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It was a forget-me-not.
Qifrey picked up the stem and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. The little blue flowers winked back at him.
“I saw it on the side of the road, walking back this way,” said Olruggio. He was in the midst of unpacking his bags on the kitchen counter, having been the one in charge of shopping for the week. “I thought, ‘hey, who does that blue remind me of?’”
He was smiling. Qifrey was not. Regardless, he forced one. “Thank you,” he said. His voice was tight. “It’s beautiful.”
It was. Forget-me-nots, or scorpion grass, usually grew low to the ground and were quite brushy. This one was tall, the stem blooming with a multitude of the blue flowers. It looked very much like it was reaching for something. Qifrey stared at the yellow eyes of the blooms and refused to look at Olruggio.
“Here, I’ll fill up a vase, hold on a tick,” said Olruggio. Qifrey heard the sound of movement, the shuffling of retrieval, the sound of water pouring, and then Olruggio was in front of him.
“It’ll last longer this way,” said Olruggio. He was very close to where Qifrey leaned against the counter.
Qifrey looked up. The young man was holding a small white ceramic vase. Qifrey wasn’t sure where it had come from. He might have even pocketed it at the Great Hall at some point. Anything he could take from that place, he did.
With no small amount of hesitancy, Qifrey carefully placed the flower into the water.
“All’s well?” said Olruggio. His eyebrows were furrowed, his concern clearly stemming from Qifrey’s stiff demeanour. He set the vase down on the counter.
Qifrey blinked, focusing his attention on his friend. “Yes,” he said automatically. “Distracted. It’s been a long morning.”
That much was true. They were still hard at work on repairing the atelier, in the process of making it entirely livable. Qifrey had been hard at work on the walkway between the connecting structures, which was proving challenging to build up, even with the help of numerous spells. He’d been meaning to ask Olruggio if hiring a few handyfolk from nearby Kalhn would be worth it, as well as within budget. It was difficult balancing so much, but Qifrey relished the freedom of running his own life, despite the challenges.
But he wondered how much work he was going to get done now, with this flower here in front of him.
“Well, if you want me to make lunch, I can,” said Olruggio, smiling. “I don’t mind. You’ve been working hard.”
“You too,” murmured Qifrey. Then his eye slid to the flower again. “Why did you pick that?” he asked. He hoped he did not sound as unnerved as he felt.
Olruggio looked at the flower as well. It sat, innocuous, in the vase on the counter between them. “I said, didn’t I?” he said. Qifrey watched as his ears began to tinge a dark shade of pink. “Uh, the blue. It reminded me of your eye colour. Especially when you’re looking… focused. Intense.”
Qifrey’s heart staccatoed in his chest. Focused. Intense. Like the last time. Only three days ago. When the memory erasure spell had been necessary. The questions about Qifrey’s last trip to the Great Hall were too pointed. The conversation, then, was too far gone. The realization mounting. And Qifrey, his expression undoubtedly one of wide-eyed determination, lunging forward and pinning Olruggio to the chair he was seated in, crawling practically into his lap to cover his face with the dark ink of the spell.
The sudden silence. The collapse. Then it was over. It was through. Qifrey had picked up Olruggio’s limp and unconscious body and dragged him carefully to the settle in front of the fire and laid him there. He brought him blankets, cushions, removed his slippers and brushed his hair from his face. When he woke the next morning, Qifrey told him he had fallen asleep, once their after dinner conversation had wound to a close.
He didn’t remember? The lies came easily in response: Oh, Olly, you must’ve been so tired. Yes, you were, I saw it when you walked through the door. The day really took it out of you. No, don’t worry, it wasn’t much trouble to clean up by myself. Not at all.
Yes. That is how the exchange had gone. But before the morning came, Qifrey had grabbed the edge of the blanket covering Olruggio and crumpled it in his fist. He had wept into the crook of his own elbow, bit at the tender flesh there to stop from sobbing too loudly. He stroked Olruggio’s sleeping face and then stopped, feeling disgusted with himself, then started again, stomach twisting into knots. Then he had got up, and left, and lay awake alone in the dark thinking of all the ways in which being so horrible was keeping him so, so alive.
None of this made its way onto his face as he spoke next.
“Flatterer,” muttered Qifrey, ducking his head.
Olruggio laughed. “Aye, well,” he said, “you’re easy on the eyes. Just like a flower.”
“There’s hideous flowers out there,” countered Qifrey. “So can I trust a charmer like you to be speaking truly?”
