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honey | mid 20s

[meltedcoco]

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[meltedcoco]

dragging myself back online as the loml, thw wonderful and sweetest maemae tells me i've been spelling beldaruit wrong all this time

[elysiumae]

[meltedcoco]

HELP not my half asleep ramblings on the jumbotron

[meltedcoco]

surely i don't have more corrections to make right

[meltedcoco]

Lethe

Come, drink from me o’ poor, docile lamb. You, forsaken by your shepherd, condemned And willing—stolen and brought To this ruined bed. Thou must graze upon the poppies, Damp with the dew of oblivion, To be lulled into a soft slumber Until there is naught left to covet. When you wake, you will delight, For this is no longer your prison; Thy desire has withered, and No love shall anchor you here.

⟣ pairing. qifrey x gn!reader (olruggio's relationship is integral to both)

⟣ 14.5k words. manga spoilers; coming of age; reader’s master is a terrible person; implied/referenced child abuse (retribution is achieved, do not worry), and ableism as per canon; hurt/no comfort; first love; bullying; reader has a panic attack; descriptions of viscera and violence; dialogue light; pre-canon; open ending.

⟣ note. A fic examining the perspective of someone who grows up alongside Qifrey and Olruggio while exploring the manga’s more serious themes within their childhood. Please take care in reading.

There is something strange about the new apprentice.

He moves through the winding corridors of the Great Hall like a shadow adorned in white, a hallmark of that maverick whose every arrival is announced by the supposedly unpleasant clop of his sealchair’s strides. You don’t mind it at all in comparison to your master who delights in the rumours regarding the boy missing an eye. Fitting, she says, for someone as broken as Beldaruit.

Yet, that is not what bewilders you so. Master Beldaruit is a kind man, eccentric, yes—as everyone says where you agree with your master only in this—but kind nonetheless. You had wondered, too, why he taught no child despite the gaggle that trailed after him, revelling in stories and smoke. Until Qifrey, that is, but the boy does not smile. Although it must be difficult with the rumours that surround Qifrey, Master Beldaruit has pulled even laughter from within your chest so it is peculiar that he has not, to your awareness, succeeded with his new apprentice.

Now, one mustn't always be graced with a smile but your master tells you that is unseemly. That a child such as yourself must—you must show others how wonderful she is to you; of how marvellous her tutelage is that no grimace ever crosses your face. For what reason would beget a terrible thing when every hand laid upon you is purely guidance in becoming a proper witch? She is not wrong, you surmise, as this unrelenting countenance has made you many a friend. How lonely it must be, then, to never approach another and remain in a state of reticence, especially in the presence of Master Beldaruit’s joy.

Qifrey does not smile when his master entertains the lot of you with ancient poems and tales of old, bringing them to life with illusions that dance around you, much to the scorn of other adults. He does not smile when the mess hall serves custard pudding or glowrose tarts—treats you gobble up in secrecy, away from her eyes on evenings where you deserve little reward while Qifrey is always encouraged to have just one more. And when your friends try to speak to him, his scowl does not soften and his frown remains just as deep.

You do not understand him; cannot begin to when the thought of remaining trapped at your master’s side as often as he does or treading the cobblestone paths of this waterlogged stronghold—impossible to escape from and eternally feasible in being found—leave an aching weight that presses heavy against your heart. It must be your pity for him as, even now, Qifrey does not smile, which is, naturally, a distraction that upsets your master.

“Come,” she tells you, fingers latched onto your wrist, tight enough to dimple skin as she drags you towards the entrance of your—her—atelier. “You spend too much time in a daze rather than in practice.”

“Yes, Master,” you swiftly agree. “Forgive me, Master.”

Then, unable to help yourself, you turn your head to endure one brief and final look, seeing witches jolt alongside Master Beldaruit’s satisfied expression. His mouth moves yet his charge’s does not. Had it been for your sake, you would have expressed your thanks but, for you, there is only this perfect room, her faultless comportment, and your clumsy, poorly drawn spells.

Noiselessly, the door shuts behind you.

It matters not how you arrive here, merely that you do; drawn into the orbit of the Star of Ghodrey first, well-loved by that northern town and brought to be buried underneath the waves of the Great Hall instead of the cushion of snow.

She makes this day troublesome for you no matter how you prepare to meet him under the guise of her audience with his own master. The cloak you throw on every morning is suddenly too wrinkled and too dull from washing, replaced by one also too long and in need of tailoring, saved in preparation for your growth spurt when you should not be seen in ill-fitted garments that may indicate thoughtlessness. Any attempt to press the crinkles flat fail with your shaky spell, displeasing your master further, the fabric scorched in the shape of a contraption that matches the one marring the inside of your wrist.

“What’s that?” Olruggio asks, gaze cast towards reddened skin. It’s the most interest he’s shown in you, choosing to stay quiet after exchanging pleasantries as your master’s intent is no doubt clear. “Were you burned?” He must be familiar with the sight, too, having come from a place where any blunder in casting everyday fire magic may cost a life.

“I was.” You nod. “I acted foolishly.” To hide the wound from view, you tug the sleeve of your robes over your palm but he instinctively reaches out before you can shy away.

You flinch.

He speaks, instead. “How?” Olruggio’s voice is incredulous, and you allow—in unease, this time—his small hand to hold yours and turn your forearm to peel back the fabric sticking to you like a second skin, pain lancinating so viciously that you suppress a whimper. However, this close, Olruggio is privy to the small, muffled sound. His brow furrows, attention flitting from your face to your wrist, and then back again with his composure worse than yours as more of the rough expanse is revealed, adorned with an angry mountain of a welt wherein the edges of the surrounding depression drool as your body does its best to heal itself. “It looks really bad,” he says, expression veering into a sickening smile with a stare so unfocused and shaky as if he’s glad to have exposed your secret. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

Her eyes are upon you.

"I held on to a contraption too tightly and burned a hole through a new cloak,” you answer, “this is what happens when you make a mistake.” Then, you lower your head and prevent his reply with a simple addition of: “which is why my master believes you may be able to help me.”

“You’re right,” Olruggio says, suddenly determined beyond his slight delirium, “so we should visit the medical spire!” And he twirls you to usher you towards that very place as you spare a glance at your master.

“You may go,” she permits you. “You should have gone when you were first injured but you insisted on not being late.” No falsehood disgraces her tongue; to be tardy is to be disrespectful, and to be disrespectful is to mirror her in shame, of which is against how she has raised you.

And so, with Olruggio, you leave.

He is talkative, now, as he leads you away, without that air of annoyance he carried as you shuffled from one foot to the other, the two of you standing close to your masters’ sides as they spoke about banal topics to see if friendship would blossom. He answers your questions about Ghodrey and life above the sea, every surface touched by sunlight you’ve never seen unless refracted by water, rays reaching the depths in ripples that fizzle out the deeper it travels. He tells you about the scalewolves that run through the downlands, frightening but incredibly gentle with their young; alongside the glow of a blushing bride as it floats through the air when you’ve only seen its scales milled for conjuring ink. And he shares what it was like to travel from place to place, encountering all sorts of people without a master to guide him on field work until now.

You miss it, somehow, simply by the way he recounts it all, particularly in respect to how his life is already so large for a child, distinctly different from what you know you will experience yourself. When you are ready to accompany your master, you are confident she will not accept a task as plain as warming an Unknowing nearly frozen to death, remarkable only in meeting someone you would have never met otherwise; worthwhile only because, as Olruggio has expressed, you have saved a life. Are you strong enough to mimic him, you wonder? Perhaps overseeing your care by the hand of these doctors is another ordinary manner of aid—companionship never granted to you.

By the time you return, you believe you would not make a mistake in calling Olruggio your friend. He smiled, wide and fatuous as you tried to speak through tears, expressing everything and anything so long as it is does not concern the relief bestowed from him to you. And it ceases upon their approach, much to Olruggio’s surprise, at the ease in which you are able to calm. He does not comment, thankfully, as he releases your hand to clutch onto his master’s cloak.

Astonishingly, your master’s palm rests upon your shoulder and, with her, you watch as your new friend chronicles your short adventure with him. Within his excitement, she must approve, satisfied over your success in what she wanted of you and seemingly proved by the steady brush of her thumb. The touch of Olruggio’s own master gentles atop his head, mussing his hair into an untidy mop you cannot imagine yourself journeying through the Great Hall with. And when you tilt your chin upwards, expectant and childish, she tightens her hold in a facsimile of her usual objection, turning from you without a word.

Unable to observe Olruggio for any longer lest something ugly grows, you wave goodbye with uncertainty filling your heart. There is something you wish to articulate and share with them. If Olruggio is as kind as he appears, his master—his caregiver—must be a character even greater than that: gracious to be capable of catching the Star of Ghodrey, clever in teaching someone so bright, and influential enough to protect that light.

But she is calling for you, giving voice to your name in a tone always so austere, so you make the easy choice—to never say a word, letting your chest cave in as your arm continues to ache, a searing pain that haunts you despite it all.

The days continue to blend together, indistinguishable for the most part where you comprehend its passing by the flicker of floatglow lamps if not for the darkening waves around you, no sunlight flowing through. You wake around this time, anyway—early when your master is still snoring softly—ensuring you are presentable once she rouses from slumber and already studying diligently, scribbling wonky circles you later burn while she is too busy to realize your faults. And when it is noon, you seek out Olruggio’s company for it is your only reprieve before your return to her atelier to stain your fingertips black. But when it’s suppertime, you’ve discovered, in more recent weeks, that Olruggio has taken to Qifrey.

From your observance, you believe they bicker on most occasions; about vegetables and silly little competitions and how often they encounter the other. It is only when Olruggio is presented with a map, requested during a short meeting wherein he assisted you in drawing seals your master could no longer tolerate repeating her guidance for, that their relationship seems to mend. Even more, your friend is absent one afternoon, leaving you alone in the mess hall with the companionship you’ve built, as instructed of you, through a lie.

Again and again, Olruggio disappears from your life, only making his appearance when organized by your masters, and especially during the aggravation of yours. The melancholy grown from that distance leaves you, however, as you see Qifrey smile for the first time. For a reason you cannot grasp at the time, you are envious that Olruggio must be the first recipient of that sight. Yet you remain in proximity to him when he gravitates around Olruggio as you do, any conversation shared consisting of clipped words and polite greetings where you’ve only heard the fullness of his voice when speaking to your mutual friend.

It is not enough.

“I heard from Olruggio that you wish to leave the Great Hall,” you say upon approaching Qifrey alone, your robes clutched tightly in your fist with your decision to breach the wall that he has built between you—comfortable to converse over, but not quite short enough to connect with you properly. “He told me about how you stole his map and escaped.”

Qifrey clicks his tongue, ready to depart with no intention to entertain you for a second more. “That was so long ago—what does it matter now?”

“I want to leave, too.” The remark is sufficient in garnering his interest, finally focused on you. “I want to see the sky you saw that day.”

“Ask Olruggio.”

“I can’t,” you answer. “My master is enthralled with the Star of Ghodrey; if she found out—”

“So I’m your second choice?” His voice raises, facing you with scorn that you cannot prevent yourself from cowering against. “It doesn’t matter what happens to me, is that it?!”

Passersby begin to stare, an oppressive pressure that forces your subsequent words to leave as a whimper, instantly softening the boy’s expression in remorse. “I want to be your friend.”

“You’re lying,” Qifrey firmly objects. “I know what your master says about people like Master Beldaruit—about people like me.”

“I’m not like her.” You stomp your foot, nails carving crescents into your palms as you hiss, “just because she’s my master doesn’t mean I carry the same opinions as her!”

“But you don’t say anything to stop her, do you?” He bristles, and you almost believe your relationship ruined with the disclosure, perhaps justifying his general temperament towards you, sporadically atrocious yet dampened by a particular vacillation, skeptical of your character.

“I can’t,” you mutter, “there is nothing I can do against my master…”

Qifrey quiets at that, deciding if your honesty is falsified to win his favour. It’s not. You are able to speak as you do simply because you tried some years ago when you were her freshly appointed apprentice, gifted to her due to your adept memory and family name where everyone believed in your potential under her guidance specifically. She took you to the finest magic stationer’s shop within the Great Hall to obtain your first woodcruor wand, and upon perusing dyes, she praised your ability to differentiate the subtle differences in colour only to say that those with Silverwash Syndrome could never be witches and, even more, that she could not comprehend why Master Beldaruit was so adored when ‘he no doubt wants for magic to fix his frailty, breaking the rules of the Pact.’

Hearing it pained you. Master Beldaruit was one of the foremost witches you met at the Great Hall shortly after being introduced to your master. She left you, for a time, and you wandered too far astray that the pathways were unrecognizable, unable to tell from whence you came. But Qifrey’s master, when he was still without an apprentice, found you. He was just an illusion back then—quicker for him to search for the source of the wails that echoed off stone—but the smoke was not frightening while the sound of his sealchair meant you weren’t alone, an announcement that prevented you from being startled. And when he had led you to his bedchambers, Lady Vinanna was by his side, leaving to her duties as he was adequate company in waiting for your master to fetch you.

He struggled, too, to comfort you, maneuvering closer by pushing himself upright using the handles of his transfer board. You wished it had been easier—that the world was kinder to him who was so kind to you, his hand warm in your own and the other gentle as it wiped your damp cheeks before petting the top of your head. His simple and modest reassurance is one you can still feel when you try your best to recall it and return to that moment whenever you are too afraid; the fear refusing to leave when that rapacious ache remained.

So, when she expressed the dreadful sentiment and alluded to forbidden magic, you spoke against her, becoming the first and last time you had and ever will. There is naught—not even Qifrey’s chagrin—that could convince you that any possible action you could have taken would be anything but futile against your master.

“Fine,” Qifrey finally decides. “I’ll believe you since you’re Olruggio’s friend.” Then, he leans into your space, and you almost want to jump away from the sudden proximity and how the blue of his eye seems to sparkle. “I’ll decide whether or not I’ll help you after I hear your plan.”

“I know how to draw the sylph shoes seal,” you say, and your knowledge of it appears to be enough.

Qifrey has apparently memorized the path to the exit, amusing you when, just the other day, you assisted in returning him to Argentgard to see Master Beldaruit. He is more receptive to you now, too, likely doing away with any assumption after your brief conversation concerning him and his master. Although this occurs primarily through cupped hands and whispers, afraid of making too much noise and guiding a curious passerby to the both of you and foiling your plans. For the same reason, you’ve suggested to draw the seal after your escape, forgoing the momentary regret that befalls you as you climb the lofty staircase connecting the drowned castle to the surface.

It’s bright, much more than you had expected.

The stretch of cerulean above you seems endless, painted with drifting puffs of white. There is no constant sound of flowing water, either, simply waves that collide with the tall island you stand upon. Even as your eyes follow the flight paths of quadryphons you’ve only seen in books, the sight offered to you comes with much to discover, so unlike the monotonous expanse of sea, interesting through grandiose creatures seen through formerly innocent eyes until you’re as you are now—still a child but a little older and a little more versed in the life arranged for you that they no longer spark amazement, yet wishing you could join them the same.

Leastwise, Qifrey is smiling, tiny and barely there, but a smile nevertheless.

He observes your surroundings as you had, likely ensuring no one is around or unwittingly missing a past—somewhere out there—he can no longer remember. “Is it better than you’ve imagined?” he asks, the tenor of his voice delicate and unrecognizable to you.

Your own lightens, glee staining your words.“It is! I’d never tire of this sight.”

“That’s why we should hurry, then,” Qifrey suggests, “before anyone uses the windowway or leaves from where we came.”

He’s right. The plan had been an impulsive one, which is why you left mid-day while everyone was busy with their studies and tasks, too distracted to pay attention to Qifrey who is given reprieve on days like this, master busy like your own and leaving you to yourself when Olruggio would normally have an audience with you if not for his sudden commitments. Still, one never knows who may visit the Great Hall and when.

Pulling off a boot, you balance yourself on one foot with Qifrey holding your ink pot to assist you.

“Will this work despite not being a contraption?” Qifrey’s face scrunches up, the purpose of his doubt lying in the worry that overtakes him.

“We just have to avoid getting our shoes wet so the ink doesn’t wash away,” you answer, drawing an alternating pattern of convergence and levitation signs after ornamenting the centre with the wind underfoot sigil.

“My master says this is a difficult seal because it is easy to draw it unevenly,” Qifrey says, “but you aren’t struggling.”

“I like knowing an assortment of spells, but…” You hesitate to share, yet choose to do so, regardless, solely through your desire to get closer to the frost-headed boy, your interest in him growing after becoming more acquainted and hoping your offered trust will prompt him to trust you too. “…My master taught me early,” you continue, “that way it appears as if I can do anything quickly. It’s easy for me to remember, but difficult for me to draw—my hand shakes, sometimes, and it upsets her.”

This is something you have shared with not even Olruggio, but when you look at Qifrey, his countenance is completely replaced with distaste, lips set in a firm line and cheeks puffed up like a sparrel with a mouth full of lentils. You’ve said too much.

“And please keep this a secret,” you jest despite the sincerity in your tone, “or I won’t eat your vegetables when Olruggio isn’t looking anymore!”

“Fine… fine,” Qifrey agrees only to tut up his chin. “I don’t like your master anyway, so I don’t want to speak of her anymore.” Then, he adds quickly, if only to tease you with a narrowed eye. “Your lines look steady to me—you worked hard—but that one is too long!”

