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Olruggio leans back in his chair and stretches out his drawing arm until his shoulder gives a satisfying pop. It’s a rare kind of night, one where he’s able to end off his work on a good note and get to bed before dawn. He figured out the spell linking calibrations on this latest commission much faster than he expected. Tomorrow he’ll pick up the supplies he needs, and then he’ll be able to cross another project off the list.
He flops into bed for his well-earned rest, closing his eyes and surrendering to softly meandering thoughts—like what Qifrey might be making for breakfast, and whether the shifting winds outside will finally chase away the grey clouds that have been stifling the skies for days—as his mind quiets and he starts to drift off.
No sooner than he slips into dreaming, he suddenly jerks awake with a choking gasp like a drowning man breaking the surface of the frigid sea. His heart is racing, pumping pure liquid panic through his veins as he tumbles out of bed. He staggers through his room, lit only by the moon shining silver through a break in the clouds, striking his shin against the corner of a dresser on the way but barely registering it through the adrenaline.
Standing at his desk, breathing raggedly, he scrabbles through the mess of papers until he finds a somewhat empty sheet and sets the nearest pen to its surface. It was at fingertips of his awareness as he wrenched himself from the cusp of dreaming, but it’s already slipping away. He needs to hurry.
His work isn’t finished for the day. How could he have forgotten, he needs to…
His hand slows, the line veering weakly, then stops. The ink starts bleeding in a wide blotch at the nib of his pen, and he lifts it from the paper.
… What? What does he need to do?
He stares at the blank page. There’s a problem he needs to solve, one that only he can solve, but he can’t recall what it is. The empty shape of it lingers at the front of his mind, like an afterimage seared into his eyelids by a burst of light, but even that is fading. It’s something urgent, a threat that shakes him to his very core. He can’t sleep until it’s done.
For a while he sits with his head in his hands, groping in the darkness of his mind’s eye for any threads or traces of the realization that awoke him so violently. The wind has grown stronger since he sent himself to bed earlier. Through the open window, he can hear it harshly rustling the leaves of the prickly shrubs just outside, as if agitated, unsettled, much like himself. While the memory of whatever woke him has bled away, the anxiety persists. If he lies down he’ll just be kept awake by his pulse pounding in his ears, his mind racing in circles.
Sighing in frustration, he opens his eyes once more. He diligently flips through his notes from his latest commission, hoping for a spark of connection. Did he make a grave mistake within the spell, create something unintentionally harmful? Could that explain this sense of dread? No, he doesn’t see any problems here.
He checks his calendar for the next week, but it’s all as expected. There’s nothing that slipped his mind, no looming deadlines or appointments, unless he forgot to note it down entirely. Similarly, his ledger seems all in order, the entries up to date, with nothing he has neglected to pay.
Olruggio paces around his workroom restlessly, checking and double-checking that all the dangerous tools and advanced tomes are accounted for, all safely within in their locked drawers where they’re kept beyond the reach of curious young apprentices. Nothing is out of place, all is well. It does little to banish this phantom worry.
If he is honest with himself, he doesn’t really expect it to.
This has happened before, often enough—always random, the same sense of wrenching loss after startling awake, the panicked search afterwards—and in all those times, all those nights spent toiling until daybreak seeking an answer, he has never actually figured out what he forgot. Yet, no disaster ever seems to emerge, nothing rears up to bite him in the ass in the following days. Even knowing that is no comfort to him tonight.
Returning to his desk, he spends the better part of a clockmark staring at a blank piece of paper, pen in hand, waiting. Sometimes nights like this do result in a fit of frantic inspiration—he recalls that’s how the idea for the snugstones first came to him, on a blustery night in early spring as he attempted to quell the snarling beast of worry that wrenched him from his warm bed.
But nothing new speaks to him tonight. After a while he flips back and refines a spell from his current project, to no real benefit. Mostly busywork for his hands, to allow his mind to wander. Doesn’t take long for him to bore of that, and the restlessness pulls him to his feet again.
He ties a robe over his nightclothes and creeps down the corridor to the rest of the atelier, wanting to take a quick look around in the off chance that there is something wrong. He tries to tread gently at this late hour, wincing at each creak of the floorboards.
