有缘千里来相会

“What are you doing?” you ask with a tiny snort, hand reaching for him.

He leans into your touch, arms folded beside your bicep from where you’ve taken station upon the living room couch and he, the soft carpet decorated with a book you’ve abandoned, a box of chocolates that couldn’t fit on a coffee table filled with miscellaneous objects you’ve busied yourself with, and your slippers—his, actually, since you’ve missed him so sorely that even his presence in front of you is, nevertheless, lacking.

Phainon is too far away.

“Lamenting your stomach problems,” he answers, letting the words dissolve into a satisfied hum once he’s able to bunt his head into your palm.

Your touch descends further, cupping his cheek as you squish the pudgy skin in your hand alike the pillow you had done the same to in his absence. “So dramatic,” you snicker and lean in before he can glower further, lips meeting in a terse peck.

It happens, anyway, when his gluttony is as ravenous as an animal whose instinct is to adore you. The whine falls away just as he receives another, and again when he mumbles one more please twice over after the initial request failed once your quick fulfillment produced a smile that brought about a kiss that was mostly teeth and muted giggles. When you separate, Phainon’s eyes are near crescents, a gentle expression that you’ve observed over the years as something that appears solely with you.

“Is my sad Victorian lover finished with his sorrows?” you ask, ignoring the ache in your shoulder as you shift uncomfortably to release your other arm from your lateral leisure to cradle him in your hands and swing his face from side to side, babying him over his meager performance and unable to help yourself from it. Had you expressed such a sentiment, you are sure that Phainon would have only glowed, a sort of delight that brightens across the entirety of his being through the innate promise of it—no one else shall be its recipient.

His voice grows taught despite this, upset sweeping over his countenance in a pointed question that pops the bubble of happiness you share. “How is your stomach?” he prods, eyes flickering to the packaging empty of any sweets with resentful attention. “Do I want to know how many you ate?”

“Nope,” your chirp out, the sound final as you ruffle his hair before brushing your lips against his to placate any complaints.

He calls your name; peeved, slightly disappointed, and undeniably fond. “I can’t trust you after your sashimi comment,” he notifies you, recalling the texts you’ve exchanged throughout the day.

“And I meant it!” you say, wanting to see the momentary spike in your boyfriend’s vexation. But before he can scold you, you inhale loudly with a yawn, extending your arms and pointing your toes as far as you can, tensing your muscles before relaxing. Phainon gently pinches your side from where the hem of your shirt rides up; he apologies through a gentle caress and listens to you claim, “you already don’t trust me since you interrogated me in the first place.”

He huffs, tugging your clothes back over exposed skin and lightly patting it down in a job well done for ensuring a chill doesn’t befall you with how high the air conditioning is set. “Interrogated?” he echoes, straightening from how he had rested his chin atop his arms, closely watching your every action regardless of his push back and the lilt in his tone. “I’m not a detective, and—”

“I know you aren’t,” you interrupt with a roguish quip, “you’d be a pretty bad one—why ask when the evidence is right here?”

Phainon pinches your nose next, another tender reprimand that he, this time, does not amend. “So you admit it, then?”

Laughing, you pretend to nip at his finger when he pulls away. “Admit what?”

In response, he tugs on your cheek, first, to say, “that you ate them and shouldn’t have when you have food poisoning.” And as punishment, he leans in to mouth at the opposite cheek, following the intimate habit you share with a childish raspberry that ends with you wiping the resulting saliva over the front of his dress shirt.

It’s fine; it doesn’t matter—with the dawn tomorrow, there will be no tours to be had nor programs to train. It will only be Phainon struggling to pull away from your serene embrace when you have the entire day ahead to spend together, the hour or two that he dedicates to his morning exercise a dreadful idea especially now that you’re sick. You seem to care even less for it than he does, which distresses him plenty that the thought of tickling you passes his mind, and he almost entertains it after your justification of what you had played ignorant of, incapable of keeping up the charade as you rile him up according to your provocative pleasure.

“Did you think I would be able to resist the ones with special filling when you bought them specially for me?” you wonder listlessly, particularly indolent as Phainon has decided to splay a large hand over your stomach, stroking over cotton as if that would bring you some comfort.

“Are you forgetting how long it took for you to feel better last time?” He leans closer with the reminder, pressing his forehead to yours and nuzzling your noses together, careful not to bump your glasses askew. “Hmm?”

“How could I forget about my boyfriend taking care of me?” Your eyes narrow as the corners of your mouth lift into a smile that strikes an iron-hot warmth through his chest, melting into a dense, molten liquid that melds with the blood pooling into his face—Phainon cannot, embarrassingly so, do without your teasing and goading. 

This close, you can feel the small, aborted puff of amused air he releases, and observe the pretty pink that has begun to bloom across the apples of his cheeks. The memory of that awful time floats over the both of you—the days passing with you in his embrace, of naps and sudden bathroom breaks where Phainon adopted the role of a puppy who must be with you as much as he can, knocking and pawing at the door in worry if you’re okay. But because you’re you, maybe that’s just always, proved by the weight that spreads across your abdomen, his hand pursuing the path across to curl over your waist to secure you in a warm hold.

“You’re lucky that mushroom soup didn’t get you,” he remarks after a moment, wanting to extend the quiet that settled between you.

It does not take you the same amount of time to say, “we didn’t have mush room in the fridge”; the jest comes instantaneously as you level him with a flat look, letting your eyes betray your expectant glee in his reaction.

Phainon tries to huff in exasperation, the sound breaking sharply like thin ice he plummets through, descending into a loud, dopey laugh; so loud that he covers an immense grin in shame, as if he’s been coldly shocked to awareness of how close you are that it must be startling. Yet, you’re smiling, and the sight of it triggers an influx of feeling.

There are so many platitudes that can be said about it; of devotion and desire, wanting and absence, and the depth of it all wherein Phainon loves you. He knows that. You know that. Cyrene, Hyacine, Mydei, Castorice, Cifera, and even a stranger who encounters the two of you on a date knows that. But Phainon also likes you.

Phainon liked you long before the intensity of love ever took root.

He liked seeing you interact with all your mutual friends, so much so that he took it upon himself to approach you speculating why you were so distant with him, exactly. And that was all it took to like you more—to speak to you about things the others would never know, parts of you and himself shared between personal moments of friendship that he was blind to. In his eventual understanding of ‘like’—to like your laughter, to like his own when you’re witty as you are now; to like the hazy sense of craving that filled him regardless of any restraint and especially when you looked at him; and to like you around, no matter where that had been—Phainon plainly encountered love.

He hopes that you will never fail to find him; he hopes he will never be too far.

Phainon’s fingers twirl around a lock of your hair, a link joining you to him. “I can’t go on a work trip without you doing something that’ll make me worry,” he frets, though that may be a result of who he naturally is.

Your fingers encompass the back of the hand resting on your abdomen, keeping him there. All your mischief disappears. “I think this means you shouldn’t go anywhere for a while.”

“You’re right,” he mumbles, leaning into your space, fingertips taking the path up the strands to cradle the back of your head. He kisses you, slow and ordinary. Although he’s playing along, his flush has darkened into a carmine, creeping up to the tips of his ears, remaining as susceptible to your flirtations as the first time and as weak to you even in your vivacious tricks. So, he agrees, “I should stay right here.”

“Then go shower so we can have dinner and cuddle,” you demand with the separation, feeling his happiness against your mouth.

He rolls his eyes. “Fine, fine… Whatever my girlfriend wants, she gets.” 

Barking out a laugh, you push yourself up on the couch and he follows in unfurling himself from around you. Once you’re sat upright, you raise your arms, and because you do, Phainon stands so that he can pull you up. Or, so you thought, because he decides to steady an arm around your waist, the other scooping you up from underneath to lift you.

Your giggles continue with a yelp, “what are you doing?” yet you wrap yourself around him—arms around his shoulders, a hand tangling in his hair, and your legs hooking around his hips. “Phainon!” you grumble despite latching onto him, “you’re still wearing your work clothes,” and scrunch up your nose. “My clean pyjamas…”

He only believes you cute, but if he says that, he’s certain you’ll admonish him through a harsh pinch, yank, or—unsurprisingly—a bite.

Instead, he repeats what you’ve said only minutes ago, already on his way to do so. “I have to shower, right?” He cranes his head towards you to press his nose into your cheek with a happy trill. “I think I need help with my back.”

“Do you, now?” You turn to face him with an incredulous look that doesn’t fail to express your doubts. “I think we should make dumplings for dinner then—my reward for helping you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you agree with a nod, “since I’m being so sweet.”

“How can I refuse getting so much time with you to myself?” he replies, aware of the reason and how lucky he is that you are willing to grant him as much attention as he desires, as endless as that is.

“If you can’t, then let’s hurry and shower—I’m hungry.”

Again, he laughs—he doesn’t seem to stop when you’re around—and Phainon also listens; there isn’t a time where he hasn’t, and maybe it comes easier when you have no qualms assisting him in shedding his clothes with an eager touch and an even eager mouth.

By the time your appetite is satisfied, it’s some unknown hour past midnight, having paid little focus when your attention is occupied with Phainon and keeping him awake longer than usual.

This is a typical occurrence; one that is so commonplace you feel no guilt in it. If you weren’t distracting him from the luxury of his dreams, he would be doing that himself, nagging you one way or another to please go to bed because you aren’t feeling too great but also in bewilderment over how you stay up so late, night after night with your excuses of naps falling on deaf ears. The likely reason for that is how they are sometimes taken when you work from home, grossly and criminally without him around to cling to. On other nights, Phainon appears sufficiently satisfied in curling around you and falling asleep to your occasional touch upon him, the sound of a keyboard, and your soft breaths and frustrated hums while writing.

Graciously, you’re all his tonight.

Phainon is rambling on about the history of a new exhibit he helped put up today, the timbre of his voice notably animated in spite of the yawns that intercept every few sentences and the tiny, bashful apologies he provides before continuing. You aren’t facing him, laid on your back with your ear turned towards him on his side, head pressed to your shoulder, and the manner in which he fits into your body is an adequate connection for him, it seems; a leg thrown over yours and his hand resting on your stomach to draw shapes and words over cotton—your name is what he enjoys writing the most. It’s unfortunately distracting.

“Phainon,” you call softly, halting his severe inclination for remorse. With his hummed acknowledgement, you explain, “that tickles,” and press a kiss into his fluffy hair, perfumed with your shampoo.

“I’ll be more careful,” he murmurs, ceasing the antsy fidgeting he was using to stay cognizant of whatever you’re up to—to ensure he does, you rotate to look at him and offer your arm as a pillow, curling the appendage upwards to play with his hair. He only looks sleepier, so you tug, sudden and slightly forceful—he savours this, you know—and hear a hushed, suppressed laugh that breaks through. “…make you something easy on your stomach in the morning. I shouldn’t have let you have that chili oil,” he murmurs, the words slowly becoming clearer as he shakes away his fatigue. “Maybe soup…” 

His eyes close so you repeat the enticing yank of a small strand and notice the colour suffusing over his face. “Not mushroom soup, right?” you ask, using a miserable whine that you expect to help him reside in awareness, if only through your foolishness that contradicts whatever he may be feeling.

Phainon yawns your name, moving closer so the tips of your noses press and incidentally prevent you from continuing your playful affections, the awkward angle a difficult reach. “If you have mush room for chocolate, you have mush room for mushroom soup.”

“You’re so silly,” you say, and then ruin the moment with: “get your own joke.”

He ignores it to ask, “is it silly to want to take care of you?” with a voice thick with sugar, as deep and dark as toasted caramel whose sweetness is addicting yet absent of the cloying urge to be devoid of it. Better than any treat, his fervour for you is all that he is attentive of.

Your arm wraps around his shoulder, instead, with its inability to find his scalp, needing to chase after any feeling of him under your care and the resulting contentment in the unmistakable expression of bliss Phainon cannot hide. “Now you’re just cheesy,” you taunt, free hand meeting the side of his face to feel the flourishing warmth.

“That’s good, too,” he remarks, “since you like cheese.”

“Dork.”

Phainon's eyes open, instinctively more conscious to declare, “you like me.” Even in the dark, they draw you in so terribly, the colour murky in shadow and imitating the solemn significance in every purposeful profession of your bond.

Though it is inevitable that the variation in topic would impede his sedation, the statement would come just as easy had he been drowsy like earlier, before your continuous interference. There is a certainty that you would not turn away from him or decide, on some average, mundane day, that you no longer want him. The dread of it and being inadequate or existing as a mere ‘person’ and not identified wholly as yourselves and recognized as someone necessary in order to form a coalescence known as ‘you and Phainon,’ together, is one shared and abandoned.

There is only this: memories upon memories of university—of running and missing in near-intersecting lines, lingering in parallel paths and waiting for the other in wary wonder—in proof of staying and choice and the willful persistence until you were ready. And now, with what you’ve become, well after that period as students, Phainon would wait however long if, theoretically, this life were to repeat with even a minuscule difference of when you would meet or when you may accept and trust who he wanted to be to you. For all that he needs is to land in this soft place, here, next to you—living with you, day after day, as the minutes pass by and the seconds tick along where even a dozen lives of the same banal events and scenarios would never be enough to experience it all.

So, when Phainon tells you that you like him, all you respond with is, “mhm, no,” as the label is unfit to delineate the exact degree of it.

“What?” The word is quite pitiful; weak in its timbre and slightly high in tone when the rejection beguiles his caution.

You laugh, and apologize for the mean transformation of your teasing through a plain validation. “I think I love you.”

He frowns, anyway. “Only think?”

“Now you’re pushing it,” you say with a straight face that’s impossible to maintain, half-hearted in this and the ensuing intention. “I’m kidding… maybe.”

In response, Phainon folds himself over you, a blanket of warmth that blocks out any moonlight from the open curtains. He does not grant you his voice, the only sound within your shared bedroom the creek of the bedspring as he repositions after each movement, the mattress sinking with the weight of his hand braced upon the space next to your shoulder, steadying him so that he can look upon your face. He starts with a small smile—one that you reciprocate with scant difficulty when you’re currently proud of your relentless banter—and feel his against yours through a light grazing of lips. They don’t meet when Phainon giggles, wanting to earn your impatient huff as he tempts with you with balmy breaths that pass between you, convincing you to widen your mouth as if he intends to gift you with a deep kiss.

Maddeningly, he descends upon your neck, first, lips wet with his saliva in preparation to spoil you so, leaving a moist trail in patient kisses that dry so quickly that its chill has you longing for another, if only to have him sear himself properly in spaces barely marked by his fealty. When your breath catches, he feels it, and allows a matching sigh to escape his throat as he tilts your head to the side to reveal more of yourself to him. Phainon grins, thereafter, with the dull drag up your jaw, punctuated with a nip of teeth mimicked upon your mouth once he’s satisfied in warming your skin.

Your thumb rubs across his cheek, cradling his head as you lead him in appreciating you properly, no matter how he kisses the cupid’s bow of your mouth, an early apology for the soft bite to your upper lip, accepted and punished through a detachment. The displeased whimper you welcome from him vanishes into a series of desperate noises as your mouth meets the hollow of his throat, sucking the surface until it leaves a splotchy blush you’ll have to help him cover come Monday morning if it doesn’t fade by itself.

Phainon slants his mouth over yours again; so desperately that any thought of your ailment and how fervent his desire for you to—so plainly—sleep flees from his thoughts, replaced by the call of your touch, the taste of toothpaste mixed with the honeyed-water of your tongue, and a sensation that is purely good. It feels good to kiss you and kiss you and not stop, even if those kisses are lazy without any rush, and hindered from transfiguring into something more amorous. You, yourself, try not to think about what’s it’s like when he’s pressed to you like this: body between your legs and his weight against your chest, shortly alleviating the comforting strain by lifting off you and flattening his palm across your belly—to hold you down or put pressure over where you both cannot forget the feeling of him, thick and heavy as he fills the space deep under his touch.

You try not to copy Phainon too much, either—panting into his mouth through stuttered breaths induced by affections so persistent that a thin, gossamer strand of saliva maintains the link between you, snapping only when he finally speaks.

“Doesn’t feel like you ’maybe’ love me,” he says, and you wish he hadn’t. Yet he lingers above you, forgetting your feigned expression—miffed at his riposte—to caress your sides, squeezing every inch you’ve bestowed him permission with.

Still, you warn, “don’t get handsy—my tummy hurts,” despite your instigation of him and the heat that licks up your spine, accompanying the shallow ache that has no relation to what torments you so.

His expression turns wretched; immediately, you laugh.

“It’s not funny!” he whines, petulant though his tantrum comes to you through the descent down your body, his gaze never straying from yours.

Once he reaches your hips, his hold tightens upon them, an announcement of his desire to be closer, gently pushing up the shirt you’ve stolen from him to smooth his hand over your skin. There, he presses feather-light kisses over the surface before growing firmer once you begin to squirm at the ticklish feeling, careful not to upset more than your already difficult stomach, and avoid it being directed towards him.

Your fingers card through his hair, pushing back his bangs to reveal the forehead you feel a fierce need to employ his current tactics upon; to reciprocate his ardent affections. “I’m okay, really.”

“No, you’re not,” Phainon argues, tilting his head to press his ear to your abdomen to—absurdly enough—listen to the agitating grumble and churning of your gut as proof in being correct. “This is because you ate all those chocolates,” he decides, facing you with a stern look. “I’m putting you on a chocolate ban.”

You jut out a lip and widen your eyes, gradually lowering the edges of your mouth only to force a wobble. Phainon evades the sight by pressing his cheek into your tummy, directing his stare towards the side of your bedroom rather than your pleading.

"You’re putting me on a chocolate ban?" you repeat to confirm it; he knows what you’re doing—it’s not going to work. He doesn’t answer, so you continue. "Next you’re going to ban me from all the lemon squares in the fridge because they’re acidic."

He mumbles into your skin, breath warm, “technically, they could be…”

“My Phainon doesn’t love me anymore,” you cry, pretending to keel over as he had earlier—as much as you can, anyway, with you already lying down, which makes it all the more preposterous as all you manage is a slight thrashing of legs and flailing of arms, wary of hurting him.

He gasps, sitting up on his knees with boisterous laughter. “Take that back!” But something washes over his expression; giddy, devious, and—most of all—dangerous, regardless of the steady, pleasant caresses upon your body.

“Tickle me and I bite you,” you warn.

“What difference is there from what you already do?” Phainon’s grin widens. “Is that meant to deter me?”

Wordlessly, you whack him with a pillow.

“That’s new.”

And the words are enough to have you pulling away from him, cramming yourself into your side of the bed, so close to the edge that you debate slipping off in a melodramatic fall that you can’t conclude as a reason that would grant you that his charming glee or exacerbate his latent concerns. The potential misery in that is sufficient in dissuading you, deeming your sour silence ample in capturing his aptitude in appeasing you while obvious in facetiousness.

Drawn to you, Phainon’s arms slip around your waist, curling against your back with his breath fanning over your nape. “Forgive me?” he whispers into the skin, muffled by your hair. “What if the chocolate ban is only until you get better? And I’ll hunt down a special matcha flavour just for you—a reward for being so strong.”

He’s annoying, but you want to ask, when isn’t it just for you?; filled with affection that forces your shoulders to shake despite yourself; suppressing your giggles. It only has him tucking himself around you, eradicating any remaining distance so that the length of his abdomen settles against your back, whereas his hips curve around your own, wedging himself between your legs so his feet brush against your calves.

Phainon seems to forget that it's the summertime.

Since the first time you’ve ever touched—platonic and hesitant to be near someone as bright as him—you’ve immediately perceived the warmth he radiates. Normally, he is a bit better with this; happy with holding hands before bed to avoid muggy, sweat-slicked skin, but you suppose that if you are suffering, then he must embrace you. He sighs with the spot he’s taken behind you, inhaling the scent of your hair, matching his own, as the arm around your waist tucks against your stomach to pull you impossibly closer when there is no more space left to fill. 

“Wake me up if your stomach hurts again,” he firmly instructs you, incapable of letting go of your conversation from yesterday.

“I was only joking,” you say, and are honest in the declaration. You wouldn’t want to subject him to a sight nor an experience in the escapades of expelling whatever it was that ruined your gut.

Still, he argues, “I’ll complain.”

You huff. “About not being allowed in?” He nods and you softly pinch the skin of his forearm. “I think you’d complain about the smell, actually.”

“You’re wrong,” Phainon mumbles with a fleeting yawn, and he wiggles against you, shaking the rising drowsiness from his body to convey his devoted obligation to care for you; one he’s freely taken upon himself and unwilling to give up. “I’ll complain more if you don’t let me make sure you’re okay, you know?”

It’s enough to render you silent, yet Phainon does not mind. He knows you’re still awake and listening—your natural bedtime is anywhere from two to three in the morning, maybe later if you’re up with your friends, and only earlier if you’re especially tired or he can tucker you out. And the scarcity of your voice is caused by your contemplation in what, exactly, you should say.

A thank you would be sufficient knowing him, and you would receive his sweet smile and the gentle dismissal of your appreciation. Phainon believes it part of his commitment to you, and the usual discussions of love would say this to be, in a way, correct. That with commitment there is a certain expectancy in behaviour and attention. To ‘tend’ to you like a gardener to a flower when Phainon is, truthfully, the sun that shines without thought—merely because it does and it can.

Phainon can take care of you; he doesn’t have to, but he does. And those discussions of love attempt to explain it and this through some sequential logic, of which is disparaging in the irrationality of it all. There is a man out there with white hair and blue eyes, maybe not as tall as he is but surely as kind. He could be as athletic as Phainon, or maybe he isn’t. He could also be a woman. But it’s Phainon you’re with—somehow it’s him.

It’s Phainon you love.

And there is no logic to what he wants to do. If one were to say that humans dislike the stench of bile and waste, then why should Phainon sit on the bathroom floor to watch you deal with it? The floor is disgusting, too, so he could stand, but that itself is strange—the vision of him awkwardly on his feet as you suffer. So, there is no point in determining what you should say or the proper way to reply when all you must do is ask.

“Phainon?” you call, his name perhaps an endearment on your tongue solely because it is his.

He responds with your own, apparently still awake. Apparently still waiting for you. “What is it?”

“Will you hold my hand if I do wake up?”

His chest rumbles against your back, laughter filling the night. It floats towards your ears from how near he is to them, and every other part of him finds you—his legs seem to fit better, and the rise and fall of his body syncs with yours. And, in proof of how he will always be where you need him, his hand leaves your stomach to find the back of yours.

His palm is large against it, eclipsing so much of it that your chest tightens within the safety in his touch. And between the crevices drawn from the mountain of your knuckles, Phainon fills each space, the tips of his fingers curling to reach the underside of your palm in a one-sided handhold. He tells you, without wavering when he lacks any fear in his heart, “I’d hold your hand if you went skydiving.”

Snorting, you wonder, “would you even let me do something that dangerous?”

He hums, the sound vibrating from where you’re pressed together. “If you really wanted to, maybe, but I have to come with you.”

“What if you’re scared and can’t do it?” you propose.

It doesn’t deter him. “I’ll do it because you’re there.”

“Sappy,” you coo, no matter how much that response pleases you.

Phainon simply says, "I won’t let you do anything alone,” and squeezes your hand—a tangible sort of declaration.

“Okay,” you answer, only to say his name again, catching his attention with it because you can. “Phainon.”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

His lips are soft on the skin of your nape. “Glad you know now,” he jests, and wrecks the little moment with his next words. “Since we love each other so much, we should go to sleep and see if we can kiss in our dreams.”

“You’re so silly.”

Although he struggles, he has enough energy to say, “you already used that one.”

“Come up with a better one, then,” you argue and rock your body just to disturb him and keep him with you for a bit longer.

He chuckles, muffling the sound into your shoulder when he really should be sharing what’s so funny with you. But rather than anything humorous, all that he expresses is joy despite the confession having absolutely no relevance to your challenge of him. “I love you, too,” he admits with a tender vocalization of your name.

It’s late, anyway, and Phainon has already done his best to entertain you for this long, so you let it be. Really, you just like the ordinary sound of it all; a verity in always converging towards this single point. And when the sun rises in a few hours, you lie just a little, telling him you really did kiss him in your dreams so you can do it in reality and find yourself at the beginning of another day to experience everything—with him—all over again, right from the very start.

Qifrey doesn't know how long he stands there in the hallway, a restless spectre in the dark. Only that by the time he manages to pull himself away his feet are aching, and his breathing has slowed to the same steady rhythm as your own. He lingers for only a moment longer, still reluctant, before turning and making his way back down the hall.

His feet carry him over to one of the windows without thinking. Outside, the sloping hills reach for the edges of night's canopy, unfurling like a rug of silver-sheened fox fur toward the distant coast. And if he squints, Qifrey can just make out the scattering of mountain apple shrubs in the dark; its fruit he'd picked with you this morning chartreuse-yellow and not quite ripe, still carrying a faint, tart edge on the tongue.

The bandages on your arms had been clean when he'd changed them after dinner. Whatever other wounds you'd earned from your little misadventure are healing as well, smaller scabs darkening and already flaking at the edges. You're still young, your body more forgiving in ways his is less so, and Qifrey is thankful for that. More than he can put into words.