You shake your head, wishing you could bump your shoulder with his without losing your balance. “It’s so they can’t catch us; we’ll fly faster than any normal pair of sylph shoes,” you say, switching to your other boot and quickly drawing the other half of the bisected seal so you can guide Qifrey in inscribing his own.

Despite being Master Beldaruit’s apprentice for a time too short for his age, Qifrey has little difficulty in mimicking the spell, as if his body already knows the motion of each stroke. Once finished himself, the two of you simply face each other awkwardly, knowing not which direction to venture aside from forward in whatever path of your choosing.

“What if we hold hands?”

“What?” Qifrey’s head snaps to you, whirling around from the far-off horizon he was electing to explore.

“Have you flown before?” you ask, and Qifrey’s silence is answer itself so you continue. “If we hold hands, we won’t be separated.” You offer a hand thereafter, palm open and outstretched, as your sleeve falls down your wrist at the motion, exposing skin still slightly raw, fractal patterns drawn tight like chords of incarnadine lightning.

He takes it, the inaugural contact causing him to jolt before wrenching away. It almost offends you—is it because of the ebony smeared on your hand, an aftermath in drawing that you’ve transferred onto his skin? It’s a habit you have, as do the other apprentices, but you suppose Qifrey is quite clean in all things, especially with the light colours of his cloak.

“We don’t have to,” you quickly say, “you don’t have to do this just because I want to hold hands.” It’s true that you desired it, whereby some part of you wants for his attention, but the guilt in cultivating, within him, an obligation to satisfy your odd whims, is stronger than any longing for something much gentler than you’ve known. “I’m just afraid of what would happen if one of us gets lost or, worse, falls into the sea. I don’t know what I would do, either, if something happened to you because I asked you to assist me.” The words leave you without pause, unable to prevent yourself from babbling in the hopes of mitigating any uncomfortable impressions; but, then, your voice turns almost inaudible, touch grazing over the wrist of your dominant hand. “I don’t like getting hurt… I’m afraid to die.”

Qifrey’s breath catches within his chest, and the subsequent exhale is a tight one, yet his stare does not withdraw from you, even as you grow more meek with the trepidation you assume you’ve propagated within him. Perhaps there is something that haunts him, just like you. And so, Qifrey reaches out, taking your hand in a trembling hold you steady through a squeeze of reassurance, mimicking what Master Beldaruit had done for you years ago.

You stand on the edge of the tower formed through a rocky outcrop, a lonely island you leave, hand in hand, with Qifrey as you bring your feet together and propel upwards into the air. The view is so unimaginable that your fear falls away as the possibility of tomorrow is all that remains. You have never been this far from the Great Hall; from your family when you were still their charge and thenceforth from your master. Even Qifrey, who cannot remember the life he lived outside the sodden stones of the castle, grins, brilliant and unbridled as you float through the ceaseless expanse of sky; and his delight, paired with your own, is more beautiful than the petals that retract at beginnings of your tears, your delirium sprouting hallucinations.

“I never thought—” you try to say, sniffling and hiccupping as Qifrey’s hold shifts. His fingers slide into the crevices of your own like roots finding the entry point of soft soil, a tether sown from recognition, linking you to him, in this moment, to be as you are so long as you are with him. “I never thought I could be this happy!”

He laughs, loud and blameless and innocent, as if what either of you have endured was a scattered dream, his much more nebulous whereas any recollection of your own memories is something you avoid, leaving a cavity you never wish to fill. For once, you are child, and you wonder what your former days would have resembled if you and Qifrey had met under kinder circumstances.

It would be preferable to meet in a village on an isolated corner of the Zozah Peninsula, untouched by the strictness in larger towns and cities and especially the Great Hall. You and Qifrey would run through hills of greenery only to fall down in tumbling ribbons as the sun sets on the horizon, eventually encountering Olruggio for a reason that matters little in comparison to the very fact that you must converge at one point, regardless, orbits aligning. Magic will come, as it always does, but it appears through smoke and illusions, a gentle touch and a forgiving hand, and the water of Qifrey’s flowers coruscating Olruggio’s light.

Together—that is where you will find yourself, despite leaving without Olruggio. He will find you, you know it; and if he does not, you will return for him because no path you follow—straight and narrow or winding and obstructive—will end in a place absent of him. From the beginning of it all, there was an inevitability, you realize, now, in being changed by both him and Qifrey.

“Your cloak is dancing in the breeze!” Qifrey exclaims, hair whipping around and revealing his scarred eye to you, sullied with a verdant splotch, of which you cannot wipe away when it likely collided with his face as the two of you struggle to control your flight path. He does not seem to mind, regardless, as he laughs, again, and yells through the rushing wind, “you look like a dragon!”

“I told you they’d never be able to catch us, Qifrey!”

And how naïve you are to express such a sentiment, believing that innocence could no longer be taken from you. The world seems to still before the wind begins to flow in the opposite direction as though a gale had arisen, suddenly and naturally, until a woman with a cloak soaked in the colour of blood catches you within her embrace. You are reminded of how small you are and how nothing may bend to the will of two youths who cannot live without the aid of another.

Lady Vinanna does not let your feet touch the ground despite landing next to the pointed and pillared structure of the Great Hall’s entrance. She repositions her hold through a deluge of reprimands, grabbing you both by the hood of your cloaks. Qifrey makes some remark under his breath about being capable of walking as he was last time this happened, no doubt concerning Olruggio. But Lady Vinanna does not relent, afraid you will run and ignorant of what is more important to fear as she descends the coiled staircase, a replica of a bridewell and your noose.

“I won’t disobey you again,” you cry. “Please, Lady Vinanna, do not stretch my clothes. I beg of you!”

Your disposition shocks her enough to set you down, shoes meeting the cold stone of the Great Hall, smooth unlike the dirt of true land. You did not thrash nor did you reach up to tug at her hands, merely hung like a limp doll possessed by a wraith that can only express its anguish for its undoing in wails and watery eyes. Tantrums are unbecoming of a witch and no one should ever bear witness to an ugly sight, but you care little for both Lady Vinanna and Qifrey’s reactions. The latter surprises you, no less, expecting a distasteful wince but receiving concern, instead. That too is something you dread.

Clacks echo through the corridor, the stacked leather of her heel declaring her imminent arrival. Qifrey watches you tremble once the member of the Knights Moralis meets your master in the middle, prepared for her audience and leaving you and him behind her, convinced you will both stay put.

“Lady Vinanna,” your master calls first, refusing to look at you yet you obstruct your face nonetheless, without a handkerchief to wipe snot and tears. “Imagine my surprise in being summoned because my well-behaved apprentice is running amok after being involved in the mischief of a common whelp.”

“They were flying,” Lady Vinanna answers, choosing to ignore your master’s revulsion for your friend—it is not the first time she has dealt with the uncouth mannerisms of arrogant witches and it will not be the last. “Do you have any idea why they were able to draw the sylph shoe spell?”

Her stare is heavy upon you.

“I stole a pair of my master’s shoes and memorized the spell,” you explain, practically yelling at Lady Vinanna as you crane your head upwards. “Please don’t be upset with my master—it’s all my fault for defying her, and I forced Qifrey join me!” Qifrey tries to interrupt but you overtake him, stepping closer into her space as Master Beldaruit arrives, the sound of hooves silenced by your climbing panic. “He didn’t do anything wrong,” you say, next, to Master Beldaruit whose worry has dissolved after taking note of his apprentice’s reaction to you, replaced by a reticent amusement now that he discovers that you are both unscathed.

Though, it does not last long. “My!” Master Beldaruit chuckles, hand bent at the wrist and raised towards his mouth, a flamboyant motion that irks your master but soothes Qifrey through its unshaken nature. “If everyone is unharmed,” he begins, shifting his attention to be directed towards you, “then who am I to be anything but glad that Qifrey is finally getting along with you? Hmm?”

Unsurprisingly, the comment shatters your master’s composure and you nearly believe her capable of raising her hand against both Master Beldaruit and Qifrey, but Lady Vinanna interrupts before it can escalate.

“They should be properly punished so they don’t do it again,” she says, “now would be a good time to start.”

“I will be sure to do so.”

When you spare Qifrey a lasting glance, your leave prompts a small lecture from Master Beldaruit that quickly falls away from focus—Qifrey’s eye waters as he meets your gaze, shoulders tight and shaking as he attempts to hold them at bay. You want to stop; to return to his side and comfort him but, distracted, you bump into your master’s back.

She stares down at you, again, face clouded in something you are incapable of naming as a child but perceptive enough to realize you never wish to see it again. So, you wave Qifrey goodbye, and allow her to catch your wrist and lead you back to her atelier, consoled solely by the boy’s acceptance of you, at last, no matter how prominent the ache becomes that evening.

In the following year, your master grows stricter, hovering over your shoulder to oversee whatever you partake in if she can manage it. And if not, it is as if there is someone else in the Great Hall who follows you, reporting your day-to-day activities without her supervision.

Before, she had allowed you to study the occasional subject and spell as you liked, but now believes part of your punishment should be an awareness in only what she assumes you will need under circumstances she would permit you to find yourself in, as if she could control such a thing. Gone are your picture books detailing old stories and encyclopedias depicting the creatures of the Zozah Peninsula, exchanged with bound pages of curriculum catered to you and without any room for simple magic that brings nothing but joy.

It feels as if you are running out of time, unable to catch up to her expectations as other apprentices, like Olruggio and Qifrey, excel in almost everything they do. She inspects your palm quire more closely, too, giving you no opportunity to burn failed spells and inspiring more reprimand for struggling to inscribe what you already know by heart. It does not help, either, that your tremors worsen following your attempt in escaping the Great Hall. From your master, you expected another corrective measure, but she lets it be upon realizing that drawing while concealed steadies your hand, not realizing how you grasp your dominant wrist to stabilize each mark. Good, she had said, because a successful witch is one who can draw anything in secret.

Though praise is a rarity, it was disgusting coming from her who delights in lies.

No matter, you suppose, as to be a witch is to lie. To cast magic is to live in a falsehood, just as you pretend that nothing is wrong, completing one task after another within your studies while you tell your friends that pain is a consequence of growth. You dress in the robes of her atelier, a sign of your belonging to her as she instructs you what to do, who to entertain, and how to act, wherein you are guest to your own body. She tells you that this new contraption will help you in your studies. She commands you to go fetch it when it finally arrives in the Great Hall after letters concerning its delivery remained unanswered until recently. She is also worn thin by waiting that you, again, feel pressed for time.

Your steps quicken, rushing through the colonnades before hesitating when you nearly pass the pavilion, distracted by a cacophony of noise. You sway from one side to another, standing on the tips of your toes to endeavor a peek over the shoulders of those taller and older than you. From here, you catch sight of a tuft of white, belonging solely to a single apprentice within the Great Hall.

“Only one eye and missing his memory? How will he go on a field mission with Master Beldaruit?”

An apprentice guarded by your master’s comrade sneers. “Master Beldaruit will be the eyes and Qifrey will be his legs—together, they’ll finally be normal!”

The commotion rises, wicked laughter ringing out through the space, absent of anything but children and the subject of their ridicule.

“What? Like a weird chimera? Do you really—”

“What did you say?” you interrupt with a screech, plowing through the crowd surrounding Qifrey, your friend stuffed into the corner against a pillar with nowhere to go.

The second apprentice scoffs, shoving your shoulder as you had her. “Are deaf as he is blind?” Her face is contorted into an ugly thing, looking at you with distaste for defending someone like him, your master and hers would say, someone belonging to a cripple like Beldaruit.

“Are you so stupid you can’t say it again?” you retort, and feel fabric pull as Qifrey clutches your robes. “Or are you too much of a coward now that someone isn’t brainless enough to laugh?”

Your face stings.

She hit you. As the awareness of it settles, your body stiffens, limbs locking in place and only capable of listening to Qifrey who begins to yell from behind you. But even as the other apprentices advance, you do not move from where you stand, blocking him from their ire. Turning your head to face him, Qifrey’s eye widens, flickering to where her nail had caught on your skin, leaving an angry line drawn from your cheek to your nose.

“What? Are you going to cry now?” she challenges you. Then, she mentions your master, and it is as if your ears are ringing, knowing your master will not be pleased with your further involvement with Qifrey, and especially resulting from a brawl, no less. “Are you brave enough to tell her or are you a coward, too?”

For once, you aren’t, and perhaps that is because you know there are few who will protect him.

“Am I supposed to cry because you hit me?” you ask, voice colder than you realize. “Run to her and complain about some idiot?” She tries to interrupt you, but you clench your fists and will yourself to behave. “You act like Qifrey and his master can’t do anything on their own, but have you stared a liongoat in the eye? Seen their sharp fangs, three pairs of pointed horns that could pierce right through you, and return without being trampled?” Foolishly, you motion to Qifrey, bringing all attention upon him. “Qifrey has,” you say, “why do you think the Great Hall was in an commotion a few months ago?”

“So what?”

“Can you do that?” you ask, and the weight in your stare must be grave enough that they struggle to form a reply at the mimicry you endeavour, imitating your master. “Huh? Can you?”

“Well, I—”

“You can’t!” you interrupt despite prompting from them a response, angry at the mere belief that they are as brave as Qifrey when they would do something so lowly. “You would die, I know it,” you say and watch their faces fall at the grim prospect you’ve presented to them. “Actually, you wouldn’t even be brave enough to face a liongoat, let alone die by one—all you can do is outnumber people who do nothing to you just because you think it’s funny.” Stepping forward, you shove them backwards and Qifrey grabs your arm to stop you from escalating a fight against the amount of apprentices that surround you. A fight you cannot win.

“Are you done?” she asks, feigning nonchalance mixed with mild annoyance, hoping you appear mad with your uproar.

“No, I’m not,” you hiss, anyway. “You think it’s so easy because you don’t struggle to live, but you’ll never be live up to Master Beldaruit—you’ll never be a witch greater than him, and the only person who will be is Qifrey!”

“What?” Another apprentice laughs, nudging their friend’s side with an elbow, the amusement brought about by their subsequent suggestion clear. “Are you infatuated with Qifrey? Is that why you’re so upset about this? It was just a joke.”

“And what if I am?” Your bristle. “Why would I like anyone else when my options are someone as terrible as you!”

Silence follows your bellow and you think you’ve deterred them, but when you calm yourself enough to see what they’re staring at, they’ve already begun to scatter.

“I won’t tell your master,” Lady Vinanna says, slipping a handkerchief from her pocket as she approaches you to dab at the sweat of your brow before gently taking your chin between her thumb and forefinger. “But there are better ways to protect your friend than picking a fight,” she adds, examining the cut on your face.

“They wouldn’t listen,” you mutter, looking down at your feet in shame once she lets go. “They’re always saying horrible things about Qifrey and Master Beldaruit.”

At that, your friend huffs, and Lady Vinanna sighs with his subsequent words. “You don’t have to do that,” Qifrey says, “let them talk—they always do. If they don’t say it to my face, they’ll make sure I can hear their gossip.”

“That doesn't mean it’s right,” you argue.

Seeing that you’re both fine, Lady Vinanna ruffles his hair and yours, standing from the position she took to speak to you, crouched to face the both of you properly. Her touch is so light you cannot help the smile that breaks across your face, looking up at her with sparkling eyes. She snorts. “Try not to get into more trouble, yeah? I can’t save you from everything,” she says, and leaves without another comment, searching for the apprentices who fled.

The moment she disappears around the corner and leaves you alone together, Qifrey grabs you. “You’re shaking,” he says, face scrunching up in remorse. You hadn’t realized it, but you do know that expression all too well on him, and it inspires, within you, your own. “You shouldn’t do that again—what if they hurt you?”

“You’ve been hurt enough,” you retort, “we can at least face it together.”

Qifrey’s head tilts, curiosity genuine. “But I thought you don’t like getting hurt?”

He’s right. It had somehow passed your mind amongst the adrenaline in atoning for all you could not do for him or his master, regardless of how they will never be aware of your failures to defend them lest you—or anyone else who was witness to it—share it with them. Only pain lies at the end of the path you have chosen to tread.

“Do you—” You try to speak, but your breath leaves in stuttered gasps, panic consuming you. “Do you think they’ll tell their masters? And then they’ll tell mine and—”

“They won’t,” Qifrey answers, “they’d be too ashamed to, and if they do, they’d be punished for hurting you.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah.” He nods, looks off to the side, and then focuses on you again to say, “you’re still shaking.”

“I’m sorry.”

Qifrey takes your hand at the apology, believing it will soothe you the same way it had that day you soared through the sky together. It does but, because you are irrevocably greedy in affection like this and especially from him, you step forward and collapse into his chest in exhaustion, thereby searching for reprieve as you timidly wrap your arms around him. Qifrey sinks into the warmth of you, chin propped up on your shoulder as he listens to your breathing calm. Then, he tenses, and you would have asked if something was wrong if not for his sudden detachment—gently, but quickly, pushing you away with his hands anchored upon your shoulders, a bridge of distance from him to you.

“I have to leave if you’re fine now,” he says, remembering some duty you are ignorant to.

“You were the one being ridiculed,” you point out. “I should stay by your side.”

“No,” he says, watching your face fall as guilt takes root. “No,” he repeats, firmly this time, “you should hurry back. You were completing an errand for your master, were you not? She doesn’t like it when you’re tardy.”

