Part 3 of this.
The first few weeks were…something so wholly new. Busier, keeping the two of them on their toes enough that their feet hurt from the pacing and the rocking and just…standing in general. They were never really the ones to go barefoot but desperate times called for desperate measures and usually white socks were switched to black ones indoors when they had you.
You’re sick that entire first month. Feverish from exposure to the cold and water that day and congested to the point your poor little nose is a little red and an endless stream. You’ve a cough that startles them awake at night because they think it’s stolen the breath from you. At such a young age, you can’t really be given anything. Just the warmed milk, and occasionally a light broth they give you sips of to help warm you, to help loosen up that mucus that ails you. It’s trial and error, and many, many changes of clothes and diapers, but they get you through it somehow. A win in their books because what did he and Olruggio know about raising a babe?
How were they to know you would soon outgrow every and everything they got you. Once so tiny they could hold you in the cupped palms of their hands now measuring from elbow to fingertip just three months later.
The routine is a little easier then. They know what you like in terms of comfort, they know what you dislike (Qifrey frowning/Olruggio making anything even remotely sounding like a huff).
What's worse (or good in terms of your milestones) is that you've learned a few new ticks, if you would. You can sit up on your own now, and you roll onto your tummy alone, and hold the bottle yourself when it comes to eating. Which again, is great for your milestones, but absolutely anxiety inducing for them when they set you on the carpeted floor for toy time and turn to find you practically smothering yourself in a pillow because you wanted to roll onto your tummy instead.
Qifrey’s breath catches the first time he turns around and finds you face-down in a plush pillow, tiny limbs tangled like a kitten that got stuck in yarn. For half a second, his heart stops.
Olruggio isn’t even in the room, he'd gone to fetch your next bottle, and so it falls entirely on Qifrey to process this: you’re mobile. You’re choosing things without being told.
He crouches quickly, hands hovering, hesitant as ever, but when you let out a muffled squeak (perfectly content) and wiggle an arm free to pat at nothing with glee… something warm blooms behind his ribs.
“Ah,” is all he says softly. Not praise yet, not quite, they’ve been taught by their training not to overstimulate infants with too much vocalization, but there’s awe beneath that single sound.
Gently, carefully, he peels the pillow from your face just enough so air can reach those pink cheeks of yours again. His thumb brushes away lint from your eyebrow; then another stroke down one soft cheekbone like checking for fever or simply memorizing texture because this moment feels monumental somehow…
Then came the crawling.
Gods, they couldn't have been more woefully underprepared for you to learn to crawl. The real test on how they'd handle your independence as it grew closer and closer.
The day had been perfect for a picnic. Olruggio was one to enjoy staying inside, but with you rolling about as you pleased, he dreaded to think that you might actually roll away while Qifrey set up the blanket. So he tagged along, he held you and kept you distracted (you were a bit clingier to Qifrey as of late) while Qifrey set up the blanket and the little safe to eat snacks for you. And all went great.
For about an hour.
They were laying back while you lay on your tummy, babbling on a teether they'd fashioned for you, and made the unfortunate mistake of letting their eyes close as they laughed about something.
And you were off.
Crawling away before they even realized it.
Fast for a 16 pound baby that was just half asleep from two whole mashed bananas and the little tea biscuits you refused to let anyone else partake in. (They were for you, but still). They turn and you're already out of sight in the surrounding meadowlands.
The laugh still lingers in the air, Olruggio’s deep, rare chuckle blending with Qifrey’s quiet hum of amusement.
Then silence.
No babble. No teether-clicking. Just wind through tall grass and distant birdsong.
Olruggio is the first to feel it, the absence where your warmth had been curled against his side moments ago. His eyes snap open, body going rigid like a predator catching scent of prey gone missing.
Qifrey doesn’t move as fast, but he sees it instantly: the empty space on the blanket, your tiny socks half-slipped off one foot from all that wiggling before escape.
“Selene?” Olruggio calls sharp with urgency, and sits up so fast his hat nearly flies off into a bush behind them
They scan in unison toward where you were facing: eastward along soft meadowland dipping down toward wildflowers and gently rolling hills. (They regret not having this in the fenced portion of the garden now).
And there, smaller than an ant from this distance, a dark smudge moving quickly over green earth.