But thankful isn't enough anymore.

He's been selfish. Qifrey had taken you in to save himself—to keep the silverwood repressed dormant, to give himself sufficient worry so that the parasite in him wouldn't kill him. Somewhere along the way he'd convinced himself that this careful distance—that feeding you, teaching you, keeping a roof over your head—would be enough. And in doing so, he'd unintentionally made you the receptacle for all his fears, his neglect, for every single one of his cruel words.

He's a poor excuse of a master. You deserve better.

Qifrey tries to remember what he needed once, as an apprentice. The recollections emerge in faint remnants. The stone floors of the Great Hall, his master's breezy voice weaving between the columns—they blur together like the night fog, each memory dissolving into the next until none stands clearly apart from the rest.

None except Olruggio.

They had snuck out together once, after passing the Pentacle of Proving's third test. Qifrey can still remember the thrill of it: the night wind in his hair, the dark plains of the Naakiwan Downs stretching endlessly into the night. The hut had appeared abandoned—perhaps once a shepherd's shelter, left to the slow mercy of time—its stairs half-rotted from rain, sagging dangerously under their own weight.

They'd taken to the roof with their sylph shoes instead. There, Qifrey had looked properly at the night sky for the first time—impossibly clear, strewn thick with stars, as though some divine hand had cast a scatter of diamonds across the velvet dark. And with nothing else around for miles to hem them in, the heavens had felt so very close—close enough for Qifrey to believe he could reach out with his hand and pluck the stars from the sky himself.

In that moment, even his dreams had felt within reach. Qifrey had once believed that if he could recover the past he'd lost, his joy might become something real—something worthy of standing proud beside Olruggio's without feeling like a poor facsimile of it, a shoddy imitation. A foolish ambition, perhaps, but it was his.

A child can dream, after all.

Qifrey exhales, a sigh catching between his teeth as he pulls his gaze from the window. There's no point dwelling on what-ifs and has-beens. He slips a hand into the pocket of his robes, fingers pushing into the spelled space folded within. The envelope he withdraws is slightly crumpled, edges creased from the many times he's folded and unfolded it again.

It's an official summons to the Great Hall, a request for his presence to discuss the status of his atelier. The tone employed is courteous, but there's no mistaking it. This is not an invitation he can refuse.

Qifrey's thumb lingers at the corner of the page, letting the edge catch against his skin. The Great Hall. He's never been fond of it despite its grand resplendences and easy conveniences. There's a reason he came all the way out to the quiet edges of the Downs, to build something that belonged solely to him.

But you… you must be bored here. The atelier is so far removed from everything else, the quick, lively rhythm of other witches and apprentices. Even with the windowway, it is not the same. Here you only have him for company, the same brick and limestone walls day after day.

You've never complained, of course. You never do. Still, you should have others your age. Other witches. Friends.

Qifrey folds the letter one last time and makes up his mind.

The next morning, Qifrey takes you to the Great Hall with him. The windowway deposits the two of you somewhere at the edge of Deepwater Castle, the world within its rings shifting as stone and sky give way to sea. Qifrey steps out first, taking a moment to steady himself on the slick platform. The air here is different—heavier and wetter, saturated with salt and a faint tinge of magic, and sunlight filters down in pale, weaving ribbons, catching on fish whose scales flash like scattered coins. Beyond the boundary of sea-mist, the ocean presses in on all sides, held at bay by complex spells written long before Qifrey was even born.

Qifrey turns, one hand already lifting to help you from the windowway. Despite his feelings towards the Great Hall, the sight of Deepwater Castle never quite loses its ability to take his breath away. Some quiet part of him hopes see the same wonder on your face.

But you aren't looking. Not at the fish, the shimmering barrier, or even the mighty castle rising from the ocean floor. Instead your eyes are fixed on him, and your face is pale. Paler than he's ever seen it, even when he'd plucked you from the cliffside with serpentines coiling overhead, ready to tear you apart.

At some point you've grabbed hold of his sleeve. It's almost as if you're afraid he might vanish if you let go. Qifrey frowns, concerned.

"What's wrong?"

You shake your head. Qifrey waits, but nothing follows. You remain where you are—pale and wordless, knuckles stark against the dark fabric of his sleeve. Above, fish glide past with slow currents, a myriad of light and shadows shifting across your cheek, the flagstones. A bell tolls in the distance.

He doesn't want to push you. Not in this unfamiliar place, at least.

"Alright," Qifrey decides at last. "Come on."

The shopping gallery is a long corridor of shops, located somewhere within the lower levels of Deepwater Castle. It's just as Qifrey remembers it—crowded, lively, storefronts overflowing with eclectic wonders. Some hawk candied kelp and enlarged bunches of willowgrapes, others display glowing components in transparent jars, contraptions that whir and tick and occasionally emit small puffs of smoke. One roadside stall even offers miniature glass orbs no larger than a palm, each containing a captive, miniaturised sea creature—harmless, Qifrey knows, carefully calibrated spells etched into the glass to keep them comfortable and happy.

He walks slowly, careful to stay close by your side. You haven't let go of his sleeve, though your grip has loosened somewhat since entering the castle. Qifrey isn't sure if the gallery or countless unfamiliar sights is reason, but he's grateful, whichever it is.

"The baths are down this way," he says, gesturing down at a side corridor. "They have spells that mimic the ocean waves, and water sculptures enchanted to move like living creatures. Oh, and past that fountain—there—is the dining hall I used to eat at as an apprentice."

Qifrey glances at you as you walk. He'd brought you here to see the witches' stronghold with your own eyes, to experience its strange wonders the way he once had long ago. But watching you from the corner of his eye, he is unsure whether you are truly enjoying any of it.

"They served the best yam and horncap soup—filling and perfectly seasoned. I still dream about it till this day. Do you want to take a look?"

You don't answer immediately. Your eyes drift, a rudderless boat caught out at sea, though you meet his when Qifrey looks at you. Your gaze dips after a moment, however.

"If Master wants," you say.

Qifrey's frown deepens though he keeps it from his face. The last thing he wants is for you to think he's displeased with you. Qifrey likes to believe he knows you—not perfectly, of course, but enough to recognise the differences between your silences and your hesitations. This one, though, he cannot place. He doesn't know if your answer means you're unsure how to say no, or if you are uncertain about saying yes.

He considers pressing. But you've given him nothing, and Qifrey has learned—if a little slowly—that there are moments when that is all you're willing to offer.

"Perhaps later," Qifrey answers, keeping his voice light. "We'll see then."

You only nod.

The corridor eventually opens into a vast indoor courtyard. The high walls of the Argentgard rise steeply before you like the sides of a pale mountain, old sigils carved deep into stone. It's quieter here, removed from the bustle and chatter of the shopping gallery, as though even sound knows better than to linger. And for good reason: flanking the arched doors stand the Knights Moralis—their backs straight and rigid, clad in black and crimson ceremonial armour—holding on to banners that manage to look proud even when they're hanging still.

Qifrey stops at the threshold. He knows what awaits him on the other side of these doors. He's never much cared for these proceedings, the careful scrutiny dressed in civility. They unmoor him less than the grove of pale trees lying just behind these walls, anyway.

He slips a careful smile into place before turning back to you, bending slightly at the waist so that the two of you are eye to eye. "There is a courtyard just through that archway," he says, with a nod towards the columns on his left. It's outside one of the libraries he used to frequent as an apprentice—you might run into a few younger witches coming and going. "There are some benches for you to sit on, and a little fountain that sings. You can wait for me there. Or—" He reaches into his robes and draws out a small leather pouch. It clinks softly when he places it into your hand. "You can explore the shopping gallery. Spend this on whatever you want—food, books, even one of those glass orbs, if you like. Anything."

You glance down at the pouch, unblinking. After a while, Qifrey reaches for your hand and cups it in his own, gently folding your fingers over the worn leather.

"I won't be long," he says, softer this time. "It'll be an hour, two at most. You'll be fine on your own."

Your other hand tightens its grip on his sleeve. Then, slowly, you let go.

Qifrey hesitates. For a fleeting second he considers taking you with him—making you sit through the council's dry questions and pointed looks. He can already foresee it: their relentless probing into your past, the dogged interrogation about your origins as an unknowing. No, no. It is better to leave you here.

"Don't wander too far, alright?" Qifrey says gently as he straightens, glancing over his shoulder at the looming doors. "I'll be back soon."

He manages a few steps towards it before he looks back at you. You simply nod, like you always do.

"Okay."

The Argentgard is cold.

Not in terms of temperature, so to speak. The Great Hall is kept comfortably warm year-round—the same spells that generate sea-mist threaded carefully with seals to trap heat and prevent the place from feeling like a tomb. Perhaps the lingering chill comes from someplace else: the measuring and the weighing, the unshakeable sensation of being observed by eyes that see too much and miss very little.

Still, the gardens themselves are pleasant enough. Qifrey sits while the council members regard him across the table from their high-backed chairs, expressions unreadable as they scrutinize his files.

It isn't long before they begin their line of questioning. Have you been adhering to regulation? Of course. How many apprentices do you have? Just the one. Have you noticed any irregularities with the unknowing as of late? None. These interrogations are nothing new to Qifrey; he's learned to keep his voice steady and his answers brief, to offer nothing more than what is required.

When they've finally exhausted their endless list of questions, they move on to other matters. The council informs him of the Watchful Eyes—Pointed Hat witches tasked with overseeing ateliers too distant from the Great Hall, ensuring compliance and reporting any irregularities deemed worthy of concern. Qifrey doesn't like the idea of being monitored, but knows better than to push. The Council's decisions are never only suggestions, and resistance will only further invite the very scrutiny he'd prefer to avoid.

Yet, the meeting stretches on for longer than he'd expected. Questions are followed by more questions, which are in turn followed by discussions of revised protocols. By the time they start on the topic of procedural adjustments, Qifrey's mind is already beginning to drift—away from the council's murmurings and the silver trees of the Argentgard, back to the corridor where he'd left you.

Are you doing alright? he wonders. Did you find the courtyard? Did anyone approach you? Have you eaten anything?

The conversation drags. Each topic bleeds into the next, until Qifrey starts to think words themselves are beginning to lose all meaning. And then—

"One final matter," one council member says, pushing her glasses further up her nose to squint at the papers in her hand. "For your atelier's Watchful Eye—do you have anyone in mind?"

He's too tired to care, and eager to leave. "Choose whoever."

They exchange glances. A scribe sitting to his left jots down a few words, and then—thankfully, mercifully, finally—the meeting is adjourned. Qifrey is already halfway to the exit, perhaps a touch too quickly, when a familiar voice halts him.

"Qifrey. A moment, please."

He knows who it is even before he turns. Qifrey looks back, reluctantly, to see him—perched elegantly in his sealchair, hands clasped loosely in his lap, wearing that familiar half-smile of his. Briefly, Qifrey wonders whether it is truly him or merely another of his smoke clones, though the distinction stopped mattering years ago—sometime around the third occasion Qifrey spent twenty minutes arguing with one, before realising the real thing had never been there at all.

"I have other matters to attend to."

"Nonsense." The ram legs of Beldaruit's sealchair tread lightly through the grass, carrying him over to Qifrey's side. "You have time for tea. I insist."

"I really don't."

"Not even a few minutes to spare for your poor old master?"

At least the old man's fondness for theatrics hasn't changed. "No."

"That's so cruel, you know. I take you under my wing out of the kindness of my heart, raise you with all the care and devotion of a loving master, only to receive this kind of gratitude in my old age…"

He ends up following Beldaruit deeper into the Argentgard, albeit unwillingly. Here, in one of its more secluded groves, the silverwoods grow oldest and thickest—branches twisting towards the high, arched ceilings, their pale leaves gleaming softly like moonlight caught over the surface of a still lake. Qifrey sits across Beldaruit at a small table already set with a silver tea service, delicate porcelain cups and a plate of untouched pastries waiting neatly between them.

Qifrey pours, the same way he used to when he was an apprentice, and Beldaruit was still his master. They exchange the usual polite niceties: updates on mutual acquaintances (Qifrey hasn't kept in contact with some in years), comments on the weather (it never changes down here), and mild inquiries regarding the atelier. Qifrey answers in monosyllables, counting down the minutes until he can excuse himself without appearing discourteous.

"So," Beldaruit hums upon finishing his third pour. He sets down his teacup with a soft click. "Tell me about your new apprentice."

Qifrey's hand stills on his own. He should have known better than to think being confined to the ocean floor would keep anything from reaching Beldaruit's ears. "Word travels quickly."

"Can you blame us? There is very little to be excited about, under the sea." Beldaruit waves a hand vaguely through the air. "The fish are lovely, I suppose, but they make for dreadful conversationalists. One grows desperate for interesting news eventually."

Qifrey sighs. Suddenly the tea in his hand appears far less appetising than it did a moment ago.

"What do you want to know?"

"I want to know what they're like, of course. I'm curious as to what sort of student my apprentice is raising."

"Former apprentice."

Beldaruit dismisses the correction with an airy flick of his fingers. "Same thing. In my eyes, you're still the same old rascally apprentice." He leans back in his sealchair, ram legs dipping slightly, before he scratches thoughtfully at his chin. "Ah, I suppose that makes them my grand-apprentice, doesn't it?" Beldaruit's smile curls slightly at the edges. "I rather like the sound of that."

Qifrey fights the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation. That, or do something equally childish—like pour the teapot directly into Beldaruit's lap, the way he might have done if he were still an apprentice.

"They're… clever," he begins slowly, if somewhat reluctantly. "They're exceptionally talented at complex spells—they can decipher the logic behind circles some fully fledged witches might struggle with. They learn quickly, too—they memorised every glyph in the foundational textbook by heart within a matter of weeks." Qifrey remembers the sight of you hunched over the kitchen table, tracing spells over and over until the bowl of water in front of you had run dry. "The only problem is that they work too hard. I have to remind them to eat, sometimes, and if there's a spell they can't master immediately, I know I'll find them awake in the middle of the night, still practicing it over and over—"

"B—o—ring." Beldaruit interrupts, dragging out the syllable out like a man enduring some unbearable inconvenience as he props his chin onto one hand. "Wow. That is all so terribly boring."

Qifrey stops talking to glare across the table. "Well, you asked."

"Spellwork this, textbook that." Beldaruit waves a disparaging hand, his sleeve rippling. "That's the sort of thing you put in an educational report to the Council. What I want to know is: what are they like to you?"

The question catches Qifrey off guard. And its answer drifts in, like incense smoke carried on the wind, without conscious thought or contemplation. He remembers the pale set of your mouth when you'd looked up at him from beneath his cloak for the first time. How wavering firelight reflects in your eyes when you're practicing spells late into the night. The dark, rust-coloured stain of your blood, drying slowly across his fingers.

The quiet cadence of your voice, and the faint upward lilt whenever you call, "Master".

Beldaruit is watching him differently now. The sharpness in those pale eyes has not faded—if anything, it has only grown keener, the edge of a blade freshly drawn across its whetstone. He appears to enjoying Qifrey's hesitation immensely. Qifrey isn't sure he prefers to know why—the inner workings of his former master's mind are a mystery to him.

"Let me make things simpler for you," Beldaruit says. He leans forward in his sealchair, fingers interlaced when he sets his hands on the table. "Do they surprise you?"

This time, his answer comes out without hesitation.

"Every day."

For a moment, Beldaruit looks almost surprised, himself. Then his expression slips into something softer, almost pleased, and for the briefest instant, Qifrey catches the faint shadow of the man he'd once called master—the man who'd sat beside his bed in the dark, distracting him from nightmares of suffocating darkness and unceasing rain with dancing figures shaped from smoke.

He doesn't push further. Beldaruit simply nods, and picks up his teacup once again.

"Good," he says. "That's what I wanted to hear."

The fountain is warbling a sweet, silver-bright melody when Qifrey finds you in the eastern courtyard. That's expected. What he wasn't expecting, however, is to find you amidst a handful of other witches your age.

He ducks behind a pillar before you can spot him. Qifrey should probably collect you, begin the journey home, but you look—well, not happy, exactly. You rarely ever look happy. But you look less solitary, at least, and that alone is something worth staying hidden for a few more minutes.

The young witches are talking about their own masters at the Great Hall. Qifrey catches fragments—familiar names he knows in passing, scattered mentions of the Three Wise. You wouldn't know any of these things—names and histories and hierarchies that carry weight and sway within the magical world—because Qifrey had never thought to teach them to you before. Now, he's wondering if he should have. Still, they speak with such easy enthusiasm it hardly seems to matter, their voices overlapping in excited bursts and trills.

"So, who's your master?" A girl with a tumble of chestnut curls asks you, eyes bright with curiosity. Qifrey stiffens suddenly before he can help it.

You answer simply, the same way you always do. "Master Qifrey."

The apprentice witches exchange glances. For a moment they look puzzled, until realisation ripples visibly throughout the small group.

"Oh," another pipes up. "You mean Beldaruit the Wise's apprentice?"

"Is he?"

"Yeah! What's he like?"

Qifrey's heart stumbles oddly in his chest, a brief, uncomfortable slip in rhythm. He should probably step out from behind the pillar, announce his presence before he overhears something not meant for his ears. But his feet refuse to move.

You seem to think about this for a while. Then—

"The prettiest."

Qifrey nearly chokes. The witches standing closest to you seem to echo his thoughts. "Huh?"

"Master Qifrey is the prettiest," you continue, matter-of-factly, as though clarifying something that ought to have been obvious to anyone with functioning eyes.

A ripple of laughter breaks through the group. "That's not usually a word people use to describe their masters," the girl who'd asked says between giggles, looking amused.

"Is that so?"

Qifrey's face burns so hot he fears he might combust like an overcast pyreball spell. He's suddenly grateful for the pillar concealing him from sight. Pretty. You could have said knowledgeable. Wise, kind, inspiring—any number of descriptive words more befitting of a teacher, a mentor, a master. Why would you…

He drags a hand down his face in an attempt to gather the scattered remains of his composure. It's painfully futile. When it becomes clear that the effort is hopeless, Qifrey steps out from behind the pillar, fixing what he hopes passes for a smile across his thoroughly frazzled expression.

"It's time to go," he says.

You look up at him. Your expression doesn't change in slightest—no flicker of embarrassment, no trace of awkwardness at the fact he might have overheard what you just said. You simply nod, offer the other witches a polite "goodbye", and cross the courtyard to stand at his side once more.

"Goodbye!" one of them calls, waving enthusiastically. "Hopefully we'll see you around again!"

You raise a hand in response, but nothing more.

"I'm sorry for taking so long," Qifrey says as the two of you walk away, leaving behind the chatter of the courtyard. His face still feels slightly warm. "But I think I needn't have worried—it looks like you made some friends."

You shrug. "They were nice."

It's not disagreement, though not quite agreement either—but Qifrey supposes that's simply how most first steps go; small, uncertain things, too fragile to name outright. He decides to count it as a victory all the same.

"I'll cook something nice for dinner." Qifrey glances sidelong at you. A carapace mash, perhaps, or the grilled vegetables he's noticed you favour. Judging from your empty hands, Qifrey doubts you've spent a single coin in the pouch he gave you. "You barely ate before we left this morning—you must be starving."

"Okay." You shift a step closer to his side. "Let's go home."

Your hand brushes his sleeve—not gripping, just touching—as though the proximity comes as naturally as breathing. Qifrey's breath catches softly in his chest.

After a while, he nods.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "Let's go home."

It rains that night.

True storms are rare out on the Downs, but a few times each year the weather falls into moods unpleasant enough to shake even the inland hills. Qifrey lies awake, listening to the wind howl across the moors surrounding the atelier while rain lashes relentlessly against the windows. He'll be getting no sleep tonight, he knows—he abandoned the attempt hours ago, resigning himself to counting the cracks in his ceiling and waiting for morning to arrive.

Then—

A soft knock sounds at his door.

Qifrey startles slightly amidst his tangle of blankets. For a moment, he eyes the faint shape of his bedroom door in the dark, wondering if his ears are playing tricks on him in the storm. But then the knock comes again—quieter, more hesitant this time.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, hurriedly shrugging a loose robe over his shoulders. When he pulls open the door, Qifrey finds you standing outside in the hallway, absently smoothing over your nightclothes beneath the muted amber glow of the lamps.

There are only two people living in this atelier, yet Qifrey is still oddly surprised to find you standing at his door as you are now. You've never sought him out in the middle of the night before.

"Did something happen?"

You look faintly surprised to see him despite being the one who knocked. After a moment, you shake your head.

"I thought Master would be asleep."

Qifrey's lips twitch upwards slightly. He waits a little longer, expecting you to continue, but you say nothing more. You don't leave either. The two of you simply stand there, the door held ajar between you, rain clamouring noisily against the windows.

"It's, um," Qifrey coughs lightly, after an extended period of silence. "Rather late, isn't it."

 The observation hangs somewhat uselessly between the two of you. Still you nod solemnly, as though he's said something of grave importance.

"Mm."

"Do you need something?"

A shake of the head.

"Can't sleep?"

A pause. Then, slowly, you nod again.

"Oh."

His mind leapfrogs to a hundred possibilities at once. Is it the storm? The thunder, perhaps? Are the heating spells in your room inadequate? The questions crowd together faster than he can decide which to ask, but by the time he's settled on one, the silence has stretched long enough that interrupting it feels strange. The space between the two of you lapses into awkward quiet once again.

"…Can I stay here for a while?"

The request catches him off guard. This seems to be becoming a night of firsts—first the knock at his door, then this. You rarely ask anything of him at all. Qifrey steps aside quickly, holding the door wider for you.

"Of course. Come in."

You step over the threshold somewhat tentatively. Qifrey lets the door swing shut and ushers you towards the bed, where he carefully sits you at the foot of it. You're dressed only in your nightclothes, feet bare, so he quickly slips his robes from his shoulders to drape it around yours instead. It takes a few adjustments to ensure it sits properly—it's far too large on you—before Qifrey decides he's satisfied and settles next to you, mattress creaking softly beneath his weight.

The two of you sit in silence, accompanied by the steady patter of rain. When the quiet eventually begins to fray awkwardly at the edges, Qifrey clears his throat.

"Is there a reason you couldn't sleep?"

You don't respond immediately. Your fingers knit loosely in your lap, absently picking at a loose thread with your nails. Qifrey is beginning to suspect you don't actually want to answer it at all when you suddenly speak, your voice barely a murmur beneath the storm.

"…I had a bad dream."

Oh. "What about?"

"Drowning."

Qifrey goes very still.

"I think being in the Great Hall might have reminded me of it," you say. "Being surrounded by water—or maybe being so far beneath the surface."

Qifrey suddenly remembers the way you'd clung to his sleeve, when you'd first stepped out of the windowway. A quiet sense of dread coils unpleasantly in his stomach. "You've had a bad experience with the sea before?"

You nod.

"My parents tried to drown me when I was little." Qifrey's head snaps violently to look at you. The horror crashes through him with the force of a physical blow, the words a knife shoved viciously into his gut. "They had too many mouths to feed and I was the smallest, so they took me to the cliffs and threw me in. I guess they hoped it would look like an accident."

You say this with the same calm, thoughtful tone that you might use when explaining a conjecture about spell theory to him. Qifrey opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

Nothing will.

"I don't remember much," you continue, when he doesn't say anything. "Just that it was cold and dark and water would fill my mouth whenever I tried to scream. A fisherman found me eventually, so I survived."

"How old were you?"

"I'm not sure. Five, I think. Maybe six?"

You were just a child. The image his mind conjures is unbearable: small hands grasping helpless over dark water, frightened cries swallowed by the wind and waves. Your hands. Your cries.

Qifrey finds himself thinking, suddenly, of rain. Silver-fingered and relentless, falling in chilly sheets over Havso and you—crouched beneath that poor excuse of tarp, thin and soaked and frozen to the bone. They way you'd looked at him when he spelled away the rain above your head—not with wonder or gratitude, but the hollow-eyed stare of someone who'd learned never to expect anything from the world.

He can't stand it. Qifrey wants—needs—to say something. To find the right words to comfort you, or at least make it hurt less, or better yet, cast a counterclock spell and rewind time itself—back to that cliffside, years ago, so that Qifrey can pull you from the water long before the sea ever touches you. But there are no right words, no spell capable of undoing what has happened so long past, only this—you and him, now in this moment, everything Qifrey wants to say but can't snared in the silence between you.

Because what can he say in response to that? What words does he possess that could possibly be worth speaking?

"I'm afraid of water, too," Qifrey finds himself saying, eventually. "But not because of the sea. Rain."

His confession takes even him by surprise. You blink at the admission, glancing up from beneath your lashes, and Qifrey has to look away; instead, he fixes his gaze on his own feet, dangling over the bed next to yours.

"My old master found me in a box." The words trickle out slowly, like water leaking from a cracked vessel. "Buried in the ground and left for dead. I didn't have any memories—of my parents, where I came from—all I remembered was the rain. Pounding on the lid, seeping through the cracks…" He laughs once under his breath, though it's devoid of any humour. "I thought I was going to drown eventually. It felt like hell, waiting for death in the dark."

He hears you inhale softly.