You exhale slowly, trying to will yourself to stop trembling where he can see you as you murmur, “that’s impossible to avoid now.” He hums, and you know he only hopes for the best for you. “Goodbye, Qifrey.”

“Take care,” he says. “I’ll see you around.”

Yet, it comes quicker than either of you expect. The ache is severe, this night, much worse than you had anticipated, so much so it was near unbearable—you are unaware if you are capable to enduring it any further. So, the decision you make is a rash one.

Qifrey’s bedchambers are located at the end of one corner of the Great Hall, tucked and housed alone, just as you are when your masters have only one apprentice in comparison to Olruggio an d the others. To get there, you would have to travel past the mess hall and up and across the chemin de ronde, wherein you would be exposed completely if one were to look outside their window as you walk along the raised wall connecting one building to another.

As long as you are quick, you tell yourself, you will not be caught, unless you have the courage to draw that spell on the inside of your cloak. There is a chance it would fade while washing it from the fabric would be easier than burning the paper of your palm quire. The borrowshade cloak is is a simple spell, consisting of one concealment sign, an asteriskos pointed with an eye in each cardinal direction; and four envelop signs at each corner, diagonal from the little star at its centre. How ironic it is, to be hidden in shadow with a seal drawn using eyes that will very well be obstructed from sight of you if you are to be glanced at.

You draw it. Your fingers clutch onto the wrist of your dominant hand, an anchor you use while following a rounded motion of the ring. Then, you fluff up your pillow until the air causes it to puff, and cover it with your linens to mimic your sleeping form before pushing open the door to your bedchambers. It creaks within the the quiet of her atelier, and you pause before continuing forward, listening for movement from where you hope she is still lost in a deep sleep.

Once you step through the threshold and into the hall, you release a tight breath, a smile breaking onto your face. You do not look back as you run through the path you’ve memorized to reach him, your cloak fluttering behind you. You look like a dragon! Qifrey had told you that day, and you feel it, too, when you fiercely defended him, and now, again, as you do as you wish—the fabric a dark tail that swishes as your feet strike cold stone, the patter of your footsteps the only indication of your presence.

The room of the mess hall is darkened at this time, no one hungry enough to venture from their room and steal a snack or a meal, but there are wandering witches that traverse the paths, and you have to press yourself close to the wall as you squeeze through, careful to avoid bumping into another as you tip-toe towards an alcove. They take their time in leaving, discussing nonsense you have no interest in when you have places to be, and the wait is so agonizing that you choose to sneak past, inhaling deeply as you find yourself atop the chemin de ronde. The animals swim overhead, blocking out the reflections of the moon as you become a mosaic of shadow, the spell imitating the vestiges of light despite being disturbed by your frantic movements.

By the time you reach the door to his bedchambers, your voice is more breath than sound with how quickly your chest rises and falls. “Qifrey,” you quietly call. “Qifrey, it’s me.”

He’s awake, surprisingly; the potential in him sleeping at this time being something you hadn’t considered until you were met with silence for a minute or two. And his brow furrows as you strip yourself from the cloak, distracted in tidying your garments for the outdoors whereby you do not notice his gaze skimming over the length of your form—the bruise blooming on your ankle, confirming his worry in your gait; the flush to your nape, concealed by your collar and revealed only as you turn your back to him; the scratch marks decorating the skin of your wrist, a habit of yours he detests; and the redness in your eyes.

Without question, Qifrey lets you stay.

The two of you stifle giggles as you build a makeshift tent while Qifrey fetches books from his shelf—gifts from Master Beldaruit. He reads the narration, and you, the characters, playing pretend as you act out voices. This occurrence repeats every so often. One night, you are the King of Dadah, strong and mighty with no fear licking at your spine, even as you transform into the witch who takes his life after he raises the mountains high in the sky with forbidden magic, creating the ruin you—before you met your master—and Qifrey—after he met his—ventured upon to pass The Consent of the Crown.

Another evening, Olruggio joins you after you emerge from Serpentback Cave, together, guiding myrphons to their breeding and wintering grounds. Qifrey, this time, participates in your recount of the Song of the Princess, becoming a dragon he loves so much, while you elect Olruggio as its rider—the princess who guides its path alongside her tribe, the identity you adopt. You do not remember much of this epic, however, as when you look back on this time together, you believe the The Sincerity of the Shield was when you began to recognize Qifrey more. Through his magic, in particular, where the tenderness he was capable of—and still is—beyond adversity while interacting with the flock had tugged at your heart so.

But when you pass The Query of Qui Vive, the plays fall away, replaced by nights venturing outside the Great Hall where you draw the borrowshade cloak for your friends while Olruggio lights the floatglow lamps you carry on large branches once you’re free to follow Qifrey’s whims. It is only on days where you cannot bear to be alone within her atelier that you find yourself in Qifrey’s bed, tucked under the covers as he reads to you, slowly, over the course of a few months, a nine-part epic about a witch and a decaying king—the story of how witches and nobility were once a united front in the days of old—a relationship now unlawful.

There is much that is disallowed in the world of witches, hidden all through lies. It is common knowledge amongst them that magic was taken from all through a memory-erasure spell, and from thenceforth, any individual touched by that secret must never utter a word of its truth. In a book you read without your master’s awareness—another action prohibited—it is said that a lie is equal to theft; to steal the truth from someone else. And it is so strange to you that, upon granting honesty to the Unknowing or within the punishments of the Knights Moralis concerning forbidden magic, the result is a robbery of the highest calibre. To steal one’s memory completely, of all relation to magic, even the witches one meets, only to be sent to Adanlee, the Isle of Oblivion, prior to being integrated into a new life—stolen from your original identity.

Perhaps that is why Qifrey is chasing after his past and cannot wait to reach it lest it escapes him before he can possess it. You cannot fault him for it; you do not know how you would move on if you were left without memory of him and Olruggio—of their arrival to the Great Hall; your meeting of both; the silly sentiments that unravelled; and how Olruggio’s magic held a numinous quality resembling the star that he is, an honesty in his happiness you would do anything to acquire. For a time, you believed you had when you carved your names into the wood of a willow tree at some neglected town you’ll never see again as it did not hold the answers Qifrey was seeking; the joy dwarfing the ache in the mornings, afternoons, and evenings that followed.

But you forget yourself. You always do. None of this is part of the path she has arranged for you, one inscribed across every surface of skin you posses when the dawn arrives. And to reach it, you leave Qifrey every night, with reluctance, to his restless sleep, returning to your own foolish falsehood with a smile gracing your face.

There is something strange about Olruggio.

Not many moons have passed since he and Qifrey completed the Librarian’s Trial, having done so together when your master was even more in a rush in comparison to your frost-haired friend. She had hoped, and was pleased, at your prompt success, magic coming to you much easier now that you have found affection within it through studies alongside your friends. They are aware of what you master is like and how grand her hopes for you are, but now you have your misgivings in completing it without them.

Olruggio cannot answer your questions about what transpired at the Tower of Tomes and whether they found what their heart was searching for. Neither can he tell you why his ribbon was exchanged for Qifrey’s tassel. Admittedly, you are jealous, but that is a lesser issue than what you are told. All Olruggio shares is that he completed it first, had fallen asleep while waiting for Qifrey, and eventually woke to him watching the quiet movement of the lake, lacking any knowledge of his past and completely satisfied in the search, choosing to never attempt it again.

Qifrey is lying to you.

There is no person on this earth who may relinquish their desires so easily without any fanfare. Perhaps whatever he found at the Tower did end the incessant excursions, allowing you to recuperate all those nights you went without sleep, but to say a single day was enough to act as if it was all an absurd dream is an insult to your intellect and, most of all, how well you know him. When you pressed, Qifrey said that there was nothing in the Tower to aid him, and from henceforth, he would only look forward to tomorrow. The words are inspiring, truly, but you doubted them nonetheless, even more when Olruggio shrugged and notified you that Qifrey shared the same sentiment right after the Librarian’s Trial.

It should have ended there, but there is no past you can run from nor is there any action taken that would not bring about a consequence. The years you have spent with her have taught you as much, familiar with the concept of reward, punishment, and retribution. You continue to push—to ask after a few days, a few weeks, and then months that dissolve into years. The field work continues and so do the studies and the tiny moments in-between. Of meteor showers, festivals, seaweed and vegetables, arguing and reconciliation, acting against your master in secrecy, and gritting your teeth as you endure it all. Still, there are exceptions to this, and it always occurs when you are missing from Olruggio’s side.

There are gaps in his memory, so small that others deem it inconsequential—as simple as forgetting what you ate the other day for supper, the name of the person you briefly met, and where you misplaced a trinket or two. But you know it is not normal, and no matter who you endeavour for aid, no doctor will see a young man who does not wish to be healed from an ailment that seemingly does not exist. Olruggio even entertains you one year, committing himself to a full check-up that returns results concerning nutrition, anemia, and sleep deprivation—potential contributions to a brain fog. From then on, there is nothing you can do to prove it untrue, especially when Qifrey appears to be anguished by your worry.

However, there are times where you feel strange too.

“Do you, now?” Qifrey asks, amused as you slide under the covers, next to him. “Have you tried sleeping in your own bed for once? Perhaps you will rest properly if you choose not to slip into my bedchambers at such a late hour.”

Said adventures in the night do not end from when you were little—they only grow more commonplace as it becomes easier to draw the borrowshade cloak spell. There are many seals you can draw now, despite the tremor in your hand, but this spell to see Qifrey is one you can inscribe no matter the circumstance. It is as easy, now, as slipping out of her atelier to creep through the Great Hall—pass the tables empty of food and into the cloister, the spell adjusting to the light streaming through the open gallery you run through as every second away is a second wasted. Then, you traverse the chemin de ronde without delay, your footfalls as fluid as the fish that wander over the bubble of sea-mist. And upon reaching the door to his bedchambers, you always find it open, night after night, already prepared for your arrival.

Fitted into his side, you listen to his heartbeat under you ear, his arm curling around your shoulder with the other holding a book in his hand, no doubt interrupted with your demand for attention. When you had entered, he was splayed over linen sheets, turning the pages of the story as he feigned indifference. No offense found you—is this not merely an indication of your place in his life? That you are meant to be here, by his side, with his willingness in your encroachment an equal wish you evidently share.

“You took longer than usual,” he says quietly, plopping the hardcover on the nightstand to empty his hand and fidget with the fingers of your own.

You answer the question that goes unsaid. “My master woke up.”

“You came anyway?” You nod. “What if she finds you missing?” he asks, trying to sit up in worry but you tighten your embrace and he sinks back into your arms.

“That is a problem for tomorrow.”

“Are you certain? What if—”

“Qifrey,” you interrupt, voice stern regardless of the affection lying behind his name. “I can leave if you wish.”

“I don’t—” he struggles to admit. “I do not want you to leave, but I dislike how crass she is with you.”

“I have already left my bed,” you point out, and he sighs.

Whether you leave now or later will not change the outcome. Every time you make the decision to leave, it is one made with the awareness of what may happen if caught—before, when you were still a child that feared everything; and now, where you are more afraid of his absence.

He huffs, fingertips tracing the shape of your knuckles. “We won’t agree on this, will we?”

“We won’t,” you confirm, watching him circle the splotch of ink staining your skin, a habit that has followed you into adolescence. “And you said yourself that you do not want for me to leave,” you add, gaze turning upwards to look upon his face.

There’s a small flush staining his cheeks; your heart patters against your ribs.

“I do not feel good about it.”

Turning, you grab Qifrey’s book to hand it back to him, request clear. He takes it with a small, exasperated shake of his head, dragging you across soft sheets to rest your back against his chest so you can see the words. You tell yourself that you cannot fit on his bed otherwise. That your hips must align, pelvis pressed together with his thighs tucked underneath yours and his chin hooked over your shoulder. You can feel every rumble of his voice as he narrates the story, whereas you take your usual role in every character, still employing childish voices that he jests is a doppelgänger, sounding exactly the same as a different person from another story.

You’ve read this one together before, too, so your attention is waning even as you finger guides Qifrey across the words while he holds the book open.

“…Have you thought about your future?”

Qifrey takes a moment to answer, but you know him awake—his breathing has not calmed in the way you are familiar with. “What brought this on?”

“We are to take The Goodwill of Her Grace in a few years,” you say, “and the words keep repeating in my head.” You clear your throat, adopting another voice, a different, more whimsical tenor that matches his master. “‘One stands unaided when hope is realized’—it sounds like one of Master Beldaruit’s riddles.”

“You do know that explained nothing to me, correct?”

“No need to be snarky.” You shift, twisting in his arms to pinch his nose. “We’ll be proper witches after we pass, and to think that we tried to escape the Great Hall when we were little, dreaming of tomorrow—of ‘hope.’”

“How inspirational you sound.” Qifrey squirms out of your hold, but leans into the subsequent touch you press to his cheek, closing his eye. “…I have considered leaving to see more of the world.”

You had feeling that was the case, but Qifrey utters that desire so quietly you believe him afraid to share it with you.

When you don’t answer, he reveals the depths of blue to you, as bright as the sky you saw that day and as clear as ice. “What do you aspire to do?” he asks.

This time, your response is swift. “A Watchful Eye,” you answer, and then say it again, more resolute. “I’m going to be a Watchful Eye.” He hums, as though he already knew, tenderness crossing his countenance. You remind him, “don’t forget to say goodbye.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise me,” you demand, sitting up from his embrace to look down upon him. Something about his gaze that tells you that there is a finality in this, wherein you will not be able to turn back. You utter his name, “Qifrey,” and the weight behind it is undeniable.

“I promise,” he says and pulls you back down to rest upon his chest only for you to request for more of his voice, the sound blending with the beat of his heart.

Not wanting to leave, you beg Qifrey to read one more chapter; that you must know how the story will end even when there aren’t enough hours in the night—hours before you would return to her side—to turn the last page. When the story concludes, the dawn is creeping above the horizon, brightening the sea outside his window as Qifrey allows his fingers to arrange within the spaces of yours, squeezing softly as he watches you fall asleep. He does not release you from his arms, and he does not let go. And, upon waking, he tells you: come again tomorrow night.

You do. You always do.

Olruggio smiles less as you grow older, while Qifrey smiles more, incidentally. You stay the same, you believe. Yet with your coming of age, you begin to see them less, stolen by your master to complete increasingly difficult field work in hopes of turning you as renowned as the Star of Ghodrey.

There are many you serve, countless Unknowing unfortunate to cross path with one disaster and another while both Qifrey and Olruggio regale you with stories of repairing Pegasus carriages, drying those caught in unending downpours and at risk of falling ill, and saving pets stuck high up in trees—ordinary issues they encounter while completing those similar to your own vocations. And you explore the Land of the Pact as you wished and you never share your intent to be far from the grand aspirations she holds for you.

Still, your years are filled with aid that fulfills you, achieving what Olruggio described to you as the purpose of a witch. This purpose is one of the three defining aspects of magic aside from technique and ideas: what are you searching for, what do you wish to provide, and what is needed of you? It guides you in every glyph drawn and the intent expressed without words, and, through it, you complete The Goodwill of Her Grace alongside your companions.

You forget how peculiar Olruggio acts every so often, too, suppressing the jealousy from what lies between him and Qifrey.

You’re busy, instead, preparing a meal to sustain yourself before you become a proper Watchful Eye, your master’s hold slackening with her own attention shifting towards taking a new apprentice. It’s understandable; she excels at teaching, aware of exactly what you struggled in, how too push you to improve, and who to involve you with to inspire that drive, providing within you the technique required for success in all things. She shares this news with you over her visit, unprompted and unannounced in her arrival to the new atelier you will guard, currently empty of both master and apprentice, while you were expecting someone else entirely.

She stands, looming over you as she did when you were a child, sharing ideas of a new curriculum—spells recently approved—and twisting the delicate neck of a bottle, close to bursting from agitation from her attempts to assist you in cooking a mid-day meal and failing. All she is capable of is her way; she may know of what others want, as you must with magic, but she twists it to fit her own beliefs.

And therein lies the problem, as always, one you believed you had escaped from until now. How simple it is to be reminded of it all. How easy it is to return.

She continues to twist and twist and twist until you are a debasement of your former self, imitating what she desires of you alike each identical pod of the basjooroom you were meant to prepare. You pull it from its body, one after the other, digging your nails into flesh as the fruit’s sweet nectar pebbles at your fingertips. Then, you drag them down and peel the skin, layer by layer—clawing until it releases.

And the beast you had wished to butcher still writhes, somehow, thrashing and stumbling from the kitchen to the pantry, making a mess you are clueless in cleaning, aware only of how to hide rather than posture benevolence. Glass shatters, the sound so startling that you flinch at the reminder of a night where the same sharp clatter hit the wall, ink splattering like blood.

Forgiveness fills your heart. A beast of this calibre does not understand niceties lest it involves its survival, wherein any equal altruism is one lacking compassion. You believed to live this way was torture; to act out of instinct the same way you do now—out of necessity. Out of fear.

Merciful, is what you are, and that clemency guides your hand to free it from its misery.

It struggles, showing you hard enough to tumble over and collide with the edge of a cupboard, crimson dripping down your temple and bringing about even more memories from when you were much smaller and weaker, ignorant to anything but an atelier. It cannot escape. You won’t let it leave. Regardless of any disorientation, you grasp it by the ankle and hold tight, forcing it to the floorboards with you. The body lands face first with a deafening crack, and you orient it proper, filled with a fierce tenacity to carry out the fate presented to you—an inevitability in watching its face turn motionless and its limbs grow rigid.