Absolute little shit you are, you're moving double time like you're on a damn mission. Like you know exactly where you're going and nobody is going to stop you. (they absolutely are, Qifrey couldn't fly fast enough with his sylph shoes in his opinion to snatch you up and bring you back, heart attack averted.)
Qifrey is moving before his mind fully processes the terror.
The second he sees that tiny, determined speck crawling with shocking speed, faster than any baby has a right to go, he’s on his feet. The picnic blanket flutters behind him as Olruggio swears under his breath and scrambles up too.
He's a blur of white cloak in an instant, zipping down to where you are and retrieving you and coming right back, face pale with panic.
And you?
You're giggling from the flight, unaware of the potential double infarction you nearly caused with that little stunt. Hair wind whipped and in your eyes as you tug on the clasp of Qifrey's cloak excitedly.
Picnics would be in a newly fenced off area of the garden and the fence would have slats too thin for you to get through. They plan ahead with taller posts in general, just to be safe.
After all, after crawling comes walking, and oh boy...
They though they were unprepared for crawling? Walking made them realize they were raising an eloper.
And that incident is a whole can of worms on it's own, because it happens nine months into you being with them.
It's the dead of night, Olruggio had just taken his turn of going to check on you in the room across the hall and gone back to bed in his own room down the hall when it happens.
You wake. You crawl about in your crib for a bit, try some new movements, like all babies do. Throw in some pulling and kicking off the bed.
And low and fucken behold. you're suddenly on your favorite carpet on the floor!
Qifrey wakes to a sound he doesn’t recognize.
Not crying. Not fussing. Just…silence.
The kind of silence that follows action, not peace.
He blinks in the dark, moonlight slicing through the windows, and listens. His ears strain toward your room across the hall, where you were supposed to be asleep like clockwork by this hour (usually after one final bottle and two lullabies from him).
Nothing.
No cooing. No rustling of blankets or soft baby kicks against wood slats like usual when you shifted in sleep.
He sits up slowly, bare feet touching the cold stone floor as dread pools low in his gut, because something feels off. Deeply wrong on instinct alone.
You're already exploring the sudden change that's occurred to the vastness that usually surrounds you, even in the dark. Everything is suddenly changed. Suddenly there's more to see.
Like this strange floor.
It's not your carpet, it's not soft, but it's nice and cold and it goes further than your carpet does!
You follow it past the big thin thing that they leave open, (the door) and find it goes on way past it too. You follow the stones down the hall, stumbling slightly here and there, maybe even giving a little topple, but you persevere onwards, quiet giggles leaving your lips until your foot slips and suddenly-
You’re sat!
The floor is strange there, it's under your butt, but also..still under your feet?
You wiggle forward a little and fall onto where your feet are, and there's more weird floor!
(You've found the stairs..and a decently safe way to traverse them at least.)
The house is still. Too still.
Qifrey hears the softest thump from down the hall. Not loud. Barely more than a breath, but in this quiet, dead-of-night hush? It might as well be a gong.
He’s moving before he finishes buttoning his robe, heart thudding with growing alarm. The door to your room is wide open, the latch hadn’t been fully engaged (Olruggio had checked on you an hour ago and left it slightly ajar like usual). He steps into the nursery…
Empty crib.
Blankets tangled on one side where you’d wiggled out and fallen overboard during escape operations no baby should ever plan so effectively at nine months old.
He spins around fast enough that his hair whips across his face and rushes back into the hallway.
Empty.
Not another noise coming from anywhere in the dark.
Meanwhile, you've reached the bottom of the steps with a soft 'oof'. The funny floor ended suddenly and more of the normal floor went forward. You crawl around for a bit, then manage to get onto your feet, and that's when you see it.
The thingy with the yummies inside. (The glass biscuit jar on the kitchen counter.)
The kitchen is dark, lit only by the thin silver glow of moonlight filtering through the windows above the sink. The biscuit jar sits on its usual spot, centrally placed, because Olruggio insists on it being within easy reach whenever you tantrum.
You’re small. Tiny. Not even as tall as their smallest bar stool.
But you’re determined.
And that jar? It’s tall and glass and filled with those little tea biscuits, the same ones you hogged at the picnic like they were gold coins meant only for royalty ({You} which, in your mind, was absolutely true).
Your hands go up first, pudgy fingers stretching toward it as you wobble on unsteady legs that have never held your full weight before tonight.
One step…
Then another…
A tiny stumble forward, but balance! Somehow! You catch yourself against the cabinet edge with surprising coordination for an infant who just learned crawling three months ago.