"Beldaruit dug me up." Qifrey continues, more quietly now. "He took me in, taught me magic… but I never really got over my fear of water. It's why I worked so hard to master it." A faint smile touches the corners of his mouth. "Well, that, and to get out of the washing duty Beldaruit would assign me to whenever I mouthed off at him."

That doesn't make you laugh like he'd hoped it would. You kick out your feet idly, gaze lowered to where your hands are gathered in the too-long sleeves of his robe.

"I wonder if it would be better to forget," you say, finally. "All those unpleasant things."

Qifrey looks at you. Despite your words, there's no bitterness in your expression—an utter lack of anger or resentment Qifrey finds faintly unsettling. The question escapes him before he can turn it over in his head.

"Do you hate them?" he asks, more softly now. "Your parents, I mean. For doing that to you."

You barely hesitate.

"No." Your answer comes out certain. "If they hadn't, I would never have met Master."

In that brief moment Qifrey feels entirely stripped of words once again. The rain continues its persistent pummeling, thunder snarling overhead like some ancient beast, but all of it suddenly feels so very far away. He feels vaguely sick. There is no world in which Qifrey would ever consider what happened to you a fortune—no world in which a child should have been thrown into the sea simply that fate might orchestrate some so-called fortuitous encounter with him. None.

And yet—selfishly, horribly—the thought of never having met you at all leaves him painfully bereft.

"…That's not how that should work," Qifrey manages, at last. His fingers take an extended moment to release their death grip on the edge of the mattress. "Someone should have protected you long before you ever needed to meet me." Cared for you. Treasured you. Loved you.

"I have Master now," you shrug. "That's all that matters to me."

Qifrey wants to argue—to tell you that what your parents had done was unforgivable, that you deserved so much more than the scraps of kindness the world had handed you. But you seem so strangely at peace with it all the words die before they can leave his mouth. And who is he to condemn them, when he's been equally selfish in his own ways?

It's silent after that. The rain continues to pour, until Qifrey exhales through his nose, breaking the stillness.

"We should head to bed."

Your shoulders curl inward ever so slightly. "Oh."

"You can sleep here," he adds on hurriedly, before you can think he's urging you from his room. "In my bed, I mean. So you don't have to be alone."

The words come out stilted, somewhat awkwardly, in a tangled rush. You blink at him, visibly surprised—but not unpleasantly so. After a moment's hesitation you nod, and move slowly to crawl beneath the blankets. Qifrey rises to his feet and immediately busies himself with the covers and pillows, smoothing down a wrinkle in the blanket that's barely visible at all.

When there is nothing left for him to fuss over, Qifrey sits back down at the edge of the bed. You watch him from beneath the blankets where he'd tucked you in, quiet eyes following his movement amidst the dim amber glow of the bedside lamp. He can feel your gaze—warmth prickling along the side of his face like a thousand fine needles. He's about to fetch a book from one of the shelves to occupy his hands when he feels you tug lightly at the back of his shirt.

"I would feel better if Master were closer."

Every sensible instinct in him attempts to immediately object. You're tired, shaken from the nightmares, emotionally vulnerable from old memories dragged back to the surface. As your master, Qifrey is responsible for your wellbeing and safety above all else; it falls on him to maintain some semblance of proper distance, no matter the circumstance. And yet—

He cannot say no to you. He's never been able to say no to you.

Qifrey slips onto the bed beside you before he can think the better of it. He stretches himself out carefully atop the blankets, making sure to leave a respectable amount of space between your bodies. But after only a moment, you shift, body curling inward, until the crown of your head brushes lightly beneath his chin. He can feel the slow rhythm of your breath, each exhale whispering through the thin fabric of his nightshirt, where your face rests inches from the center of his chest.

Qifrey goes very still. This entire moment suddenly seems encased in thin glass—like one wrong movement, no matter how slight, might shatter it completely.

"Meeting Master was my greatest fortune," you whisper, so softly he almost misses it. "I'm the luckiest person in the world."

Qifrey's chest constricts. It's as if all the air has been squeezed from his lungs. His fingers flex once at his side, hesitant, suddenly aching. Slowly, he lifts a hand to your head. The angle is strange, the motion clumsy, but he threads his fingers carefully through your hair anyway, stroking as gently as he can.

"Sleep," he murmurs. "I'm here."

He cannot see your face, but he can tell the moment your eyes close when you curl a little more firmly against him, the way your entire body seems to soften. Your breathing gradually slows, and evens out into sleep. Qifrey remains awake. At some point, your hand shifts unconsciously beneath the blankets, drifting until your knuckles brush lightly against the center of his chest, directly over his heart.

Qifrey closes his eyes. You think that you are the luckiest person in the world. You are wrong.

It's him.

Time passes quietly after that.

The days flow past in their slow, gradual ways, likes ivy creeping over stone walls or sand grains slipping soundlessly through an hourglass. Summer deepens across the Downs, the hills surrounding the atelier growing thick with crocuses and millflowers before they fade gold beneath the heat. And somewhere, amidst it all, the shape of life revolving around the two of you changes once again.

Qifrey begins teaching you more advanced spells. Compound sigils, inverted glyphs, circles layered so delicately they resemble lacework more than magic. He half-expects you to struggle at first, but you take to it with astonishing ease. Some evenings end with the two of you still seated at the kitchen table long after dinner has gone cold, debating back and forth over spell theories while the heart burns low, and Qifrey finds himself sometimes deliberately taking opposing stances simply to watch you continue.

You speak more, now. You ask questions—small, ordinary things entirely unrelated to magic. When he is too absorbed in his work to notice you, you tug at his sleeve to get his attention rather than silently staring holes into the side of his face. And you laugh more often, too. It's still sporadic, rarely unrestrained, but the sound no longer catches Qifrey by surprise.

The headaches are worse, some days. The silverwood continues to grow in silence, patient as rot spreading beneath bark. And yet when Qifrey recalls the old myths—tales of men who cast aside kingdoms, futures, entire worlds, all for the taste of a single fruit beyond compare—he thinks he understands them now. Never has he been so glad to grow accustomed to something so sweet.

And if there is anywhere in this world, anywhere at all, that Qifrey would choose to put down his roots, it would be here—in this quiet atelier he calls home, beneath the open sky, and the sound of your laugh still ringing inside it.

Qifrey hears the pegasus carriage before he sees it.

He's in the kitchen preparing lunch when the rush of distant wings cuts across the quiet of the Downs. It's not a common sound out here; very little ever flies this far across the peninsula except for the occasional courier and migrating ash-mottled dragons. Qifrey pauses with his knife hovering over some vegetables, half-chopped, before setting it aside, wiping his hands absently on a dishcloth.

The sound grows louder then abruptly fades, followed by muffled whinnying. Qifrey frowns. He crosses the atelier and pulls open the front door, squinting against the late afternoon sun, only to see—

"Olruggio!? What are you doing here?"

The man in question looks exhausted. His travelling cloak hangs crookedly from one shoulder, wrinkled from travel and pinned askew. There are several overstuffed bags—crammed to the seams with all sorts of magical trinkets and inventions, no doubt—abandoned by his feet next to the carriage platform. He drags a hand through his already disastrous hair, one eye twitching faintly in a manner Qifrey is all too familiar with.

"'What are you doing here', he says," Olruggio grumbles with a shake of his head. The pegasi whinny impatiently behind him, stamping their hooves in the grass. "I pack my entire life into suitcases, fly halfway across the peninsula by pegasus carriage to get here and this is the kind of welcome I get—"

Qifrey sputters, scrambling for something resembling a coherent response. He still hasn't the faintest idea what Olruggio is doing on his doorstep. "I—I mean, how was I supposed to know you were coming—"

Olruggio raises a dark brow.

"I suppose you don't know that I've been assigned as Watchful Eye to your atelier either?"

This time, Qifrey can truly do nothing but stare. Surely he's misheard. But the pegasus carriage, the luggage piled beside it, Olruggio himself standing here on his doorstep, arms folded across his chest—all of it says otherwise.

"The Council assigned you as my Watchful Eye?"

"Yes, and you'd know that already if you actually took the time to go through your correspondence—"

"You know I don't read most of the Council's letters!"

"And whose fault is that, exactly—oomf!"

Qifrey throws his arms around Olruggio before he can finish the sentence. Olruggio staggers back a step—words cutting off abruptly as Qifrey buries his face in his shoulder, taken by surprise—but only for a moment. Then strong arms close around Qifrey in return, tightening instinctively, drawing him into the safety of their embrace.

Beneath the scent of wind and travel dust, Olruggio smells of pine and woodsmoke. It's strange—Qifrey had almost forgotten what it felt like to stand this close to him again; how easily Olruggio's warmth still manages to disarm him, like some long-held vice he'd nearly convinced himself he no longer carried.

He's happy. There are too many emotions within him, sharp and tangled and colliding and overwhelming, but Qifrey chooses to focus on only one in this moment. He's so happy it hurts.

Eventually they part; Qifrey forces himself to pull away first, though his fingertips linger for a moment against Olruggio's arm, reluctant to surrender this closeness so soon after just getting it back. He's just about to open his mouth again when Olruggio's attention suddenly shifts over his shoulder, and his entire posture seems to stiffen at once.

Qifrey frowns faintly. He traces Olruggio's line of sight with his own, only to see you—standing in the doorway, staring openly at Olruggio. The brushbuddy hanging from your shoulder lets out a small, curious "pweee", before it wriggles free and plops onto the floorboards next to your feet. It circles your ankles once and scampers off into the atelier a second later, apparently deciding this situation no longer concerns it.

"Apprentice." Suddenly, absurdly, for no reason at all, Qifrey feels as though he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. He pretends not to notice the faint heat still clinging to his cheeks, stepping aside slightly so you can see past him as he gestures you closer. "This is Olruggio, the new Watchful Eye for our atelier. He's a dear friend of mine—we were apprentices at the Great Hall together."

You make no move to shift from the doorway. Behind him, Olruggio coughs awkwardly into his fist.

"Uhm. Hello."

You continue to stare at him in complete silence.

Olruggio's hand lowers slowly. "…Right," he says, after a beat. "Tough crowd."

Qifrey lets out a quiet huff. Normally, he's accommodating of your reticence, fond of it, even, but this is beginning to border on plain unfriendliness. "Apprentice," he reminds you gently. "It's rude not to greet people when they introduce themselves. I taught you manners, didn't I?"

Your gaze flickers toward him before it returns, reluctantly, to Olruggio.

"…Mr. Olruggio," you say, after a long pause.

Olruggio looks painfully out of his depth, mouth twisting uncomfortably as though he's not sure which shape best to put it in. "That's too formal," he mutters, in that brusque tone he always seems to default to whenever he's feeling awkward. His hand rubs over the back of his neck. "Look, you can just call me Olruggio, y'know. I'm not really one for all that honorific stuff."

"Mr. Olruggio," you repeat.

Qifrey presses his lips together, trying his best not to laugh despite the situation. Olruggio points accusingly at him, clearly flustered.

"Don't encourage this!"

He holds up both hands. "I'm not encouraging anything."

You stare between them for another long moment, expression unreadable as ever, before your gaze settles back on Qifrey. "Then, if there's nothing else, I'll go back to my room and finish my readings on recursive spells, Master."

Before either of them can respond, you turn and disappear back into the atelier. They watch you in silence until you're out of sight, footsteps fading up the stairs before Olruggio sighs heavily.

"I think they dislike me."

"Nonsense," Qifrey responds half-heartedly, still staring at the bannister. "They're just… well, shy. Besides, you're the most kindhearted person I know. There's no reason for them to dislike you."

Olruggio chokes on air. Qifrey glances over, frowning. "What?"

"Nothing." Olruggio coughs roughly, dragging a hand over his face before he meets Qifrey's eyes again. There's a faint flush dusting his neck, just visible beneath the rumpled collar of his shirt. "I just—ya sure you're alright with this? Your apprentice clearly isn't thrilled about me showing up out of nowhere."

"They're wary of strangers." Qifrey looks back at the hallway. He wonders if you're struggling with the idea of suddenly having to share the atelier with someone new. "I'm sure they'll warm up to you eventually."

"You know what? I'm not sure I believe you." Olruggio grunts as he stoops to gather his bags. Qifrey just laughs, putting a hand on Olruggio's shoulder to steer him towards the atelier door.

"Come on," he says. "Let's get you settled in."

After showing Olruggio to the atelier's side wing—the rooms he'd cleared out weeks ago in anticipation of the Watchful Eye's arrival—Qifrey returns to the kitchen. The vegetables still sit halfway peeled and chopped on the counter, knife exactly where he abandoned it earlier, but he finds himself oddly distracted now. Part of him still can hardly believe it's Olruggio, of all people. Fate has always possessed a strange, if somewhat twisted, sense of humour.

It's too late for lunch and still too early for dinner, but Qifrey busies himself tidying the counter for the sake of occupying his hands. This won't be enough, not when there's three to cook for, now. He's halfway through setting the vegetables aside when he suddenly notices you lingering in the doorway like a ghost.

Qifrey fumbles and nearly drops the carrot in the sink. "Apprentice."

"I finished my readings." There's a brief pause before you step properly into the kitchen, bare feet nearly soundless on the flagstones as they pad across the room. You hover by the table first, fiddling absently with his half-finished teacup, then linger near the pantry shelves before finally drifting over to the far end of the counter. Qifrey keeps you in the corner of his eye as he retrieves two more carapace yams and some onions from under the sink, watching your eyes move cautiously around the room.

"Is he gone?"

Qifrey picks up the knife again. "Olruggio's unpacking his things in the side wing. He'll be staying with us for the foreseeable future, as the atelier's Watchful Eye."

Your eyes flick briefly to the side, shoulders tightening a fraction. The corner of your mouth dips ever so slightly—subtle enough that most would never have perceived the shift in your expression. Qifrey does.

"Olruggio's a good samaritan at heart," he says, deliberately keeping his voice light as he resumes cutting the vegetables. "I've known him for years. He's not going to do anything to you."

"I didn't think that."

"Then what's wrong?"

You're silent for a while.

"Nothing," you say, eventually. "I just don't know him."

"You'll get to," Qifrey promises. "He's not so bad, once you get past the grumbling."

"Master sounds fond of him."

Qifrey's hands falter. You are merely making an observation; yet for some reason your words leave him feeling uncomfortably exposed—as though they have reached into a locked box tucked away in some dark corner of his heart and dragged it into the light, intruded upon something even he rarely allows himself to examine. He tries to think of a suitable response but comes up empty; anything honest feels too stripping to confess aloud, yet anything less feels woefully inadequate—a disservice to all that Olruggio means to him.

"He's a very dear friend to me," is what he says, eventually.

The conversation lapses into quiet after that. Qifrey finishes chopping the carrots into rough cubes before moving on to peeling the yams. The knife works steadily beneath his hand, rising and falling to strip away their tough outer layers to reveal the pale tuber flesh within. Beside him, the weight of your gaze follows—every shift and movement of his hands as he works.

And then—

"Can I help?"

That catches Qifrey off guard. He has to pause to make certain he's heard you correctly. "You want to cook with me?"

You hesitate for a moment before nodding. Surprise, warm and pleasant, flickers through him like the afternoon sunlight spilling in from the window. He shifts aside to make room for you at the counter. In all the time you've been a student in his atelier, you've never shown even the slightest interest in cooking. And more often than not, you neglect your own meals entirely unless he places food directly into your hands—a poor habit that seems to have carried over from your early years of living on Havso's streets. It's something Qifrey has yet to successfully change.

He hands you the knife. You hold it awkwardly at first, grip uncertain as you lower the sharp edge to the yam. Qifrey hurries to stop you before you can nick your fingers.

"No, no. Like this." Qifrey steps in behind you, gently adjusting your hand around the handle. "Careful. Keep the fingers of your other hand tucked inward, always resting against the flat of the blade." He guides your knuckles into place over the yam. "Just like that. That way, you'll never cut yourself."

You remain still for a moment. Then your fingers curl slowly beneath his, obediently taking on the shape he guides them into.

"Very good." The praise comes naturally. It's as if he is simply teaching you another spell—you've always been a diligent student, and it is easy to praise you. For a second Qifrey is reminded of a moment much like this one, though far longer ago—of the first time he'd placed a wand into your grasp and held his hand, guiding you carefully through lines and circles. Your fingers had been almost entirely swallowed by his own, back then. But now, they curl easily against his palm, and when he leans over you like this, your shoulders brush closer to his chest than he remembers.

"Master?"

Qifrey startles. He hadn't realised he'd gone still. He looks down just as you look up—eyes bright and intelligent and touched with the faintest trace of concern, as though trying to decipher where his thoughts have wandered.

"I just—I was just thinking about something," Qifrey fumbles to say, quickly smoothing it over with a smile. He starts to pull away just as you bring the knife down hard against the cutting board, and the sound startles him into grabbing your hands again on instinct. "Not so hard! You'll cut a finger off."

"…Sorry."

"No, no, don't apologise." The fault is his—it's your first time using a knife, and just because you're good at drawing spells doesn't mean you will instinctively know how to cut and slice. He guides your hands through the motions again, patiently correcting the angle of the blade, and soon enough you pick it up with the same speed you seem to do everything else. Eventually Qifrey leaves you to slowly cube the yams on your own, while he moves on to peel the remaining vegetables in the sink.

For a short time, only the soft rhythm of chopping fills the kitchen. Then, Qifrey asks, idly. "Should we invite him over for dinner?"

You don't look up from the cutting board. "I think Master should give Mr. Olruggio some time to settle in."

Qifrey blinks once before deciding you're probably right.

"That's true," he concedes. I'll bring him some food later, then."

He does just that a few hours later, after you've helped with the dishes and retreated back to the solitude of your room—to further practice magic, no doubt. Qifrey ladles a portion of the leftover stew carefully onto a tray, alongside a fork and spoon—because he knows Olruggio well enough to suspect he's neglected to pack a single item required for actual daily living—and covers everything with a cloth to keep it warm. The bridge connecting to the side wing is only a short walk, and it isn't long before Qifrey is standing outside, knocking on Olruggio's door.

Olruggio answers looking mildly disastrous, soot smeared across one cheek. "One of my warming devices exploded while I was unpacking earlier," he mutters in explanation before Qifrey can even ask. Olruggio looks exhausted—he must be tired from the long travel, the unpacking—but his expression softens ever so slightly when he sees the tray in Qifrey's hands. "You cooked."

"Knew you wouldn't have remembered to eat, otherwise." Qifrey steps inside as Olruggio holds the door wider, setting the tray down on a stool—the small table near the window has almost vanished entirely beneath piles of oddly-shaped knick-knacks and loose papers. "Cream stew with roasted yams. My apprentice helped."

Olruggio raises an eyebrow. "They did?"

"Yeah."

"You sure it isn't poisoned?"

Qifrey snorts softly when his friend reaches for the spoon, anyway. He watches Olruggio scoop up a generous helping of stew, thick and creamy and dribbling over the side, only blowing over it once before he shoves it impatiently into his mouth. Olruggio practically moans.

"You shouldn't have become a witch," Olruggio mumbles around the spoon between his teeth. "You should have become a cook in some castle somewhere. You would've been loaded."

"Don't be ridiculous."

The two of them end up sitting on the floor while Olruggio decimates the stew with barely any pause between bites. The bowl's nearly empty by the time Qifrey notices the yam pieces gathered at the bottom—his neat cubes sitting amidst uneven, slightly misshapen chunks. His line of mouth softens, fond, even before he realises it.

When he looks up again, Qifrey finds Olruggio's eyes on him, over the rim of his spoon. "What are you looking at?"

"Nothing, just—" Olruggio huffs softly through his nose, expression gentling in the low light. "You really adore your apprentice, don't you?"

Qifrey's mouth parts. Of course I do, he wants to say. They're my apprentice. Any master would. The words ruminate, strangely defensive on his tongue all of a sudden, but in the end, all that comes out is only a simple, quiet:

"…Yeah."

Olruggio's face cracks into one of those rare smiles. The sight makes Qifrey's chest ache faintly.

"I'm glad."

Qifrey blinks. "Why?"

"I dunno." Olruggio leans back slightly, one hand braced against the floor while the other rolls the spoon, licked clean, between his fingers. "You just… you stopped contacting me for a while, after the Tower of Tomes. I thought it was because you were giving up on searching for your past, so—" He blows out a breath, dark hair on his brow stirring faintly. "So I tried to give you your space, but you never really reached out after. I was… I guess I was just worried about you, this entire time." He shrugs, cut-sapphire eyes softening to a summer-sky hue. "But seeing you like this—an atelier of your own, an apprentice who's clearly territorial over you, by the way—you're doing far better than I'd hoped. I'm happy for you."

Qifrey's throat closes. He glances down at the tray sitting between them, feels flayed open by Olruggio's gaze, his unbearable kindness. Olruggio is so coarse with his words and yet tenderness spills out of him regardless—his actions, his spells, in everything he does and considers.

Qifrey had run from it. After Olruggio had excised his own memories, Qifrey could no longer bear to look his friend in the eye—could not bear the constant reminder of what Olruggio had chosen to sacrifice in his stead, nor the agonising knowledge of knowing he would never be able to confess. The separation had brought him comfort, for a while—enough solace for the silverwood buried inside him to begin growing once more, forcing him to take on an apprentice.

But perhaps that brief period of selfish respite had been enough. It has to be. Qifrey cannot run forever, and at the very least, being near Olruggio once again means the silverwood in him will halt its growth once more.

Thank you, I'm sorry, Qifrey doesn't say. Instead, he swallows the words thick in his throat, and smiles.

The night is too quiet, and sleep does not come easily.

tell me about it qifrey, no one knows this better then me. sleep schedule so bad, i kept my friend who was on the night shift company while i was writing my fic <//3

man, i wish that i was with qifrey as he lies awake and becomes restless. maybe i'd be able to tire him out hehehehe

HELLO??????? HE'S SNEAKING INTO BRIMMY'S ROOM?????? QIFREY THIS ISN'T GOOD MASTER BEHAVIOUR!!! (qifrey x brimmy somnophilia fic when???) WHO SAID THAT!!! But Brimmy sounds so peaceful while they're sleeping sniffs sniffs. They are so my baby, I love them dearly!!

HE PICKED FRUIT FOR THEM???? OH QIFREY YOU ARE SO IN LOVE WITH BRIMMY IT MAKES ME ACHE!!!

qifrey feeling selfish......... oh honey brimmy would have been yours in every universe, this is just fate taking its course............

happy pride month to the gayest witch to ever exist!! i think him and olly are more gayer then the actual married gay couple in the manga. of course the only thing his remembers from his time in the great hall is olly and the adventures that they would go on. SHUT THE FUCK UP THEM GOING IN A STARGAZING DATE TAAAAT -1 HP - 1HP -1HP

In that moment, even his dreams had felt within reach. Qifrey had once believed that if he could recover the past he'd lost, his joy might become something real—something worthy of standing proud beside Olruggio's without feeling like a poor facsimile of it, a shoddy imitation. A foolish ambition, perhaps, but it was his. A child can dream, after all.

i see your nose is growing mae. nothing physically may be happening to them, BUT I AM BEING WRECKED EMOTIONALLY!!!!! i'm also reading this section while listening to venus by sleeping at last (per maechan's recommendation) and i am fucking ruined. THIS IS SO ORUFREY FJIAEFJIEAJFIWAJFI;OREAJG;IORAEJIRA;OGJIREAJGVIORE;JGIO;AERJGRAE;IOGJIEOA;RJGI;WOJF9W;EJF

GASP THE GREAT HALL IN SUMMONING QIFREY??? guys i am ready to lawyer up and defend my man and my child in court. your honour, it's not their faults that the knights moralis are lowkey very incompetent.

brimmy does indeed need friends... this would be very good for their development... or maybe it would give them more people for them to be protective and destructive for!!!

FIELD TRIP TIME!!!! OFF TO THE GREAT HALL WITH MASTER QIFREY!!!

sobbing even if qifrey has complicated feelings towards the great hall, it still brings up childlike wonder in him... also once again mae, your prose is so fucking scrumdillyuptious!! like i actually feel like i am there at the windowwar gate with them!! sniffs, i'm getting fomo over fictional characters...

WAIT WHAT'S WRONG WITH BRIMMY?? DO THEY ALSO HAVE WATER RELATED TRAUMA THAT WE ARENT AWARE ABOUT??? OR IS THIS ON QIFREY'S BEHALF??? maybe i should stop making unnecessary comments and just read the story and find out T----T

NOOOOOOOO WE DON'T FIND OUT!!!! it's okay, all will be revealed in due time!!!!!

OOOOOOH i love a shopping scene!! qifrey and brimmy are better then me, i would be buying everything in sight, i love spending money!! i love shopping!! i love little trinkets!! bonus if they are magical trinkets!!

oooooh the baths.... i'm just thousand yard eye staring thinking about taking qifrey into the bath and well... you know...

i am sniffing and sobbing, why is brimmy so down during this trip... poor qifrey just wants to be a tour guide...