Emptiness seems to consume you; the hollow hunger of it vast and unfathomably endless, appearing only with her and at her reminders, carved and ensconced, and almost impossible to forget when its made a home within you. But what does it matter when the meal is already spoilt, the dining knife clutched in your fist now useless when a corpse lays splayed open, a cavity drawn from its sternum to its midriff with ivory peeking through, right here, underneath you.

Relief follows the creak of a door opening, the soft afternoon light streaming in and gracing the length of your back. It’s warm, causing your already slick robes to stick to your skin, and it reminds you of when you were a child trying to escape the Great Hall—how freeing it had all been. It’s a pity, then, that you will be brought back. You are in no position to run, anyway, so exhausted you cannot even react to the call of your name, Qifrey’s planned visitation escaping your mind. Still, he does not hesitate to approach you nor does he look towards the blood spattering the various surfaces of the atelier. He only focuses on you, dropping to his knees despite the the pool of crimson swallowing the expanse of hardwood.

“What happened?” Qifrey asks, one hand grabbing you by the waist with the other wrapping around your shoulder to drag you into his embrace and off the rotting pile of flesh. “What did she do?”

Strangely, you cannot recall how it began; it just had, and that itself is disorienting. You remember technique, the potential wrought out of you and a future apprentice; ideas, the suggestion of what may happen to them as it did you; and purpose—may it never happen again to anyone else if you are capable of preventing it.

Your hands cannot stop trembling.

“Look away,” Qifrey instructs you. “Please,” he pleads when you cannot tear your attention from the ghastly scene.

The woman is wide-eyed, expression frozen in terror and head turned away, the curve of her neck decorated with splotchy lines and the beginnings of a bruise mirroring the one Qifrey observes on your neck, his touch intimate as it traces the imprint of two hands. When your gaze descends, you see fabric soaked a dark red, scraps of it torn from her cloak and mixed with fragments of tissue. Of muscle torn apart so viscously. The violence in it is lost on you, a fog overtaking your mind even as her corpse beckons you forward.

How is it possible to slice so deeply and reach the valley of one’s ribs? Beneath it, you can see them—a deflated lung, not to yell but to breathe unending vitriol; and snuggled between it and its matching counterpart is her heart, offset slightly to the left of her breastbone, of which you’ve only rested your head against once before, a memory you hadn’t realized you carried fading from you. It houses nothing for you; never has, even as you begged for it.

But his gentle hand, already smelling of woodcruor and wet with something just as thin, obstructs your sight.

“Qifrey,” you begin, clutching onto him and staining his white cloak, only able to continue speaking when his arms wrap around you, burying your face into his chest where the heat of him so distinct that, within your delirium, it might as well be alike a burn, especially when his hold is so tight that you think him capable of fusing his body to your own, skin melting together just as it had on the inside of your wrist. “I don’t know what—”

“It’s alright,” he whispers, mouth grazing the edge of your ear with every word and dampening it with the same saliva covering his mouth, tongue wetting his lips as he decides what to say, let alone do. He calls your name. “I’m right here,” he reminds you, as if you have forgotten where you are, and repeats it, again and again, shushing you through the same stuttered words he interrupted you in expressing.

You’re wailing, aren’t you? You hadn’t realized that you are—in deafening shrieks as tears blur your vision and soak the front of his cloak, diluting your fingerprints stained upon the fabric, causing crimson to spread into blurry, yet pretty, impressions. You’re confused; why are you crying? Why does everything hurt? Your throat—the previous graze of Qifrey’s fingertips had tickled to some degree, and if you weren’t so used to the pain of that kind of bruise, you would have tried to squirm away. You hope he hadn’t disliked the feeling of your skin when it’s sticky from the burst bottle, shattered in shards that reflect the restrictive space of this atelier, once perfect to you but too alike a nightmare from long ago now. The blood of it a tribute. The inside of your wrist, the same. Your back—when it pinned you down to take it; to receive its gratitude despite your supposed lack-thereof because you always make an issue out of everything, don’t you? You can’t even prepare a meal together without making it into a problem. There’s always something wrong with you, it had said, and it punished you for it. For being born. For being here. You have to sacrifice something. The inside of your wrist. Your head—it told you to never look unsightly, regardless of how you coveted that gentle touch upon you, but is it still your fault when it grasped your hair between its fingers? Wrenched your head backwards to disengage you from it, though it taught you that reciprocation is the kindest manner by which to garner another’s favour. This is a requital, too. Your head hurts. Your head aches the same as that mangled patch of skin on your forearm whenever this happens. It aches, Qifrey. Qifrey, it aches and it aches and it aches. Qifrey, please make it stop.

“I will not let anything happen to you,” he answers. Had you said it aloud? “No longer will any harm befall you.”

“Qifrey,” you try to say, and his name is the last word that leaves your mouth before his lips meet yours, delicate like a petal as another sob wrests from your chest. My head hurts, you want to tell him, it hurts and I’m scared.

He knows. Qifrey knows—he hasn’t forgotten—and it is for that reason that one hand rises to cup your cheek as his arm shifts from where it’s curled around your waist, your legs sliding across the blood seeping into the hardwood to allow yourself to be pulled deeper into his lap. His tongue traces the Cupid's bow of your mouth, distracting you in your next sharp intake of breath before he steals it from you with the clumsy press of tongue against yours. Oh. Your mind appears to blank; you wanted this for some time now. Qifrey must know that, too, as he breaks apart only to kiss you again, muffling a soft apology accompanied by your name, tempting your eyelids to flutter shut from his affections.

And with it, a dream comes to you.

There are glimpses of light, coruscating amongst your darkening vision as though the empty space around you is alive, pulling you into deep waters. You float along—there is nothing you can do to fight against that current when you know, yourself, from the days within that drowned castle, that no thrashing nor wailing would save you. In this moment, your only grace is that it finds you through some sort of delicate serenity, but perhaps that is because Qifrey is here. He is here and that is enough for you to not want for anything more, not even the bitter rancor you finally leave behind.

It’s all very strange, isn’t it? To be pulled from your slumber by gentle hands, ones so elegant and lithe as they shake the sleep from your eyes. When they open, you see it again. The boundless expanse of sky, bleeding reds and oranges into fading cerulean as the sun lowers into the horizon. You’re laying on a blanket with the scent of fresh wildflowers surrounding you, whereby the the sound of ordinary laughter—common and familiar and lacking the sorrow even you cannot find anymore—rises through the air. The breeze carries it through the downlands that seemed so far out of reach when Olruggio first described them to you, but now the grass is soft beneath your feet as you stand and search for a gaggle of little witches.

Children are playing not far from your station, excited with his and Qifrey’s presence. Tonight will begin the season approaching the Silver Eve festival, and the most important people of your life are visiting to watch the wandering stars break free from their prison, climbing high to paint the heavens in bright streaks you want to run after, stretch upwards, and grasp within your embrace.

The fairytale matches quite adeptly to what fills you, understanding how easy it is to fall into that dizzying folly as the the star and the Silverwood had. There is a certain surrender in it. In feeling so deeply you may give just as you receive, and to take because you cannot fathom these little hearts that entrust themselves to you, to suffer within leaden waters or the surface of the earth. And when you look at him—when you see Qifrey and are reminded of that small, frost-headed child who arrived at the Great Hall with his right eye bandaged and his conduct skittish, whatever haunting him manifesting through every sound and movement before being buried deep inside recesses for no one to encounter—you feel it, too.

Qifrey hates water; has he ever told you? You cannot recall if he had, but you understand it simply by looking—through attention. He hated the sound of the waves against the walls of the Great Hall and the bubble of sea-mist that encased it, preferring even the sound of another’s ridicule. And when you escaped in the dead of night with him and Olruggio, hunting for Qifrey’s past, he hated the rain so adamantly you resigned yourselves to being stuck in any makeshift shelter you could discover or build. And, years after, you can still envision the exact expression on his face when he trusted with you the knowledge of how Master Beldaruit found him.

You wonder: had it been a mirror of your own whenever you crawled into his bed, close to tears and unable to endure it any longer? Had he known that his voice, his touch, his beating heart, and his fingers laced between yours were your tether to this world. To feel as you do is merely the return of something else, eclipsed by a willing ignorance and climbing the summit to do as you had wished—to reach for that star, hand in hand with Qifrey, only to tumble down and start from the beginning, all over again. The sincerity in that joy really is all very strange; you have always known that there will come a day where you will have to, inevitably, let go.

And so, you let go.

You wake to the smell of the medical spire.

From your head down to the tips of your toes, your entire body is sore as if you were wrung dry and trampled on. Looking around, Olruggio and Qifrey are slouched against each other, fast asleep; and from the blue hue casting over each surface from the empty window, this can only be the Great Hall.

The door opens not long after, and you whip your head to see who else would visit you when your friends are already here, pain lancinating with the abrupt movement. Captain Vinanna, now head of the Knights Moralis, is as surprised as you are to see her, and one of her subordinates leaves her side to yell down the hall, calling for a doctor now that you’re conscious. It wakes Qifery first, Olruggio following when he stands and the latter is without a headrest, suddenly jolting awake.

They do not have an opportunity to speak to you when Captain Vinanna says, “I know you’re still recovering, but we’re short on time: do you remember what happened?”

You do not. All you are aware of is the vicious pain enveloping the entirety of your body, unaware of why, exactly, your head is so heavy with bandages wrapped around your skin.

At your silence, she calls your name once. Twice. And a third time that is interrupted by reproach from a voice you cannot pinpoint, too preoccupied with the inability to recall anything from the moment you arrived in your empty, newly appointed atelier.

Captain Vinanna gives voice to another name and calls her your master.

And, finally, you say, “I don’t know who that is.”

You are told you were found by Qifrey, laying in a pool of blood with the assumption you hit your head upon falling during a struggle. There were marks carved into the doorframe, indicating forceful entry, whereas every piece of furniture was upturned, as though the culprits were searching for something.

Bandits, is who they suspect struck, the contraptions of newly-built ateliers easy to steal from when the witches and apprentices are still absent with no one to claim them after fetching a high price. However, upon further investigation, they surmise your amnesia goes far beyond the fatal crime.

It must be why you cannot recall a single thing, the trauma suppressing the memory, especially with what is unearthed throughout her atelier: old contraptions made for the purpose of discipline, long since abandoned by decree of a former Wise of Teachings due to its archaic brutality; and old, almost black, burgundy stains soiling various fabrics, hidden away to be worn in secrecy so that anything adorned during company would remain as pristine as possible—a concern from a child you only remember through nausea, the only remnant of that tiny wraith who commanded you.

And, one day, during your long recovery when you reckon it had been put behind you, the comfort Qifrey and Olruggio extend is shattered amidst the concern for what the Knights Moralis carry to the medical spire, hoping to prod your memory. Of these is a cloak you’ve never worn, tucked into the back of your rickety armoire for the same—now mysterious—reason that you had kept the rest, whereby the sleeve that would encase your dominant hand had been charred a deep umber. Your friends had refused to leave with the Knights Moralis’ arrival but, at its sight, Olruggio pales, the rise and fall of his chest quickening as he stands and excuses himself from the room.

A member of the Knights Moralis follows him, and you become privy to a stifled sob; something about failure and aid, and being ignorant to what was right in front of him. You surmise whatever she put you through had been drawn-out through the years of your upbringing, early enough that Olruggio can recognize a garment so small that the head of a child wearing it would barely align with the bottom of his ribs.

The weeks continue in a similar fashion. Qifrey and Olruggio visit and entertain you, sometimes together and sometimes apart. Captain Vinanna appears with a curt inquiry if your memory has improved and Qifrey angers easily when you become distressed, turning into that hot-headed boy of your childhood, one you remember with an obstructed face that follows you through the years. Olruggio can no longer look you in the eyes as he once did; there is only pity left, you believe, accompanied by an ocean of regret you cannot even begin to hope to alleviate.

The funeral for the woman who is said to be your master is held. You attend, much to Qifrey’s upset. These days, he always appears to be, but you want to see her corpse laying in that casket, at least. Memorize the resulting consequence of what she had done to you. She had said that, hadn’t she? That every action would lead to a consequence—reward, punishment, and retribution. The lesson beaten into you persists, although you cannot remember how, exactly, she had done so. Your head tilts, eyes trailing across every stitch that attempts to mend that unsightly face.

During the entirety of the reception, Qifrey does not let go of your hand. You want to laugh—you are certain he wouldn’t even if you chose to desecrate her grave.

But he does let go, eventually.

Qifrey is set to leave at sunrise a few months after you are accepted into another atelier as a Watchful Eye, a year after he found you dying and without purpose. You spend the nights leading up to it in his room, wide awake and speaking of your days as children, passing memories the other had forgotten, of which involve the other. There are no books to read, either, having finished them all with no reason to purchase a new one when you’ll be without any opportunity to beg for just one more page accompanied by his laughter.

Some evenings, Olruggio visits and you hold a little celebration—though it stings to refer to it as that—with him drinking himself to asleep. Qifrey, on the other hand, holds his liquor well, while you’re afraid of what may happen if you become as inebriated as them. So he watches you, throughout the night, quietly through Olruggio’s hushed snores.

Every time, you tell him something. Every time, you forget.

The same will not happen, however, as you stand at the foundation of the windowway with Olruggio, Qifrey a few steps ahead of you. The sky is still a deep blue, as dark as the waters he detests so fiercely, but it will lighten, soon, as the expanse is split by rays of yellow and orange light, the sun waking up from a deep sleep. The world out there—the meadows of wildflowers that resemble Qifrey’s early floral spells from your childhood; the rolling hills of grass, as fresh as the meals you shared at daybreak, in the afternoon, and the setting sun; and the golden glow of that star, the same colour of the willow tree’s flesh carved into the shapes of your names, joined together—it’s the same. It’s the same sight as your first encounter with the space outside the Great Hall, and every night you escaped with Olruggio, guided by Qifrey’s hand. It’s exactly the same as your dreams.

Truly, you have never left this place, where the inevitability remains. In hoping and looking towards tomorrow where you do not notice how what surrounds you changes shape even as your heart does not move. And perhaps the despair brought about your inability to notice that difference, too, in choosing which road was the correct one, seeking substantiation that will tell you that you chose well. That is all you had wanted when you were a child, and from the moment you met the man that stands beside you and the other, in front of you, you had known—even unwittingly—that you would always find yourself standing right here, at this single moment.

This is simply how it is.

You watch as he disappears upon that horizon. Alone. And at the sight of his lonely back, head faced forward wherein he does not turn—not even once—one thought flows through your mind as you and Olruggio are left behind:

There is something strange about Qifrey.

Extended Author's Note.

[meltedcoco]

dragging myself back here with a pathetic look on my face after posting on ao3 and realizing i forgot to change one of the captain vinannas to lady to show time passing better since i assume beldaruit isn't wise of teachings yet -> vinanna also isn't the captain of knights moralis

[meltedcoco]

dragging myself back online as the loml, thw wonderful and sweetest maemae tells me i've been spelling beldaruit wrong all this time

[meltedcoco]

okay goodnight, ao3 tomorrow because i am way too lazy to summarize the a/n

[meltedcoco]

Lethe

Come, drink from me o’ poor, docile lamb. You, forsaken by your shepherd, condemned And willing—stolen and brought To this ruined bed. Thou must graze upon the poppies, Damp with the dew of oblivion, To be lulled into a soft slumber Until there is naught left to covet. When you wake, you will delight, For this is no longer your prison; Thy desire has withered, and No love shall anchor you here.

⟣ pairing. qifrey x gn!reader (olruggio's relationship is integral to both)

⟣ 14.5k words. manga spoilers; coming of age; reader’s master is a terrible person; implied/referenced child abuse (retribution is achieved, do not worry), and ableism as per canon; hurt/no comfort; first love; bullying; reader has a panic attack; descriptions of viscera and violence; dialogue light; pre-canon; open ending.

⟣ note. A fic examining the perspective of someone who grows up alongside Qifrey and Olruggio while exploring the manga’s more serious themes within their childhood. Please take care in reading.

There is something strange about the new apprentice.

He moves through the winding corridors of the Great Hall like a shadow adorned in white, a hallmark of that maverick whose every arrival is announced by the supposedly unpleasant clop of his sealchair’s strides. You don’t mind it at all in comparison to your master who delights in the rumours regarding the boy missing an eye. Fitting, she says, for someone as broken as Beldaruit.

Yet, that is not what bewilders you so. Master Beldaruit is a kind man, eccentric, yes—as everyone says where you agree with your master only in this—but kind nonetheless. You had wondered, too, why he taught no child despite the gaggle that trailed after him, revelling in stories and smoke. Until Qifrey, that is, but the boy does not smile. Although it must be difficult with the rumours that surround Qifrey, Master Beldaruit has pulled even laughter from within your chest so it is peculiar that he has not, to your awareness, succeeded with his new apprentice.

Now, one mustn't always be graced with a smile but your master tells you that is unseemly. That a child such as yourself must—you must show others how wonderful she is to you; of how marvellous her tutelage is that no grimace ever crosses your face. For what reason would beget a terrible thing when every hand laid upon you is purely guidance in becoming a proper witch? She is not wrong, you surmise, as this unrelenting countenance has made you many a friend. How lonely it must be, then, to never approach another and remain in a state of reticence, especially in the presence of Master Beldaruit’s joy.