You take a few more steps and find something you can push. (A stool Qifrey left at the counter during their midnight delights). You move to push it again, for what, you don't know, but your foot knocks against something that draws your attention instead.
A wooden (not that you would know) bar.
You nudge it a bit with your feet, curious, before you try to push it down, instead finding yourself at eye height with the seat suddenly.
Maybe you could get up there too?
Tiny grabby hands curl against the seat and like before (so you learned) you pull. It's a bit of a struggle, but you manage it. And there it is, right in front of you, the pretty thing with yummies in it.
You crawl onto the counter, contentedly grabbing the jar with no concern about the panicked two upstairs calling for you.
Obviously these yummies are more important.
The jar wobbles in your grip, too heavy for such small hands, but you don’t care. With a soft clink, it tips toward you as you haul it forward with all the strength of a determined nine-month-old who has never once been denied food.
Lid unscrewed? No. Not even attempted.
But babies are problem-solvers by instinct, and soon enough, after several enthusiastic tugs and one lucky slip of the lid from earlier that day, the biscuits spill out onto the countertop like tiny crumbs of victory.
You squeal, a quiet, muffled sound, but pure joy. The first independent snack acquisition! You grab one between sticky fingers (still warm from being stored near a heating brick) and shove half into your mouth in triumphant bites before Qifrey or Olruggio can possibly descend those stairs to find the missing child on an unapproved midnight expedition.
They knew it wasn’t gonna be easy when they took you in. They knew babies are inherently difficult to care for.
But gods, they hadn’t thought you would make it this difficult.
From infancy to toddlerhood you keep them on their toes. Surely...it gets better from there, right? Sleeping through the night better?
(When you get sick it's Olruggio that finds you standing in the dim light of the cracked open door, just..standing there with something dribbling down your chin and sleep shirt. A quiet "I frew up" leaving your lips as you promptly throw up again as if you needed more proof than what's on your nightshirt. He gets you cleaned up and tucked away in the dead of night.)
You're playing in the toy room?
(Psych. Qifrey forgot to properly latch the door on his way out and he finds you nibbling on a mountain apple still attached to the branch of his little sapling bushes. like you're a little mountain goat foraging for food.)
Qifrey started teaching you how to write and draw shapes? The fundamentals of spell craft?
(Yeah now you both need a bath and the study room has tiny ink hands along the wall that will need to be washed out. Thank goodness it was just your run of the mill ink and not the Silverwood kind.)
You wanna help bake?
(Well what was expected? You NOT to accidently drop a few eggs? You NOT to wobble on the stool you're standing on when they look away for one second and spill the attempt of your own starter all over yourself?)
Qifrey learns, quickly, that parenting you is less like raising a child and more like conducting a delicate, unpredictable experiment where the results are never quite what was expected.
Toddlerhood is...
There's no words to explain toddlerhood for them but they make it out alive. They survive the never ending battle of surprises with a hyperactive four year old.
It's like a switch is flipped halfway through your fourth year. One day you're playing in the toy room and they're just...waiting for something to happen. For another moment of chaos that they've come to expect, but instead they hear silence.
Silence is never good.
Sneaking to the door, they peer in, fully expecting a mess, just to find you sitting by the mirror, your little princess doll in your lap as you just...stare at your reflection.
The silence is unnerving.
Qifrey stands frozen in the doorway, Olruggio just behind him, both of them braced for disaster, the kind that usually involves spilled juice, torn books, or tiny feet on forbidden furniture.
But nothing.
No sound. No movement. Just…stillness.
They exchange a glance, Olruggio’s brow furrowing with quiet concern, and then they step inside quietly as if entering a sacred space where one wrong breath might shatter something fragile.
You don’t turn to look at them. You’re sitting cross-legged on the soft rug in front of your little vanity mirror, the one Qifrey had custom-made so you could brush your hair like "a big girl," as he called it (though you mostly used it to stare).
Your doll, a plush princess with golden curls and pink lace gown, rests neatly in your lap while you gaze intently at yourself: wide grey eyes meeting their reflection under the warm glow of lamplight.
Not crying.
Not laughing.
Just…observing.
You point to the mirror quietly, as if that would answer their unspoken questions.
"Selene..."