NO BRIMMY!!!! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE YOUR OWN PERSON OUTSIDE OF QIFREY'S WANTS AND EXPECTATIONS!!!!! you don't need to do everything based on his desires, you're allowed to want things too!!! and qifrey not even pushing in fear of causing them to shut down but also guilt of what happened in the last chapter... they are so doomed it's not even funny. someone undoom everyone in this show IMMEDIATELY!!!!

BOOOOOOO KNIGHTS MORALIS TOMATO TOMATO!!!! it's okay qifrey, i can take them in a fight if we need to throw hands!!!!

He slips a careful smile into place before turning back to you, bending slightly at the waist so that the two of you are eye to eye. "There is a courtyard just through that archway," he says, with a nod towards the columns on his left. It's outside one of the libraries he used to frequent as an apprentice—you might run into a few younger witches coming and going. "There are some benches for you to sit on, and a little fountain that sings. You can wait for me there. Or—" He reaches into his robes and draws out a small leather pouch. It clinks softly when he places it into your hand. "You can explore the shopping gallery. Spend this on whatever you want—food, books, even one of those glass orbs, if you like. Anything."

okay but the way he switches from serious and doom and gloom to being in full master/father mode to brimmy??? i love how we're starting to see a little bit of current qifrey as time goes on and he discovers how to be a master to brimmy (and the qiflings in the future). he's come to understand that he doesn't have to hold brimmy an arm's length away, so he slowly becomes softer with them. i won't say that he's opening up to them, but that's what brimmy and their big brain is for!!! all of this to say: MAKE HIS POCKETS HURT BRIMMY!!!!!

i'm so sorry mae this whole reaction is me sniffling and sobbing because they make me sniffle and cry, but brimmy being reluctant to let qifrey go UGHHHHHHH i love my codependency between master and apprentice.

IF THE COUNCIL COMES FOR MY BABY I WILL BE FIGHTING THEM ALL MAMA BEAR STYLE!!!!!

as someone who lives in a city where it is either freezing cold or unbearably hot, i would LOVE to have magic seal to regulate the temperature year round. SEASON DEPRESSION WILL NOT GET THE BEST OF ME!!!!!! in all seriousness, i do love how the chill is coming from the idea that it's a place of justice, because justice is cold to feelings and only cares for facts. MAE YOUR MIND IS SO DJKEWOAFJEWOIA!!!!

guysssss trust qifrey that nothing is going onnnn, please ignore the fact that he went into his apprentice's room to watch them sleep!!

"Choose whoever." BROTHER WE BOTH KNOW YOU ONLY HAVE ONE MAN IN MIND!!! SOMEONE BRING MY OLRUGGIO OUT FROM HIDING!!!!!

BELDARUIT!!!! GRANDPA MASTER!!!! i'm giggling, what do you mean qifrey stopped caring about the smoke clones when he was arguing with one for 20 minutes. that is my og ragebaiter i love him sososo much!!! HE'S SO FUNNY HE REALLY SAID "SON SIT YOUR ASS DOWN AND GIVE YOUR OLD MAN A HUG" i cannot wait to see him animated in the show, it's going to be sososo good!!

AND HE FOLLOWS HIM ANYWAYS!!! qifrey you are such a silly tree.

i always love their interactions sososo much!! of course qifrey's life has become the gossip in the great hall. "you know that guy who would argue with all the sages and would run away at a moment's notice? he's a master now at some far off atelier!" "wow, i wonder if his apprentice is being treated well." little do they know...

Qifrey fights the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation. That, or do something equally childish—like pour the teapot directly into Beldaruit's lap, the way he might have done if he were still an apprentice.

QIFREY MY DIVA YOU KING, YOU'RE SO SILLY I LOVE YOU SOSOSO MUCH!!!!

"They're… clever," he begins slowly, if somewhat reluctantly. "They're exceptionally talented at complex spells—they can decipher the logic behind circles some fully fledged witches might struggle with. They learn quickly, too—they memorised every glyph in the foundational textbook by heart within a matter of weeks." Qifrey remembers the sight of you hunched over the kitchen table, tracing spells over and over until the bowl of water in front of you had run dry. "The only problem is that they work too hard. I have to remind them to eat, sometimes, and if there's a spell they can't master immediately, I know I'll find them awake in the middle of the night, still practicing it over and over—" "B—o—ring." Beldaruit interrupts, dragging out the syllable out like a man enduring some unbearable inconvenience as he props his chin onto one hand. "Wow. That is all so terribly boring."

I HAVE A LOT TO SAY ABOUT THIS SECTION!!! first of all, qifrey is so proud of brimmy and going on about them. don't think that it is lost on me that this is the most consecutive words that qifrey has said to beldaruit. for a man who is so ready to leave to find his apprentice, he sure is spending a lot of time talking about them!! (also, i see that the codependence goes both ways ehhehe.) i wonder if in this moment, had beldaruit not interrupted them, would qifrey had asked for advice with what to do with brimmy? even if he didn't pose it as a question, i think he would have subconsciously absorbed what beldaruit would have said. he may rather die then confess that he needs help, but his love for (and his selfish reasons to have) brimmy is greater then his pride.

which brings me to beldaruit cutting him off by calling him dull. at first, i'm sure this was written to be a funny gag. the supposed to be serious sage digging into the lives and gossip of his students. but i do think it's also because there is specific information that he was looking for. perhaps about the reader's past? i can't imagine the council takes kindly for someone taking an unknowing. i don't think beldaruit would use this info to tear qifrey away from brimmy, but!! he is still a sage bound by the pact above all else.

I HOPE WHEN I READ SUSPENSION OF DISBELIEF, THERE WILL BE SOME SEMBLANCE OF A MASTER/APPRENTICE KINK BECAUSE IT WOULD FIT THEM SO WELL!!!!

MAE WHAT DO YOU MEAN HIS EYES REMAIN SHARP AFTER ALL THESE YEARS??? WAS A I RIGHT WHEN I OVERTHOUGHT MY ANALYSIS????

sniffles and sobs again because that's all im doing in this story, but brimmy surprising qifrey everyday with their brilliance... ugly sobbing rn AND IT BEING BELDARUIT'S SIGN THAT QIFREY IS ON HIS WAY TO BE A GOOD APPRENTICE

BRIMMY HAS MADE FRIENDS!!!! THEY ARE CONVERSING WITH APPRENTICES THEIR AGE!!!! will this be the start of a new leaf for brimmy??? chapter three and the eventual chapter four says otherwise!!!

He ducks behind a pillar before you can spot him. Qifrey should probably collect you, begin the journey home, but you look—well, not happy, exactly. You rarely ever look happy. But you look less solitary, at least, and that alone is something worth staying hidden for a few more minutes.

HE'S SUCH A SILLY GOOFY GOOSE YOU'RE SO CUTE QIFREY!!! thought, with a waist that small, he probaby could hide damn near anywhere.

in another life, qifrey is the dad that all of your friends would have a crush on- woah that is a dark thought that i don't think is safe for mae chan's blog. LO I'M COMING YOUR WAY YOU BETTER WAKE UP SOON!!!

AND BRIMMY WOULD BE CORRECT!!!! MASTER QIFREY IS THE PRETTIEST PERSON EVER!!! (but yet even his beauty does not dare to compare the etherealness of maechan!!! FIGHT ME ON THAT I AM RIGHT!!!!!) and he's so shy it's so cute i love him and their dynamic sososo much.

AWWWWW QIFREY BRIMMY WAS HAVING SO MUCH FUN!!! i am once again crying that the other apprentices want to see brimmy again. QIFREY YOU MUST SET UP PLAY DATES FOR THEM!!! i hope we get to see more of brimmy's friends in future chapters ;u; the chances are low, but a girl can only dream!!

oh my god they are so in love with each other it's actually not okay for my heart.

OUR MORTAL ENEMY!!! THE RAINNNNNN!!! my head is in my heads, i cannot stand for the fact that qifrey is going through all of this alone. OLRUGGIO COME WARM HIS BED NEOW.

OH MY THIS TIME BRIMMY COMES TO THE DOOR???????? scene so emotional, i am going to be so locked in with no witty commentary.

wait. is brimmy going to sleep with qifrey?? in his bed?? they are asking to stay for a while but does that mean for the whole night??? ZO SHUT UP AND READ THE STORY SO YOU CAN FIND OUT!!!

IM ON THE FUCKING FLOOR. WHY DID HE HAVE TO GIVE BRIMMY HIS ROBE???? DOES HE NOW KNOW WHAT IT DOES FOR MY POOR HEART????

"…I had a bad dream." Oh. "What about?" "Drowning."

oh. so that is why brimmy was so weird around the great hall. i can see the guilt from qifrey coming a mile away. WHY IS EVERYTHING IN THIS STORY DESIGNED TO FUCKING MAKE ME CRY?????

"My parents tried to drown me when I was little." Qifrey's head snaps violently to look at you. The horror crashes through him with the force of a physical blow, the words a knife shoved viciously into his gut. "They had too many mouths to feed and I was the smallest, so they took me to the cliffs and threw me in. I guess they hoped it would look like an accident."

genuinely i have no words to say to why other then what i recorded. one thing that i did neglect to mention was that IT WAS THEIR PARENTS THAT DID IT???? WHY????? FOR WHAT REASON???? qifrey is so me core for whipping his ass back to look at them because you cannot drop something like that so casually on me and expect me to be normal???? BRIMMY THIS IS NOT THE TIME TO BE CALM THIS IS THE TIME TO START CRYING VIOLENTLY AND US PLANNING TO GET YOUR PARENTS!!!!

THEY WERE FUCKING HOW OLD??????????????????? OH MY GOD I ACTUALLY NEED TO FIGHT THESE PARENTS SQUARE THE FUCK UP!!!!! these revelations are tearing me a part I CANT DO THIS ANY MORE.

He can't stand it. Qifrey wants—needs—to say something. To find the right words to comfort you, or at least make it hurt less, or better yet, cast a counterclock spell and rewind time itself—back to that cliffside, years ago, so that Qifrey can pull you from the water long before the sea ever touches you. But there are no right words, no spell capable of undoing what has happened so long past, only this—you and him, now in this moment, everything Qifrey wants to say but can't snared in the silence between you.

MAE I'M SO FUCKING SERIOUS WHEN I SAY I AM CRYING REAL TEARS!! I AM FLYING TO REDACTED SEA LOCATION TO GIVE YOU ALL OF MY MONEY FOR WRITING SUCH INCREDIBLE WORK!!! seriously, i hope you can leave your job and become an author full time because i can and will singlehandedly support you. BUT HE CARESSSS!!! HE FUCKING CARE SO MUCH FOR BRIMMY!!! i still say that it is almost fate that they found each other, and that they would find each other in every universe because that's how deep their bond is.

GASP NOW WE HAVE QIFREY SPEAKING ON HIS CHILDHOOD!!! they are bonding over their water related trauma!!! again along with brimmy's parents, the brimmed hats that did all of that to qifrey is also catching these hands. FORBIDDEN MAGIC HATH NO FURY LIKE A WOMAN SCORNED!!!

"I wonder if it would be better to forget," you say, finally. "All those unpleasant things." Qifrey looks at you. Despite your words, there's no bitterness in your expression—an utter lack of anger or resentment Qifrey finds faintly unsettling. The question escapes him before he can turn it over in his head.

i hope that this isn't foreshadowing for anything!!!!

"Do you hate them?" he asks, more softly now. "Your parents, I mean. For doing that to you." You barely hesitate. "No." Your answer comes out certain. "If they hadn't, I would never have met Master."

GOODNESS GRACIOUS DEAR FUCKING LORD THEY MAKE ME SO SICK WITH YEARNING. how the fuck do this master/apprentice have a better love life then me??? sobs and cries...

CARED FOR BRIMME??? TREASURED BRIMMY???? LOVED BRIMMY????? someone throw him in jail because he loves his apprentice. but also don't send him to jail because i believe in true love!!

OH MY GOD WE ARE SLEEPING IN HIS BED!!!! ITS CUDDLE TIME!!!! i am so going to hell for wanting this, but its soooo okay!!!!

i literally have no words for this section, so i am just watching in awe with how you write such a complex yet loving relationship between two highly traumatized people. maechan, you genuinely deserve so much flowers for writing such an incredible story.

He cannot say no to you. He's never been able to say no to you.

DAMN RIGHT YOU CAN'T SAY NO TO THEMMMM!!!

yeah, it's a fucking wrap for qifrey. you are now going to indulge every single whim of brimmy because you love them sososo much. He cannot see your face, but he can tell the moment your eyes close when you curl a little more firmly against him, the way your entire body seems to soften. Your breathing gradually slows, and evens out into sleep. Qifrey remains awake. At some point, your hand shifts unconsciously beneath the blankets, drifting until your knuckles brush lightly against the center of his chest, directly over his heart. Qifrey closes his eyes. You think that you are the luckiest person in the world. You are wrong. It's him.

i literally have no fucking words they are so sweet and wonderful and wholesome and and and. now my sleepy ass wants to intrude on their cuddle pile because i am a sleepy girl. ENTIRELY SELF-AFFLICTED THIS IS WHAT I GET FOR BEING A SPORTS FAN + A STUBBORN BITCH!!!

OOOOOOOOHHHH BRIMMY IS LEARNING MORE COMPLEX MAGICCCCC!!!! i love my little prodigy, they're doing so well under qifrey's guidance!!! AND THEY'RE MORE COMMUNICATIVE!!! THINGS ARE SO LOOKING UP FROM HERE!!!!!

ah man. you had to remind me of the silverwood. BOOOOOO TOMATO TOMATO!!!!! also. ohohoho brimmy is super sweet alright!!!

And if there is anywhere in this world, anywhere at all, that Qifrey would choose to put down his roots, it would be here—in this quiet atelier he calls home, beneath the open sky, and the sound of your laugh still ringing inside it.

HEY WHEN YOU FUCKING SAY ROOTS YOU MEAN METAPHORICALLY RIGHT?????/ THIS IS A METAPHOR?????? THERE AREN'T ACTUAL ROOTS BEING PUT DOWN INTO THE GROUND????? but also his little atelier becoming a home and not a self-imposed isolation I SOBS AND I CRIES. im literally heading to your ko-fi rn because genuinely i don't think my reblog is enough to show my love and appreciated for your writing.

now why is a pegasus coming to the humble atelier??

OLRUGGIO??????????? HE'S ARRIVED???????? SPINNING AROUND LIKE A FUCKING BALLERINA THE GAYS REUNITE!!!!!!

The man in question looks exhausted. His travelling cloak hangs crookedly from one shoulder, wrinkled from travel and pinned askew. There are several overstuffed bags—crammed to the seams with all sorts of magical trinkets and inventions, no doubt—abandoned by his feet next to the carriage platform. He drags a hand through his already disastrous hair, one eye twitching faintly in a manner Qifrey is all too familiar with.

wow. i need to jump his bones immediately. give him a proper welcome back home like a husband who needs to comfort of home after returning to war hehehe. QIFREY YOU NEED TO GET ON YOUR KNEES AND OPEN YOUR MOUTH, THAT IS NOT THE KIND OF WELCOME YOU GIVE YOUR LOVER!!!!

Qifrey throws his arms around Olruggio before he can finish the sentence. Olruggio staggers back a step—words cutting off abruptly as Qifrey buries his face in his shoulder, taken by surprise—but only for a moment. Then strong arms close around Qifrey in return, tightening instinctively, drawing him into the safety of their embrace.

AWWWWWWW THEM BITCHES ARE SO FUCKING GAYYYYYY!!!!!! i cannot wait to see how brimmy reacts to having him around!!!

mae you really said happy pride month for these two because wdym he sniffing his scent (your abo is showing) and how olly's warmth is able to disarm him and how he feels so much that it hurts and that his hands are lingering on him even after the ypull away from the hug (sorry the lack of sleep is catching up to me so im about to say some stupid shit)

BRIMMY'S BRUSH BUDDY RETURNS YA HOOO!!!!

oh my god my soul bounded brother and sister meet for the first time. i can see the disaster in the air.

JFIEAWJFIEAOW;JFIEAJFI;AEOFIJRIF;OA OLLY IS SO FUNNY!!! no sir, it's not that they don't like you, it's that they don't like how close you are with their master. and how you do things with him that only they should do with him. it's okay, we are all doomed the same way at the end of the day. and as long as you don't hurt qifrey, then they will tolerate you!!!

"You know what? I'm not sure I believe you." Olruggio grunts as he stoops to gather his bags. Qifrey just laughs, putting a hand on Olruggio's shoulder to steer him towards the atelier door.

oh babes, you have no idea.

qifrey has to choose between his love triangle, except one is his literal student and is probably way too young for the reader and his childhood best friend whom he would die for. hmmmmmm, i wonder what qifrey will choose!!

Qifrey's hands falter. You are merely making an observation; yet for some reason your words leave him feeling uncomfortably exposed—as though they have reached into a locked box tucked away in some dark corner of his heart and dragged it into the light, intruded upon something even he rarely allows himself to examine. He tries to think of a suitable response but comes up empty; anything honest feels too stripping to confess aloud, yet anything less feels woefully inadequate—a disservice to all that Olruggio means to him. "He's a very dear friend to me," is what he says, eventually.

DEAR FRIEND MY ASS, YOU WANT HIM UP YOUR ASS!!! i do love how despite qifrey's growing affections for brimmy, olly is still his endgame, regardless of what doomed future awaits for them. and i love how well brimmy has come to learn qifrey!! not only is it indicative of how well they know their master, but i also think its because qifrey still doesn't know at this point how to hide his true feelings from people. part of the reason he decided to have his atelier so far from the great hall is to prevent people from getting closer to him and uncovering his secrets. after brimmy, i can totally see him putting up a more cheery front, like we see in the current manga and anime run!! sparklefrey coming to a blog near you!!

AWWWW THEY'RE COOKING TOGETHERRRR!!! SO CUTE SO DOMESTIC SO IN LOVEEEE!!!!

"No, no. Like this." Qifrey steps in behind you, gently adjusting your hand around the handle. "Careful. Keep the fingers of your other hand tucked inward, always resting against the flat of the blade." He guides your knuckles into place over the yam. "Just like that. That way, you'll never cut yourself."

sabrina carpenter lip biting emoji. oh i see what you are throwing down qifrey hehehehehe

THIS SCENE IS SO FUCKING CHARGED I LOVE ITTT!!! i hope olly walks in and is like "what the fuck is going on here????" LMAO BRIMMY YOU'RE SO FUNNY!! i see you wanting to keep qifrey all to yourself.

oh of course olly and brimmy are neglecting their health together... they are so father and child no dna test need to be done

OLLY AGAIN YOU ARE SO FUNNY I DONT THINK BRIMMY POISONED YOU.... i think....

"I dunno." Olruggio leans back slightly, one hand braced against the floor while the other rolls the spoon, licked clean, between his fingers. "You just… you stopped contacting me for a while, after the Tower of Tomes. I thought it was because you were giving up on searching for your past, so—" He blows out a breath, dark hair on his brow stirring faintly. "So I tried to give you your space, but you never really reached out after. I was… I guess I was just worried about you, this entire time." He shrugs, cut-sapphire eyes softening to a summer-sky hue. "But seeing you like this—an atelier of your own, an apprentice who's clearly territorial over you, by the way—you're doing far better than I'd hoped. I'm happy for you."

oh brother... you have no idea how much brimmy loves their new life...

Thank you, I'm sorry, Qifrey doesn't say. Instead, he swallows the words thick in his throat, and smiles. "I'm happy you're here too, Olruggio."

OH THIS IS GOING TO BE SOSOSOSO FUNNN

NOOOOOO HE'S NOT SNEAKING INTO BRIMMY'S ROOM ok he is but he is doing it for good reason... after the incident with the kestrel's maw poor qifrey gets anxious whenever the atelier is too quiet because he's afraid apprentice might be up to no good again... so he has (more) trouble sleeping and occasionally goes up to their room to check in on them!!! it calms his heart rate

they picked fruit together!!!!

I'M SERIOUS NOTHING BAD AT ALL HAPPENS IN DP PART TWO except for poor apprentice when olruggio rolls up to the atelier then it is the Worst Thing To Ever Happen to Them but i'm so glad you enjoy venus by sleeping at last!! i adore that song sniffsniff

i want to go to the great hall so bad...

"NO BRIMMY!!!! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE YOUR OWN PERSON OUTSIDE OF QIFREY'S WANTS AND EXPECTATIONS!!!!! you don't need to do everything based on his desires, you're allowed to want things too!!!" <- well about that... what if they simply desire everything their master wants hmm...

apprentice is nervous without their master...

oooh im actually so surprised you took note of the beldaruit part :O yes i do think qifrey would probably have asked some advice but rather than how to teach apprentice? it would be how to take care of them and guide them as they grow because i think that's what qifrey is most concerned with about... especially after that little scene in the manga when beldaruit ruffled qifrey's hair and it almost made him tree out... in my mind beldaruit tries to shove a massive stack of books into his hands like "how to be a master for dummies" and qifrey gets so exasperated he dumps them at the entrance (and then regrets it in pt 3 dfkjgndkjfgn)

HELP ZOZO THE ENTIRETY OF SUSPENSION OF BELIEF IS BASICALLY AN APPRENTICE MASTER KINK GKJSNKGNFSJGNKD im so embarrassed

i would say rather than brimmy surprising qifrey with their brilliance everyday they surprise him with who they are!! everyday qifrey learns more about them is like a new adventure, and that's what beldaruit was looking out for in qifrey because he wanted to know that qifrey had taken in an apprentice he genuinely cares about <333

brimmy has made... well... acquaintances 😩 i wouldn't go so far as to call them friends

"but yet even his beauty does not dare to compare the etherealness of maechan!!! FIGHT ME ON THAT I AM RIGHT!!!!!" OKAY LET'S FIGHT RIGHT NOW THEN 😠👊🏻 argh wait i don't want to hurt zozo... but i just wanted you to know i'd win 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

YEAH WELL ABOUT SEEING THOSE FRIENDS AGAIN...

he gave brimmy his robe because they were barefoot and it was raining and he was afraid they'd be cold!!!!!

THEY TOSSED THEIR KID INTO THE SEA BECAUSE THEY COULDN'T AFFORD TO FEED THEM ALL

PLEASE STOP GIVING ME MONEY SKDJGNKSDN ZOZO DOESN'T NEED TO PAY A DIME FOR ANYTHING I WRITE AHHHHH

ahaha yes of course i mean metaphorical roots ahaha this is in no way an allusion to him feeling more content and safe in the atelier even without olruggio around because of his apprentice and not at all about him slowly growing more and more at peace with the idea of death if it means he can savour this slow perfect life for a while longer ahahahahahaha

"wdym he sniffing his scent (your abo is showing)" <- HELLOOOOOOO⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️

"i do love how despite qifrey's growing affections for brimmy, olly is still his endgame, regardless of what doomed future awaits for them" oooh... i wouldn't say that actually hehe... in chapter three i think things become a lot more apparent!!! and the emotions/feelings that qifrey has for both his apprentice and olruggio are equally deep but in different ways... but it gets worse towards the end but i shan't spoil anything!!!!

He finds you one afternoon as ordinary as any other. It's raining when he reaches the port town of Havso—a steady patter that turns the cobblestones slick and darkens the wood of every dock and doorway. For all the precision Qifrey has honed over water, getting wet remains an irritation he's never quite outgrown, and the sound of rain prickles at his awareness like a thousand fine needles, impossible to ignore. He hurries through the narrow streets, searching the shops—for a new cast iron pot to replace the one that had cracked last week, some twine for binding dried herbs, other small sundries—when he sees you.

The canvas awning you're huddled beneath is doing almost nothing at all—not to protect you from the cold spring rain, or from the sharp, biting winds sweeping in from the coast. Water drips steadily from the hem of your smock, your hair plastered in wet strings to your narrow cheeks. Despite this, you don't move.

Qifrey doesn't mean to stop. But he does.

You look up when his shadow falls over you. He takes the edge of his cloak, the water dispelling spell inked discretely beneath its hem, and sweeps it in a gentle arc above your head. The rain above you curves away. Your eyes widen ever so slightly, your gaze tracing the water trickling off the air as though sliding off an invisible dome, before you look back at him again.

"I don't like getting wet," Qifrey says, in manner of explanation.

You simply stare. For a moment, Qifrey wonders if you speak the common tongue at all—it's not uncommon for sailors from foreign kingdoms to abandon unwanted children in port towns like this—or if you're simply mute.

"You're soaked," he tries again, more gently this time. "Do you have anywhere to go?"

Silence stretches in the space between each of his heartbeats. The rain patters, fingertips dancing along the boundary he's drawn. Then, you shake your head.

So you do understand him. Qifrey should have guessed—children like you are a dime a dozen here, orphans, strays, the overlooked and unclaimed. No one would notice if one or more vanished from the edges of the docks.

Convenient, a colder part of him supplies. You are old enough to comprehend, young enough to be malleable, and compared to an apprentice born into a family of witches, you won't know enough of magic—and by extension, the silverwood—to ask questions that he doesn't want or know how to explain.

He takes you in.