Qifrey does not smile when his master entertains the lot of you with ancient poems and tales of old, bringing them to life with illusions that dance around you, much to the scorn of other adults. He does not smile when the mess hall serves custard pudding or glowrose tarts—treats you gobble up in secrecy, away from her eyes on evenings where you deserve little reward while Qifrey is always encouraged to have just one more. And when your friends try to speak to him, his scowl does not soften and his frown remains just as deep.

You do not understand him; cannot begin to when the thought of remaining trapped at your master’s side as often as he does or treading the cobblestone paths of this waterlogged stronghold—impossible to escape from and eternally feasible in being found—leave an aching weight that presses heavy against your heart. It must be your pity for him as, even now, Qifrey does not smile, which is, naturally, a distraction that upsets your master.

“Come,” she tells you, fingers latched onto your wrist, tight enough to dimple skin as she drags you towards the entrance of your—her—atelier. “You spend too much time in a daze rather than in practice.”

“Yes, Master,” you swiftly agree. “Forgive me, Master.”

Then, unable to help yourself, you turn your head to endure one brief and final look, seeing witches jolt alongside Master Beldaruit’s satisfied expression. His mouth moves yet his charge’s does not. Had it been for your sake, you would have expressed your thanks but, for you, there is only this perfect room, her faultless comportment, and your clumsy, poorly drawn spells.

Noiselessly, the door shuts behind you.

It matters not how you arrive here, merely that you do; drawn into the orbit of the Star of Ghodrey first, well-loved by that northern town and brought to be buried underneath the waves of the Great Hall instead of the cushion of snow.

She makes this day troublesome for you no matter how you prepare to meet him under the guise of her audience with his own master. The cloak you throw on every morning is suddenly too wrinkled and too dull from washing, replaced by one also too long and in need of tailoring, saved in preparation for your growth spurt when you should not be seen in ill-fitted garments that may indicate thoughtlessness. Any attempt to press the crinkles flat fail with your shaky spell, displeasing your master further, the fabric scorched in the shape of a contraption that matches the one marring the inside of your wrist.

“What’s that?” Olruggio asks, gaze cast towards reddened skin. It’s the most interest he’s shown in you, choosing to stay quiet after exchanging pleasantries as your master’s intent is no doubt clear. “Were you burned?” He must be familiar with the sight, too, having come from a place where any blunder in casting everyday fire magic may cost a life.

“I was.” You nod. “I acted foolishly.” To hide the wound from view, you tug the sleeve of your robes over your palm but he instinctively reaches out before you can shy away.

You flinch.

He speaks, instead. “How?” Olruggio’s voice is incredulous, and you allow—in unease, this time—his small hand to hold yours and turn your forearm to peel back the fabric sticking to you like a second skin, pain lancinating so viciously that you suppress a whimper. However, this close, Olruggio is privy to the small, muffled sound. His brow furrows, attention flitting from your face to your wrist, and then back again with his composure worse than yours as more of the rough expanse is revealed, adorned with an angry mountain of a welt wherein the edges of the surrounding depression drool as your body does its best to heal itself. “It looks really bad,” he says, expression veering into a sickening smile with a stare so unfocused and shaky as if he’s glad to have exposed your secret. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

Her eyes are upon you.

"I held on to a contraption too tightly and burned a hole through a new cloak,” you answer, “this is what happens when you make a mistake.” Then, you lower your head and prevent his reply with a simple addition of: “which is why my master believes you may be able to help me.”

“You’re right,” Olruggio says, suddenly determined beyond his slight delirium, “so we should visit the medical spire!” And he twirls you to usher you towards that very place as you spare a glance at your master.

“You may go,” she permits you. “You should have gone when you were first injured but you insisted on not being late.” No falsehood disgraces her tongue; to be tardy is to be disrespectful, and to be disrespectful is to mirror her in shame, of which is against how she has raised you.

And so, with Olruggio, you leave.

He is talkative, now, as he leads you away, without that air of annoyance he carried as you shuffled from one foot to the other, the two of you standing close to your masters’ sides as they spoke about banal topics to see if friendship would blossom. He answers your questions about Ghodrey and life above the sea, every surface touched by sunlight you’ve never seen unless refracted by water, rays reaching the depths in ripples that fizzle out the deeper it travels. He tells you about the scalewolves that run through the downlands, frightening but incredibly gentle with their young; alongside the glow of a blushing bride as it floats through the air when you’ve only seen its scales milled for conjuring ink. And he shares what it was like to travel from place to place, encountering all sorts of people without a master to guide him on field work until now.

You miss it, somehow, simply by the way he recounts it all, particularly in respect to how his life is already so large for a child, distinctly different from what you know you will experience yourself. When you are ready to accompany your master, you are confident she will not accept a task as plain as warming an Unknowing nearly frozen to death, remarkable only in meeting someone you would have never met otherwise; worthwhile only because, as Olruggio has expressed, you have saved a life. Are you strong enough to mimic him, you wonder? Perhaps overseeing your care by the hand of these doctors is another ordinary manner of aid—companionship never granted to you.

By the time you return, you believe you would not make a mistake in calling Olruggio your friend. He smiled, wide and fatuous as you tried to speak through tears, expressing everything and anything so long as it is does not concern the relief bestowed from him to you. And it ceases upon their approach, much to Olruggio’s surprise, at the ease in which you are able to calm. He does not comment, thankfully, as he releases your hand to clutch onto his master’s cloak.

Astonishingly, your master’s palm rests upon your shoulder and, with her, you watch as your new friend chronicles your short adventure with him. Within his excitement, she must approve, satisfied over your success in what she wanted of you and seemingly proved by the steady brush of her thumb. The touch of Olruggio’s own master gentles atop his head, mussing his hair into an untidy mop you cannot imagine yourself journeying through the Great Hall with. And when you tilt your chin upwards, expectant and childish, she tightens her hold in a facsimile of her usual objection, turning from you without a word.

Unable to observe Olruggio for any longer lest something ugly grows, you wave goodbye with uncertainty filling your heart. There is something you wish to articulate and share with them. If Olruggio is as kind as he appears, his master—his caregiver—must be a character even greater than that: gracious to be capable of catching the Star of Ghodrey, clever in teaching someone so bright, and influential enough to protect that light.

But she is calling for you, giving voice to your name in a tone always so austere, so you make the easy choice—to never say a word, letting your chest cave in as your arm continues to ache, a searing pain that haunts you despite it all.

The days continue to blend together, indistinguishable for the most part where you comprehend its passing by the flicker of floatglow lamps if not for the darkening waves around you, no sunlight flowing through. You wake around this time, anyway—early when your master is still snoring softly—ensuring you are presentable once she rouses from slumber and already studying diligently, scribbling wonky circles you later burn while she is too busy to realize your faults. And when it is noon, you seek out Olruggio’s company for it is your only reprieve before your return to her atelier to stain your fingertips black. But when it’s suppertime, you’ve discovered, in more recent weeks, that Olruggio has taken to Qifrey.

From your observance, you believe they bicker on most occasions; about vegetables and silly little competitions and how often they encounter the other. It is only when Olruggio is presented with a map, requested during a short meeting wherein he assisted you in drawing seals your master could no longer tolerate repeating her guidance for, that their relationship seems to mend. Even more, your friend is absent one afternoon, leaving you alone in the mess hall with the companionship you’ve built, as instructed of you, through a lie.

Again and again, Olruggio disappears from your life, only making his appearance when organized by your masters, and especially during the aggravation of yours. The melancholy grown from that distance leaves you, however, as you see Qifrey smile for the first time. For a reason you cannot grasp at the time, you are envious that Olruggio must be the first recipient of that sight. Yet you remain in proximity to him when he gravitates around Olruggio as you do, any conversation shared consisting of clipped words and polite greetings where you’ve only heard the fullness of his voice when speaking to your mutual friend.

It is not enough.

“I heard from Olruggio that you wish to leave the Great Hall,” you say upon approaching Qifrey alone, your robes clutched tightly in your fist with your decision to breach the wall that he has built between you—comfortable to converse over, but not quite short enough to connect with you properly. “He told me about how you stole his map and escaped.”

Qifrey clicks his tongue, ready to depart with no intention to entertain you for a second more. “That was so long ago—what does it matter now?”

“I want to leave, too.” The remark is sufficient in garnering his interest, finally focused on you. “I want to see the sky you saw that day.”

“Ask Olruggio.”

“I can’t,” you answer. “My master is enthralled with the Star of Ghodrey; if she found out—”

“So I’m your second choice?” His voice raises, facing you with scorn that you cannot prevent yourself from cowering against. “It doesn’t matter what happens to me, is that it?!”

Passersby begin to stare, an oppressive pressure that forces your subsequent words to leave as a whimper, instantly softening the boy’s expression in remorse. “I want to be your friend.”

“You’re lying,” Qifrey firmly objects. “I know what your master says about people like Master Beldaruit—about people like me.”

“I’m not like her.” You stomp your foot, nails carving crescents into your palms as you hiss, “just because she’s my master doesn’t mean I carry the same opinions as her!”

“But you don’t say anything to stop her, do you?” He bristles, and you almost believe your relationship ruined with the disclosure, perhaps justifying his general temperament towards you, sporadically atrocious yet dampened by a particular vacillation, skeptical of your character.

“I can’t,” you mutter, “there is nothing I can do against my master…”

Qifrey quiets at that, deciding if your honesty is falsified to win his favour. It’s not. You are able to speak as you do simply because you tried some years ago when you were her freshly appointed apprentice, gifted to her due to your adept memory and family name where everyone believed in your potential under her guidance specifically. She took you to the finest magic stationer’s shop within the Great Hall to obtain your first woodcruor wand, and upon perusing dyes, she praised your ability to differentiate the subtle differences in colour only to say that those with Silverwash Syndrome could never be witches and, even more, that she could not comprehend why Master Beldaruit was so adored when ‘he no doubt wants for magic to fix his frailty, breaking the rules of the Pact.’

Hearing it pained you. Master Beldaruit was one of the foremost witches you met at the Great Hall shortly after being introduced to your master. She left you, for a time, and you wandered too far astray that the pathways were unrecognizable, unable to tell from whence you came. But Qifrey’s master, when he was still without an apprentice, found you. He was just an illusion back then—quicker for him to search for the source of the wails that echoed off stone—but the smoke was not frightening while the sound of his sealchair meant you weren’t alone, an announcement that prevented you from being startled. And when he had led you to his bedchambers, Lady Vinanna was by his side, leaving to her duties as he was adequate company in waiting for your master to fetch you.

He struggled, too, to comfort you, maneuvering closer by pushing himself upright using the handles of his transfer board. You wished it had been easier—that the world was kinder to him who was so kind to you, his hand warm in your own and the other gentle as it wiped your damp cheeks before petting the top of your head. His simple and modest reassurance is one you can still feel when you try your best to recall it and return to that moment whenever you are too afraid; the fear refusing to leave when that rapacious ache remained.

So, when she expressed the dreadful sentiment and alluded to forbidden magic, you spoke against her, becoming the first and last time you had and ever will. There is naught—not even Qifrey’s chagrin—that could convince you that any possible action you could have taken would be anything but futile against your master.

“Fine,” Qifrey finally decides. “I’ll believe you since you’re Olruggio’s friend.” Then, he leans into your space, and you almost want to jump away from the sudden proximity and how the blue of his eye seems to sparkle. “I’ll decide whether or not I’ll help you after I hear your plan.”

“I know how to draw the sylph shoes seal,” you say, and your knowledge of it appears to be enough.

Qifrey has apparently memorized the path to the exit, amusing you when, just the other day, you assisted in returning him to Argentgard to see Master Beldaruit. He is more receptive to you now, too, likely doing away with any assumption after your brief conversation concerning him and his master. Although this occurs primarily through cupped hands and whispers, afraid of making too much noise and guiding a curious passerby to the both of you and foiling your plans. For the same reason, you’ve suggested to draw the seal after your escape, forgoing the momentary regret that befalls you as you climb the lofty staircase connecting the drowned castle to the surface.

It’s bright, much more than you had expected.

The stretch of cerulean above you seems endless, painted with drifting puffs of white. There is no constant sound of flowing water, either, simply waves that collide with the tall island you stand upon. Even as your eyes follow the flight paths of quadryphons you’ve only seen in books, the sight offered to you comes with much to discover, so unlike the monotonous expanse of sea, interesting through grandiose creatures seen through formerly innocent eyes until you’re as you are now—still a child but a little older and a little more versed in the life arranged for you that they no longer spark amazement, yet wishing you could join them the same.

Leastwise, Qifrey is smiling, tiny and barely there, but a smile nevertheless.

He observes your surroundings as you had, likely ensuring no one is around or unwittingly missing a past—somewhere out there—he can no longer remember. “Is it better than you’ve imagined?” he asks, the tenor of his voice delicate and unrecognizable to you.

Your own lightens, glee staining your words.“It is! I’d never tire of this sight.”

“That’s why we should hurry, then,” Qifrey suggests, “before anyone uses the windowway or leaves from where we came.”

He’s right. The plan had been an impulsive one, which is why you left mid-day while everyone was busy with their studies and tasks, too distracted to pay attention to Qifrey who is given reprieve on days like this, master busy like your own and leaving you to yourself when Olruggio would normally have an audience with you if not for his sudden commitments. Still, one never knows who may visit the Great Hall and when.

Pulling off a boot, you balance yourself on one foot with Qifrey holding your ink pot to assist you.

“Will this work despite not being a contraption?” Qifrey’s face scrunches up, the purpose of his doubt lying in the worry that overtakes him.

“We just have to avoid getting our shoes wet so the ink doesn’t wash away,” you answer, drawing an alternating pattern of convergence and levitation signs after ornamenting the centre with the wind underfoot sigil.

“My master says this is a difficult seal because it is easy to draw it unevenly,” Qifrey says, “but you aren’t struggling.”

“I like knowing an assortment of spells, but…” You hesitate to share, yet choose to do so, regardless, solely through your desire to get closer to the frost-headed boy, your interest in him growing after becoming more acquainted and hoping your offered trust will prompt him to trust you too. “…My master taught me early,” you continue, “that way it appears as if I can do anything quickly. It’s easy for me to remember, but difficult for me to draw—my hand shakes, sometimes, and it upsets her.”

This is something you have shared with not even Olruggio, but when you look at Qifrey, his countenance is completely replaced with distaste, lips set in a firm line and cheeks puffed up like a sparrel with a mouth full of lentils. You’ve said too much.

“And please keep this a secret,” you jest despite the sincerity in your tone, “or I won’t eat your vegetables when Olruggio isn’t looking anymore!”

“Fine… fine,” Qifrey agrees only to tut up his chin. “I don’t like your master anyway, so I don’t want to speak of her anymore.” Then, he adds quickly, if only to tease you with a narrowed eye. “Your lines look steady to me—you worked hard—but that one is too long!”

You shake your head, wishing you could bump your shoulder with his without losing your balance. “It’s so they can’t catch us; we’ll fly faster than any normal pair of sylph shoes,” you say, switching to your other boot and quickly drawing the other half of the bisected seal so you can guide Qifrey in inscribing his own.

Despite being Master Beldaruit’s apprentice for a time too short for his age, Qifrey has little difficulty in mimicking the spell, as if his body already knows the motion of each stroke. Once finished himself, the two of you simply face each other awkwardly, knowing not which direction to venture aside from forward in whatever path of your choosing.

“What if we hold hands?”

“What?” Qifrey’s head snaps to you, whirling around from the far-off horizon he was electing to explore.

“Have you flown before?” you ask, and Qifrey’s silence is answer itself so you continue. “If we hold hands, we won’t be separated.” You offer a hand thereafter, palm open and outstretched, as your sleeve falls down your wrist at the motion, exposing skin still slightly raw, fractal patterns drawn tight like chords of incarnadine lightning.

He takes it, the inaugural contact causing him to jolt before wrenching away. It almost offends you—is it because of the ebony smeared on your hand, an aftermath in drawing that you’ve transferred onto his skin? It’s a habit you have, as do the other apprentices, but you suppose Qifrey is quite clean in all things, especially with the light colours of his cloak.

“We don’t have to,” you quickly say, “you don’t have to do this just because I want to hold hands.” It’s true that you desired it, whereby some part of you wants for his attention, but the guilt in cultivating, within him, an obligation to satisfy your odd whims, is stronger than any longing for something much gentler than you’ve known. “I’m just afraid of what would happen if one of us gets lost or, worse, falls into the sea. I don’t know what I would do, either, if something happened to you because I asked you to assist me.” The words leave you without pause, unable to prevent yourself from babbling in the hopes of mitigating any uncomfortable impressions; but, then, your voice turns almost inaudible, touch grazing over the wrist of your dominant hand. “I don’t like getting hurt… I’m afraid to die.”

Qifrey’s breath catches within his chest, and the subsequent exhale is a tight one, yet his stare does not withdraw from you, even as you grow more meek with the trepidation you assume you’ve propagated within him. Perhaps there is something that haunts him, just like you. And so, Qifrey reaches out, taking your hand in a trembling hold you steady through a squeeze of reassurance, mimicking what Master Beldaruit had done for you years ago.

You stand on the edge of the tower formed through a rocky outcrop, a lonely island you leave, hand in hand, with Qifrey as you bring your feet together and propel upwards into the air. The view is so unimaginable that your fear falls away as the possibility of tomorrow is all that remains. You have never been this far from the Great Hall; from your family when you were still their charge and thenceforth from your master. Even Qifrey, who cannot remember the life he lived outside the sodden stones of the castle, grins, brilliant and unbridled as you float through the ceaseless expanse of sky; and his delight, paired with your own, is more beautiful than the petals that retract at beginnings of your tears, your delirium sprouting hallucinations.

