make Qifrey’s temples throb.
“All better,” Qifrey says with an easy smile.
“Hmm.” Olruggio peers at him. “Liar,” he says softly.
A vivid memory comes to Qifrey’s mind: Olruggio lying down with him at the bottom of a crevasse, bleeding from sawbush leaves but grinning up at the stars. Talking about the kind of lies only a friend would make up.
He always sees right through Qifrey.
Olruggio produces his palm quire and draws a seal for a floatglow lamp — much smaller than he normally would. Before he closes the ring, he takes Qifrey’s hand. “Close your eye.”
“Olly,” Qifrey protests, without quite knowing what he means by it.
“Trust me,” Olruggio says.
Qifrey closes his eye.
Everything is dim, and then it gets darker still as Olruggio presumably deactivates the lamp in the kitchen. Then, there’s a faint glow as Olruggio activates his spell.
The intensity of the light is already mild, but then Olruggio moves in the darkness, putting himself between the floatglow lamp and Qifrey, further shielding his eye. The darkness soothes his headache even as the sweetness of the gesture makes Qifrey’s silverwood creak.
Qifrey has known a darkness this complete, while left for dead in the Forest of Thristas. His main fear is of water, because of the rain seeping into the casket and pooling around his body, but darkness puts him on edge too. In this instance, it helps — forcing back the silverwood that would otherwise already be growing towards Olruggio, as plants turn to face the sun.
Olruggio tugs him forward by their linked hands. Qifrey bobs along behind him, a bit of flotsam trailing behind his boat.
He’d thought he was familiar with the kitchen, given how much time he has spent here cooking for everyone. He thought wrong. Several times as they traverse the space, Qifrey thinks surely they must be at the stairs up to the living room by now, yet they still aren’t. He keeps moving through the formless darkness, with Olruggio as his only point of reference.
If Qifrey does lose his sight completely one day, would it be something like this?
And would he still have Olruggio by his side?
“Steps,” he finally hears in Olruggio’s familiar low voice. Automatically, Qifrey lifts his foot and finds the first step. Then the next, and the next, with Olruggio counting them down until they reach the top.
“In retrospect,” Olruggio says, sounding sheepish, “I could’ve waited until we’d climbed the stairs to do this.”
Qifrey squeezes his hand. “Ah, but think of the symbolism,” he teases.
It’s like Coco at the Tower of Tomes, choosing to fly straight towards Qifrey and scoop him up, even though he could have managed on his own. Qifrey could have made it to his room unassisted tonight as well. But he doesn’t have to, not with Olruggio here.
“Forget symbolism,” Olruggio grumbles, “I’m just making sure you don’t fall asleep on the couch again. You have a bed; use it.”
After travelling through the darkness for a length of time that feels both brief and protracted, they finally reach Qifrey’s room. Qifrey recognises the sound of the door swinging open on its hinges.
He thinks Olruggio will leave him there, but instead he leads Qifrey over the threshold.
“I think I’ve got it from here,” Qifrey says awkwardly.
“Job’s not done yet,” Olruggio counters. “Keep your eye closed a bit longer.”
He manoeuvres Qifrey through the small obstacles on the way to his bed. Without needing to look, Qifrey remembers what they are: a side table heavily laden with theoretical books, a box containing some of the first seals drawn by each of his apprentices. They all hate letting him see their earliest attempts, but he squirrels them away when he can. He likes to have a baseline to compare their progress against.
Olruggio nudges him to turn around and sit down on the bed. Qifrey does, although his curiosity about what Olruggio is up to is only growing stronger. He kicks off his boots while waiting.
From somewhere in front of him, he hears indistinct sounds, some rustling followed by intermittent scratching. Qifrey smiles. He would recognise the glide and scrawl of Olruggio’s drawing anywhere.
“A spell?” he wonders aloud. “Whatever for?”
There’s a pause before Olruggio says begrudgingly, “And here I wanted it to be a surprise. Stop listening so closely. You’d better not be able to guess just from the sound.”
If there exist any words more able to motivate Qifrey to listen with all his might, he can’t imagine what they would be. “Sounds like a challenge.”
In defiance, Olruggio scribbles faster in the darkness. Qifrey laughs.
But he truly can’t tell what the sigil and signs are, and the next thing he knows, he hears Olruggio give a satisfied grunt and announce, “Alright. You can look now.”
Qifrey opens his eye, and finds his room transformed.
Oh, everything is still in its usual place. Much of his surroundings, in fact, remain cast in darkness. But the ceiling is awash with tiny pinpricks of light. Each is dim enough that even looking directly at them does not aggravate his headache, yet together, they illuminate the space just enough to see by.
Olruggio has given him the stars.
“It’s a bit rough,” Olruggio judges, surveying the ceiling. “Works on the same idea as Richeh’s spell, you see?” He indicates the sparkly section of his cloak. “I’ve had the idea stewing in the back of my head, but I couldn’t draw and try it out until now. I think I can refine it by—”
“What are you talking about?” Qifrey interrupts. “It’s beautiful.”