The first few weeks are easier than he expects. You come to him with no poor habits to unlearn—no stubborn rune-drawing tendencies, no theoretical 'shortcuts' circulated by some of the lazier professors in the Great Hall. Teaching you is like working on a blank sheet of parchment. You simply watch what he does and try to do the same. And when you fail—which is often—you do not seem to be affected or frustrated. You simply do it again.

The only real issue is that you have never learned to write. Qifrey watches your hand wobble across the parchment—leaving dark splotches in some places, lines breaking off in others. Your fingers wrap around the ink wand like a stick you've picked off the ground, all knuckles and no finesse.

Qifrey lets out a quiet sigh.

"Your grip is wrong."

You look up at him, uncomprehending. Qifrey sighs again and hesitates, just briefly, before he steps closer and leans down. His hand slides over your fingers, carefully adjusting each one until the wand rests properly between them, the tip hovering just above the parchment.

"Like that."

The moment he releases you, however, your grip tightens again reflexively. The wood of the ink wand creaks faintly in protest. He quickly takes your hand again.

"Gently," he murmurs. "Like holding a robin's egg."

Qifrey guides your hand across the parchment. A straight line. A square. A circle. Your hand relaxes under his, just a little.

"Just like that," he says, and lets go. You look at the ink wand in your hand. "Now, try again."

You practice until the sun goes down.

He teaches you the basics. The three basic components that make up every spell, the five elemental sigils for fire, wind, water, earth and light. The keystones that govern a spell's direction and strength and purpose, how the sizes of the rings can affect its range and potency. Everything he says, you memorise. And everything he teaches you, you practice until you can reproduce it by heart.

After only about a few months of training, Qifrey dares to say that you've reached the standard that most witches your age who've grown up around magic would be at. The rate at which you're learning is… unexpected, to say the least. He should be pleased. Any decent teacher would be.

Qifrey tells himself this as he watches you inscribe a heating spell along the belly of a copper kettle. It's a reasonably complex problem for a beginner—the spell must conjure heat but not fire, be stable enough to maintain an even boil, hot enough to warm but not so fierce as to warp or melt the metal. It's a careful balance of precision and power that tends to elude most newcomers to spellcasting.

You hand him the kettle when you finish. Qifrey pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and lifts it up to his good eye, turning it slightly in the flickering light coming from the fireplace. The dispersion keystones are neatly drawn, arranged around the central fire sigil in two concentric circles. The limiting keystones sit where they should, too—balanced on either side, ready to dampen the spell the moment the heat climbs too high.

"Good," Qifrey says at last. The word feels thinner than it should be. He lingers a moment longer than necessary, as if searching for some flaw to justify a correction, but finds none. "We'll be able to use this to brew tea in the mornings, now."

You nod once at his assessment from where you're watching him by the kitchen table, then ask, "What next?"

There is no flicker of pride. No satisfaction in your work, no pause to take in what you've done. Just a simple what next, as if each perfected spell is nothing more than a marker on a long road you don't care much to tread on.

The first thin root of worry pushes through the soil of his chest.

Qifrey tries to keep his distance at first. He really does. A master-apprentice relationship only needs to go so deep for one to learn and the other to worry, and too much closeness would be counterproductive in his attempts to keep the silverwood at bay. He buys you all sorts of magical books and supplies you with wands and ink when you need it. He cooks, too, warm and filling meals that nourish the body and are rich in nutrients, until the hollowness in your cheeks softens, replaced by a healthier, rounded plumpness. He corrects your glyphs when he spots mistakes and guides your hand when your lines falter. It barely assauges the guilt in his chest.

You don't make it easier for him. Through no fault of your own, he knows, and yet somehow, that only makes it worse. You don't seek him out for any needs outside of your magic studies, never ask for anything, and eat exactly what he puts in front of you without comment. You wake up at dawn to start the tea kettle, and from there you start practicing magic without ceasing until he has to firmly tell you to go to bed.

There are no tantrums, no complaints, no childish demands for attention or affection. Surely, even children must have their preferences. Trinkets they like, foods they refuse to eat. But you are quiet and serious and wrong in a way that he cannot name, and Qifrey finds himself watching you much the same way Beldaruit had once watched him.

"You don't have to keep doing that," he tells you one evening. You're hunched over the kitchen with a half-empty cup of water, the parchment in front of you crowded with dozens of identical glyphs. The fire sigil that you'd just traced over in water glistens for a moment, then fades as the parchment slowly dries. You must have drawn the same glyph at least a hundred times now.

You don't look up, dipping your wand in water again. "My circles aren't perfectly round yet."

"You don't have to master everything in a single day. You could take a break."

"Why?"

Qifrey doesn't have an answer for that. Or rather, it's perhaps that he has too many. Because you look tired but refuse to admit it. Because your hands will cramp if you keep going. Because watching you work yourself into the ground makes me feel something too similar to what I used to feel for Olruggio, and that scares me.

"It was only a suggestion."

You consider it for a moment, and then turn back to your parchment. Qifrey sighs, pushing aside his robes to lower himself into the chair across from you.

"Do you have any reason for learning magic?"

You rotate your wrist once in the air before setting the wand's nib to parchment. "You asked me to."

"That's my reason, not yours."

"It's the only one I have."

Qifrey watches your hand move across the paper, and something in his chest tightens. This arrangement is supposed to be simple—selfish, yes, but simple. You are supposed to ask things of him, to need him in small, manageable ways that keep him worried just enough about your progress and studies without causing him too much concern. You have done exactly just that.

And yet here he is, worrying about you constantly for a completely different reason.

He thinks of Beldaruit's gentle gaze, the soft curl of smoke illusions coaxed into being on nights when sleep proved treacherous, when the memories of darkness and rain pounding unceasingly against metal and claustrophobia set in. He remembers Olruggio's warm smile and even warmer eyes, the ribbon on his hat that Qifrey still touches sometimes in the dark, tracing the multiple preservation sigils he's inked onto the silk.

His reminder to never forget, to never grow complacent.

"Take a break," he says again, and this time, there's something in his voice that makes you stop.

You look at him for a long moment, head tilting slightly to the side. It reminds Qifrey vaguely of a sparrow. Finally, you speak.

"You're worried," you say, as though you're making an observation. Qifrey forces a smile.

"I'm your master. It's what I'm supposed to do."

You glance down at your parchment once more. For a moment he thinks you might refuse, ignore his words and go right back to practicing, but then you set your wand down next to the paper and push your chair back, legs scraping along the slate flagstones.

"I'll continue tomorrow," you announce, without looking at him.

"Good," he says in response, and the two of you sit in silence at the kitchen table, undisturbed except for the crackling of the fireplace, and Qifrey has to remember how to breathe without counting the spaces between each one.

Hearthglen Village is about a few furlongs from the atelier, more often than not in need of small, persistent fixes, and thusly, the ideal place for you to practice using magic after passing the Pentacle of Proving's second test. Qifrey walks beside you through the small handful of thatched cottages scattered through the patchwork quilt of farmfields, returning the villagers' greetings with easy familiarity. It's always good to maintain good relations with the unknowing, especially those living nearby.

Eventually, the two of you arrive in front of the client who'd requested Qifrey's services. The problem is simple: a farmer's irrigation ditch has gone haywire somehow, and now his turnips are drowning in mud. Qifrey could fix it alone in ten minutes, but that isn't the point. He nods towards the field, giving you an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

"Go on."

You hesitate only for a moment before you go, hovering tentatively over the knee deep muck with your sylph shoes as you float out to the irrigation ditch. Your expression is reminiscent of a wet cat's—vaguely displeased, faintly affronted, as though the world has committed a personal offense by being this unpleasant. Qifrey has to hold back a smile.

In the meantime, Qifrey chats with the farmer as you work—something about the summer heat this year, the stubbornness of the soil—but he makes sure to never let you slip from his sights. You're already at the ditch, hat bobbing as you hover over the mud. He can almost picture your hand beneath the shelter of your cloak: fingers wrapped around the wand, drawing those precise lines that you'd practiced over and over again with unswerving confidence.

He's listening to a rundown of this year's cabbage harvest when a faint rumble echoes across the field. The earth shifts, groaning as though rousing from a long slumber, and then the water starts to move. Mud loosens and starts to drain from the fields, revealing the green leaves of the turnips peeking out through the soil once more. It's quickly replaced by a steady stream of clear water.

The farmer's face brightens with relief. He claps his hands together with a delighted laugh, already turning to call out his thanks as you drift back over to the solid ground of the path, the hem of your cloak splattered with drying mud. You don't smile back; instead you wipe the faint sheen of sweat from your brow and look to Qifrey for approval.

He pushes his glasses up and nods once. "Well done."

You accept his verdict the same way you accept everything else—quietly, without visible pride or disappointment. The farmer tries to press a basket overflowing with all variety of squash into your hands and your eyes find Qifrey's like you aren't sure what to do with gratitude. He takes it for you.

"They're a natural," the farmer nudges Qifrey as he moves to leave. "Where'd you find a talent like that?" Despite the surge of pride that races through him, he hesitates.

"They found me," Qifrey says, instead.

More villagers request your help over the course of the afternoon. A family's goat wandered into a small ravine, a child's kite got stuck in a tree. You lift the frantically bleating animal to safety with a levitating spell, and coax the wind into tugging the kite loose from an elm's tangled branches while the village children gather to watch you work with eyes full of wonder. The girl bounces on her heels as the toy finally drifts down into your waiting hand, and you hand it over without a smile.

She hugs your legs anyway. You stand there awkwardly, arms glued to your sides, and Qifrey has to look away before he laughs.

Hours later, after the last request has been fulfilled and the sun is low enough to turn the clouds a warm ombre-ochre, you and Qifrey decide to walk home, the path stretching before you like a pale ribbon through the fields. You walk next to him in silence, as you always do, fingers stained with smudges of black ink and clay soil.

"You did well today," he says.

"Thank you."

"But."

You glance at him then. Just a slight flicker of the eyes, darting sideways and upwards. You've learned, by now, that your master is far from straightforward around topics that are necessary but difficult to broach.

"But?"

"But magic doesn't seem to make you happy," he finishes.

You neither deny nor confirm it. Your steps just slow slightly against the gravel scattered on the path, stones crunching beneath the soles of your boots. For a while, there is only the sound of the wind moving through the wheat fields.

Eventually, you speak.

"Does it have to?"

Qifrey thinks about that. About the way you've perfected every spell he's taught you but never once asked to learn any out of your own desire. About how you can spend hours, days, drawing circles and lines over and over again simply because he tells you to. About how quickly you've become good at magic—and how little of it seems to belong to you.

"It doesn't have to," Qifrey says, at last. He's cast all sorts of magic in his life, spells that have burned and hollowed, ones that have scarred and pained him beyond what any physical wound can. Not all of it was joy. Not all of it was kind.

Yet.

"But you should find a reason. To desire magic, I mean."

You glance at him, eyes briefly searching, as though weighing the shape of his words, their meaning. He licks his lips, suddenly dry.

"Magic is meant to grant wishes of the people," he says, more gently now. "To bless them. That includes yourself." His lips press together, smile half-formed before faltering, and the wind moves through the fields, rustling restlessly through the long grass. "I—I hope you can learn magic not because I tell you to, but because you want to."

The last sentence escapes him in a rush, as though forced from his lungs with some sort of wind dispelling spell. The thought settles heavy in his chest again, the silverwood shuddering. For all his care—for all the effort he's poured into teaching you properly, responsibly—one truth remains unchanged: Qifrey had taken you in because he needed an apprentice. Not out of kindness. Not out of any noble intent he can comfortably name.

He doesn't know what he would say if you ever asked him why. Any lie would feel too great a disservice to the one person he'd thrust this fate upon, and the truth feels brittle, insufficient—something that would fracture the moment he speaks it aloud.

But you never have. Sometimes, he suspects that you already know.

The remainder of the walk back passes in silence. The sky fades from sienna to lavender before deepening to a dark indigo. One by one, the first stars emerge at the very top of the firmament, their light faint and trembling. You say nothing, and Qifrey tells himself to give you time—you need space to process things, and pressuring you would only make you retreat further into yourself, like a snail hiding in its own shell.

The atelier comes into view at the end of the lane, its windows dark. Qifrey steps ahead, undoing the sealing glyphs on the door. It swings open with a soft creak, and he pauses, holding it ajar for you to step through.

You don't.

He turns back to see you standing a step behind the threshold, gaze lowered to the path at your feet, as though something he cannot see there has snared your attention and taken it captive. Qifrey frowns, head tilting.

"Apprentice?"

You don't answer immediately, hands in your pockets, the tip of your boot scuffing the ground. Then, quietly—

"I want to cure Master."

For a moment, Qifrey forgets how to breathe. He can only stare at you, mouth slightly parted. The words fail to catch despite him having nothing to say. Your voice had been small, careful—like you'd been turning the words over in your mouth for miles, smoothing their edges so they wouldn't cut your tongue on the way out. Of all the things he'd imagined you might say, this had never even been within his considerations.

He grips the door handle a little more firmly for support. The brass carvings bite its patterns into his skin of his palm.

"Cure me," he repeats, dumbly.

"Yes." You nod, the movement slow, as if hesitant in your admission. "The headaches that you try to hide from me. And your right eye, too," you add, pointing at the side of his face covered by his hair, as if he might not know the one. "You touch it when you think I'm not watching, but it seems like it hurts."

Qifrey didn't realise you'd noticed. He thought he'd been careful.

"I thought I asked you," he says, more quietly, more unsteadily now, "to want something for yourself."

"I don't like seeing Master in pain."

Qifrey’s grip on the door falters. Something tightens in his chest—perhaps the silverwood, perhaps something else, so sharp it cuts him open like a blade, and yet he doesn't know whether he wants to let go. For so long, he's been waiting—for you to want something, to reach beyond instruction, to claim even the smallest piece of magic for your own.

And you have.

Qifrey exhales slowly, the sound thin against the quiet of the evening. For once, there is no ready answer waiting behind his teeth. He thinks of Olruggio's face, the path to salvation he'd offered Qifrey paved with the pieces of his own memory. He thinks of the tree growing inside of him, its roots tangled in his ribs, its branches seeking the sun through where his eye once used to be.

Healing magic is a direct alteration of the body, and every form of body alteration is forbidden—banned on the Day of the Pact, enforced by the Knights Moralis with iron and fire. And even if it wasn't, the silverwood is not merely an illness. There is no cure for what grows inside of him.

But you don't know any of that.

So Qifrey smiles softly. Releases his death grip on the door, pulling away to rest a hand on top of your head, the same way Beldaruit used to do for him.

"That's very kind of you," he says.

Your expression doesn't change, but the tautness in your shoulders loosens just a fraction, as if you'd been bracing for him to laugh at you, to dismiss your dream as a fool's flight and fancy. Instead, he pushes the door open wider and gestures you inside.

"Come on," Qifrey tells you, swallowing the sudden thickness lodged in his throat. "Wash up. I'll make squash stew for dinner."

You nod and disappear up the steps to the second floor. Your footsteps fade quickly, and soon Qifrey's ears pick up the sound of running water, of the bath being filled.

He remains in the doorway a moment longer, one hand braced against the frame, the other lifting—almost unconsciously—to brush over where his right eye used to be, featherlight. The motion is familiar, thoughtless. Almost habitual.

But he's been exposed, now. A deprecating laugh escapes him, the wisps of it slipping between his teeth. It's only now, Qifrey thinks, that he's beginning to realise just how foolish he'd been.

He's fallen into the pit that he'd dug with his own two hands.

Sleep eludes Qifrey that night.

He lies on his back, one arm thrown over his forehead, the other resting on his chest. Beneath skin and bone, the cage of his ribs, the silverwood pulses its slow, patient rhythm, waiting. The ceiling above him is indistinguishable in the dark, but he's stared at it so many sleepless nights that he can recall to memory the grain of every plank, the small water stain in the corner that faintly resembles a bird in flight.

Just above him, in the room upstairs, you are sleeping soundly—or he hopes so, at least. Belly full of squash stew, dreaming of pleasant things. That you are warm and resting, and that, for once, you are not pushing yourself past the point of sense simply because he asked it of you.

I want to cure Master.

Qifrey turns onto his side, facing the wall. His pillowcase smells faintly of lavender—scented sachets you'd made last week, making use of some aromatics a village herbalist had given you for your help. He'd accepted one when you'd offered it, almost without thinking, assuming that it was thoughtful but practical gesture.

Now, the scent lingers like smoke.

Beldaruit used to say that the best apprentices were the ones who could surprise you. Qifrey always assumed he meant talent, insight, some brilliant intuition that no one else could replicate. Someone who could make teachers lean forward in their seats and think, that's the one.

But here, lying in his bed, your words from hours ago still sitting warm in his chest, he wonders if the old man had meant something else entirely.

Qifrey pushes out a breath, the tip of his tongue pressing behind his teeth. You will learn about the forbidden magic, eventually. Every witch does—and as your master, it will be his responsibility to teach you about it. Some things are too dangerous. Some lines cannot be crossed. All magic that is drawn on the human body or affects the human body is outlawed.

And that includes healing magic.

You will learn that, and then you will not ask too many questions about why his eye cannot be fixed. Eventually, you will move on and find another, better wish.

But for now, Qifrey takes your words and folds them carefully, tucking them away into the furthest corner of his heart where the silverwood cannot reach. He closes his one good eye and waits for the sun to rise once again. And when it does, Qifrey will greet you in the kitchen downstairs with a cup of hot tea and a smile, he will teach you combination sigils and binding spells, and he will never bring it up again.

Because some wishes are too heavy to be said aloud, and some teachers are too selfish to let them go.

Summer slips unnoticed into autumn, and autumn, in turn, yields to winter. Qifrey teaches you to crochet, then to knit—awkward at first, fingers too stiff around the slumbersheep yarn until Qifrey takes your hands and guides you through the movements, much in the same way he does when teaching you spells. He shows you how to tend to the heating spells that keep the house warm without burning it down, how to summon precise gusts of wind to blow snow off the atelier's sloping roofs. And the months pass just as the weather changes—gradual, inevitable, marked only in hindsight by the shift in the air, the thinning of light.

And as you grow older, Qifrey finds the distance he once tried so carefully to maintain eroded by the same unrelenting tide. Bit by bit, day by day—until one morning he wakes up and realises he cannot quite remember what it feels like to not have you there.

It's not something that changes overnight. Instead, it is a thousand small, mundane things—the way his hand moves without thinking to drop two cubes of sugar into your teacup, the copper kettle with your heating spell whistling behind him on the stove. You're at the basin with your sleeves rolled up to your elbows, washing a skillet faintly smelling of bacon while a brushbuddy dozes on your shoulder. Everything is good, and everything is warm.

This is dangerous, Qifrey thinks. And then he thinks it again, because the first time hadn't been enough to make him stop.

The morning he's forced to confront it comes without warning. Quietly, unassumingly, a thief in the night.

Qifrey notices that something is different the moment he steps into the quiet of the kitchen. The kettle is cold, and the matching cups that a travelling potter had made for you sit upturned on the counter, untouched from where you'd set them aside to dry last night. He stands in the doorway for a moment, listening. The atelier breathes around him like an extension of his own body—the soft creak of timber settling, the low whisper of wind along the eaves—but beneath it, nothing. No quiet patter of footsteps in the floor upstairs. No water running in the washroom.

Perhaps you're sleeping in, he tells himself. The idea is almost pleasant. You never do; you're always awake before him, tea already steeped, moving around the kitchen to prepare breakfast—presence slipped so easily into his morning routine that he'd stopped noticing it altogether.

Qifrey sets the kettle to heat, before rummaging for the battered tin of tea leaves in the overhead shelf. He prepares a cup for you, placing it at the chair that has become yours in all but name, and sits across it with his own. The brew's a little more astringent than he's used to—steeped a touch too long, perhaps—but he drinks it anyway, idly sorting through the neglected stack of mail from the council.

The sun climbs higher in the sky. Light spills through the kitchen window, between the gap in the curtains, inching slowly across the table to catch on the rim of your untouched cup. Qifrey looks through the latest spell you've been working on: an attempt at replicating his Palm Dragon Teacup. He makes small suggestions in the margins, noting down more efficient arrangements and combinations of keystones, ideas for refining its precision. Still, it's good work. Your work is always good.

More time passes. He finally completes drafting a letter to the Great Hall—something about independent ateliers and watchful eyes—and sends it off before picking up a book about complex fire spells. Qifrey thumbs through the pages slowly, more out of idleness than focus, pausing every now and then when something catches his eye. A variation making use of the stabilising keystone. A more efficient heat-dispersal glyph. He dog-ears about six different pages with the intention of showing them to you later, when he looks up and realises that your tea has long gone cold.

Qifrey closes his book, sets it aside, and heads for the stairs.

Your bedroom door is closed.

That isn't surprising to Qifrey. You've always been a private person by nature, and you're even moreso protective of your few possessions, your personal space. Qifrey learned early on not to intrude without invitation or cause.

But your diversion from routine is… odd. Surely you will forgive his worry.

Qifrey hesitates, knuckles hovering over the wood of your door, before he knocks. "Apprentice?"

No answer.

He knocks again, a little sharper this time. "It's past noon. If you want to sleep in, just let me know, alright? You deserve the rest."

Still no answer.

The thin thread of unease tightens around his chest.

"I'm coming in."

The door swings open easily beneath his hand. The room that he steps into is familiar and empty. Your blankets are carefully folded at the foot of the bed, your traveling cloak absent from its hook by the window. And your sylph shoes, the ones that he'd helped you mend just last week, are missing from their place next to the dresser.

Qifrey stands in the center of the room, the air suddenly going very, very still. The silverwood in his chest trembles.

Calm down, he tells himself firmly. Your bed is made—your absence must be deliberate. There must be some sort of explanation. Perhaps you wanted a taste of mischief, to act your age for once. Perhaps you snuck out to one of the nearby villagers, Hearthglen or Azmar, to meet people, make friends. Be normal. You mentioned the daughter of Azmar's baker last week. He recalls a girl your age with flour on her apron who'd been fascinated with your magic. Perhaps you've gone to pay her a visit.

He turns slowly, forcing his gaze to move along with him. Your ink wands are in a little cup on your table, textbooks sitting in rows on the shelf where they belong. Encyclopedias, histories, grimoires he'd deemed safe for for your learning. Nothing out of place. He's about to leave the room, fetch a guidance orb just to make sure that you're alright, when—

Something small and furtive shifts between a gap in the books. The brushbuddy's tail twitches into view before it darts back into the narrow space behind, as though caught somewhere it shouldn't be.

Qifrey frowns.

He reaches up and pulls the entire front row of volumes aside, setting them down on the table with a heavy thump. Dust stirs in the air. Behind them sits another, shorter stack of books, tucked neatly out of sight. Aside from him, there isn't another occupant in this atelier for you to hide things from. Which means you meant to conceal this deliberately. From him.

Why?

Qifrey ignores the cold uncertainty in his chest, picking up the first book. Medical journal. Second. Herbal remedies of the Southern Continent. Third, an encyclopedia on human anatomy, although only the section on ophthalmology is bookmarked, annotated so densely that barely any margin is left untouched. The rest of the books are of a similar vein.

Only the last one is different—a notebook, worn pages filled with a cramped but script that he would recognise anywhere. The rest are filled with sketches—plants that even he doesn't recognise at first glance, roots and leaves and bulbs rendered with careful attention to detail. Analgesic properties. Toxic in high doses. Antispasmodic. Causes hallucinations.

He flips through more rapidly, pulse quickening, but the later pages only get worse.

Burn, left forearm. Applied tincture from ground monoceros horn and milkwort. Moderate pain reduction, mild nausea. Bruise, right knee. Poultice from steeped elderwood and nightpoppy. Significant pain relief, but results in complete loss of sensation and movement in area. Lasts three hours. Burn—

Qifrey's vision blurs. His other hand grips the edge of your chair, knuckles white, breath coming out sharp and shallow as he forces himself to breathe. You've been hurting yourself. On purpose. Testing remedies for… for—

He doesn't dare to let that thought complete itself. He turns the pages quickly, skimming past entries until he reaches the last one. The ink is smudged where the parchment presses together, as if you'd jotted it down and closed it in a hurry. It's still faintly wet.

There is a rough sketch of silvery stems and thin, needle-like leaves. Spineneedles, you've labelled them. Your notes crowd the margins: potent pain-relieving properties. Possible long-term restorative effects. Grows only in steep valleys inhabited by winged serpentines, venom necessary for germination. And below it—

Kestrel's Maw, eight furlongs north of atelier. Serpentines least active at dusk and dawn.

Qifrey feels his blood turn to ice in his veins. Outside the window, the sun hangs high in the cold winter sky, almost at its zenith—long past dawn, past any reasonable margin of safety. It's far too late. You should have been back hours ago. No, worse—you should have never gone at all, risking your life for such foolish, pointless endeavours. You should have been in this very room, sleeping soundly beneath the blankets, unharmed and safe and under Qifrey's protective eye. Instead—

He'd flown over Kestrel's Maw once, years ago. He still remembers the way the cliffs drop away into nothing, wind screaming through the narrow ravines, strong enough to throw even an experienced witch off balance. And the serpentines there are especially aggressive—great, winged creatures with beaks like drawn swords—nesting in the crevices where the spineneedles grow.