Olruggio laughed again. Qifrey felt sick. This was a game they played sometimes, compliments that were also flirtations, Olruggio unable to stop from going red in the face. For years now–how long had this gone on? Seven, eight years? Qifrey couldn’t remember. They’d fumbled into a kiss well over a year ago. The first real one. It was awkward and Olruggio had initiated it because Qifrey could not, would not; it felt too similar to the ways he grabbed and held and forced the memory erasing spell onto the man, using his whole body to make it happen. He couldn’t reach for him first. He would make himself sick.
But then Olruggio had pulled him in and Qifrey had pulled back and then he was on top of Olly again but for a different reason this time and it had been good, it had been so good, and so different than a few years before that when Qifrey and Alaira had fumbled through a few weeks of trying each other on for size. It hadn’t worked; they were much better as friends.
He and Olruggio, however—they could be more. He had known this for some time. When they had tangled together his mind was blank. He knew only lips and hands and warmth, but then Qifrey had heard his friend breathing hard and felt his heart race, and that was it, it was too much like fear, he had scared him dozens of times and would not do it again. Qifrey had broken off and sat shaking until it was Olruggio who was apologizing which wasn’t right nor fair and–
“Qifrey?”
Qifrey blinked himself out of these thoughts.
“You, uh… I think I lost you there for a moment.”
“Mind wandering,” muttered Qifrey. Then he turned on his heel. “I’m going to go for a walk. I’ll be quick about it. I just need to clear my head.”
He did not look back as he left the kitchen. He did not want to see the expression on Olruggio’s face, though he knew he deserved to see the pain written there.
‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.
He cleared his head under the cover of trees.
It was early in the woods, the world dark and cool under the spreading green. The copse was not far from the atelier. He liked to go there and look for mushrooms or watch the birds or the light through the leaves. It was peaceful, usually, except for when Qifrey brought his guilt with him.
It was so heavy as to be painful, and he hadn’t even done anything in the moment; only lived through the latest wipe of Olruggio’s memories again. The man still had all his memories of the day, but now he also had the one of Qifrey turning tail after an affectionate exchange. He probably thought he was being rejected yet again.
Qifrey sat at the roots of one of the few oak trees that grew on the Downs and put his head in his hands.
He did not cry. It was not like that. He instead felt the hard, horrible emptiness that came with crushing guilt. As if a hole had opened up inside of him and pulled all of his organs into it, so there was only a sense of dull lifelessness in the hollow left behind. He breathed through this feeling for some unknown amount of time until the sound of wind through leaves made him look up.
A cool breeze carrying the scent of new growth blew around him. The leaves danced. Midday light filtered through them, onto the forest floor. Qifrey watched it shiver and shine until the pain within him became bearable enough for him to carry it again.
‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.
When he returned to the atelier, the kitchen was dark.
The sun was setting early, so even at this time, the atelier was cast in shadow. Qifrey was not sure how long he had sat under the trees, but it had been a while. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, in his boots and cloak, and saw that the forget-me-not was still in its vase on the counter.
He looked away from it. “Olly?” he said, to the empty air. He knew the other man was not there, but he said it, voice plaintive, anyway. He felt at least a decade younger than his twenty-three years. Panic rose at Olruggio’s absence, thick and grimy, but he stymied it and swept through the atelier to the rooms they shared.
Light emanated out from under one of the doors. Qifrey felt some semblance of relief. He bypassed bricks and wooden planks piled in the hall, reached the door, and opened it.
“Olly,” he said, by way of announcing himself, “I’m back. Sorry, I lost track of time.” He tried to keep his voice bright, his expression neutral.
Olruggio was at the small desk in the corner of the room, head bent over his work. He did not look up. Qifrey stopped before he hit the nearest bed. They had crammed two bed frames in here, somehow, so close they were almost touching, as well as two desks. It was temporary, sure, but Qifrey had come to rather enjoy their shared quarters. He liked reading in bed while Olruggio scratched away at his work. He liked hearing the man’s breath even out as he fell asleep. He liked knowing that Olruggio was, at all times during the night, only an arm’s length away.
But right now, he felt very far away. “I left your lunch in the ice box,” Olruggio said. He was still looking down, pen moving as he spoke. “I didn’t know when you’d be back, and I’d rather it not have gone off.”