Olruggio looks down at him. A small, pleased smile starts to sprout on his face. “You like it?”
Link rings that dry and warm you up. Snugstones that help you sleep. And now this. “I love every spell you’ve ever made for me,” Qifrey tells him.
The smile blooms. “Don’t get too attached. I’m still going to tweak it,” Olruggio warns.
“Of course you will,” Qifrey says fondly. He would expect nothing less from him. “At least get some sleep first.”
Olruggio looks at him with a carefully neutral expression. “And am I doing that in my room,” he says, “or yours?”
Qifrey holds his gaze. It’s always this way, isn’t it? It’s always Qifrey fighting his own longing for Olruggio, deciding to let him come this close and no further.
He should probably tell him to leave. Olruggio has even given him an opening to do it. But Qifrey doesn’t want to. Just for tonight, when he’s already allowed himself this much comfort, can he get away with being a little more greedy?
“Well,” Qifrey says lightly after a long pause, “it is snowing. You might get chilly sleeping alone.”
Olruggio snorts. They both know that Olruggio runs too hot for that. It’s why he has that set of basically sheer pyjamas, and other ridiculous sleepwear. Only when winter arrives does he swap them out for something more practical, and less of a test of Qifrey’s willpower.
“Sure. Budge over, then,” Olruggio says gruffly. But he’s obviously pleased to stay, and makes himself at home as casually as though they do this all the time. He toes off his shoes and loosens the cords on his sleeves, then removes them entirely, placing them on Qifrey’s bedside table.
For his part, Qifrey begins tugging at the strips of fabric that make up the turtleneck on his tight black inner layer. Every morning, he doesn’t feel awake or presentable until he’s braided them. And so even though he’s still fully dressed, merely relaxing his neckline for bedtime, he feels strangely vulnerable undoing the strips while Olruggio is so close. Like a prey animal exposing its soft neck.
His hesitation makes his fingers move slowly. Olruggio has sorted out the pillow situation and is already lying down, while Qifrey dithers.
“Alright?” Olruggio asks softly.
Qifrey turns slightly towards him, fingers loosening the last of the braiding. The automatic words Of course are on the tip of his tongue, but they falter. He stays silent and nods instead.
Olruggio’s gaze drops to Qifrey’s neck and lingers there for a long moment before he looks away. “I’ve always wondered how you put up with something so tight and fiddly.”
“I prefer it, actually,” Qifrey answers without thinking about it. Ever since he can remember, he’s liked having a feeling of compression from the base layer of his clothes. It gives him the illusion of something containing his body, suppressing whatever is writhing within. It also reminds him how tautly he must hold himself.
He isn’t doing that now, though. Qifrey exhales and lies down next to Olruggio, tugging his quilt over his shoulders. Immediately, he’s surrounded by warmth. The closeness of Olruggio is almost overwhelming. He goes very still, as though afraid to break the moment.
After a short while of this, Olruggio asks, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Do you need a bedtime story?” Qifrey jokes.
Olruggio scoffs, and reaches for Qifrey’s glasses.
Reflexively, Qifrey flinches back and grasps his wrist. “Olly,” he says in alarm.
“You don’t sleep with them on, do you?” Olruggio asks, sounding far too reasonable.
That is so obviously not the point that Qifrey doesn’t bother answering. No one touches his glasses, only Qifrey. It’s always been that way.
“I know,” Olruggio murmurs, as though reading his thoughts. “But it’s just me here. It’s just us.”
You can let go.
Would Olruggio keep trying to care for him like this, if he knew everything Qifrey has done to him? All the lies, all the memory wipes. If he remembered experiencing all of it, would he still reach for Qifrey with such gentle hands?
Again, inside Qifrey’s chest, guilt wars with longing.
Qifrey huffs out a breath. “Just… just go easy on me, okay?”
Only after the words leave his mouth does he recognise them, as the last thing Olruggio had said to him that fateful day outside the Tower of Tomes, before erasing his own memory for the first time.
He has no idea what Olruggio thinks he means. But Olruggio merely pauses for a moment, then quietly says, “You too.”
He reaches out again. Qifrey’s breathing roughens, but he lets Olruggio tug his glasses off the bridge of his nose. The adhesive petals that he uses to secure them peel softly away.
The light from the spelled stars is dim enough that there’s no way Olruggio can see the glyph on Qifrey’s left lens. Even so, Qifrey holds his breath until Olruggio sets his glasses aside.
They might be stuck in their own version of counterclock, with time always running out on them, but tonight, Qifrey wills the clock to pause. To let him have this peace.
Olruggio curls closer to him, slinging an arm over Qifrey’s chest and dragging him closer. He hides his face in the crook of Qifrey’s neck and mumbles goodnight against his skin. Qifrey echoes him, then carefully shifts until Olruggio’s neck is at a better angle, lest he wake up aching in the morning.
Soon, Olruggio’s breathing deepens into sleep. Qifrey stays awake a while longer, looking up at the stars.