And that's where you've gone.

I'm responsible for this, Qifrey thinks numbly, and the words are a realisation as much as an accusation aimed at himself. I did this. I made you this way. I wanted someone to worry about, and now—

The image comes to him, unbidden: your body, broken at the base of the ravine. Impaled by sharp spikes at the bottom, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Cloak ripped and dark with blood, flesh torn from your bones by monstrous beaks. And your face—that quiet, serious, earnest face—pale, chest still, eyes open yet blank and vacant and unseeing and—

No.

No.

Qifrey runs. He doesn't think. He doesn't allow himself to. The door is too far—he shoves your shutters open and throws himself out of the second floor window, into the harsh midday sunlight. For a second, wind rushes up to meet him, flailing, falling—before the sylph seal beneath his feet flares. And then he's airborne, rising too fast but not fast enough, the wind tearing at his hair, the fragile control he's forcing himself to hold together.

Please, not them, is all he can think as he hurtles through the sky. Not my apprentice. Not them. I'll do anything. Please, please, please—

He doesn't know who he's begging, only that he'll beg anything, bargain everything—if it means that you're still alive when he arrives.

Even from a distance, the ravine makes for an unnerving sight. The karst pinnacles spear upwards as though they seek to pierce the sky, like the vicious teeth of some enormous, long-dead beast. Qifrey had forgotten how sharp they were, every edge honed to something hostile. Even the light falls strangely, splintered by stone so that shadows fall where they shouldn't, fractured into shifting planes that make depth and distance difficult to judge.

He clears the plains beneath him with unmatched speed, wind tearing past him—

—and then, he sees you.

You're clinging to a narrow outcropping perhaps fifty feet below the cliff's edge, body pressed close to the rock wall as though trying to become one with it yourself. Your sylph shoes are missing from one foot, and there's a long rend in your cloak. You aren't moving—only holding on, just barely—feet perilously close to the edge of a fatal, yawning drop below.

Above you, three winged serpentines circle patiently in the air. Their beaks hang slightly open, tongues flickering you as if tasting the air—your blood, your fear, the inevitability of what's next. The only mercy here is that they're not attacking. They are waiting, drawing it out. The same way a cat toys with a mouse it already knows cannot escape.

Qifrey doesn't stop or slow. He dives.

The wind screams past his ears, rising to a fever pitch as he plummets. His palm quire slips into his hand by instinct alone, wand flying over the paper in sharp, practiced strokes before he can even spare a thought as to who might be watching.

The spell takes shape in a single breath. Water wrenches itself from the air, the thin moisture caught in wind and stone, surging upwards into a coiling mass until it takes shape—a great, fluid dragon, its body twisting through the open air with a roar that echoes throughout the entire length of the gorge.

Two serpentines are caught in its jaws almost immediately, their cries cut short amidst the sound of snapping wing and bone. The third shrieks, veering sharply away before wheeling back, beak gaping in fury—but Qifrey is already moving, one arm wrapping around your waist and tearing you off the cliff face, hauling you bodily into the open air. You make a quiet sound in the back of your throat—the closest to afraid he's ever heard you—fingers gripping at the front of his shirt.

"Master—"

"Don't call me that right now."

The serpentines shriek behind him, rallying. Qifrey presses the sylph seal on his boots together, the weight of you unwieldy and palpable in his arms, and flies home.

You don't speak on the way back. Neither does he.

The atelier rises into view at the edge of the fields, its familiar shape cutting through the blur of wind and motion. He lands harder than he intends, knees buckling for a second before he forces himself forward—half-carrying, half-dragging you through the front door. Your cup remains where he left it, untouched on the kitchen table, and he sets you down onto the chair—the same one he'd been sitting in just an hour prior, drinking tea and so, so oblivious—more roughly than he intends.

You don't complain. You never do. The same way you never protest, never ask, never tell him anything—

Qifrey turns away. His hands are shaking. He wrenches open the drawers, rifling through them with none of his usual care, yanking out bandages, salves, clean gauzes. Something clenches in his chest like a fist, squeezing, tight, so tight.

"What were you thinking?" he snaps. He almost doesn't recognise his own voice—low and taut and cutting. "Going to such a dangerous place—alone—without telling anyone—without asking—"

He finds the antiseptic, shoved into the back of a drawer. His fingers slip on the stopper, trembling faintly.

"You could have died. Do you understand that? You could have died. Those creatures—they could have—" Sent you plummeting down the cliff. Eaten you. Torn you to pieces. He can't bring himself to finish the sentence. The images they conjure are too much to bear.

He whirls around again, still not quite looking at your face, and takes your left arm. The cuts are worse up close—long, ragged scratches that split skin, dried blood flaking at the edges. Your palms and fingers are raw and abraded from where you must have clung to the sharp rock.

Qifrey dabs at them with more force than necessary. You flinch just once, before going still again.

"Rash. Reckless. Stupid." The words spill out of him like water from a broken dam. They're sharp enough to wound, meant to hurt, and he knows this even as he says them but cannot bring himself to stop. "I didn't teach you that. I taught you to think, to assess, not throw yourself off cliffs for—for worthless plants—"

"Master—"

"I said don't." Hearing that title alone makes him want to scream. "Don't call me that now. You don't have any right to when you—"

"It's Master's fault."

The words land like a slap. Qifrey turns to look at you—one hand frozen over a roll of bandages, the echo of them stinging—only to find your mouth drawn taut in a stubborn line. And your eyes, those quiet, watchful eyes that have always followed him so carefully, are hard with something he's never seen in them before. Not guilt. Not shame. Something closer to accusation.

As though he is the one who has wronged you.

"Oh, it's my fault," he repeats, his voice rising sharply on its own, an unpleasant mixture of anger and incredulity. "I didn't tell you to sneak out without telling me. I didn't tell you to seek out winged beasts you have no experience fighting. I didn't tell you to—"

"Yes, because Master never tells me anything—"

"For good reason!" He throws his hands up, the dishcloth—stained with your blood—twisting taut between his white knuckled fingers. Qifrey wants to shake you. Maybe tear his hair out. Another part of him—a smaller, quieter part—wants to lock you in this atelier and throw away the key forever, just to make sure that you are safe. "There are things I don't tell you because they are dangerous, things that I am trying—I have been trying—to protect you from—"

"I don't need to be protected like a child—"

"Then stop acting like one!" Qifrey is shouting now. He knows that he is shouting. He can't stop. "Sneaking around behind my back, hiding books in your room, burning and cutting yourself, putting yourself in mortal danger for a cure that doesn't exist!"

Your obstinate expression only darkens further. "Master can't know for certain—"

"I do!" His hands come down hard on the tabletop, and you flinch. Your teacup jumps, porcelain clattering as it tips. Cold tea spills across the gingham patterns. "I know because—" Because he's already been to the Tower of Memories, and he knows that what ails him is no illness or curse. "—because I've already read every book, tried every remedy—I know that there is no cure! There is no cure, and there will never be, so stop trying to throw your life away for something so—"

"I won't!"

Something in Qifrey snaps.

"If you're so unwilling to listen to me," he says, his voice suddenly cold and flat, in a way that doesn't belong to him, "then maybe you should no longer be my apprentice."

The moment those words leave his mouth, Qifrey knows at once that he would do anything to take them back—tear them out of the air, swallow them whole even if they cut his throat to ribbons—but the damage is already done.

You go very still. The anger doesn't leave you, not entirely, but something beneath it fractures—hairline cracks spiderwebbing across thin river ice. Your mouth works soundlessly, shaping around words that don't make it out, before pressing into a thin, bloodless line.

When he dares a glance up again, your lashes are wet. You're not crying—you never have, not in front of him, at least—but your eyes are bright, too bright now, in a way that feels dangerously close. Your lower lip wobbles only once before you sink your teeth into it and force it still.

Qifrey hates water. The sound of rain makes his chest tight, and the feeling of being wet makes his skin crawl. He hates the way it blurs the fading remnants of his vision, the way it soaks through his clothes and leeches the heat from his bones, the way it reminds him of things he's forgotten and things he wishes he could forget.

But this—this—is worse.

Qifrey's hands falter, then drop back to his sides. Why had they even been raised in the first place? The kitchen is too quiet now, empty except for the phantom ghosts of your anger and his, the steady drip of tea from the table's edge, forming a puddle on the flagstones beneath. He feels exhausted all of a sudden—wrung dry and scraped hollow.

It's only then that he notices the bag. Your hand—the other one, still dirty and bleeding—is curled around a small pouch of cloth, pressed so tightly against your chest that your knuckles have gone white. Even after everything, you are still clinging to it. Still trying, desperately, to keep it safe.

"Give me the bag," he says.

Your eyes jump to Qifrey's face. You glance down at the bag, as though just only remembering thtat it's there, before your fingers tighten around it again, spine curving over it protectively. Hesitation flickers across your expression for a brief second, before you give a small, stubborn shake of the head.

No.

Qifrey sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, patience fraying, before he reins himself in forcefully. He's done more than enough damage, today. "I won't—I'm not going to do anything to it," he says, trying to sound reassuring, more gentle. He doesn't know if he succeeds. "Just—please. Give me the bag."

You stare at him for a moment longer, as though wordlessly weighing whether you can trust his words. Then, slowly, reluctantly—you loosen your death grip on the pouch and hold it out.

It's surprisingly light in his hand, once he takes it. Almost as though it holds nothing inside at all. His fingers, still faintly numb and tacky with your blood, fumble with the drawstrings as he pulls them loose. He looks inside.

A handful of silver leaves lie scattered across the bottom of the pouch. Thin and gleaming, each one shaped like a sewing needle. Spineneedles. Carefully gathered, but so few of them—barely enough to brew a single thumb-sized vial of tincture.

Yet the mere sight of them is enough to strip all the anger from him in an instant. Qifrey stares down into the pouch, the thin scatter of silver leaves there glinting faintly like stars in the night sky, and feels something inside him give way.

He isn't angry with you. He's never been angry with you. The one whom Qifrey is so unbearably angry with, so deeply ashamed of—is himself. Because the only reason you did any of this—pushed yourself to such lengths, put yourself in harm's way—is because he let you believe he could be cured. He'd smiled and selfishly kept the words you'd uttered that day close to his heart, like a precious treasure, and in doing so, he'd unwittingly sent you hurtling straight into danger's embrace.

A slow, quiet breath escapes him. Qifrey slowly lets himself sink to his knees in front of your chair, suddenly weary in a way that he cannot quite name.

You shift at the movement, glancing down at him with something uncertain in your expression, unsure of his moods.

"…Master?"

He sets the pouch on the table and carefully takes your hands in his. You try to tug them back to your chest on instinct but he holds on to your wrists, gentle but insistent. Qifrey turns them over, palms out, your fingers curling slightly, and looks at the small, round marks he's never looked close enough to notice before. Burn scars. Old and new, layered together, a wordless record of every time you had pressed pain into your own body in search of something that might help him.

His throat closes around the words he doesn't have.

"Thank you," is all he can say, in the end. Even then, it feels inadequate. "For trying to cure me. For going to such lengths to ease my pain." Qifrey pauses, his thumb brushing over a half-healed scab on your knuckle. "But it… it won't work."

You look at him, then. The defiance has receded from your eyes, leaving behind a thin, wavering uncertainty in its place. "How can Master be so sure it will not work?"

Because I've already tried everything. Because I read about it in the Tower, and I know the truth. Because the problem isn't my eye or the headaches—it is the tree growing inside of me, the parasite that will kill me if I stop worrying, if I stop hurting, if I let myself be happy for even a moment.

But Qifrey cannot say that. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. His fingers drift down unconsciously to brush the ribbon trailing from the top of his hat.

"Because, like I said, I've tried every remedy in existence." He shakes his head with a defeated smile, squeezing your hands. "Nothing works. And it only hurts me more—more than my eye or any headache—to see my beloved apprentice put themself in danger for my sake."

You go still, fingers curling loosely under his own.

"I should be the one protecting you," he continues. "Not the other way around. That—that's the whole point of having an apprentice." Qifrey almost laughs at that, the line of his mouth twisting into the shape of a half-formed, self-deprecating smile. Oh, he was so, so foolish. "I'm supposed to keep you safe. And yet, here you are, throwing yourself into danger for me."

His gaze drops back to your hands, the small scars scattered across your skin.

"I'm content," Qifrey says quietly. "With what I have now. The atelier. You." And as the words leave him, he realises that they are not merely for your sake—they are true, plain and simple. "The pain is small in comparison."

You don't speak for a moment. The afternoon light has shifted, turning golden and syrupy, pooling on the floor between you like liquid honey. Qifrey can hear the sound of his own heartbeat in the silence, a slow, steady march in his ears.

"But I don't like to see Master in pain."

Your voice is small, but matter-of-fact. You say it in the same way you might state an obvious truth, such as fire is hot and water is clear and the sun rises in the east. As if it's simply a fact of the universe that you dislike seeing him in pain—and therefore, you must do something about it.

Qifrey's heart clenches, a sharp and sudden thing. Before he can think better of it he's already leaning forward to gather you into his arms. It's the first time he's ever hugged you, he realises distantly. He's held you when you were learning to use sylph shoes for the first time, guided your hand and wand through careful strokes, rested a light hand on your head once or twice—but never anything like this. Never returned even a fraction of the quiet comfort you've given him simply by being there. Some master he's been.

You go stiff for a moment against his chest, caught off guard by the suddenness of the gesture. A few breaths pass before your shoulders loosen, ever so slightly, and then your forehead dips, coming to rest slowly against the line of his collarbone. And your hands, one half-bandaged and the other still dirty with smeared blood and dirt, come up to grip tentatively at the back of his shirt.

When had you become so precious to him?

He closes his one good eye and presses his face into the top of your head, ignoring the way his glasses push up on the bridge of his nose. Your hair smells faintly of lemon verbena and soap. "Don't do something so dangerous again, alright?" His voice comes out muffled, even to his own ears. "Promise me."

There's a long pause. Then: "I don't want to give up, Master."

Qifrey sighs, something between an amused sigh and weary acceptance. Clearly, it'd been wishful thinking at best to hope otherwise, and the fault for it lies squarely with him. He draws back just enough to look at you. Your fingers tighten in his shirt.

"If you have any ideas," he says at last, the words coming together with reluctant resignation, "tell me first. Before you do anything. We'll experiment together—here, in the atelier, where it's safe." His eye narrows slightly, a faint edge of sternness threading through the softness. "I won't stop you from trying. But I'm not going to lose you to a cliff face or anything else, and there will be no forbidden magic. Do you understand?"

You hold his gaze. For a moment your expression is unreadable—eyes too much like mirrors, reflecting too much of him back at himself, too clearly, too honestly. Then, slowly, you nod.

"Okay."

"Good." The word leaves him more easily than expected, as though some heavy weight has finally been lifted from his shoulders. Qifrey pulls you in again, a brief but quieter second embrace, before he lets you go and leans back. Even with the space between you now, the residual warmth of you lingers, settling into the hollow places between his ribs like sunlight.

"I'll make dinner tonight," he announces, getting to his feet. "You should get some rest. But first—let me finish treating your arms."

"Okay."

You hold your arms out obediently. He takes them, careful as though he's handling some priceless, irreplaceable magical artifact, tutting softly under his breath at the state of you. The cuts, the burns, the bruising—he tends to each with attentive hands, and insists on drawing you a bath of milk and herbs as he works, all while you squirm and offer half-hearted rejections in protest.

Somewhere in his chest, the silverwood stirs.

okay first of all, i cannot help but start having a drag path song play in my head every single time i read the title. knowing a little of what happens later makes that title sososo tragic for me.

WAHHHHHH WE'RE STARTING WITH THE QIFREY MEMORY WIPING OLRUGGIO!!! I am so sick and throwing up. Thinking about Qifrey constantly debating whether or not it was a good idea, and Olruggio making fun of him for having a funny look on his face. ;u;

WHAT DO YOU MEAN TRAVELING TO HIS NEW ATELIER AND HIS NEW HOME WAS ENOUGH SOLACE FOR HIM TO TURN BACK INTO A TREE??? It is also not lost upon me that the moment he left the Great Hall and it's water walls did he find more peace in his life. Qifrey how I adore you so much.

I love you Beldaruit, you were sucha. great master to Qifrey. In another universe where Qifrey is less traumatized, they would have the cutest master/grandmaster relationship with the Qiflings.

QIFREY I DON'T KNOW IF THIS IS THE BEST WAY TO STAY STRESSED BUT SURE WHATEVER YOU SAY.

GASP QIFREY IS FINALLY MEETING BRIMMY!!!!! I feel like Qifrey should start to associate water with the Brimmed Hats, because why is there always some kind of water around him whenever he meets one. Or I guess in this case, a future Brimmed Hat.

The canvas awning you're huddled beneath is doing almost nothing at all—not to protect you from the cold spring rain, or from the sharp, biting winds sweeping in from the coast. Water drips steadily from the hem of your smock, your hair plastered in wet strings to your narrow cheeks. Despite this, you don't move.

My beloved Brimmy, I'm taking him home and giving them a warm meal, WHY ARE THEY OUT IN THE RAIN LIKE THIS!!!!

Screaming, crying and throwing up, what do you mean Qifrey wiped a part of the spell so that he can use it as an umbrella for Brimmy. And I'm supposed to expect that Brimmy becomes normal about him later in life??? I too would go insane for the first man who showed me kindness.

Convenient, a colder part of him supplies. You are old enough to comprehend, young enough to be malleable, and compared to an apprentice born into a family of witches, you won't know enough of magic—and by extension, the silverwood—to ask questions that he doesn't want or know how to explain.

Okay but I love how you show that you show that alongside the very caring person, Qifrey is still one manipulative cunt. And I don't even blame him. Especially now that he knows about the Silverwood Parasite, the stakes for him to find his eye have become larger, and for him to get to those goals, he needs to you know- survive. And he's not wrong, kids really do be stressing people out. He's just going to be extra stressed because he's come across Brimmy of all people hehehe. Anywho, all of this is to say that people tend to veer into extreme father mode or toxic manipulator, and I don't blame them for their opinion considering how far into the manga they are. However comma, I do love my nuance depictions, and I know my darling Maechan will deliverer (haha) on all front.

Given how blank of a slate Brimmy is, do you think Qifrey saw a lot of himself in them?? How he too ate up everything about magic because he had no base knowledge to go off of? Brb, time to be sick again about baby Qifrey.

You look up at him, uncomprehending. Qifrey sighs again and hesitates, just briefly, before he steps closer and leans down. His hand slides over your fingers, carefully adjusting each one until the wand rests properly between them, the tip hovering just above the parchment.

I just know that if Drag Path was written in Brimmy's perspective, this would be one of the moments that would alter their brain chemistry. It would alter mine as well, hehehehe.

Okay Qifrey. Why would you specify it being a Robin's egg??? Like why not a normal egg??? You and your lil British musings, you're so cute I love you. (I love you too Maechan!!!)

Brimmy, you are the prodigy of my heart. I know if you actually grew up around magic, you would be the best Witch ever to exist. Wait... now that I think about it... did Qifrey take some random unknowing child????? QIFREY IF THAT'S WHAT YOU DID, YOU HAVE MORE TO WORRY ABOUT THEN BRIMMY YOU SHOULD BE REALLY WORRYING ABOUT THE KNIGHTS MORALIS!!!!!!!!!!!!! LOCK THE FUCK IN KING.

Hehe, I love moments where Qifrey is in the kitchen. But also, I love how different he is with Brimmy versus how he is with Coco in that one kitchen scene. Like, you can tell this is Qifrey's first apprentice and that he's still trying to figure out what the best way to teach is. He's not colder per say, but definitely a little more hands off with the Brimmy. It's very clear that he's trying to keep a wall up between them, for very obvious and valid reasons.

Also, it is so funny that they are making tea. Because Qifrey is British... hahaha I'm so funny. (Please laugh or else I will cry.)

Oh my goodness, this idea that Brimmy is so focused on the next step of magic development is so??? Especially with how Qifrey talks about Agott, does he see some of Brimmy in her?? Is that way he also took on Tetia and Richeh (and eventually Coco) so Agott has other people to talk to other then him??? Sorry, I'm pointing out very obvious items, but that's because the obvious stuff is making me cry.

There is no flicker of pride. No satisfaction in your work, no pause to take in what you've done. Just a simple what next, as if each perfected spell is nothing more than a marker on a long road you don't care much to tread on. The first thin root of worry pushes through the soil of his chest.

THE MAD LAD'S PLAN IS ACTUALLY WORKING!!!!! YAYAYAYAYY!!!!

Oh Qifrey... you were never going to have a normal master/apprentice relationship with Brimmy... BUT IT'S SO CUTE SEEING HIM CARE FOR THEM!!! What do you mean Brimmy was starving before they met Qifrey... what do you mean they are such an easy child and that worries him... they are so cute, I hope nothing tragic happens to them later on!!!

Oooooh, is our Brimmy starting to like fire magic??? Like a certain one of Qifrey's friends who he has homoerotic tension with??? But also fire magic supremacy, I cannot blame them hehehe.

As someone who is also a bit of a perfectionist, I too understand Brimmy's need to grow. THE CIRCLES AREN'T ROUND AND THAT IS BOTHERING THE BOTH OF US!!!!

Qifrey masking all of his concerns for Brimmy and their health both mental and phstical and how similar they are to himself and how feels the same ways towards them as he does with Olruggio with just "It was only a suggestion" makes me wanna kill myself.

THE ONLY REASON THEY HAVE FOR LEARNING MAGIC IS BECAUSE QIFREY ASKED THEM TOO??? OH BRIMMY MY SWEET CHILD

I have no words and notes, I'm just so in awe how you portray QIfrey's inner worries and his motivations, both altruistic and selfish and how Brimmy takes it all in strides. Of course they aren't going to say anything against him, this is the man who took them in and fed them and taught them magic. Both on a emotional level and on a bit of a power imbalance level, why would they refuse anything he tells them to do.

Also that slight change from it being a suggestions to an order... Oh my I'm loving this sososo much.

OOOOOHHH FIELD TRIP WITH THE GANG!!!!!!! AND WE PAST OUR SECOND TEST, LET'S GO BRIMMY!!!! YOU'RE MY GOAT!!!!

The fact that Qifrey can fix this quickly and with no trouble, but he still trusts Brimmy to take on the challenge... Oh Qifrey, I know you didn't mean to but you have become such a great mentor for Brimmy hehehehe.

You hesitate only for a moment before you go, hovering tentatively over the knee deep muck with your sylph shoes as you float out to the irrigation ditch. Your expression is reminiscent of a wet cat's—vaguely displeased, faintly affronted, as though the world has committed a personal offense by being this unpleasant. Qifrey has to hold back a smile.

I have no deep insights into this part, I just like the idea of Qifrey and Brimmy's relationship being that of a Mama Cat and her unwilling stray hehehe.

Oh hello Qifrey... I see you paying extra attention to Brimmy... YOU'RE NOT SLICK BUDDY!!!

BRIMMY ONLY LOOKING TO QIFREY FOR APPROVAL AND WHAT TO DO OH MY GOD THE CODEPENDENCY IS SO STARTING!!!! Also this farmer side character is so delightful, I hope that nothing bad ever happens to him. AND DESPITE THE SURGE OF PRIDE HE JUST SAYS THEY FOUND HIM BECAUSE IT'S ONLY HALF TRUE THEY REALLY JUST FOUND EACH OTHER!!!!

AND THE READER BECOMING A LOCAL CELEBRITY IN THE VILLAGE EUEUEUEUE THEY'RE SO CUTE I LOVE THEM!!!!

OKAY ALSO I love how all of the Qiflings (including Brimmy) have such different views of magic. Like Coco adores it as someone who grew up an outsider, Richeh likes the version she creates, Tetia has the same love as Coco but she's a little bit more casual about it, and Agott sees it more as an expectation, but she still cares for it even a little bit. I think this is the first apprentice that we have seen who simply doesn't care, because it was never magic that kept Brimmy to Qifrey's side - it was Qifrey himself.

"Magic is meant to grant wishes of the people," he says, more gently now. "To bless them. That includes yourself." His lips press together, smile half-formed before faltering, and the wind moves through the fields, rustling restlessly through the long grass. "I—I hope you can learn magic not because I tell you to, but because you want to."

Oh babyboy... we are so past this point...

I know the main reason Qifrey took in Brimmy was to settle the silverwood down, but I truly do think that he would have taken them in anyways because it is not in his nature to ignore a suffering child. EUEUEUEUEUE HE MAKES SO EUEUEUUEUEUEUE

Unrelated, but as someone who grew up in a major city and have been surrounded by light pollution, I've always wanted to go stargazing in a field... Qifrey stargazing date when...

You don't answer immediately, hands in your pockets, the tip of your boot scuffing the ground. Then, quietly— "I want to cure Master."

GASP THEY KNOWWWW SOUND THE FUCKING ALARMS QIFREY THERE IS NO DUMBING YOUR WAY THROUGH THIS ONE KING

"Yes." You nod, the movement slow, as if hesitant in your admission. "The headaches that you try to hide from me. And your right eye, too," you add, pointing at the side of his face covered by his hair, as if he might not know the one. "You touch it when you think I'm not watching, but it seems like it hurts."