The living area is tidy. After dinner the girls were playing a new game that Beldaruit sent as a gift, one that involved an elaborate setup of countless playing pieces that spanned most of the room, but they’ve since picked up after themselves. Olruggio gazes upon the pyreball in the hearth, the hovering flame left dimmed to a low flicker akin to glowing embers, just enough to keep the chill out overnight. The spells carved around the fireplace and chimney, by his own hands, are still sound and safe.
He wanders down into the kitchen. It’s quiet and clean. The various contraptions they use for cooking and cleaning are inactive. No spells are left unattended where a certain brushbug might find them and cause unintended effects by rolling around and warping the sigils (like that one time that led him to ban the creature from his workshop for a month). There’s nothing wrong here.
There. He’s checked on just about everything now, and only proved to himself how irrational he really is. Each likely possibility removed only seems to wind the worry tighter, feeding the sense of urgency like tossing kindling to a flame. It would actually be a solace to discover something as simple as an errant heating spell left on the countertop, or a malfunctioning vapour bubble flooding the kitchen floor. That would make sense. This feeling doesn’t. His heart persists in hammering, driven by sheer frustration at himself. It’s like an itch crawling under his skin, that makes him want to dig into his own flesh for the sin of his idleness. Like the world is ending and he needs to save it, but he doesn’t know why, or how.
He scribbles out a quick flame spell and sets the kettle on it to brew some tea. More for something to do than any real craving. It’s still heating up when he hears careful footfalls on the stairs and Qifrey comes into sight, draped in silver moonlight, his white hair fairly luminous and rumpled from sleep. He slips a seal into the wall lamp as he passes, and silver transforms to gold, the kitchen suffused with a gentle glow as homey and warm as baking bread.
“Did I wake you? I’m sorry,” Olruggio says in a low voice, scooping tea out of the canister. It’s the kind Qifrey makes for his students when they’re upset and can’t sleep, the scent mild and sweetly herbal. “I didn’t disturb the girls too, did I?”
Qifrey shakes his head as he takes a seat at the kitchen table. He’s wrapped in a fringed shawl, it starts to slip down his shoulder and he pulls more tightly around himself. “I don’t believe so. You know me, I’m just a light sleeper. I thought you could use some company. Are you hungry? I could cook up something—it would have to be simple, I’m afraid. I haven’t much prepared, and I don’t want to keep you here until dawn.”
Olruggio declines the kind offer, his usual late-night stirrings of hunger strangled by the anxiety that’s twisted his stomach in knots. But it does ease a little, simply by having Qifrey here, and seeing him well.
This is their domain, here in the kitchen late at night, when the rest of the atelier is fast asleep. Here they can briefly set down the heavy responsibilities that come with their roles as teacher and Watchful Eye, and simply be those young witches who once dreamed of exactly this—hours whiled away experimenting with new spells and recipes, talking late into the night about their magic and plans and things of no importance at all. Olruggio has lost count of how many times he’s dozed off at the kitchen table in the middle of conversation, no doubt lulled to contentment by the warmth of cooking spells, a full belly, and the aroma of brewing tea.
As much as their lives now revolve around the students, and their work, there are still moments that belong solely to them.
But, of course, the students are never far from their minds. “Are you sure the girls are all in bed?” Olruggio freezes as that sense of worry surges again, grasping for some answer to latch onto. “Should we check on ‘em, just in case?”
“They’re fine. What’s the matter, Olly?”
The kettle is whistling. Olruggio pours the water, his hands a little shaky like he’s been chewing raw thornbark. “I just woke up feelin’ like— like something was wrong. I have no idea what, but it’s got me rattled. S’pose it could be that I heard something that woke me up—what if it was them, slipping out? They are gettin’ to that age… Feels like they’ve been growing up too fast, with all the Brimhat business lately…”
“There’s no need to worry.” Qifrey assures him. “I agree that recent events have left much reason for concern. But for tonight, at least, all is well. The wards on the atelier are still strong. If any of them had left, I would know.”
“Are you so sure? They’re too smart for their own good, those girls. And apprentices their age can be crafty little monsters. Like us. We sure did a fine job sneaking you out from under Beldaruit’s nose every chance we got.”
Qifrey shrugs, moving to stand next to Olruggio, close enough that their shoulders brush. Despite Olruggio’s claims of not being hungry, Qifrey pulls a plate off the shelf and starts piling it with biscuits he baked earlier that day, the kind Olly likes best. “I don’t think we ever fooled him, really. I’m fairly certain he knew, even the times when he didn’t let on. He’s made many annoying remarks to that effect since I started taking on apprentices of my own.”