“I never thought—” you try to say, sniffling and hiccupping as Qifrey’s hold shifts. His fingers slide into the crevices of your own like roots finding the entry point of soft soil, a tether sown from recognition, linking you to him, in this moment, to be as you are so long as you are with him. “I never thought I could be this happy!”

He laughs, loud and blameless and innocent, as if what either of you have endured was a scattered dream, his much more nebulous whereas any recollection of your own memories is something you avoid, leaving a cavity you never wish to fill. For once, you are child, and you wonder what your former days would have resembled if you and Qifrey had met under kinder circumstances.

It would be preferable to meet in a village on an isolated corner of the Zozah Peninsula, untouched by the strictness in larger towns and cities and especially the Great Hall. You and Qifrey would run through hills of greenery only to fall down in tumbling ribbons as the sun sets on the horizon, eventually encountering Olruggio for a reason that matters little in comparison to the very fact that you must converge at one point, regardless, orbits aligning. Magic will come, as it always does, but it appears through smoke and illusions, a gentle touch and a forgiving hand, and the water of Qifrey’s flowers coruscating Olruggio’s light.

Together—that is where you will find yourself, despite leaving without Olruggio. He will find you, you know it; and if he does not, you will return for him because no path you follow—straight and narrow or winding and obstructive—will end in a place absent of him. From the beginning of it all, there was an inevitability, you realize, now, in being changed by both him and Qifrey.

“Your cloak is dancing in the breeze!” Qifrey exclaims, hair whipping around and revealing his scarred eye to you, sullied with a verdant splotch, of which you cannot wipe away when it likely collided with his face as the two of you struggle to control your flight path. He does not seem to mind, regardless, as he laughs, again, and yells through the rushing wind, “you look like a dragon!”

“I told you they’d never be able to catch us, Qifrey!”

And how naïve you are to express such a sentiment, believing that innocence could no longer be taken from you. The world seems to still before the wind begins to flow in the opposite direction as though a gale had arisen, suddenly and naturally, until a woman with a cloak soaked in the colour of blood catches you within her embrace. You are reminded of how small you are and how nothing may bend to the will of two youths who cannot live without the aid of another.

Lady Vinanna does not let your feet touch the ground despite landing next to the pointed and pillared structure of the Great Hall’s entrance. She repositions her hold through a deluge of reprimands, grabbing you both by the hood of your cloaks. Qifrey makes some remark under his breath about being capable of walking as he was last time this happened, no doubt concerning Olruggio. But Lady Vinanna does not relent, afraid you will run and ignorant of what is more important to fear as she descends the coiled staircase, a replica of a bridewell and your noose.

“I won’t disobey you again,” you cry. “Please, Lady Vinanna, do not stretch my clothes. I beg of you!”

Your disposition shocks her enough to set you down, shoes meeting the cold stone of the Great Hall, smooth unlike the dirt of true land. You did not thrash nor did you reach up to tug at her hands, merely hung like a limp doll possessed by a wraith that can only express its anguish for its undoing in wails and watery eyes. Tantrums are unbecoming of a witch and no one should ever bear witness to an ugly sight, but you care little for both Lady Vinanna and Qifrey’s reactions. The latter surprises you, no less, expecting a distasteful wince but receiving concern, instead. That too is something you dread.

Clacks echo through the corridor, the stacked leather of her heel declaring her imminent arrival. Qifrey watches you tremble once the member of the Knights Moralis meets your master in the middle, prepared for her audience and leaving you and him behind her, convinced you will both stay put.

“Lady Vinanna,” your master calls first, refusing to look at you yet you obstruct your face nonetheless, without a handkerchief to wipe snot and tears. “Imagine my surprise in being summoned because my well-behaved apprentice is running amok after being involved in the mischief of a common whelp.”

“They were flying,” Lady Vinanna answers, choosing to ignore your master’s revulsion for your friend—it is not the first time she has dealt with the uncouth mannerisms of arrogant witches and it will not be the last. “Do you have any idea why they were able to draw the sylph shoe spell?”

Her stare is heavy upon you.

“I stole a pair of my master’s shoes and memorized the spell,” you explain, practically yelling at Lady Vinanna as you crane your head upwards. “Please don’t be upset with my master—it’s all my fault for defying her, and I forced Qifrey join me!” Qifrey tries to interrupt but you overtake him, stepping closer into her space as Master Beldaruit arrives, the sound of hooves silenced by your climbing panic. “He didn’t do anything wrong,” you say, next, to Master Beldaruit whose worry has dissolved after taking note of his apprentice’s reaction to you, replaced by a reticent amusement now that he discovers that you are both unscathed.

Though, it does not last long. “My!” Master Beldaruit chuckles, hand bent at the wrist and raised towards his mouth, a flamboyant motion that irks your master but soothes Qifrey through its unshaken nature. “If everyone is unharmed,” he begins, shifting his attention to be directed towards you, “then who am I to be anything but glad that Qifrey is finally getting along with you? Hmm?”

Unsurprisingly, the comment shatters your master’s composure and you nearly believe her capable of raising her hand against both Master Beldaruit and Qifrey, but Lady Vinanna interrupts before it can escalate.

“They should be properly punished so they don’t do it again,” she says, “now would be a good time to start.”

“I will be sure to do so.”

When you spare Qifrey a lasting glance, your leave prompts a small lecture from Master Beldaruit that quickly falls away from focus—Qifrey’s eye waters as he meets your gaze, shoulders tight and shaking as he attempts to hold them at bay. You want to stop; to return to his side and comfort him but, distracted, you bump into your master’s back.

She stares down at you, again, face clouded in something you are incapable of naming as a child but perceptive enough to realize you never wish to see it again. So, you wave Qifrey goodbye, and allow her to catch your wrist and lead you back to her atelier, consoled solely by the boy’s acceptance of you, at last, no matter how prominent the ache becomes that evening.

In the following year, your master grows stricter, hovering over your shoulder to oversee whatever you partake in if she can manage it. And if not, it is as if there is someone else in the Great Hall who follows you, reporting your day-to-day activities without her supervision.

Before, she had allowed you to study the occasional subject and spell as you liked, but now believes part of your punishment should be an awareness in only what she assumes you will need under circumstances she would permit you to find yourself in, as if she could control such a thing. Gone are your picture books detailing old stories and encyclopedias depicting the creatures of the Zozah Peninsula, exchanged with bound pages of curriculum catered to you and without any room for simple magic that brings nothing but joy.

It feels as if you are running out of time, unable to catch up to her expectations as other apprentices, like Olruggio and Qifrey, excel in almost everything they do. She inspects your palm quire more closely, too, giving you no opportunity to burn failed spells and inspiring more reprimand for struggling to inscribe what you already know by heart. It does not help, either, that your tremors worsen following your attempt in escaping the Great Hall. From your master, you expected another corrective measure, but she lets it be upon realizing that drawing while concealed steadies your hand, not realizing how you grasp your dominant wrist to stabilize each mark. Good, she had said, because a successful witch is one who can draw anything in secret.

Though praise is a rarity, it was disgusting coming from her who delights in lies.

No matter, you suppose, as to be a witch is to lie. To cast magic is to live in a falsehood, just as you pretend that nothing is wrong, completing one task after another within your studies while you tell your friends that pain is a consequence of growth. You dress in the robes of her atelier, a sign of your belonging to her as she instructs you what to do, who to entertain, and how to act, wherein you are guest to your own body. She tells you that this new contraption will help you in your studies. She commands you to go fetch it when it finally arrives in the Great Hall after letters concerning its delivery remained unanswered until recently. She is also worn thin by waiting that you, again, feel pressed for time.

Your steps quicken, rushing through the colonnades before hesitating when you nearly pass the pavilion, distracted by a cacophony of noise. You sway from one side to another, standing on the tips of your toes to endeavor a peek over the shoulders of those taller and older than you. From here, you catch sight of a tuft of white, belonging solely to a single apprentice within the Great Hall.

“Only one eye and missing his memory? How will he go on a field mission with Master Beldaruit?”

An apprentice guarded by your master’s comrade sneers. “Master Beldaruit will be the eyes and Qifrey will be his legs—together, they’ll finally be normal!”

The commotion rises, wicked laughter ringing out through the space, absent of anything but children and the subject of their ridicule.

“What? Like a weird chimera? Do you really—”

“What did you say?” you interrupt with a screech, plowing through the crowd surrounding Qifrey, your friend stuffed into the corner against a pillar with nowhere to go.

The second apprentice scoffs, shoving your shoulder as you had her. “Are deaf as he is blind?” Her face is contorted into an ugly thing, looking at you with distaste for defending someone like him, your master and hers would say, someone belonging to a cripple like Beldaruit.

“Are you so stupid you can’t say it again?” you retort, and feel fabric pull as Qifrey clutches your robes. “Or are you too much of a coward now that someone isn’t brainless enough to laugh?”

Your face stings.

She hit you. As the awareness of it settles, your body stiffens, limbs locking in place and only capable of listening to Qifrey who begins to yell from behind you. But even as the other apprentices advance, you do not move from where you stand, blocking him from their ire. Turning your head to face him, Qifrey’s eye widens, flickering to where her nail had caught on your skin, leaving an angry line drawn from your cheek to your nose.

“What? Are you going to cry now?” she challenges you. Then, she mentions your master, and it is as if your ears are ringing, knowing your master will not be pleased with your further involvement with Qifrey, and especially resulting from a brawl, no less. “Are you brave enough to tell her or are you a coward, too?”

For once, you aren’t, and perhaps that is because you know there are few who will protect him.

“Am I supposed to cry because you hit me?” you ask, voice colder than you realize. “Run to her and complain about some idiot?” She tries to interrupt you, but you clench your fists and will yourself to behave. “You act like Qifrey and his master can’t do anything on their own, but have you stared a liongoat in the eye? Seen their sharp fangs, three pairs of pointed horns that could pierce right through you, and return without being trampled?” Foolishly, you motion to Qifrey, bringing all attention upon him. “Qifrey has,” you say, “why do you think the Great Hall was in an commotion a few months ago?”

“So what?”

“Can you do that?” you ask, and the weight in your stare must be grave enough that they struggle to form a reply at the mimicry you endeavour, imitating your master. “Huh? Can you?”

“Well, I—”

“You can’t!” you interrupt despite prompting from them a response, angry at the mere belief that they are as brave as Qifrey when they would do something so lowly. “You would die, I know it,” you say and watch their faces fall at the grim prospect you’ve presented to them. “Actually, you wouldn’t even be brave enough to face a liongoat, let alone die by one—all you can do is outnumber people who do nothing to you just because you think it’s funny.” Stepping forward, you shove them backwards and Qifrey grabs your arm to stop you from escalating a fight against the amount of apprentices that surround you. A fight you cannot win.

“Are you done?” she asks, feigning nonchalance mixed with mild annoyance, hoping you appear mad with your uproar.

“No, I’m not,” you hiss, anyway. “You think it’s so easy because you don’t struggle to live, but you’ll never be live up to Master Beldaruit—you’ll never be a witch greater than him, and the only person who will be is Qifrey!”

“What?” Another apprentice laughs, nudging their friend’s side with an elbow, the amusement brought about by their subsequent suggestion clear. “Are you infatuated with Qifrey? Is that why you’re so upset about this? It was just a joke.”

“And what if I am?” Your bristle. “Why would I like anyone else when my options are someone as terrible as you!”

Silence follows your bellow and you think you’ve deterred them, but when you calm yourself enough to see what they’re staring at, they’ve already begun to scatter.

“I won’t tell your master,” Lady Vinanna says, slipping a handkerchief from her pocket as she approaches you to dab at the sweat of your brow before gently taking your chin between her thumb and forefinger. “But there are better ways to protect your friend than picking a fight,” she adds, examining the cut on your face.

“They wouldn’t listen,” you mutter, looking down at your feet in shame once she lets go. “They’re always saying horrible things about Qifrey and Master Beldaruit.”

At that, your friend huffs, and Lady Vinanna sighs with his subsequent words. “You don’t have to do that,” Qifrey says, “let them talk—they always do. If they don’t say it to my face, they’ll make sure I can hear their gossip.”

“That doesn't mean it’s right,” you argue.

Seeing that you’re both fine, Lady Vinanna ruffles his hair and yours, standing from the position she took to speak to you, crouched to face the both of you properly. Her touch is so light you cannot help the smile that breaks across your face, looking up at her with sparkling eyes. She snorts. “Try not to get into more trouble, yeah? I can’t save you from everything,” she says, and leaves without another comment, searching for the apprentices who fled.

The moment she disappears around the corner and leaves you alone together, Qifrey grabs you. “You’re shaking,” he says, face scrunching up in remorse. You hadn’t realized it, but you do know that expression all too well on him, and it inspires, within you, your own. “You shouldn’t do that again—what if they hurt you?”

“You’ve been hurt enough,” you retort, “we can at least face it together.”

Qifrey’s head tilts, curiosity genuine. “But I thought you don’t like getting hurt?”

He’s right. It had somehow passed your mind amongst the adrenaline in atoning for all you could not do for him or his master, regardless of how they will never be aware of your failures to defend them lest you—or anyone else who was witness to it—share it with them. Only pain lies at the end of the path you have chosen to tread.

“Do you—” You try to speak, but your breath leaves in stuttered gasps, panic consuming you. “Do you think they’ll tell their masters? And then they’ll tell mine and—”

“They won’t,” Qifrey answers, “they’d be too ashamed to, and if they do, they’d be punished for hurting you.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah.” He nods, looks off to the side, and then focuses on you again to say, “you’re still shaking.”

“I’m sorry.”

Qifrey takes your hand at the apology, believing it will soothe you the same way it had that day you soared through the sky together. It does but, because you are irrevocably greedy in affection like this and especially from him, you step forward and collapse into his chest in exhaustion, thereby searching for reprieve as you timidly wrap your arms around him. Qifrey sinks into the warmth of you, chin propped up on your shoulder as he listens to your breathing calm. Then, he tenses, and you would have asked if something was wrong if not for his sudden detachment—gently, but quickly, pushing you away with his hands anchored upon your shoulders, a bridge of distance from him to you.

“I have to leave if you’re fine now,” he says, remembering some duty you are ignorant to.

“You were the one being ridiculed,” you point out. “I should stay by your side.”

“No,” he says, watching your face fall as guilt takes root. “No,” he repeats, firmly this time, “you should hurry back. You were completing an errand for your master, were you not? She doesn’t like it when you’re tardy.”

You exhale slowly, trying to will yourself to stop trembling where he can see you as you murmur, “that’s impossible to avoid now.” He hums, and you know he only hopes for the best for you. “Goodbye, Qifrey.”

“Take care,” he says. “I’ll see you around.”

Yet, it comes quicker than either of you expect. The ache is severe, this night, much worse than you had anticipated, so much so it was near unbearable—you are unaware if you are capable to enduring it any further. So, the decision you make is a rash one.

Qifrey’s bedchambers are located at the end of one corner of the Great Hall, tucked and housed alone, just as you are when your masters have only one apprentice in comparison to Olruggio an d the others. To get there, you would have to travel past the mess hall and up and across the chemin de ronde, wherein you would be exposed completely if one were to look outside their window as you walk along the raised wall connecting one building to another.

As long as you are quick, you tell yourself, you will not be caught, unless you have the courage to draw that spell on the inside of your cloak. There is a chance it would fade while washing it from the fabric would be easier than burning the paper of your palm quire. The borrowshade cloak is is a simple spell, consisting of one concealment sign, an asteriskos pointed with an eye in each cardinal direction; and four envelop signs at each corner, diagonal from the little star at its centre. How ironic it is, to be hidden in shadow with a seal drawn using eyes that will very well be obstructed from sight of you if you are to be glanced at.

You draw it. Your fingers clutch onto the wrist of your dominant hand, an anchor you use while following a rounded motion of the ring. Then, you fluff up your pillow until the air causes it to puff, and cover it with your linens to mimic your sleeping form before pushing open the door to your bedchambers. It creaks within the the quiet of her atelier, and you pause before continuing forward, listening for movement from where you hope she is still lost in a deep sleep.

Once you step through the threshold and into the hall, you release a tight breath, a smile breaking onto your face. You do not look back as you run through the path you’ve memorized to reach him, your cloak fluttering behind you. You look like a dragon! Qifrey had told you that day, and you feel it, too, when you fiercely defended him, and now, again, as you do as you wish—the fabric a dark tail that swishes as your feet strike cold stone, the patter of your footsteps the only indication of your presence.

The room of the mess hall is darkened at this time, no one hungry enough to venture from their room and steal a snack or a meal, but there are wandering witches that traverse the paths, and you have to press yourself close to the wall as you squeeze through, careful to avoid bumping into another as you tip-toe towards an alcove. They take their time in leaving, discussing nonsense you have no interest in when you have places to be, and the wait is so agonizing that you choose to sneak past, inhaling deeply as you find yourself atop the chemin de ronde. The animals swim overhead, blocking out the reflections of the moon as you become a mosaic of shadow, the spell imitating the vestiges of light despite being disturbed by your frantic movements.

By the time you reach the door to his bedchambers, your voice is more breath than sound with how quickly your chest rises and falls. “Qifrey,” you quietly call. “Qifrey, it’s me.”