Qifrey crouches down slowly, the soft fabric of his trousers brushing against the rug as he brings himself to your level. Olruggio lingers near the door, arms crossed, not out of disinterest, but because this is unfamiliar territory.
They’re used to loud. To movement. To demands, "up!" "juice!" "no nap!"
But this? This quiet contemplation from a child who usually barrels through life like a tiny storm?
It throws them.
You point again at your reflection, small finger tapping gently on glass, and then back at yourself in real time, as if connecting something profound that they can't yet name.
Qifrey follows your gesture with his eye…and then it hits him: you're not just looking at yourself, you're recognizing yourself. Not just as someone who eats biscuits or makes messes, but as Selene. A person separate from others.
A first mirror moment.
His breath catches softly in his chest
.
Olruggio's stern face softens instantly.
Neither says anything for several heartbeats
In retrospect, they know you didn't previously know, or rather, never really thought about, your sentience or consciousness before. You're four years old, why would you think about it, but it's a big moment in your cognitive and conscious development. Like today you woke up, saw your reflection and thought, "I am alive." "I am a person." "My name is Selene."
This is no longer about the baby he pulled from debris. Not the infant who cried through fevered nights or learned to crawl by sheer will. This is a different kind of milestone, one that isn't marked by physical growth or skill, but by awareness.
You didn’t just look at your reflection and smile like you often do when seeing your pretty dress. You looked and understood.
I am here.
I exist.
This face…it’s me.
Olruggio finally steps forward, moving silently across the floor until he's beside Qifrey on his knees too, their shoulders touching for once without tension between them over parenting differences (because right now? They're united).
He reaches out first, gently, and brushes a curl from your forehead before cupping one side of your face with warm hands calloused from inventing enchanted contraptions.
No words yet.
Just awe.
You crawl into Olruggio's lap for once, head resting against his chest as you point at the reflections again.
"Tha's papa Qify..." You point to Qifrey then to Olruggio's reflection. "N' papa Olly..."
Olruggio freezes.
Not dramatically, no gasp, no sudden movement, but his entire body stills like a clock that’s been paused mid-tick. His arms hover for half a second, unsure whether to wrap around you or not because you’ve never called him that before.
Papa Olly.
You’ve never called any of them Papa.
Qifrey doesn’t move either, but his eye shimmers in the lamplight, soft and impossibly tender, as he watches you nestle into Olruggio’s chest with complete trust. You’re pointing at their reflections like an explorer introducing her people: Here are my papas. They are mine.
You say it so simply.
So naturally.
Like it was always true.
And maybe it was, they had taken care of you since day one, slept when they could beside your crib, changed diapers without complaint (mostly), rocked you through colic storms and fevers…but hearing those names from your small voice? It lands differently than anything else ever has.
Olruggio finally lowers his arms, and wraps them around you tight.
Careful as handling glassware infused with magic.
Gentle as adjusting gears on a delicate machine.
He kisses the top of your head once, slowly, a rare public show of affection.
Mind you, it's not a word they've ever told you to call them.
In fact, they themselves have never used the word in the Atelier before, and they suspect it was overheard at the festival they took you to last night. Where witches got together to see their best spells. Where little witchlings ran around the city of Ezrest and visited the chosen stalls. You may have heard the word from one of them in all the excitement and put two and two together. The lanterns, the chatter of witches in fancy cloaks, children clutching tiny spellbooks and giggling as they tried to draw glyphs on parchment.
And there were families. Witch families. A few couples holding hands with their kids, some calling them "Papa" or "Mama" openly while walking through the stalls.
You had been tucked between them that night, Olruggio carrying you when your feet got tired after climbing a small hill to see firework spells lighting up above Ezrest’s rooftops. You’d clapped with delight at every burst of colored light, completely mesmerized.
They hadn’t thought anything of it then.
But clearly…you listened.
Watched.
Absorbed everything like a sponge absorbing water.
Now Qifrey exhales softly, a quiet laugh without sound, and reaches out to brush his thumb over your cheekbone where Olruggio’s kiss still lingers warmly on your hairline.
It wasn't taught.
Wasn't rehearsed or suggested by anyone, not even him (who rarely used endearing terms unless speaking about something deeply cherished).
You yawn, which is about right on time for your usual naps, and wriggle to turn on Olruggio's lap, wrapping your little arms around his neck and settling in.
Another change of pace. Usually you practically hold Qifrey hostage for a nap, not that he ever really minds, he needs a rest here and there, but today, you choose Olruggio.