Genuinely I love how attentive Brimmy is towards Qifrey UGH!!! Especially as Qifrey was concerned that Brimmy was being a little too dissociative to their situation.

FUCK ME I LOVE HOW THIS IS THE START OF THE CODEPENDENCY!!! Granted, it's been building but this is the first time it's out in the open. Honestly, if I didn't know how DP is supposed to end, I would have seen this as a sweet moment between an apprentice and their master. But the fact that I have some future information and the vibes I've been picking up throughout part one, it's so clear that Brimmy's only motivation is for Qifrey. Like genuinely they are not a person away from him. IT'S SO GOOD AND WONDERFUL AND UGHHHH.

ALSO The constant links between Olruggio and Brimmy in Qifrey's head is so UGH. From their magic to their self-destructive care for Qifrey is so proof that they are soul bound through their love for Qifrey. Honestly, despite this technically being a self-insert fanfiction, in my head Brimmy looks similar to Olruggio with the dark hair and eyes. IN ANOTHER LIFE, I THINK BRIMMY COULD HAVE BEEN OLRUGGIO'S CHILD OR SIBLING.

(update: i have learned about the existence of the unbrimmy au... and i am salivating at those thoughts...)

Still very mad that healing magic has been banned by the Pact... Like I get why but still... Sniffs Sniffs my beloved Coustos...

I love the way Qifrey dismisses Brimmy, like it's so adult trying to shoo the child away from candy UGHHHHH. Like I can even picture that if this was happening in the anime, the music would have gotten tense and the camera would be on Brimmy with their back to Qifrey, and in the background, you'd see Qifrey's face harden for a slight second before softening and thanking them. UGH YOUR WRITING IS SO FUCKING GOOD I LOVE YOU MAECHANNNNNN!!!

HELL YEA YOU FELL INTO A PIT OF YOUR OWN MAKING AND NOW YOU HAVE TO DRAG YOURSELF AND BRIMMY BACK WITH YOU!!!

Mmmmm, sweaty and insomniac Qifrey... sorry it's such a thought for me hhehehehe

UGH also I love how the silverwood is this perpetual feeling that Qifrey has, like it's almost an organ that he can feel pain from. Like it's almost having a light cramp, you can feel it, you know what's coming, and you're bound to go through a big wave of pain. Also the silverwood is in his eye, but the way yo describe it, it almost sounds like a second aching heart.

BRO THE PILLOWS SMELL LIKE LAVENDAR BECAUSE BRIMMY MADE INCENSE FOR HIM???? EVERYTHING THEY DO IS REALLY FOR QIFREYYYY

Beldaruit used to say that the best apprentices were the ones who could surprise you. Qifrey always assumed he meant talent, insight, some brilliant intuition that no one else could replicate. Someone who could make teachers lean forward in their seats and think, that's the one. But here, lying in his bed, your words from hours ago still sitting warm in his chest, he wonders if the old man had meant something else entirely.

I love these little call backs to Qifrey's own relationship with Beldaruit because on one hand, it can be played for comedic effect. The grandparent who laughs at the struggling parent because they didn't realize how hard the job was until they have kids of their own. But this is so much darker because neither Qifrey or Brimmy are normal kids. Qifrey has his own past with the Brimmed Hats and Brimmy was at least abandoned by someone. They were never going to grow into normal adults. But the major difference is that Qifrey had Olruggio and other apprentices that he could talk to (even if he didn't want to) other than his master. Brimmy on the other hand doesn't have that, it just Qifrey. It's a situation like this that makes you think that Qifrey probably should have stayed in the Great Hall so that Brimmy could be less attached to him.

I also wonder if Beldaruit had seen a little of the same codependency that Brimmy has in Qifrey. Like a stray cat who refuses to be touched, but still stops by your door for food. BUT AHHHHH I LOVE THIS SOSOOSOSO MUCHHH!!!!

I cannot read the diabolical crashout that Brimmy will have when they realize that healing magic is completely forbidden. IT'S GOING TO BE SO FUCKING GOOD!!!!

Also, it's really funny that Qifrey thinks that "some wishes are too heavy to be said aloud" considering he is the one that constantly goes on about how magic's role is to fulfill the wishes of others. It makes sense why he doesn't want to let them go because as a teacher, he should be able to grant these wishes but alas. Forbidden magic. ;;;;;;;;U;;;;;;;;;;;

WAIT Qifrey sitting behind Brimmy and teaching them how to crochet and knit.... okay I'll leave now

Oh no... Qifrey is finding peace with Brimmy... and we can't even abort the mission because they are too attached... oh Sages, please help us now...

Sorry, I'm super locked in for this tense scene but I wanted to appreciate how the atelier is an extension of Qifrey and his feelings. IT'S SO GOOD I LOVE IT!!!!

WHERE IS BRIMMY MAECHAN?????

On the bright side, this stress is really good for the silverwood...

BRUSH BUDDY!!!!!!! WHY ARE YOU SNITCHING ON BRIMMY?????

Qifrey's vision blurs. His other hand grips the edge of your chair, knuckles white, breath coming out sharp and shallow as he forces himself to breathe. You've been hurting yourself. On purpose. Testing remedies for… for—

Oh my god... My jaw was fucking dropped... BRIMMY WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!!! THERE ARE BETTER WAY TO TEST REMEDIES THAT AREN'T HURTING YOURSELF HOE (affectionate)!!!!

Mae I'm going to cry.... I know Brimmy survives because why would there be a part two and three, but still... reading Qifrey's guilt over what he's done... and it makes sense that he blames himself, but he didn't know how fucked Brimmy was mentally before he brought them in... At least the guilt of their death would keep the silverwood at bay permanently!!

THE FACT THAT HE'S WILLING TO BARGAIN WITH ANYONE WHO WILL LISTEN FOR THEM TO BE ALIVE IT WOULD HAVE BEEN LESS PAINFUL IF YOU SHOT ME 8392483290 TIMES!!!!

OH MY GOD BRIMMY IS ALIVE IF NOT BARELY BUT THEY'RE NOT RIPPED TO SHREDS!!!!!! Now if only the serpents want to leave us alone...

OH MY QIFREY USING HIS DRAGON SPELL THATS MY GOATTTT

BRIMMY YOU ARE SO MUCH TROUBLE WHEN WE GET HOME!!! DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH YOUR FATHER AND MOTHER (i am self assigning myself as brimmy's mother now) WERE????? IF YOU'RE GOING TO DO DANGEROUS THINGS AT LEAST TELL ME, I WOULD HAVE HID IT FROM QIFREY AND COME WITH YOUR FOR BACK UP!!!!!

Sad twerking at angry Qifrey hehehehe

WOW HE'S REALLY GOING INTO IT WITH BRIMMY. As he should, I cannot imagine I would have been more sane if this happened with my apprentice.

"Master—" "I said don't." Hearing that title alone makes him want to scream. "Don't call me that now. You don't have any right to when you—" "It's Master's fault."

OH OKAY BRIMMY'S DROP TO BE TALKED ABOUT I like to think he cannot hear them call him master because he feel as though he failed in his duties to keep them and that he doesn't deserve to be called master. Oh Qifrey... BACK TO WHY THE FUCK BRIMMY SAID THAT!!!

Oh this is so messy I love it so much. Not pictured is me with popcorn to side watching this all unfold.

I am Team "Both sides have their valid opinions and need to discuss them like actual adults instead of accusing each other of shit." But please keep this going, I need to see more of angry Qifrey.

"For good reason!" He throws his hands up, the dishcloth—stained with your blood—twisting taut between his white knuckled fingers. Qifrey wants to shake you. Maybe tear his hair out. Another part of him—a smaller, quieter part—wants to lock you in this atelier and throw away the key forever, just to make sure that you are safe. "There are things I don't tell you because they are dangerous, things that I am trying—I have been trying—to protect you from—"

I mean... if you are offering Qifrey... I'd love to be locked up in the atelier with your fine ass...

"If you're so unwilling to listen to me," he says, his voice suddenly cold and flat, in a way that doesn't belong to him, "then maybe you should no longer be my apprentice."

QU'EST-CE QU'IL C'EST? QIFREY, VOUS ETES SON PAPA!!! VOUS N'AVEZ PAS A LE DROIT DE LEUR DE RETIRER LA MAISON!!!!!

I'm crying with Qifrey and Brimmy right now, THIS IS SO SAD I'M FJKW'EIAFJK'WEOIAJF'EARJFIEROAJFIOER;

Qifrey hates water. The sound of rain makes his chest tight, and the feeling of being wet makes his skin crawl. He hates the way it blurs the fading remnants of his vision, the way it soaks through his clothes and leeches the heat from his bones, the way it reminds him of things he's forgotten and things he wishes he could forget. But this—this—is worse.

BRO WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN THE TEARS IN BRIMMY'S EYES ARE WORSE THEN THE RAIN THAT ALMOST DROWNED HIM????? LIKE I HAVE NO WORDS MAE I'M GENUINELY SO FUCKING DISTRAUGHT OVER THIS CONVERSATION I NEED TO GO BACK THE SWEETNESS OF THE VILLAGE AND HOW GOOD IT WAS!!!! IM FUCKING CRYING TO CHIEF KEEF I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW THAT WAS POSSIBLE????????????? (please i hope there is more angst in the coming chapter hehehehe)

There were so few spineneedles....... but it would have been worth it if Brimmy could help Qifrey.......

He isn't angry with you. He's never been angry with you. The one whom Qifrey is so unbearably angry with, so deeply ashamed of—is himself. Because the only reason you did any of this—pushed yourself to such lengths, put yourself in harm's way—is because he let you believe he could be cured. He'd smiled and selfishly kept the words you'd uttered that day close to his heart, like a precious treasure, and in doing so, he'd unwittingly sent you hurtling straight into danger's embrace.

I'm on the fucking floor this is so UHFREAO;FJWAIO;FJA;FJAIW;JFCIRAE;JFCVAER;OJVF;AEORIJGIOEAR;JGIPR;WJGF9EJF9IEORAJFIOREJVO;IRAEJVIO;ARJVIJVI;JVOI; HE DIDN'T EVEN WANT SOMEONE TO LOVE JUST SOMEONE TO KEEP HIM STRESSEDDDD

Burn scars... I just realized, did Brimmy perfect fire magic and only ti use it to burn themselves????? BRIMMY NOOOOOOOOO

I know that Brimmy is thinking the same thing as me: there's no way Qifrey has tried everything to heal himself??? THERE HAS TO BE SOMETHING THAT CAN HELP HIMMMM

"I'm content," Qifrey says quietly. "With what I have now. The atelier. You." And as the words leave him, he realises that they are not merely for your sake—they are true, plain and simple. "The pain is small in comparison."

But he's not happy..........

AWWWWWWW HUG TIMEEE QIFREY BE CAREFUK THOUGHHHH

no forbidden magic he says.....

You hold your arms out obediently. He takes them, careful as though he's handling some priceless, irreplaceable magical artifact, tutting softly under his breath at the state of you. The cuts, the burns, the bruising—he tends to each with attentive hands, and insists on drawing you a bath of milk and herbs as he works, all while you squirm and offer half-hearted rejections in protest. Somewhere in his chest, the silverwood stirs.

yo this is the beginning of all of our downfalls. "zo what yours-" I am literally going to force myself into this universe and prevent everyone from crashing the fuck out by crashing out myself.

nyehehehe your discord status when you started reading dp was actually so funny to me!! but it was also one of my favourite lines in the song because in the end qifrey is eventually forced to **** **** his own apprentice... but i shan't say anything because spoilers!!!

one of my favourite characterisations of qifrey is how complex he is actually!! despite being very polite and friendly and generally willing to help (such as when seen with the coustas and village incident) it's quite obvious that he's not completely altruistic or driven by compassion. he lies easily and he's good at it!! but at the same time it's also shown he doesn't particularly want to lie especially in his backstory with olruggio ;-; i really love exploring the tension of how all these little facets of him balance out to give us the wonderfully complex but realistic character he is

sorry i said robin's eggs just because chicken eggs were too big and i like blue so blue eggs = robin eggs and that was it KDJGNSKJGN

i think qifrey would be very awkward with the apprentice one on one at first!!! brimmy doesn't try to smooth over any social situations and qifrey isn't really sure about how to approach/communicate/act as a teacher around them, so it's kind of cute to see him fumbling as he settles on what kind of master he wants to be <3

hehe yes!!! magic to the apprentice doesn't mean anything much ;-; i think they never really grow to love it the way qifrey hopes they will, because magic for them is tied so strongly to qifrey ever since the day he shielded them from the rain, so rather than falling in love with magic itself, magic is always something that leads back to qifrey for them!!!

iirc the silverwood has never really been protrayed as localised to his eye? there was also that scene with olruggio by the river where the roots were growing over his shoulder (sniffle sniffle) in my mind i portray the silverwood as some sort of parasite that's spread through his body like a blood disease ueueue... so when it's affected so is his entire body

qifrey and brimmy sitting together on the couch with a big ball of yarn between them and qifrey reaching over to show brimmy how to knit... ueueueueue

i wouldn't say brimmy is fucked in the mind!!! to them this is just a very rational course of action to them. a little pain is nothing to them if it helps them cure their master :O (they don't think of themselves much, as already established...)

do i want to know who chief keef is...

even that little handful of spineneedles was so precious to apprentice because they thought it would be able to help him... ueueue qifrey going mad with worry about his apprentice... mission succeeded successfully but he isn't happy about it skjgnkdn

also um. yes. brimmy did get very good at fire magic and used it to burn themselves

"I found it!"

You turn just in time to see a familiar white-clad silhouette crest a small rise. Phainon's hair is half-wild and tousled over his forehead—presumably the result of the balmy wind rising from the coast—but he doesn't seem to pay it much mind as he jogs over. The soles of his boots crunch over stone and dry scrub until he comes to a stop in front of you, panting lightly but grinning wide.

"I found it," he repeats, more clearly this time. You raise a brow.

"You found it?"

"I did. Just a short distance north of here, actually." Phainon hunches over as he confirms, both hands bracing on his knees to catch his breath before glancing up at you again. His blue eyes are bright behind his sweat-damp fringe. "It's crumbling somewhat, but definitely recognisable." His grin widens. "See? Told you there was nothing to worry about."

That's easy for him to say, when he isn't in charge of navigation. Still, perspiration beads along the line of his brow, sliding down the curve of his jaw. You retrieve your waterskin. It's heavy in your hand, probably filled about three-quarters or more. You hold it out to him.

"You've been gone less than an hour," you say.

"Hm?" Phainon's smile falters slightly as he takes it from you. "Am I such poor company you were hoping I'd be gone longer?"

You ignore his quip. "We've been scouring this area ever since sunrise."

"I… suppose so?"

"And yet the moment we split up, you find it within three quints?"

"Ah." Phainon pauses mid-swallow at that, his lips curling into a grin around the waterskin. "Well, when you put it that way, it does sound rather impressive."

You give him a decidedly unimpressed look.

He wipes at his dripping mouth with the back of his hand. "You seem as though you suspect foul play."

"Merely considering the statistical improbability."

His eyes brighten.

"Does that mean you're impressed?"

Trust Phainon to spin your words into something flattering. "No, it means I'm questioning whether you found the correct landmark at all."

"Wow. I return bearing triumph and victory only to be received with doubt and suspicion. I thought you'd be more relieved."

You are relieved—more than you appear to be, probably. Back in the days of the Era Bellica, the city-states of Amphoreus had been connected by proper stone-laid roads that had sustained trade in the region for centuries. But after Loukas fell to the Black Tide, the road that once led there had followed: first into neglect, then into ruin—slowly reclaimed by Georios over the years. What remains of it now is little more than fractured stone, its purpose long since crumbled back to dust.

Navigating by these centuries-old maps hasn't been the easiest undertaking, too.

"Alright, fine," you concede as Phainon returns your now empty waterskin. "I suppose I can confirm that we aren't lost, at least." And that you haven't been leading the two of you in circles for the past three days. Forget Phainon; you wouldn't let yourself live it down, if that were the case.

Phainon shrugs easily.

"Getting lost is just another term for scenic detour." His tone is expressedly serious, though the curl of his mouth and the quick flick of his eyes in your direction betrays him. "It's all a matter of perspective. Wouldn't you agree?"

You pinch your nose for good measure. Normally, you wouldn't pay getting lost much mind—you could always wait for night to fall, take your bearings from the stars—but Phainon's time is too valuable to be wasted tramping aimlessly across the Jerichan countryside. There are more important duties than safeguarding you waiting for him back in the Holy City, and the sooner you retrieve the documents Lady Aglaea sent you for, the better.

It's this thought that has you moving quickly to roll up your maps. "When we get back to Okhema, remind me to buy you a dictionary," you say dryly, paying additional care to their fraying edges. Phainon cocks his head, curious.

"What for?"

"So that you can start looking up the definition to words."

His laughter rings out amidst the scorched, dreary landscape. "That was rude." Phainon tries to sound affronted, but it's no use when he's smiling so widely. "Oh—and speaking of detours, I spotted a settlement to the west earlier." He hooks a thumb over his pauldron. "I couldn't make it out clearly, but it looked to be a small town. Not too far from here, I wager."

His offhanded tone tells you this is leading somewhere more. You narrow your eyes at him, feeling like a fish just shy of closing its mouth around a line.

"…And?"

"I was thinking we could stop by and ask the locals for directions." Phainon pauses just long enough for you to consider the suggestion before adding, "Perhaps get a drink to cool down too, while we're at it."

You eye his overly innocent look, his spread hands. "You're remarkably predictable, you know?"

"I'm nothing if not reliable."

"This isn't another one of those occasions where you've already decided and are now generously allowing me to pretend I have a say?"

Phainon puts up both hands as though you've accused him of a grave crime. "Preposterous," he insists, despite the faint smile tugging at his mouth. "I'd never attempt to manipulate you so blatantly. Naturally, we'll go wherever you decide."

"Mm, I'm sure…"

He's playing that little game of his again—mildly exasperating for you, endlessly amusing for him. Once, Phainon's habitual deference to you had kept you perpetually on edge—a trait so distinctly out of place on an alpha it'd bordered on unsettling—but now, it's become little more than a familiar song and dance after so many journeys together. You fight the urge to swat him with your maps—they're far too precious for that—and instead focus on tucking them carefully into your satchel.

When you glace up again, Phainon still has yet to say a word. His eyes seem to be smiling now, too.

You sigh.

"We could," you say at last, in an attempt to frame your words as ambiguously as possible. Phainon's grin widens.

"We could."

You shoot him a sideways look and start down the rocky slope without him. Phainon's laughter trails behind you like a loose ribbon caught in the wind. It takes him all of three strides to catch up, anyway, and you click your tongue as he falls into step beside you—Mnestia and their favourites—and resist the urge to quicken your pace.

The settlement Phainon spotted turns out to be a small town of sorts. A modest scattering of buildings sits tucked into the shelter of a hillside slope, humble homes with whitewashed walls reminiscent of those in Okhema, clustered around a central agora. And fish are everywhere—laid out on wooden boards, strung up to dry beneath shallow eaves. It's an common sight for a seaside community.

Next to you, Phainon wrinkles his nose as he passes by a particularly ripe market stall, before he hastily smoothens his expression back into one of polite interest. You hide your snort behind your hand. One of the few benefits of being a beta, you suppose.

Only a few townspeople are out in the sun at this time of day, and the pair of you draw a handful of watchful looks as they go about their business. It's only to be expected as strangers in a small municipality—it doesn't look as though this town gets much in way of visitors at all. The first establishment you come across is a simple tavern with a low loft built above it, and its door creaks faintly when you push it open.

A girl jolts from one of the tables by the entrance. She's young, by the looks of it—roughly your age if you had to hazard a guess—with a stained apron around her waist. Despite this, she blinks owlishly at you and Phainon as you enter, moss-green eyes flickering over your dust-caked boots and travel worn clothes before darting to the man at your side.

Her posture straightens almost imperceptibly.

You clear your throat. She startles again, cheeks colouring, and hastens behind the counter.

Phainon steers you over towards a vacant table beneath an arched window. Sunlight spills across its wooden surface through the shuttered slats.

"Try not to frighten any of the locals," he teases, the ghost of a grin on his face as he pushes you into a seat. "I'll take a look at what they have."

He's gone before the protest can even find its way to your lips. Left to your own devices, you sigh and lean back in your chair to take stock of the tavern. It's not too crowded—several groups of older men sit scattered about round tables nursing cups over low conversation, while a portly woman in the far corner shells a steadily growing heap of legumes into a wooden bowl. The air smells faintly of brine and watered down wine.

More than that, you feel the weight of curious stares on your back.

When your eyes search instinctively for Phainon once more, you find him leaning over the counter, seemingly engaged in easy conversation. It comes as little surprise—people have a way of warming to him quickly. Lady Aglaea likes that about him. Whatever they're talking about is too muddled to make out amidst the low buzz of the tavern, but you catch the way she stumbles over her words, the faint pink creeping into her cheeks as she speaks.

Omega, your mind supplies unhelpfully before you can stop yourself.

The Grove's research insists that there are no meaningful differences in appearance between alphas and omegas, save for reproductive anatomy. Theory, however, rarely survives contact with reality. You dislike relying on outdated and narrow-minded stereotypes—alphas are territorial and domineering, omegas gentle and naturing—but such ideas rarely arise without some basis. Besides, betas like you are completely pheromone-blind. Navigating society would be impossible, otherwise.

You occupy yourself with staring at the sun-baked streets just beyond the window. A few minutes later, Phainon returns, a large cup in each hand.

"I got us kykeon," he announces. Your fingertips brush when he slides one over to you. "Here. Drink up."

You hum your thanks and take a sip. The taste is both familiar and not at the same time: watered down barley with a hint of local herbs, creamy with goat's cheese but finishing with a briny tang. You take your second mouthful more slowly, parsing the flavours as they settle across your tongue.

"It's… a little salty?"

Your comment comes out more inquisitive than you intend. Phainon smiles as he slides into the seat opposite yours, his coat tails brushing across the wooden floor. He seems amused by your reaction.

"They add seawater to the drink." He lifts his own cup to his lips. "It's a specialty here."

"Oh? According to who?"

"Leona."

Phainon nods over his shoulder at the counter. Leona. You turn her name over in your mind once, then twice. It shouldn't come as a surprise that he's already on a first name basis with her.

"You're making friends quickly."

He doesn't rise to the bait, disappointingly. "She was very friendly. Very helpful, too."

You note the way the serving girl continues to steal glances in Phainon's direction, even as she pretends to busy herself behind the counter. Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—the object of her attention seems to remain oblivious.

"I don't doubt it."

The topic ends up drifting, as it often does, back to the road ahead. Between measured sips of kykeon and the low murmur of the tavern, you fall back into the familiar rhythms of conversation—distances to cover, landmarks to confirm, the steady arithmetic of time and terrain. By the time the discussion turns to the restocking of your dwindling supplies, the two of you are bent over the maps spread out across the table, heads lowered in concentration once more.

"Distance wise, continuing down the coastal path would be the quickest route." You tap at a long, thin line that cuts across the land. It chases the curve and bend of the coast, forging upwards. "But Leanor's maps mention a river that swells in summertime when ice from the nearby mountains melts. It might be too wide for us to cross now."

Phainon's eyes track your finger dutifully as it traces across the topography of your maps, thoughtful and alert. Navigation has never been his forte but he's always eager to learn. You're about to point out a possible crossing farther downstream—a bridge you've seen mentioned in several of Kremnos' war annals—when a large hand suddenly plants itself between the two of you, thick fingers splayed across the vellum.

"Excuse me."

The two of you look up simultaneously at the interruption. Towering over your table is a heavyset man, tufts of dark hair bristling at his temples. His gaze sweeps over you and Phainon like a bear sizing up potential prey. For someone who's just asked to be excused, there is little way of apology in his expression.

"It's not often we get new faces around these parts, especially with the Black Tide spreading nearby," the man says, in manner of a greeting. His voice is a low rumble in the back of his throat. "What brings the two of you to this place?"

There's a wary note in his voice that he makes no effort to disguise—confrontational, almost tipping over into hostile. You've heard that tone enough times to become familiar with it. Most often, from the more aggressive alpha members of the Okheman council, when a debate isn't going the way they prefer. Lady Aglaea does a far better job at restraining herself, but sometimes you still catch the instinct beneath that water-tight composure slipping through.

A few patrons at the tables nearby pause mid-drink, heads lifting to catch the cloud of pheromones that must be flooding the air. Your own breathing quickens traitorously in turn.

Phainon, however, doesn't respond outwardly to the challenge. His posture stays relaxed and his expression neutral, though you notice the faint tightening of his hands and feet, like a blade settling into its sheath. Then he smiles, disarmingly polite.

"We're just passing through on our way to Loukas," Phainon replies. His tone skirts the edge of amiability while remaining uncowed. "We're on business for the Flame-Chase."

The mention of the Flame-Chase seems to have snared the man's attention. His eyes flick briefly to you, then back to Phainon. The suspicion in them is tempered by cautious interest.

"Loukas, you say? The Prison City?"

