Chapter Text
The snow is bitingly cold, seeping through his clothes, needles against his skin. Dread is present in his peripheral, but for what, he’s entirely lost on.
As his brain begins to catch up with surroundings, he’s entirely unsure of many things. Almost everything, actually. He sits up from his prone position on the ground, looking at his hands as if they would grant him any answers. They, unsurprisingly, give him nothing except the fact his vision is blurry even that close.
There’s blood caked under them, and his nailbeds are an unsettling shade of almost-blue that makes him unsure if he’s on the verge of death. He’s not nearly aware enough to make that assumption himself just yet, since the pins-and-needles are consistent across his whole body.
Exhaling a sigh causes a small cloud to puff from his mouth. He looks around the blackness of the area he’s in. He looks up, seeing the rock wall above him and determining he’s in a cave.
Wet. Cold. Blood on his hands. What had happened, and why can’t he remember anything? The memory was a blurry figure on the horizon, too far to make out and entirely out of reach, but enough to know something should be there. Trying to focus on the image causes his head to ache, and he brings a hand up to his eye to grip at his now aching eyes.
Well. Eye, that is. One appears to be missing.
He feels the give of the empty socket with the tips of his fingers, his stomach giving an odd lurch. He can feel something flaking off around his eyes, and hopes it isn’t more blood.
Turning to where a soft amount of light is shining, he looks to the entrance. It’s white, from what he can tell, and he can hear wind whistling outside. A snowstorm, perhaps.
With a groan, he stands, wobbling a little as he gets to his feet. Oh, how he aches all over. He can feel the soreness in his arms and his legs, and the ache in his head gets worse. He feels like a drunkard, or at least hungover. Maybe that’s how he found himself in this here, but he feels that may be unlike himself. Though, he has very little information about himself in general, so he could always be wrong.
He stumbles closer to the opening, his legs moving like lead is attached to his feet. In his shuffling, he kicks something the skitters off with a bright clink.
He leans down, pawing at the ground until his hand makes contact with the object he just kicked. It’s a pair of glasses, one lense blacked out, one lens clear, but both spiderwebbed with thin cracks. A sticky substance is on the golden, triangular bridge. He holds them up to his face, and to his relief, some of the blurriness in his remaining eye lessens and he’s able to make out his surroundings, even with the cracks.
The tacky glue is weak at best, but it would have to do for now. He fixes the glasses to the bridge of his nose as firmly as he can, hoping that it’ll hold until he can find something to affix them in the future. He continues shuffling his way to the mouth of the cave, finding more confidence to move in each step, the stiffness easing slightly.
He has to shield his eyes as he makes it to the exit. It’s bright out, perhaps around late morning. A strong wind is blowing through the collection of trees that make up the pinewood forest he’s found himself in. Not actively snowing, but the crunch underneath his feet leads him to believe the snowstorm hadn’t happened too long before. It may be best to move now, before another storm can start. He can’t quite make out the color of the sky, but it’s somewhere between grey and white and he likely won’t survive another night chilled to the bone in an earthly cavity in wet clothes.
There has to be a village nearby, or a hunter’s lodge. Somewhere with a stone hearth.
With that, he sets out, hands tucked under his armpits for warmth.
After many hours have passed and the sun begins to sink in the sky, he realizes it may have been foolish to leave his previous shelter. The temperature is dropping rapidly, and there’s a frosty bite in the air that feels like the snow may start up again. He won’t make it back to the cave in time to avoid the dark and cold, and the idea of laying down in the icy snow sends fear trickling down his spine.
So, he’s forced to trek forward into the woods, unsure if an end awaits him.
He can hear a fox barking in the distance, and the sounds of an owl swooping towards prey. The wind, his ever present company, whistles through the pines. Everything feels so very loud, and so very quiet at the same time. The world feels washed out and grey in the fading sunlight, and he can feel his eyelids growing heavy with exhaustion.
Just as giving up was seeming more and more likely, his eyes caught a golden glimpse in the grey. A glow of some kind.
Energy renewed, he darted forward, moving as fast as he could in the ankle high snow. He dodged trees and pushed through vertigo. He was solely focused on the golden glow in the distance, imagining its warmth already crawling across his skin like an embrace. His lungs heaved, feeling like they were crystalizing with every breath he took.
With a wheeze, he burst through the trees and saw the light up close.
It was a wrought iron and glass lantern, perched on the fence of a ramshackle, abandoned millhouse.
He sighed, disappointed. “Just a lamp.” He muttered to himself, his voice scratchy and breathless from his run.
“More than just a lamp, actually.” The lamp groused.
He jumped, looking all around him to find the source of the disembodied voice. It certainly could not have come from a lamp.
His brief search provided no additional answers to him. There was no noise other than the wind and the flame itself flickering within its home. Had the cold caused him to hallucinate? Had he already died in the elements and this was the afterlife? He may not remember much about his life, but he knows with almost complete certainty that flames are not meant to talk. Maybe it was an odd trick of the wind. His tongue thick and heavy in his mouth, he managed a soft, “I’m sorry?” to the lamp.
The flame within the lamp flickered with a huff, “No harm done. You wouldn’t be the first to call me ‘Just a lamp’.”
“You really are talking.” He said, feeling a wave of dizziness hit him.
“Er… yeah. So we’ve discussed.” There was a note of sarcasm in that voice.
A nervous laugh escaped his throat. It bubbled up unbidden, bordering on the edge of hysteria. “Right.” He managed, “I just… don’t think I’ve met any talking lamps before. I found myself a bit, ehm, surprised.”
The lamp hummed thoughtfully. He thought he could vaguely make out a shape in the flame–a masculine build, not unlike a blacksmith’s with strong arms and defined chest. It could have been his reduced vision playing tricks on him once again.
“Well, that’s because lamps don’t usually talk at all. I wasn’t always a lamp.” The flame said, good naturedly. An oddly forgiving flame, “Name’s Olruggio. I was cursed by a witch at some point and was trapped in this lamp.”
“Cursed?” He asked, feeling curiosity creep up his spine. Something about the notion of ‘curses’ rang a familiar bell in his mind. It scratched an itch he didn’t know he had. Maybe… maybe that was the reason for his own memory loss?
“Yeah, couldn’t tell you how long I’ve been here. Feels like centuries. Don’t even remember what I did to get cursed in the first place.” There was a sad, wistful tone in Olruggio’s voice. “Anyway, what’s your name, stranger? It’s been so long since I’ve had someone to talk to.”
He fidgeted, frowning, “I… actually couldn’t tell you. I’m not sure.”
“Not sure of your own name?” Olruggio asked.
“No. I don’t know.”
The flame hummed, wavering in its iron and glass prison. “Well, I guess we’ll have to think of a temporary name for you.” Olruggio leaned close to the glass as if taking a closer look, leaving small, sooty marks on the inside. “You look… you look like a Qifrey to me.”
He frowned, “Qifrey? I don’t recall hearing that name before. Isn’t it a bit… unusual?”
Olruggio’s flame grew a bit bright, “You are a bit unusual, yeah?” it huffed, “Plus, if you’ve forgotten everything, how would you know?”
Qifrey, resigned to the new name, shivered a bit. “I-I suppose you have a point.” He acquiesced. He shivered again.
“You look like death, trembling like that.” The flame commented. “Here, take me down from this fence and bring me in that millhouse over there. Maybe we can find some wood to start a fire and dry your clothes before you freeze.”
Qifrey thought that sounded like a wonderful idea. He plucked the lamp from its (his?) hook. Maybe it was all in his head, but just holding the lamp made him feel just a touch warmer and a bit more whole than he’d been since he awoke.