He’s awake, surprisingly; the potential in him sleeping at this time being something you hadn’t considered until you were met with silence for a minute or two. And his brow furrows as you strip yourself from the cloak, distracted in tidying your garments for the outdoors whereby you do not notice his gaze skimming over the length of your form—the bruise blooming on your ankle, confirming his worry in your gait; the flush to your nape, concealed by your collar and revealed only as you turn your back to him; the scratch marks decorating the skin of your wrist, a habit of yours he detests; and the redness in your eyes.

Without question, Qifrey lets you stay.

The two of you stifle giggles as you build a makeshift tent while Qifrey fetches books from his shelf—gifts from Master Beldaruit. He reads the narration, and you, the characters, playing pretend as you act out voices. This occurrence repeats every so often. One night, you are the King of Dadah, strong and mighty with no fear licking at your spine, even as you transform into the witch who takes his life after he raises the mountains high in the sky with forbidden magic, creating the ruin you—before you met your master—and Qifrey—after he met his—ventured upon to pass The Consent of the Crown.

Another evening, Olruggio joins you after you emerge from Serpentback Cave, together, guiding myrphons to their breeding and wintering grounds. Qifrey, this time, participates in your recount of the Song of the Princess, becoming a dragon he loves so much, while you elect Olruggio as its rider—the princess who guides its path alongside her tribe, the identity you adopt. You do not remember much of this epic, however, as when you look back on this time together, you believe the The Sincerity of the Shield was when you began to recognize Qifrey more. Through his magic, in particular, where the tenderness he was capable of—and still is—beyond adversity while interacting with the flock had tugged at your heart so.

But when you pass The Query of Qui Vive, the plays fall away, replaced by nights venturing outside the Great Hall where you draw the borrowshade cloak for your friends while Olruggio lights the floatglow lamps you carry on large branches once you’re free to follow Qifrey’s whims. It is only on days where you cannot bear to be alone within her atelier that you find yourself in Qifrey’s bed, tucked under the covers as he reads to you, slowly, over the course of a few months, a nine-part epic about a witch and a decaying king—the story of how witches and nobility were once a united front in the days of old—a relationship now unlawful.

There is much that is disallowed in the world of witches, hidden all through lies. It is common knowledge amongst them that magic was taken from all through a memory-erasure spell, and from thenceforth, any individual touched by that secret must never utter a word of its truth. In a book you read without your master’s awareness—another action prohibited—it is said that a lie is equal to theft; to steal the truth from someone else. And it is so strange to you that, upon granting honesty to the Unknowing or within the punishments of the Knights Moralis concerning forbidden magic, the result is a robbery of the highest calibre. To steal one’s memory completely, of all relation to magic, even the witches one meets, only to be sent to Adanlee, the Isle of Oblivion, prior to being integrated into a new life—stolen from your original identity.

Perhaps that is why Qifrey is chasing after his past and cannot wait to reach it lest it escapes him before he can possess it. You cannot fault him for it; you do not know how you would move on if you were left without memory of him and Olruggio—of their arrival to the Great Hall; your meeting of both; the silly sentiments that unravelled; and how Olruggio’s magic held a numinous quality resembling the star that he is, an honesty in his happiness you would do anything to acquire. For a time, you believed you had when you carved your names into the wood of a willow tree at some neglected town you’ll never see again as it did not hold the answers Qifrey was seeking; the joy dwarfing the ache in the mornings, afternoons, and evenings that followed.

But you forget yourself. You always do. None of this is part of the path she has arranged for you, one inscribed across every surface of skin you posses when the dawn arrives. And to reach it, you leave Qifrey every night, with reluctance, to his restless sleep, returning to your own foolish falsehood with a smile gracing your face.

There is something strange about Olruggio.

Not many moons have passed since he and Qifrey completed the Librarian’s Trial, having done so together when your master was even more in a rush in comparison to your frost-haired friend. She had hoped, and was pleased, at your prompt success, magic coming to you much easier now that you have found affection within it through studies alongside your friends. They are aware of what you master is like and how grand her hopes for you are, but now you have your misgivings in completing it without them.

Olruggio cannot answer your questions about what transpired at the Tower of Tomes and whether they found what their heart was searching for. Neither can he tell you why his ribbon was exchanged for Qifrey’s tassel. Admittedly, you are jealous, but that is a lesser issue than what you are told. All Olruggio shares is that he completed it first, had fallen asleep while waiting for Qifrey, and eventually woke to him watching the quiet movement of the lake, lacking any knowledge of his past and completely satisfied in the search, choosing to never attempt it again.

Qifrey is lying to you.

There is no person on this earth who may relinquish their desires so easily without any fanfare. Perhaps whatever he found at the Tower did end the incessant excursions, allowing you to recuperate all those nights you went without sleep, but to say a single day was enough to act as if it was all an absurd dream is an insult to your intellect and, most of all, how well you know him. When you pressed, Qifrey said that there was nothing in the Tower to aid him, and from henceforth, he would only look forward to tomorrow. The words are inspiring, truly, but you doubted them nonetheless, even more when Olruggio shrugged and notified you that Qifrey shared the same sentiment right after the Librarian’s Trial.

It should have ended there, but there is no past you can run from nor is there any action taken that would not bring about a consequence. The years you have spent with her have taught you as much, familiar with the concept of reward, punishment, and retribution. You continue to push—to ask after a few days, a few weeks, and then months that dissolve into years. The field work continues and so do the studies and the tiny moments in-between. Of meteor showers, festivals, seaweed and vegetables, arguing and reconciliation, acting against your master in secrecy, and gritting your teeth as you endure it all. Still, there are exceptions to this, and it always occurs when you are missing from Olruggio’s side.

There are gaps in his memory, so small that others deem it inconsequential—as simple as forgetting what you ate the other day for supper, the name of the person you briefly met, and where you misplaced a trinket or two. But you know it is not normal, and no matter who you endeavour for aid, no doctor will see a young man who does not wish to be healed from an ailment that seemingly does not exist. Olruggio even entertains you one year, committing himself to a full check-up that returns results concerning nutrition, anemia, and sleep deprivation—potential contributions to a brain fog. From then on, there is nothing you can do to prove it untrue, especially when Qifrey appears to be anguished by your worry.

However, there are times where you feel strange too.

“Do you, now?” Qifrey asks, amused as you slide under the covers, next to him. “Have you tried sleeping in your own bed for once? Perhaps you will rest properly if you choose not to slip into my bedchambers at such a late hour.”

Said adventures in the night do not end from when you were little—they only grow more commonplace as it becomes easier to draw the borrowshade cloak spell. There are many seals you can draw now, despite the tremor in your hand, but this spell to see Qifrey is one you can inscribe no matter the circumstance. It is as easy, now, as slipping out of her atelier to creep through the Great Hall—pass the tables empty of food and into the cloister, the spell adjusting to the light streaming through the open gallery you run through as every second away is a second wasted. Then, you traverse the chemin de ronde without delay, your footfalls as fluid as the fish that wander over the bubble of sea-mist. And upon reaching the door to his bedchambers, you always find it open, night after night, already prepared for your arrival.

Fitted into his side, you listen to his heartbeat under you ear, his arm curling around your shoulder with the other holding a book in his hand, no doubt interrupted with your demand for attention. When you had entered, he was splayed over linen sheets, turning the pages of the story as he feigned indifference. No offense found you—is this not merely an indication of your place in his life? That you are meant to be here, by his side, with his willingness in your encroachment an equal wish you evidently share.

“You took longer than usual,” he says quietly, plopping the hardcover on the nightstand to empty his hand and fidget with the fingers of your own.

You answer the question that goes unsaid. “My master woke up.”

“You came anyway?” You nod. “What if she finds you missing?” he asks, trying to sit up in worry but you tighten your embrace and he sinks back into your arms.

“That is a problem for tomorrow.”

“Are you certain? What if—”

“Qifrey,” you interrupt, voice stern regardless of the affection lying behind his name. “I can leave if you wish.”

“I don’t—” he struggles to admit. “I do not want you to leave, but I dislike how crass she is with you.”

“I have already left my bed,” you point out, and he sighs.

Whether you leave now or later will not change the outcome. Every time you make the decision to leave, it is one made with the awareness of what may happen if caught—before, when you were still a child that feared everything; and now, where you are more afraid of his absence.

He huffs, fingertips tracing the shape of your knuckles. “We won’t agree on this, will we?”

“We won’t,” you confirm, watching him circle the splotch of ink staining your skin, a habit that has followed you into adolescence. “And you said yourself that you do not want for me to leave,” you add, gaze turning upwards to look upon his face.

There’s a small flush staining his cheeks; your heart patters against your ribs.

“I do not feel good about it.”

Turning, you grab Qifrey’s book to hand it back to him, request clear. He takes it with a small, exasperated shake of his head, dragging you across soft sheets to rest your back against his chest so you can see the words. You tell yourself that you cannot fit on his bed otherwise. That your hips must align, pelvis pressed together with his thighs tucked underneath yours and his chin hooked over your shoulder. You can feel every rumble of his voice as he narrates the story, whereas you take your usual role in every character, still employing childish voices that he jests is a doppelgänger, sounding exactly the same as a different person from another story.

You’ve read this one together before, too, so your attention is waning even as you finger guides Qifrey across the words while he holds the book open.

“…Have you thought about your future?”

Qifrey takes a moment to answer, but you know him awake—his breathing has not calmed in the way you are familiar with. “What brought this on?”

“We are to take The Goodwill of Her Grace in a few years,” you say, “and the words keep repeating in my head.” You clear your throat, adopting another voice, a different, more whimsical tenor that matches his master. “‘One stands unaided when hope is realized’—it sounds like one of Master Beldaruit’s riddles.”

“You do know that explained nothing to me, correct?”

“No need to be snarky.” You shift, twisting in his arms to pinch his nose. “We’ll be proper witches after we pass, and to think that we tried to escape the Great Hall when we were little, dreaming of tomorrow—of ‘hope.’”

“How inspirational you sound.” Qifrey squirms out of your hold, but leans into the subsequent touch you press to his cheek, closing his eye. “…I have considered leaving to see more of the world.”

You had feeling that was the case, but Qifrey utters that desire so quietly you believe him afraid to share it with you.

When you don’t answer, he reveals the depths of blue to you, as bright as the sky you saw that day and as clear as ice. “What do you aspire to do?” he asks.

This time, your response is swift. “A Watchful Eye,” you answer, and then say it again, more resolute. “I’m going to be a Watchful Eye.” He hums, as though he already knew, tenderness crossing his countenance. You remind him, “don’t forget to say goodbye.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise me,” you demand, sitting up from his embrace to look down upon him. Something about his gaze that tells you that there is a finality in this, wherein you will not be able to turn back. You utter his name, “Qifrey,” and the weight behind it is undeniable.

“I promise,” he says and pulls you back down to rest upon his chest only for you to request for more of his voice, the sound blending with the beat of his heart.

Not wanting to leave, you beg Qifrey to read one more chapter; that you must know how the story will end even when there aren’t enough hours in the night—hours before you would return to her side—to turn the last page. When the story concludes, the dawn is creeping above the horizon, brightening the sea outside his window as Qifrey allows his fingers to arrange within the spaces of yours, squeezing softly as he watches you fall asleep. He does not release you from his arms, and he does not let go. And, upon waking, he tells you: come again tomorrow night.

You do. You always do.

Olruggio smiles less as you grow older, while Qifrey smiles more, incidentally. You stay the same, you believe. Yet with your coming of age, you begin to see them less, stolen by your master to complete increasingly difficult field work in hopes of turning you as renowned as the Star of Ghodrey.

There are many you serve, countless Unknowing unfortunate to cross path with one disaster and another while both Qifrey and Olruggio regale you with stories of repairing Pegasus carriages, drying those caught in unending downpours and at risk of falling ill, and saving pets stuck high up in trees—ordinary issues they encounter while completing those similar to your own vocations. And you explore the Land of the Pact as you wished and you never share your intent to be far from the grand aspirations she holds for you.

Still, your years are filled with aid that fulfills you, achieving what Olruggio described to you as the purpose of a witch. This purpose is one of the three defining aspects of magic aside from technique and ideas: what are you searching for, what do you wish to provide, and what is needed of you? It guides you in every glyph drawn and the intent expressed without words, and, through it, you complete The Goodwill of Her Grace alongside your companions.

You forget how peculiar Olruggio acts every so often, too, suppressing the jealousy from what lies between him and Qifrey.

You’re busy, instead, preparing a meal to sustain yourself before you become a proper Watchful Eye, your master’s hold slackening with her own attention shifting towards taking a new apprentice. It’s understandable; she excels at teaching, aware of exactly what you struggled in, how too push you to improve, and who to involve you with to inspire that drive, providing within you the technique required for success in all things. She shares this news with you over her visit, unprompted and unannounced in her arrival to the new atelier you will guard, currently empty of both master and apprentice, while you were expecting someone else entirely.

She stands, looming over you as she did when you were a child, sharing ideas of a new curriculum—spells recently approved—and twisting the delicate neck of a bottle, close to bursting from agitation from her attempts to assist you in cooking a mid-day meal and failing. All she is capable of is her way; she may know of what others want, as you must with magic, but she twists it to fit her own beliefs.

And therein lies the problem, as always, one you believed you had escaped from until now. How simple it is to be reminded of it all. How easy it is to return.

She continues to twist and twist and twist until you are a debasement of your former self, imitating what she desires of you alike each identical pod of the basjooroom you were meant to prepare. You pull it from its body, one after the other, digging your nails into flesh as the fruit’s sweet nectar pebbles at your fingertips. Then, you drag them down and peel the skin, layer by layer—clawing until it releases.

And the beast you had wished to butcher still writhes, somehow, thrashing and stumbling from the kitchen to the pantry, making a mess you are clueless in cleaning, aware only of how to hide rather than posture benevolence. Glass shatters, the sound so startling that you flinch at the reminder of a night where the same sharp clatter hit the wall, ink splattering like blood.

Forgiveness fills your heart. A beast of this calibre does not understand niceties lest it involves its survival, wherein any equal altruism is one lacking compassion. You believed to live this way was torture; to act out of instinct the same way you do now—out of necessity. Out of fear.

Merciful, is what you are, and that clemency guides your hand to free it from its misery.

It struggles, showing you hard enough to tumble over and collide with the edge of a cupboard, crimson dripping down your temple and bringing about even more memories from when you were much smaller and weaker, ignorant to anything but an atelier. It cannot escape. You won’t let it leave. Regardless of any disorientation, you grasp it by the ankle and hold tight, forcing it to the floorboards with you. The body lands face first with a deafening crack, and you orient it proper, filled with a fierce tenacity to carry out the fate presented to you—an inevitability in watching its face turn motionless and its limbs grow rigid.

Emptiness seems to consume you; the hollow hunger of it vast and unfathomably endless, appearing only with her and at her reminders, carved and ensconced, and almost impossible to forget when its made a home within you. But what does it matter when the meal is already spoilt, the dining knife clutched in your fist now useless when a corpse lays splayed open, a cavity drawn from its sternum to its midriff with ivory peeking through, right here, underneath you.

Relief follows the creak of a door opening, the soft afternoon light streaming in and gracing the length of your back. It’s warm, causing your already slick robes to stick to your skin, and it reminds you of when you were a child trying to escape the Great Hall—how freeing it had all been. It’s a pity, then, that you will be brought back. You are in no position to run, anyway, so exhausted you cannot even react to the call of your name, Qifrey’s planned visitation escaping your mind. Still, he does not hesitate to approach you nor does he look towards the blood spattering the various surfaces of the atelier. He only focuses on you, dropping to his knees despite the the pool of crimson swallowing the expanse of hardwood.

“What happened?” Qifrey asks, one hand grabbing you by the waist with the other wrapping around your shoulder to drag you into his embrace and off the rotting pile of flesh. “What did she do?”

Strangely, you cannot recall how it began; it just had, and that itself is disorienting. You remember technique, the potential wrought out of you and a future apprentice; ideas, the suggestion of what may happen to them as it did you; and purpose—may it never happen again to anyone else if you are capable of preventing it.

Your hands cannot stop trembling.

“Look away,” Qifrey instructs you. “Please,” he pleads when you cannot tear your attention from the ghastly scene.

The woman is wide-eyed, expression frozen in terror and head turned away, the curve of her neck decorated with splotchy lines and the beginnings of a bruise mirroring the one Qifrey observes on your neck, his touch intimate as it traces the imprint of two hands. When your gaze descends, you see fabric soaked a dark red, scraps of it torn from her cloak and mixed with fragments of tissue. Of muscle torn apart so viscously. The violence in it is lost on you, a fog overtaking your mind even as her corpse beckons you forward.

How is it possible to slice so deeply and reach the valley of one’s ribs? Beneath it, you can see them—a deflated lung, not to yell but to breathe unending vitriol; and snuggled between it and its matching counterpart is her heart, offset slightly to the left of her breastbone, of which you’ve only rested your head against once before, a memory you hadn’t realized you carried fading from you. It houses nothing for you; never has, even as you begged for it.

But his gentle hand, already smelling of woodcruor and wet with something just as thin, obstructs your sight.