Qifrey’s heart stuttered. His friend’s voice sounded tight. Clipped. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll go eat it now. Do you want to join me? I was thinking we could have tea, and maybe–”
“Maybe after I finish up here,” said Olruggio. He had a very firm grip on his pen. “There’s a deadline loomin’ on this one.”
“Right,” said Qifrey. Olruggio was rarely without a commission these days, and this was just another in a long list of many. “Of course. Do you want me to bring you–”
Olruggio shook his head. “No, no, it’s fine,” he said. “I’ll see you later, Qifrey, yeah?”
“Yes,” Qifrey said. He was unable to keep how deflated he felt out of his voice. “See you later, Olly.”
He left the room and closed the door gently behind him. Back in the dark of the hallway, Qifrey looked down at his feet. He closed his eye. The flower–and then, the memory of the fear in Olruggio’s dark blue eyes–rose up in his mind.
Surely he had hurt Olruggio’s feelings, and now, he had no idea how to broach the subject without making both of them feel worse. How could he possibly explain what his wonderful gift had brought to his mind?
He pushed away from the door and returned to the kitchen. The offending flower and vase sat in the shadows. Qifrey tossed his cloak and hat onto the nearest chair at the dining table, then sank into it and put his head in his hands, gritting his teeth.
He had been lying to Olruggio through his teeth for over a decade. How much longer could he bear it? Parting from Olruggio had not helped. He had found solace in knowing that he was no longer subjecting the man to continued and frightening memory loss, which had been more than enough for the silverwood to take root, so strong was his relief at knowing he was no longer able to hurt Olruggio. So he was back, and they were fixing up this old house, and he was going to take the fifth test to see if dealing with an apprentice would make his life all the more difficult. Difficult enough to give Olruggio a break.
Qifrey’s thoughts spiralled into more guilt as he imagined his would-be apprentice, whose form was a mere shade in his mind; some aspiring young person, thinking they had come to learn from an esteemed witch, the apprentice of a Wise, while unbeknownst to them they were a means to an end. The stress, the anxiety, the constant worry–he would never be able to relax, and the seed would stay dormant as long as the child was around.
And just like he used Olruggio, he would be using them, too.
Qifrey’s vision blurred. He peeled his glasses from his face and dabbed at his eye with the edge of his sleeve. The urge to leave again, to go out and do something, seek another lead, was overwhelming. But if he disappeared, Olruggio would be sick with worry, and Qifrey didn’t want to do that to him as well.
So instead, he got up and made tea in the dark.
The pyreball he cast was the only real light in the room. He set metal grating over it and put the kettle atop that. He grabbed the first tea on the shelf without looking at what it was and set about finding a cup while the water boiled. All the while the forget-me-not remained motionless and unassuming in the vase on the counter.
He brought out two teacups, just in case, but only filled one. The smell of the tea and the warmth of the steam were some small relief, but Qifrey still felt as if he needed to do something–move around, throw something, shout. None of these things were particularly appealing, and yet he wanted to do them all. Perhaps all at once. Instead, he stared down into his tea until it darkened to his liking. He removed the slip and stared at it some more.
“Why?” he asked. The tea made no response. “Why me?”
It was a stupid question. If there was a reason, he did not know it. Why the Brimmed Caps had chosen him was as obscured as his memory. Even if he recovered them, their choice of him might not be a part of those memories. And in all these years, as word of his story and his apprenticeship and his leave of the Great Hall spread, no one had come forward to claim him.
Qifrey stared at the forget-me-not again. He picked up his tea and forced himself to take a sip. It was bitter. He put the teacup back down. He was not hungry, but he did not think he could face Olruggio’s kindness in making and saving him lunch anyway.
What a waste.
Anger rose in him now. He picked up the tea and poured it down the drain. The sun had set further, casting more shadows in the kitchen. He knew he should light a glowlamp for the sake of his eyesight, but he did not. Instead, he turned away from the window above the sink, went and picked up the little vase, and brought the flower up to eye level.
He knew a story from the north about this flower. A knight returning from some arduous journey had stopped to pick a bouquet of the blooms for his beloved by the side of a river. As is the way of most stories, she just so happened to be nearby and witnessed him slip and fall into the churning water. As he cried out, she recognized his voice and ran to the riverbank. There, he threw her the flowers and voiced that she forget him not; then he drowned.
It was a miserable tale. Something about fidelity, something about constancy. That tale was how the flowers earned one of their many names. Qifrey usually liked folktales; Olruggio had told him many good ones that had originated in Ghodrey and the surrounding area. He often found himself wondering what stories his people told, what folklore was in his blood, after Olly had finished sharing a tale.