“And after all the trouble we went through to avoid getting caught…” Olruggio grumbles, already dreading the next time he meets Beldaruit—surely he’ll be too embarrassed to look him in the face. “But we know better, right? Promise me that you’re not secretly doing the same, and letting your apprentices come and go as they please.”
“Oh, absolutely not!” Qifrey retorts, with exaggerated horror. “I’m shocked you would even ask. As if I would ever take such a page from his quire! Why, I should be offended.”
“Just doin’ my job, Master Qifrey. Being watchful and all that,” Olruggio says with a snort. “But, truly, I’m glad to hear it.” He slumps into his chair, arm draped over the back to relieve the lingering stiffness in his shoulder from the long day of work. “Getting a good night’s rest is rare enough. If we start letting them wander like we used to, I might never sleep again.”
“I’m sorry you’re not sleeping well, my friend. Could it have been a bad dream that woke you?” Hesitating, Qifrey glances aside, as if searching for a way to broach it delicately, “…Or were you sleepwalking again, perhaps?”
“Sleepwalking?” Olruggio frowns thoughtfully.
“It’s been some time since I last caught you at it, but it might explain why you seem a bit disoriented.”
Olruggio hadn’t even considered that. Qifrey has mentioned it before. Sometimes he awakes in strange places, to Qifrey’s concerned expression and a grogginess that takes a while to pass. This doesn’t feel exactly like one of those times, but still—is it possible that everything up to meeting Qifrey here in the kitchen was just part of a walking dream?
His thoughts start to crawl, sluggish and muddled, as if he’s waded too far into a thick quagmire. Like a deep weariness catching up to him. He rubs at his forehead, and waits a moment for it to pass.
“No… no I don’t think that’s it,” he says slowly—but then, there’s no way he can be sure of that, is there? “I s’pose it was just a bad dream… or a strange one, anyway. I can’t remember what it was about—I woke up all in a panic, and next thing I knew I was at my desk, tryin’ to write something down…” Qifrey’s eye flicks back up to meet his. Olruggio shrugs. “Nothing new, really. I’ve had it often enough before.”
“If you can’t remember it, how do you know you’ve had it before?” Qifrey is sitting with his hands clasped on the table, leaning forward slightly on his elbows as he listens with attentive curiosity.
“It’s just a feeling. The same kind, every time, like I’ve forgotten to do something important. There’s a problem I need to fix. I’ve put it off for too long, it’s getting dire…” he rattles it off carelessly. Qifrey is watching him intently, a wrinkle of concern between his eyebrows, probably thinking that he’s watching his old friend lose his marbles. Olruggio lets out a weak chuckle, beginning to wish he said nothing. “Sounds rather dramatic, I know. My sleeping brain likes to entertain itself with catastrophizing. Not so tickled, myself.”
Qifrey reaches across the table and lays his hand atop Olruggio’s. “It sounds as though you’ve been working too hard.”
It’s like the world has tilted, suddenly overlapped with a layer of vague recollection, a kind of double vision that exists between sight and memory. Have they had this conversation before? The hand slips away from his and the present moment slams solidly back into place, leaving Olruggio briefly reeling while Qifrey stands to pour each of them a cup of tea.
“Is there something I’ve forgotten, that I was meant to do?” Olruggio asks, turning in his seat to follow Qifrey with his gaze as he returns to the table. “Tell me the truth.”
Chin propped on his hand, Qifrey thinks about it for a moment. “If there is, it must not have been important, for it’s slipped my mind as well.” He smiles reassuringly. “Please don’t fret. You never let me down.”
Olruggio jabs a finger at him accusingly. “Don’t lie to me, Qifrey. I know you—if there is a problem, you’ll just deal with it yourself, without a word. I don’t want that. You’ve got enough on your plate. If I’ve ever forgotten something, promise me you’ll speak up about it.”
For a long moment Qifrey says nothing, staring down into the depths of his teacup, his expression shadowed. “That’s not fair. You can’t ask me to promise that,” he says quietly. Then he lifts his head, revealing the amused twist to his mouth. “You’re asking me to become an intolerable nag. Shame on you. If we start down that road, we may very well end up like that old couple whose windmill we fixed last week, bickering and sniping at each other relentlessly.”