Your Papa Olly.
Olruggio feels the weight of you curling into him, small, warm, and suddenly heavy with sleep, and his breath hitches again.
This is new too. You’ve never chosen him for naps. Not even once.
Qifrey is your safe haven, the one who rocks you to sleep after storms, reads tomes aloud in a low voice until your eyes drift shut, holds you when nightmares come (which are rare but do happen). Olruggio? He’s usually the background presence during these moments, the quiet observer watching from a chair nearby or tinkering softly in another room with his tools while Qifrey does all the comforting.
But tonight?
You’re clinging to him.
Your little arms loop around his neck like vines finding their way home. Your face presses into the crook of his shoulder where fabric meets skin beneath layers of clothing, a trust so pure it makes something ache behind Olruggio's ribs
He doesn’t move.
Barely breathes.
Afraid that if he shifts even slightly…you’ll wake up and realize this isn't supposed to be happening
Those years are a type of bliss they could never put words to.
Technically no, Olruggio wasn't her father. The forms Qifrey signed only list himself as a legal guardian and parental figure. But like hell he would take that from him. Ever.
From there it truly comes easy...and maybe that's where they should have seen something coming.
Maybe that's when they should have kept their guard up and not let it drop as low as it has been.
Nine years. Nine years of bliss and pride and excellence. You thrive learning magic between the two of them. Thrive in inventing spells and in the tests of apprenticeship. You excel where you put your mind to it and are such a constant in their life it feels like nothing could ever go wrong.
...and how wrong could they be?
How did the eve of your 13th year go so awry?
A routine job, just help some town folk nearby, come home, have a good dinner and that spiced mountain apple cake you adore so much, and some presents. That's all the day needed for you three.
Instead something went wrong while you were helping people who were hurt. Someone got into your mind, filled it with questions, with stories about what happened to the town that had been here thirteen years prior before a great flood.
You were always one to keep a cool head but something that day made you lose it.
Then the brimmed caps came.
Two in passing, spouting nonsense about that day. Rumors that they had put to rest themselves. Manipulating your already restless mind.
They never expected you to agree to go with them for answers.
Truly it must have been some kind of hypnosis spell. Maybe they did something to you back in the town and that's why you had been acting so strange that day. Something, anything had to explain why you, their kind, fierce girl, had taken the ink stained hand of that brimmed cap that spoke falsified sweet nothings to you. Who promised to give you everything you wanted, answers and more like what they gave you wasn't enough in the slightest.
Something had to explain why they went home, only the two of them, silent as the night, and sat there and the smothering sight of the little party decorations they had put up that morning stared back at them almost mockingly.
The decorations, blue and white streamers, a hand-lettered "Happy 13th, Selene!" banner above the dining table, still hanging perfectly in place.
Untouched. Unmoved.
They hadn’t even had time to light the candles on your cake, the one Qifrey spent hours perfecting with mountain apple filling between layers of spiced dough. The plate sits covered by glass cloche where Olruggio left it after dinner prep, untouched since noon.
Now? Now it’s just…a monument to something that never happened.
Qifrey stands frozen in the doorway of the study, the same room where you first scribbled glyphs on parchment as a toddler under his patient guidance. He stares at nothing: at chairs not occupied, at tea gone cold beside empty plates meant for three people who were supposed to be celebrating tonight
Olruggio is worse.
He paces like a caged animal through every room downstairs, checking windows (locked), doors (latched), fireplaces (no one came through). Over and over again, as if checking would bring you back.
But no sign.
Nothing but silence where your laughter should’ve been echoing.
That was two years ago.
Now here he stands in what used to be your room, now sealed off from the rest of the atelier, your crib and clothes and belongings left like artifacts of a different time.
It still hurts.
It still hurts so damn bad.
He knows he can't do a thing about it. How could he when brimmed caps were so damned hard to find in the first place? Yet as hard as he racked his brain years ago when if happened, he didn't have this moment.
He didn't have you, suddenly standing in the room, thin fingers tracing the wooden rails of the crib Olruggio made for you, that wide brimmed witches hat seated upon your head where his atelier's apprentice cap once sat. Eyes once kind now stormy, disgusted even. Then you look up and...oh how they soften. Like whatever ailed you evaporated just then.
He swallows thickly.
You couldn't be here.
How could you be here?
"Hello...Papa Qifrey..."