He hoped the forget-me-not story was not one of his, however. That would be a cruel irony. He twirled the vase and flower in his fingers. His thoughts whirled. Everything in the kitchen seemed bigger in the dark: the cooling kettle, the counter, the tables and chairs. Even the pantry cupboards seemed to loom, and the window was a large eye, fixed upon Qifrey. The flower, too, seemed to grow, reaching and stretching toward him, its thin green stem like a worm, searching to bury itself under his skin.
Qifrey, horror rising in him, dropped the vase.
Of course it shattered. It landed at his feet and broke into several pieces. He cursed under his breath and stooped down immediately to begin picking up the mess. His heart was pounding, and the anger had returned. How stupid he was, how foolish–it was just a flower. No, it was a flower Olly had brought him, after–after–no.
He forced himself to focus on cleaning up. Thankfully he had not yet removed his boots, so there was no risk of stepping on any of the shattered pieces. But in his haste to pick up all the small pieces and drop them in his left palm, he cut the side of his forefinger on a larger shard. It smarted terribly. Qifrey cursed again. A drop of blood ran from the cut down the length of his finger to his hand, a rivulet of red stark on his pale skin.
Aside from the blood and the cut, he saw, too, that his hand was shaking.
He hadn’t noticed. No matter. Ignore it. He gathered up all of the pieces of the broken vase until only the forget-me-not itself was left. That, he picked up last, and then stood. He tipped the handful of broken ceramic bits onto the counter. The forget-me-not he held close, pinching it between his bloodied finger and thumb.
There was no way Olruggio knew; no possible way he remembered anything. He was kind, honest, and thoughtful. He had seen the flower and believed Qifrey would like it, would be flattered by the comparison. And deep down, he was. But he could not tear his thoughts away from what it meant, what it symbolized. His mind was full of vines and shadows and blue and silver and he was so, so angry that he could not accept this gift for what it was: a gesture of love and appreciation.
Heart pounding in his ears, the rage and sadness a tangled knot within him, Qifrey sunk down into a crouch on the kitchen floor and shoved the flower in his mouth.
He squeezed his eye shut. It tasted like nothing, and then, a little, like iron. That, he would realize later, was his own blood. But he chewed and then swallowed and stayed crouched on the ground, breathing hard like a frightened animal, his chest tight and aching.
But it was gone. He had destroyed it. Consumed it. Like so many other sources of wonder and love and pain, it was a part of him now. The realization unfurled slowly; slowly enough that, by the time he stood up again, his knees were aching.
Qifrey gripped the edge of the counter to steady himself. He blinked into the darkness. Then he went to light a glowlamp and make another pot of tea.
‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.
“I knocked the vase over when I was making tea last night,” explained Qifrey over breakfast the next morning. He looked appropriately morose. “I’m sorry, Olly.”
“I’m sorry, too,” said Olruggio. He meant it sincerely, his expression one of concern. “Not about the flower–these things happen. But for shuttin’ you out last night. I think the way you left yesterday… Well, I’m sorry. I am. You just needed some time alone, and I was selfish, thinkin’ it was about me.”
Qifrey’s heart stuttered in his chest. He lowered the piece of toast in his hand back onto his plate. “None of it was your fault,” he said. “I appreciated the gift. I appreciate you. I just–”
Olruggio reached across the table, took Qifrey’s hand, and squeezed. His grip was firm and warm. “Hey,” he said. “All’s well. I’m not upset with you, Qifrey.”
Qifrey’s shoulders dropped away from his ears, but his heart was still pounding. “Thank you,” he said, staring down at his half-eaten breakfast. He didn’t think he could meet Olruggio’s gaze.
“Hey, chin up,” said Olruggio. “No need to look so sad.”
At that, Qifrey did look up. Olruggio was smiling, his face bright. “What do you think of going into town today for a bit? My work can wait–at least until the afternoon. We can get you a new vase. Or–”
“Yes,” said Qifrey without hesitation. “Yes, let’s. I’d love to go into town with you.”
He stood up from the table and offered Olruggio a hand.
Olruggio blinked. “What, now?” he said. He glanced back at his own breakfast, looking a little torn, but Qifrey nodded.
“Now,” he said, offering his own smile. “No time like the present, right, Olly? It’s all we have, when you think about it.”
Olruggio met his gaze and held it as he took Qifrey’s hand in his. “Aye,” he agreed. “That it is.”