“Qifrey,” you begin, clutching onto him and staining his white cloak, only able to continue speaking when his arms wrap around you, burying your face into his chest where the heat of him so distinct that, within your delirium, it might as well be alike a burn, especially when his hold is so tight that you think him capable of fusing his body to your own, skin melting together just as it had on the inside of your wrist. “I don’t know what—”

“It’s alright,” he whispers, mouth grazing the edge of your ear with every word and dampening it with the same saliva covering his mouth, tongue wetting his lips as he decides what to say, let alone do. He calls your name. “I’m right here,” he reminds you, as if you have forgotten where you are, and repeats it, again and again, shushing you through the same stuttered words he interrupted you in expressing.

You’re wailing, aren’t you? You hadn’t realized that you are—in deafening shrieks as tears blur your vision and soak the front of his cloak, diluting your fingerprints stained upon the fabric, causing crimson to spread into blurry, yet pretty, impressions. You’re confused; why are you crying? Why does everything hurt? Your throat—the previous graze of Qifrey’s fingertips had tickled to some degree, and if you weren’t so used to the pain of that kind of bruise, you would have tried to squirm away. You hope he hadn’t disliked the feeling of your skin when it’s sticky from the burst bottle, shattered in shards that reflect the restrictive space of this atelier, once perfect to you but too alike a nightmare from long ago now. The blood of it a tribute. The inside of your wrist, the same. Your back—when it pinned you down to take it; to receive its gratitude despite your supposed lack-thereof because you always make an issue out of everything, don’t you? You can’t even prepare a meal together without making it into a problem. There’s always something wrong with you, it had said, and it punished you for it. For being born. For being here. You have to sacrifice something. The inside of your wrist. Your head—it told you to never look unsightly, regardless of how you coveted that gentle touch upon you, but is it still your fault when it grasped your hair between its fingers? Wrenched your head backwards to disengage you from it, though it taught you that reciprocation is the kindest manner by which to garner another’s favour. This is a requital, too. Your head hurts. Your head aches the same as that mangled patch of skin on your forearm whenever this happens. It aches, Qifrey. Qifrey, it aches and it aches and it aches. Qifrey, please make it stop.

“I will not let anything happen to you,” he answers. Had you said it aloud? “No longer will any harm befall you.”

“Qifrey,” you try to say, and his name is the last word that leaves your mouth before his lips meet yours, delicate like a petal as another sob wrests from your chest. My head hurts, you want to tell him, it hurts and I’m scared.

He knows. Qifrey knows—he hasn’t forgotten—and it is for that reason that one hand rises to cup your cheek as his arm shifts from where it’s curled around your waist, your legs sliding across the blood seeping into the hardwood to allow yourself to be pulled deeper into his lap. His tongue traces the Cupid's bow of your mouth, distracting you in your next sharp intake of breath before he steals it from you with the clumsy press of tongue against yours. Oh. Your mind appears to blank; you wanted this for some time now. Qifrey must know that, too, as he breaks apart only to kiss you again, muffling a soft apology accompanied by your name, tempting your eyelids to flutter shut from his affections.

And with it, a dream comes to you.

There are glimpses of light, coruscating amongst your darkening vision as though the empty space around you is alive, pulling you into deep waters. You float along—there is nothing you can do to fight against that current when you know, yourself, from the days within that drowned castle, that no thrashing nor wailing would save you. In this moment, your only grace is that it finds you through some sort of delicate serenity, but perhaps that is because Qifrey is here. He is here and that is enough for you to not want for anything more, not even the bitter rancor you finally leave behind.

It’s all very strange, isn’t it? To be pulled from your slumber by gentle hands, ones so elegant and lithe as they shake the sleep from your eyes. When they open, you see it again. The boundless expanse of sky, bleeding reds and oranges into fading cerulean as the sun lowers into the horizon. You’re laying on a blanket with the scent of fresh wildflowers surrounding you, whereby the the sound of ordinary laughter—common and familiar and lacking the sorrow even you cannot find anymore—rises through the air. The breeze carries it through the downlands that seemed so far out of reach when Olruggio first described them to you, but now the grass is soft beneath your feet as you stand and search for a gaggle of little witches.

Children are playing not far from your station, excited with his and Qifrey’s presence. Tonight will begin the season approaching the Silver Eve festival, and the most important people of your life are visiting to watch the wandering stars break free from their prison, climbing high to paint the heavens in bright streaks you want to run after, stretch upwards, and grasp within your embrace.

The fairytale matches quite adeptly to what fills you, understanding how easy it is to fall into that dizzying folly as the the star and the Silverwood had. There is a certain surrender in it. In feeling so deeply you may give just as you receive, and to take because you cannot fathom these little hearts that entrust themselves to you, to suffer within leaden waters or the surface of the earth. And when you look at him—when you see Qifrey and are reminded of that small, frost-headed child who arrived at the Great Hall with his right eye bandaged and his conduct skittish, whatever haunting him manifesting through every sound and movement before being buried deep inside recesses for no one to encounter—you feel it, too.

Qifrey hates water; has he ever told you? You cannot recall if he had, but you understand it simply by looking—through attention. He hated the sound of the waves against the walls of the Great Hall and the bubble of sea-mist that encased it, preferring even the sound of another’s ridicule. And when you escaped in the dead of night with him and Olruggio, hunting for Qifrey’s past, he hated the rain so adamantly you resigned yourselves to being stuck in any makeshift shelter you could discover or build. And, years after, you can still envision the exact expression on his face when he trusted with you the knowledge of how Master Beldaruit found him.

You wonder: had it been a mirror of your own whenever you crawled into his bed, close to tears and unable to endure it any longer? Had he known that his voice, his touch, his beating heart, and his fingers laced between yours were your tether to this world. To feel as you do is merely the return of something else, eclipsed by a willing ignorance and climbing the summit to do as you had wished—to reach for that star, hand in hand with Qifrey, only to tumble down and start from the beginning, all over again. The sincerity in that joy really is all very strange; you have always known that there will come a day where you will have to, inevitably, let go.

And so, you let go.

You wake to the smell of the medical spire.

From your head down to the tips of your toes, your entire body is sore as if you were wrung dry and trampled on. Looking around, Olruggio and Qifrey are slouched against each other, fast asleep; and from the blue hue casting over each surface from the empty window, this can only be the Great Hall.

The door opens not long after, and you whip your head to see who else would visit you when your friends are already here, pain lancinating with the abrupt movement. Captain Vinanna, now head of the Knights Moralis, is as surprised as you are to see her, and one of her subordinates leaves her side to yell down the hall, calling for a doctor now that you’re conscious. It wakes Qifery first, Olruggio following when he stands and the latter is without a headrest, suddenly jolting awake.

They do not have an opportunity to speak to you when Captain Vinanna says, “I know you’re still recovering, but we’re short on time: do you remember what happened?”

You do not. All you are aware of is the vicious pain enveloping the entirety of your body, unaware of why, exactly, your head is so heavy with bandages wrapped around your skin.

At your silence, she calls your name once. Twice. And a third time that is interrupted by reproach from a voice you cannot pinpoint, too preoccupied with the inability to recall anything from the moment you arrived in your empty, newly appointed atelier.

Captain Vinanna gives voice to another name and calls her your master.

And, finally, you say, “I don’t know who that is.”

You are told you were found by Qifrey, laying in a pool of blood with the assumption you hit your head upon falling during a struggle. There were marks carved into the doorframe, indicating forceful entry, whereas every piece of furniture was upturned, as though the culprits were searching for something.

Bandits, is who they suspect struck, the contraptions of newly-built ateliers easy to steal from when the witches and apprentices are still absent with no one to claim them after fetching a high price. However, upon further investigation, they surmise your amnesia goes far beyond the fatal crime.

It must be why you cannot recall a single thing, the trauma suppressing the memory, especially with what is unearthed throughout her atelier: old contraptions made for the purpose of discipline, long since abandoned by decree of a former Wise of Teachings due to its archaic brutality; and old, almost black, burgundy stains soiling various fabrics, hidden away to be worn in secrecy so that anything adorned during company would remain as pristine as possible—a concern from a child you only remember through nausea, the only remnant of that tiny wraith who commanded you.

And, one day, during your long recovery when you reckon it had been put behind you, the comfort Qifrey and Olruggio extend is shattered amidst the concern for what the Knights Moralis carry to the medical spire, hoping to prod your memory. Of these is a cloak you’ve never worn, tucked into the back of your rickety armoire for the same—now mysterious—reason that you had kept the rest, whereby the sleeve that would encase your dominant hand had been charred a deep umber. Your friends had refused to leave with the Knights Moralis’ arrival but, at its sight, Olruggio pales, the rise and fall of his chest quickening as he stands and excuses himself from the room.

A member of the Knights Moralis follows him, and you become privy to a stifled sob; something about failure and aid, and being ignorant to what was right in front of him. You surmise whatever she put you through had been drawn-out through the years of your upbringing, early enough that Olruggio can recognize a garment so small that the head of a child wearing it would barely align with the bottom of his ribs.

The weeks continue in a similar fashion. Qifrey and Olruggio visit and entertain you, sometimes together and sometimes apart. Captain Vinanna appears with a curt inquiry if your memory has improved and Qifrey angers easily when you become distressed, turning into that hot-headed boy of your childhood, one you remember with an obstructed face that follows you through the years. Olruggio can no longer look you in the eyes as he once did; there is only pity left, you believe, accompanied by an ocean of regret you cannot even begin to hope to alleviate.

The funeral for the woman who is said to be your master is held. You attend, much to Qifrey’s upset. These days, he always appears to be, but you want to see her corpse laying in that casket, at least. Memorize the resulting consequence of what she had done to you. She had said that, hadn’t she? That every action would lead to a consequence—reward, punishment, and retribution. The lesson beaten into you persists, although you cannot remember how, exactly, she had done so. Your head tilts, eyes trailing across every stitch that attempts to mend that unsightly face.

During the entirety of the reception, Qifrey does not let go of your hand. You want to laugh—you are certain he wouldn’t even if you chose to desecrate her grave.

But he does let go, eventually.

Qifrey is set to leave at sunrise a few months after you are accepted into another atelier as a Watchful Eye, a year after he found you dying and without purpose. You spend the nights leading up to it in his room, wide awake and speaking of your days as children, passing memories the other had forgotten, of which involve the other. There are no books to read, either, having finished them all with no reason to purchase a new one when you’ll be without any opportunity to beg for just one more page accompanied by his laughter.

Some evenings, Olruggio visits and you hold a little celebration—though it stings to refer to it as that—with him drinking himself to asleep. Qifrey, on the other hand, holds his liquor well, while you’re afraid of what may happen if you become as inebriated as them. So he watches you, throughout the night, quietly through Olruggio’s hushed snores.

Every time, you tell him something. Every time, you forget.

The same will not happen, however, as you stand at the foundation of the windowway with Olruggio, Qifrey a few steps ahead of you. The sky is still a deep blue, as dark as the waters he detests so fiercely, but it will lighten, soon, as the expanse is split by rays of yellow and orange light, the sun waking up from a deep sleep. The world out there—the meadows of wildflowers that resemble Qifrey’s early floral spells from your childhood; the rolling hills of grass, as fresh as the meals you shared at daybreak, in the afternoon, and the setting sun; and the golden glow of that star, the same colour of the willow tree’s flesh carved into the shapes of your names, joined together—it’s the same. It’s the same sight as your first encounter with the space outside the Great Hall, and every night you escaped with Olruggio, guided by Qifrey’s hand. It’s exactly the same as your dreams.

Truly, you have never left this place, where the inevitability remains. In hoping and looking towards tomorrow where you do not notice how what surrounds you changes shape even as your heart does not move. And perhaps the despair brought about your inability to notice that difference, too, in choosing which road was the correct one, seeking substantiation that will tell you that you chose well. That is all you had wanted when you were a child, and from the moment you met the man that stands beside you and the other, in front of you, you had known—even unwittingly—that you would always find yourself standing right here, at this single moment.

This is simply how it is.

You watch as he disappears upon that horizon. Alone. And at the sight of his lonely back, head faced forward wherein he does not turn—not even once—one thought flows through your mind as you and Olruggio are left behind:

There is something strange about Qifrey.

Extended Author's Note.

[meltedcoco]

Extended Author's Note: Lethe

Fairly short this time as I believe the story speaks for itself, but it also came about because I wanted to write something focused around the memory-erasure spell from an outside perspective, so if it lacks structure it was because I was just having fun with this. It was also supposed to be much shorter—consisting of only five scenes—but it got out of hand, as always...

Sections

The Poem

General Thoughts (mostly why I wrote Lethe)

The Poem

I have not written a poem in years but I do hope it’s nice? Though I believe I need more practice haha. Anyways, here is a breakdown on why I wrote what I did.

Come, drink from me o’ poor, docile lamb. You, forsaken by your shepherd, condemned And willing—stolen and brought To this ruined bed.

The lamb and the shepherd simply represent the master-apprentice relationship where reader’s master has no faith in them and is ready to ‘punish’ them without thought. Whereas Lethe is the one of the five rivers of the Greek underworld, specifically of forgetfulness and, according to Ovid, found within Hypnos’ cave, who was the god of sleep; so I wanted to merge this with the idea of a (river)bed.

I also thought it would be fun to play with the formatting where “condemned” is associated with the shepherd, and “stolen and brought” is joined with “willing[ness]” to relate to reader’s inability to find the strength to leave their master.

Thou must graze upon the poppies, Damp with the dew of oblivion, To be lulled into a soft slumber Until there is naught left to covet.

I wanted to incorporate how poppies bloomed at the entrance of Hypnos’ cave as I believe the contrast between Lethe running through it was lovely because the flower is one of remembrance. To create the memory-erasure seal, you must mix tears with the ink, represented by the “dew of the oblivion”; while the target of the spell falls asleep, just as you are “lulled into a soft slumber.”

When you wake, you will delight, For this is no longer your prison; Thy desire has withered, and No love shall anchor you here.

Because Qifrey cannot love as it will cause the Silverwood to grow, I wanted that “desire” to “wither” to maintain a corresponding language in nature alongside having “naught left to covet” from the previous verse. Similarly, “anchor” concerns letting go with the aquatic relation to the Great Hall, the weight of love, and how all three of them separate as Qifrey travels alone for a time.

General Thoughts

To me, one of the most compelling parts of Witch Hat Atelier is the division between the Unknowing and the Pointed Caps and, even further, able-bodied witches and those with disabilities so I wanted to touch on that with Beldaruit and Qifrey, especially as ch.90 shows other witches looking at both of them with scorn. And with the prejudice they openly face, I believed to depict Qifrey's childhood would mean that the ableism he experienced had to be part of it also, especially as my opinions of him in an educator lie in his ability to respect others, especially children, no matter their background, as proved by the safety both Agott and Richeh exhibit in being able to act like a child despite what they experience themselves.

Honestly, the scenes surrounding Tartah and Coustas made me particularly emotional, and it really is the reality faced by those with disabilities that I think it appropriate to assume that the prejudice was even worse prior to Beldaruit being appointed Wise of Teachings. Aside from using it as a way to exhibit how terrible of a person reader's master is, I did want to show how disability is a spectrum through reader themselves—they can walk, see, speak, and hear without issue, but they do have an essential tremor, although not as severe, but one that impedes their ability to draw seals nonetheless. I hope that I was respectful in my depiction and that reader defending and standing up for both Beldaruit and Qifrey was relieving.

Aside from that... When I first started outlining the story, I wanted three main chunks: “there is something strange about the new apprentice,” “there is something strange about Olruggio,” and “there is something strange about Qifrey,”; and in determining how to give reader a memory wipe, I decided to depict how, throughout the series, it appears so easy to treat children wrongly, which means it is equally as easy to treat them with respect. This is the additional theme within WHA that I've been particularly taken by, specifically through Euini and Richeh's personal stories, which made me incredibly emotional haha. And I do apologize for the suffering I put reader through and how the resolution was one of equal violence, unfortunately, but the dramatics of fanfic prevail.

Lately, I also really like writing with repetition and being careful with my diction and certain phrases. Here, “strange” is only used when it concerns the memory-erasure spell. Others include: ache, joy, inevitability, wraith, and wail. But I also changed the types of diction I used to match certain scenes and what was occurring. For example, when reader convinces Qifrey to run away with them, a lot of the language is related to plants (e.g. propagated, sprouting, sown, etc).

And to end this off, I do hope the passing of time made sense/was natural enough. Other than explicitly stating it, I attempted to slowly transition Qifrey's casual speech into one that was more formal. However, generally, I think subtlety is something I need to practice, and tried very viciously within this haha.

To whoever read all of this, or any of it alongside the fic: thank you!!

[meltedcoco]

also, fair warning, this is much more angst-stricken than anything i've written before so please take care in reading it if you choose to do so

[meltedcoco]

anyway, t-minus however long it takes for me to review and format a fic that no one asked for and only interests me specifically

[meltedcoco]

i want it on record that i've been a fan of the green yuri anime yet to release for the past three years in case it blows up again (<- lame)

[meltedcoco]

my writing is so bad omg HAHA can the quality of my prose go back to when i wrote rotten meals & not so rotten work arghh

[nixscriptum]

on midsummer. ☼

[elysiumae]

@meltedcoco

[dawnurora]

[mewn1verse]

@harmonysanreads @elysiumae @meltedcoco @tyuoui

[meltedcoco]

peeking my head out... did this post go through... my tumblr is acting so strange haha or is it my internet :O

[pineappical]

thinking about statues of Grace being built all around Erid years after his passing so he can continue to watch over Eridians as they sleep