“Well, if needs must,” Olruggio says gruffly. “It’s only fitting, since it seems I’m already a doddering old fool, losing grasp of my wits.”
Qifrey is still smiling, but the twinkle of humour in his eye dies. “Don’t say that.”
Olruggio waves his hand flippantly. “Well if there ever is something, like if I said I would take care of the laundry or run some sort of errand, but it doesn’t get done, then you have permission to remind me. Saves me waking up in a cold sweat about it.”
Qifrey only nods politely. That simple response, or lack thereof, whatever he’s withholding, is as good as confirmation. Makes Olruggio wonder how many times it has happened. He’s a shitty friend, clearly not pulling his weight around here. He needs to do better. They sit in silence for a while, drinking their tea. It’s supposed to be a calming blend but hardly seems to be helping, the taste cloying on his tongue and sitting uneasily in his knotted stomach. At least the cup is warm in his hands.
Eventually, Qifrey speaks again. “Tell me more about the dream. Are you sure you don’t remember anything else?“
Olruggio shrugs. “Not much to tell. It’s not like the nightmares I used to have when we were kids. This was barely a dream at all. Felt like I was asleep for a minute, at most.” The answer seems to leave Qifrey unsatisfied. Olruggio wishes he had more to offer him. “Do you ever have dreams like that? They wake you up, over an’ over, but you can never remember what they were?”
“No, not quite. I remember my worst dreams too well, unfortunately.” He says it so matter of factly, even as Olruggio’s heart pangs for him. “They do tend to repeat, as you said.”
“Ah. The one about Thristas, you mean?”
“Yes. And others.”
“Such as?” Olruggio presses, when it would be wiser to bite his tongue. He knows Qifrey better than anyone, well enough to have mapped out the borders that even he mustn’t cross, well enough to be aware of the soft, vulnerable spots that are better left not prodded, lest he recoil back into those labyrinthine walls that make caring for him so damn frustrating, and rewarding as well. But Olruggio is feeling bold tonight, or perhaps just tired and clumsy.
His gamble pays off this time, and Qifrey smiles, soft and genuine. “Actually, there’s one I’ve been having fairly often lately, ever since the girls passed their second test. It must be that, as their teacher, I’ve borrowed a measure of their stress. I keep dreaming there’s another test that I completely neglected to take myself—I’m granted the chance to make it right, but it’s the day of testing and I realize that I didn’t study at all!”
Olruggio groans. “Aye, that is horrible.”
“Indeed!” Qifrey beams, with a merry laugh that’s far too short for Olruggio’s liking—it’s so rare, these days—before he grows contemplative again. “But in the end, they’re only dreams. They only have as much power as we allow them. Just know that everything is fine. There is nothing you need to worry about tonight, nothing that requires your urgent attention to fix. You can give yourself permission to rest.”
He stands up to gather their empty cups as he’s speaking, and for a moment he looms over Olruggio. An intensity burns in his gaze, a startling flicker of unmasked emotion, but it could just be a trick of the light. Then he leans down and kisses him fondly on the forehead, a gesture light as a fluttering moth‘s wing. It’s so quick that Olruggio has no chance to react, already Qifrey is turning away. ”You should get back to bed. I’ll tidy up here.”
Olruggio nods, exhaling a breath that he didn’t realize he was holding. He’s not sure why he was. He wishes Qifrey’s kind words could be enough to sweep away this anxiety entirely—he’s truly fortunate to have a friend willing to lend an ear this late at night—but while the worst of the fear has passed there remains a niggling worry, something to chew on.
Busying himself with cleaning up the dishes, his back turned, Qifrey says over his shoulder, “If you do recall it, let me know. And next time it happens, you should come wake me. I won’t mind.”
“I might,” Olruggio says, lingering for a moment at the foot of the stairs. He touches his own forehead briefly, as if chasing a thought that’s already escaped him. “Good night, Qifrey.”
All of Qifrey’s reassurances sadly end up being wasted breath, and more guilt for Olruggio to bear, as sleep still remains out of his grasp. His tossing and turning lasts until the sky starts to lighten outside, slowly chasing the darkness from his room. He gets up for a moment to close the curtains, and shuts the window against the gusting wind, dampening the sound of rustling leaves. Only then, when his head hits the pillow again, do his eyes start to drift shut.