"The very one."

"It's nothing but a ruin now. The place is overrun with the Black Tide." He pauses. "Ain't that dangerous?"

Phainon inclines his head in acknowledgement. "We can handle ourselves," he says simply, without arrogance or boast. It's as though simply stating a fact. The man considers his claim for a long moment, carefully taking in the broad shoulders and untroubled confidence, before he lets out a grunt.

"Sorry about that," he says, and this time the apology sounds more genuine. "Like I said, we don't see many new faces around here, and the ones that we do are usually up to no good. You two are Chrysos Heirs?"

"Only him," you say, and he nods.

"Of course." Before you can ask what exactly that is supposed to mean, the man shifts his attention back to Phainon. "I'm the owner of this tavern here." Your eyes track the movement as he offers Phainon his hand—a brief clasp, palm to palm, the scent glands there brushing in passing. "I overheard you talking about restocking for your journey ahead."

A polite if blunt way of admitting he'd been listening in. Phainon seems to be frowning faintly, though he conceals it well. But he makes no mention of it and so neither do you.

"We were discussing the matter, yes."

The barkeeper seems to hesitate at that. He shifts his weight from his left foot to his right, the fingers of one hand twisting in the ties of apron. He looks as though carefully weighing his next words.

"I'd like to offer to supply you with whatever you might need, Chrysos Heir," he says, eventually. "If you'd assist us—the people of this town—with an issue."

You and Phainon exchange a brief glance. The two of you are in no dire need of coin—the Goldweaver supplies you with more than enough to cover your travel expenses—but it can't hurt to hear out his concerns if it affects the entire town. Phainon seems to reach a similar conclusion, because he leans forward, fingers lacing over his knee.

"What's the problem?"

The barkeeper drags a hand over the back of his neck, then sighs. "There's an old temple down by the coast," he begins. "It used to be dedicated to Phagousa, but it was abandoned ever since the Ocean Titan disappeared. I'd like for you to take a look at it."

Abandoned. Not an uncommon fate for shrines tied to fallen divinity, especially since the Daythunder Knight had first felled Aquila. Phainon's curiosity seems piqued, regardless.

"Is there a reason you're so concerned about this particular temple?"

The barkeeper nods reluctantly after a moment. "It's the source of this town's Soul-Purifying Spring."

Now that makes your eyes go wide. You can count the number you've seen on one hand—the rest are either dried up or long destroyed in wars of centuries past—so you never thought you'd stumble across one by accident. They're nowhere near as powerful as the fragments of Phagousa's chalice, but still, as a relic containing the power of a Titan…

Phainon glances over at you, not quite comprehending.

"This, uh, Soul-Purifying Spring is…?"

You open your mouth to answer, but the barkeeper beats you to it. "It's spirit water," he explains. "Blessed by Phagousa herself—the pride of our town." His chest puffs out a little as he says it, though a mote of worry lingers in his eyes. "The water flows from beneath thetemple grounds and into a fountain in the agora." His jaw tightens. "Or it did, until about a couple of years ago."

"You didn't send someone to investigate earlier?" you mutter, incredulous. The barkeeper's eyes dart to you, almost as though he'd forgotten you were there in the first place. The question seems to catch up a beat later, and he lets out a quiet huff.

"We did. But the younger lads we sent said they saw movement in the inner chambers—creatures resembling Black Tide monsters—and didn't dare venture further." He grimaces. "We're fishermen and salt traders, not fighters."

Phainon nods slowly, contemplative.

"I see."

When you glance over, Phainon's expression has gone thoughtful. The mention of Black Tide creatures has clearly caught his attention—he'll want to investigate, temple obligations or not. The sages at the Grove would value any information you can offer; accurate predictions mean better resource allocation, faster evacuations, more lives saved.

Across from you, the barkeeper straightens, pride and worry warring visibly across his face. The latter wins.

"So," he says, the edge in his voice faltering to a reluctant appeal, "would you be willing to help us, Chrysos Heir?"

He does not look at you as he says it. It has been quite clear, since the beginning, that he's seen only Phainon as someone worth addressing—the leader, the decision-maker, the alpha, the fighter—and you as little more than accompanying afterthought. It doesn't bother you very much. If anything, you might even prefer it this way. You've grown accustomed to standing just outside the centre of such exchanges, and besides, you already know what Phainon's answer will be.

Or, you thought you did. Instead, Phainon tilts his head. His ivory fringe slips into summer blue eyes, unreadable for the space of a breath, before he smiles.

"Oh, I'm not the one you should be asking." He glances at you, a brow raised. "I'm not in charge, here."

The map corner you'd been fidgeting with slips from between your fingers. You look up, bewilderment creeping in. The barkeeper's eyes meet yours, equally perplexed.

"Your companion?" Faint disbelief colours his voice.

You cut a sidelong look at Phainon only to find him already watching you. There's no trace of his usual lightheartedness in his eyes, although he maintains it in expression. You purse your lips, unsure what he's playing at, brows drawing together warily.

Drop it.

He doesn't. "My companion is the one with unparalleled expertise in ancient temples. I'm only here to swing my sword around and look intimidating."

You find yourself wishing that the two of you were in private company—then, at least, you would be able to freely elbow Phainon in the ribs. But if you were, then there would be no need for this entire conversation in the first place. Precisely why you prefer ancient ruins to most people…

After a silence that drags long enough for it to become uncomfortable, the barkeeper finally clears his throat. He turns to you.

"…Then," he starts, clearly deciding that the matters of the temple takes precedence, "will you take a look at our temple? At least find out what's blocking the spring?"

You bite back the sigh that threatens to slip out. You can already feel the shape of the detour settling into your originally intended route, your schedule, as persistent as the unwavering gaze coming from your left.

"…We will."

The discussion that follows finds its way back to Phainon despite his earlier insistence otherwise, but you find yourself unbothered—moreso than usual. Instead, you stare out of the window and sip at the remainder of your drink as they talk logistics and directions, more occupied with the odd discomfort that seems to have lodged itself in the back of your throat.

The barkeeper finally excuses himself to fetch a few things from the storeroom upstairs. The second he disappears out of the back door, Phainon pivots in his seat to face you, half-empty cup of kykeon raised high.

"Well, that was certainly unexpected," he muses. His easy charm has settled back as though it never left. "Here I thought you didn't care much for detours—"

"You shouldn't have done that."

"Hm? I haven't the faintest idea what you could possibly be referring to."

He looks too pleased with himself for your liking. Self-righteous fool. Mindsets like the barkeeper's are hardly uncommon, especially in more rural areas like this one. Perspectives on betas range far and wide depending on region, but they rarely stray far from the same conclusion: that betas exist somewhere outside of the neat social order built around alphas and omegas.

Back in your home village, betas were often regarded as unmateable—half-formed things left out of Cerces and Mnestia's blessings of perfect union. They could not carry on family lineage like alphas, nor were they fertile enough to command a bride price the way omegas did. They could not scent, could not bond, and were therefore regarded as socially worthless. You'd quickly learned not to expect—or desire—otherwise.

Something tells you that trying to explain this to Phainon would only make him double down, though, so you refrain. "It didn't bother me," you clarify, instead. "You didn't need to do anything."

"Oh?" Phainon leans forward, setting his elbows on the table to properly meet your gaze. "It bothered me, though."

You can't help but feel as though you've been here before. It's a conversation you've had one time too many. At least he isn't playing ignorant any longer. It doesn't suit him.

"Betas don't have scents. It's normal to be overlooked."

He arches a brow. "Is that so? I look at you all the time."

That silver tongue of his. He's going to give someone the wrong idea, one day. "You're abnormal. You don't count."

Phainon laughs at that, head tipping back just enough to reveal the dark band of his choker, stark against the pale line of his throat. "People often read too much into secondary gender. They see what they want to see." His chin shifts to prop itself atop his knuckles as he regards you, half-smiling. "It saves them the trouble of having to think any further."

You spend a moment attempting to decipher whatever meaning is veiled behind his words before giving up. It might be easier to reason with a mule, you think. At least it can't talk back.

"Next time, just answer on both our behalfs and spare us the unnecessary exchange."

Phainon shrugs. "If you insist, I'll keep that in mind."

Conversation seemingly over, Phainon leans back to take a longer, more leisurely sip of his kykeon. His chair tilts precariously on its rear legs. You watch him for a whole five seconds, frowning before you speak again.

"You won't, will you?"

His smile sharpens into a grin.

"No, I won't."

The barkeeper returns just as the two of you are finishing your drinks. He hands Phainon two maps—one, a simply guide marking the route down to the temple, the other, a rough charcoal sketch of its interior. The latter is clearly drawn by an untrained hand: its lines are smudged, proportions skewed, and it's not of much use. Fortunately, you've picked up in your time exploring the ruins along Milios' coasts. As long as the structures don't differ too drastically, it shouldn't pose too much of an issue for you.

The two of you are halfway out of the door when a voice calls out from behind.

"W—wait!"

The shy serving girl from earlier—Leona, if you remember correctly—hurries over. Her steps slow as she nears. She fumbers with a tightly wrapped bundle in her hands for a moment, fingers curling bashfully over the knot at the top before she holds it out to him. The faint scent of something warm and freshly baked permeates through the undyed linen.

Phainon looks genuinely startled. It's almost cute, how receiving unsolicited favour still catches him off guard.

"Apologies, this is?"

"S—Some bread," she stutters, ducking her head. It does nothing to hide the blush spreading over her cheeks, the colour of ripe nectarines. You wonder briefly if she smells just as sweet. "For, um, h—helping with the Spring."

Phainon looks at it. You think you catch a glimpse of some indecipherable emotion flickering behind the blue ocean-depths of his eyes, before it's quickly replaced by a courteously apologetic, pinned-together smile.

"That is very kind of you." His hands lift, hovering over her offering but not quite touching, as though he's unsure how to properly respond to her gesture. "But I couldn't possibly…"

"No, no, I insist—"

Titans above. Whether Phainon is simply being polite or deliberately obtuse is anyone's guess, and you're rapidly running out of the patience required to discern which it is. The two of you will be here all until nightfall if he keeps this coyness up, and besides, food is food. There's no reason to hesitate.

Before he can protest again, you step between them and intercept the bread. She startles, hands jerking back to her chest, eyes going as wide as silver coins as she stares at you.

"Thank you for your generosity," you force yourself to say, inclining your head in a courteous, if somewhat brief, bow. "We'll make good use of it."

Her gaze flicks to you, lips pursing. She appears almost indignant for a second before her expression dissipates into one of reluctant resignation.

"…Of course."

You don't wait for the exchange to continue. Turning around, you stride out of the tavern with the hurried sound of Phainon's footsteps quick at your heels, and back into the harsh afternoon light.

The temple of Phagousa is older than you expect.

Built directly into the cliffside, the entire structure is more carved than constructed. The limestone façade is darkened with centuries of exposure to salt and wind. It'd taken you and Phainon about an hour to reach the coast, and then another three quints to spot, its silhouette almost swallowed by the Parting Hour's shadow. By then, the darkening sky had only made your descent more treacherous, and Phainon had insisted on gripping your hand tight as he led you down the flights of crumbling stairs.

Now, what remains of the portico you're standing on juts outward over the sea. When you'd peered over the edge earlier, you could just barely make out great chunks of white marble beneath the foam swirling atop the waves. It's as though the entire structure is slowly crumbling into the ocean that had once defined its worship.

"So," Phainon calls out after several minutes of wordless pacing. "Your professional opinion?"

You glance up from a pair of heavy, rusted hinges. Your travel companion seems to have made himself comfortable atop a fallen column, one leg tucked beneath his thigh while the other kicks idly at the broken ground. He's also tucked the end of his cape into his belt—the wind would have a field day with it, otherwise—though it does little to spare his hair from being blown every which way.

He looks like he's just stepped out of a hurricane, or came out wrestling barehanded with Aquila and lost. Phainon frowns when he notices you glance to the side, his lips moving.

What?

"You look ridiculous."

Phainon's brows pinch together in visible confusion.

"Whaaaaat?"

You cup your hands around your mouth, raising your voice to be heard over the rushing of the wind.

"I said, this entrance is blocked!"

"Ohh!"

He hops off the fallen pillar easily, stepping over the scattered rubble to join you. You gesture towards the massive double doors you'd been examining as he draws nearer—more than twice your height and several wingspans across.

"The hinges are completely rusted through." You brush a hand along the weathered stone, and a thin layer of salt crystals come away on your fingertips. "Even if we did manage to get through the locking mechanism—which doesn't seem to be working either, by the way—the doors themselves wouldn't budge."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously," you echo dryly, if only to humour him.

Phainon lifts his head to study the door. His hands are planted squarely on his hips, as though he's sizing himself up against it.

"Even if I put all of my strength into it?"

You open your mouth, a confirmation hovering at the tip of your tongue only to pause. You've witnessed him perform feats that border on absurd—tearing apart several of Strife's corrupted Titankin with his bare hands, and lifting an anvil for the Grand Craftsman that you'd estimated to weigh about the same as a young dromas. Of Phainon's strength, you have no doubt. But even so—

"These doors can weigh up to about eight hundred Attic talents each." You lift a hand to rap your knuckles lightly against them for emphasis. They might be corroded and weakened from the seawater, but they're still made of solid stone. "They're mounted on internal pivot mechanisms that let them swivel open when properly unlocked. Not even ten Mountain Dwellers would be able to force them open otherwise."

Your gaze lifts.

"Besides, even if you succeeded somehow, you'd probably bring the entire temple down on top of us."

Phainon cranes his head back to follow your line of sight. He winces when he sees the crack stonework overhead, the fissures webbing across weathered lintel.

"I'd prefer not to make an acquaintance of Thanatos just yet," he agrees, though his gaze lingers on the doors for a few seconds before he glances at you, sidelong. "I suppose you know another way in?"

"Interesting assumption."

He just shrugs, still looking at you. "You don't seem too bothered by the main entryway being completely blocked off."

You cross your arms across your chest, raising a brow. What an astute observation. You're not entirely certain you appreciate being the subject of it. Turning on your heel, you nod towards the temple's shadowed depths.

"There's most likely a secondary entrance somewhere inside. Come on."

Phainon follows you past the portico and along the corridors of the peristyle. The howling of the wind gradually dwindles behind you until it fades to a distant whistle. Even in a state of abandonment, the temple's once-glory is evident—bronze basins filled with water line the walls, faded murals stretching across the inner corridors. Most of them depict Phagousa's infamous undersea banquets in jewelled shades of ultramarine and turqoise, their scenes brimming over with unrestrained indulgence and revelry. Her chalice gleams gold betwixt her pale fingers.

You gesture idly at one of the panels as you pass. "Mid-Bellican, most probably. It looks like the pigments were mixed with crushed mother-of-pearl. See the way it shimmers? Some scholars think it was meant to mimic the way light refracts beneath the sea."

Phainon listens with rapt attention. His gaze drifts from one mural to the next with open fascination as you speak. Once, you would have grown self-conscious the moment you realised you were rambling—a habit you'd unknowingly developed after wandering ancient ruins alone for years—and promptly cut yourself off mid-explanation. But over time, you'd come to recognise that Phainon's interest in the topic was genuine.

Now, it's often this sort of idle conversation that fills the silence during your long journeys together.

"How can you tell?"

"Tell what?"

"That it's Mid-Bellican." Phainon's brow furrows as he stares down one of Phagousa's many painted forms, as though she might yield the answer under sufficient scrutiny. His eyes are the same shade of blue as the waves glimmering along the murals. "I tried reading that compendium you mentioned, but I don't think there was anything about era-specific pigments."

You're faintly surprised. You'd only referenced it in passing while explaining about a Skyfolk Pavilion—you hadn't expected him to actually seek it out, much less read it.

"Oh. It's more of an inference on my part, actually. Mid-Bellica is the period where large-scale trade roads first began to appear, and Pyria was the only major exporter of maritime goods back then." A wry edge slips into your voice. "Coincidentally, it's also when Kremnos started lauching its first military campaign against the Seaside States."

You'd only added on that last part as a passing remark to yourself, but Phainon's head lifts.

"Castrum Kremnos?"

"Roads built for commerce also make it very convenient to transport siege engines and war supplies. Soldiers, too." After a moment's hesitation, you add, "I'm sure Lord Mydeimos would be more familiar with this topic than I am. You can ask him about it, if you're curious."

It's common knowledge in the Holy City—Phainon's longstanding rivalry with Kremnos' crown prince. You'd heard the stories of how they'd clashed for ten consecutive days and nights the first time they'd met; how an insignificant farm boy from some nameless, remote village had come within a hair's breadth to the heir of a nation forged by war for war. Now, both of them fight shoulder to shoulder for the Flame-Chase. Fate truly works in mysterious ways.

Phainon barks out a laugh at that. The sound travels down the length of the empty corridor, echoes back strange and distorted. "I could ask him, I suppose. Though I'm not certain if he'd entertain me…"

He scratches at the back of his head, a sheepish look spreading across his face. You send a faintly puzzled look his way.

"Aren't the two of you friends?"

He makes an odd expression at that. "We're on friendly terms. Mydei would probably disagree on the word 'friends'…" He trails off, frowning, as though the right description eludes him.

You return your gaze to the walls. You've heard other rumours as well—speculative whispers and tavern gossip about a bond that seems to run deeper than mere camaraderie. They're of no substance, of course, and you briefly consider mentioning them before you think the better of it. A pairing of two alphas is uncommon, but hardly unheard of.

Besides, whoever Phainon may or may not be involved with is none of your concern.

You quicken your pace. Your fingertips graze cool stone as your eyes scan the walls. If you listen closely enough, you can just manage to make out the faint trickle of running water… right about there.

"Allies? No, that's not quite it. Brothers-in-arms? Comrades?" Phainon hums under his breath. "Hmm… I guess comrades would be—"

"Here." You come to a sudden halt, and Phainon very nearly walks straight into your back. Only his quick reflexes save the two of you from colliding at the very last second. "Found it."

The two of you are standing before yet another door, though this one is significantly smaller. Inlaid within its surface is a series of concentric rings crafted from alternating gold and aquamarine, and at the very top, two carved fish. A shallow runnel spills from their mouths, trickles over stone. There's a clear resemblance to the door at the main entrance, though this one is, thankfully, far better preserved.

Phainon takes one look at it and sighs.

"Yet another one of those unsmashable doors?"

"There are only so many of these left across all of Amphoreus," you say, eyeing him as you return your attention to the door. "Please refrain from the urge to destroy every ancient relic you come across."

He sputters behind you.

"I was only asking!"

You turn away to hide the twitch of your lips. "Anyways, the inner sanctum should be behind this door." You drop into a crouch, tracing one finger along the carved grooves in one of the outer rings. It's bone dry, dust gathering along its tracks. When was the last time anyone made use of this entrance? "The grooves need to be aligned so that water can descend to the bottom. This might take a while."

You get to work in silence. The stone is cool beneath your palms, and each movement produces a soft, grinding click as ancient gears stir after years of disuse.

The mechanism quickly proves more intricate and challenging than you'd initially expected—the channels align and subsequently diverge, and one incorrect adjustment causes all the pooled water to drain uselessly into the sides. Things would be much easier if you could feel the flow of water like the priestesses of Phagousa back in your hometown did, you lament to yourself. Still, the lock is engaging enough, and it doesn't take you long to slip into a state of focus.

All the while, you feel a gaze resting intently on your back.

"I had a sudden thought," Phainon says.

"Don't hurt yourself," you reply absently, without looking up.

"Ha ha, very funny." Phainon ignores your jab and presses on. "Where did you learn to do all this?"

"All this?"

"All this… temple-related business." You pause, peeling your eyes from the mechanism. Phainon has positioned himself against the wall to watch you work, arms crossed loosely over his chest while one shoulder rests against stone. "You didn't study at the Grove, right? None of the schools there teach anything remotely similar, anyway."

Caprists, Erythrokeramists, Helkolithists, Lotophagists, Nodists, Venerationists, Nousporists. Phainon comes from the last and newest of them, if you remember correctly. Hyacine and Lady Castorice had, too.

You turn back to slide another ring into alignment. A thin stream of water trickles a little further along one of the grooves.

"Why the sudden curiosity?"

"It's hardly sudden. I've been trying to get to know you better for over a year now, in case you haven't noticed."

You huff out a breath that might pass for a laugh at his admission.

"And how is that going for you?"

"Terribly." You hear the sulk in his voice without seeing it. "Getting you to speak about yourself is harder than squeezing water from a rock."

He's one to talk. Phainon does speak—often, in fact,and to a remarkable degree—yet for all the words he offers, he reveals very little of substance about himself. Not deliberately, you think, because the man standing behind you isn'tone to withhold any part of himself if it would benefit another. And yet, somehow, conversations with him always turn outwards: to his hometown, to other people, anything that isn't quite truly about him. You're not certain if he's even aware of this habit himself, despite his considerable self-awareness.

Most of it is misplaced, anyway.

You decide to humour Phainon for once. "I didn't."

He perks up immediately, like a dog being thrown a bone.

"Didn't?"

"Didn't study at the Grove." Water slips along a newly aligned path, pooling in a crevice. Phainon remains silent but you can feel the curiosity radiating off him in waves. "The village I was born in was located in an area fraught with natural disasters, so they worshipped all three Titans of Foundation. The surrounding cliffs were littered with the ruins of their temples. I used to spend hours as a child playing there and talking to the gods, pretending they could answer me."

"Woah. You started out young."

You smile faintly at the sincere amazement in his tone. "I guess so."

"I remember running around Aedes Elysiae all the time with Cyrene too, when I was younger. We'd stay out past Descent Hour and our parents would find us sleeping in the wheat fields." The timbre of his voice softens. You don't have to turn around to know that there's a wistful, faraway look in his eyes. He always gets nostalgic whenever he talks about his home, and you briefly wonder what it must be like to miss your birthplace so fondly. "I bet you got up to all kinds of mischief too," he adds, the tail-end of a laugh snaking its way in.

"I did. The village elders used to make us kneel on Georios' temple steps as punishment." At the movement of another ring, a thin stream of water slips along the outer circumference. Oh, you're getting somewhere. "I almost missed it, after everyone started presenting."

"Oh. What happened?"

Phainon sounds a little more measured now. You don't spare much thought to it, mind and fingers occupied with the mechanism in front of you.

"My friends started attending courtship dances to find mates, or serving in the temples." Or at least that's what they'd said—but you'd always suspected that the truth was far simpler, and far less kind. "My village was small, so I was the only beta there at the time. They didn't kow what to do with a defect like me." You move another ring, and the water continues its slow descent down the door. "I stuck around for a year or two before I left to explore on my own. That's how I ended up in Okhema."

You keep working the door. When the silence stretches on for longer than you expect, you turn your head again, bemused.

"Phainon?"

Even in the dim light, you can just make out the tight set of his jaw. He's… unhappy, you think. About what, though, you can only guess. Hyacine once mentioned that Phainon's scent reminded her of summer warmth—vanilla and neroli and fresh linen left out to dry, sunlight distilled into something you could put in a bottle. You wonder distantly how that might change when soured by displeasure.

"I wish you wouldn't talk about yourself like that."

You blink, suddenly pulled from your musings. "Like what?"

"Like calling yourself defective." The words leave him in a rush, like he's been holding his breath. "Or anything remotely similar, actually."

"I am, though," you reply, more matter-or-fact than argumentative. "No scent glands or receptors, remember?"

A troubled look flickers across Phainon's face. His gaze darts over you, a migratory bird unable to settle—like he wants to say something more but cannot find the words. Eventually, he settles on, "You should have come to Okhema earlier. If you had, you would definitely have been accepted into the Grove. The sages would have been fighting over you."

You turn back to the door, snorting softly. Almost there.

"That's so silly. I'm just a nobody."

"You're not," Phainon insists. His footsteps draw closer. You can almost imagine the stubborn set of his expression even without looking. "We would have been friends."

The notion is so ridiculous you don't even bother dignifying it with a proper response. Phainon isn't just any alpha—he's highly regarded, well-built, intelligent and good-looking to the point of envy. To make matters worse, he's kind and respectful. Omegas would have flocked to him in droves. And you… you would have remained precisely where you always do—at the periphery, unnoticed and unremarkable.

No, you want to say. We wouldn't have been.

"Professor Anaxagoras would have liked you, I think. He's always taken an interest in other betas," Phainon continues without waiting for your response, unfazed. "He used to ask the strangest questions during lectures, the sort that would send half the class struggling to figure out what he meant. Sometimes he would just up and leave in the middle of them, too."

"Wow."

"His lectures could be rather esoteric, but I think you would have gotten him. You could have woken me up, too! I kept falling asleep during classes, and the professor would call on me at the worst possible moments."

"…Perhaps."

"Though the Nousporists' cohort was rather small at the time, so you might not have been very impressed by it…" Phainon hums, as though genuinely considering the thought. "Which school do you think you would have gone to?"

"The Venerationists, most likely." The answer slips out without your meaning to, and you pause. "…what are you doing, Phainon?"

Phainon holds your gaze. There is nothing overt in his expression—no usual teasing smile, no easy deflection—yet the attention in his eyes feels strangely intent. The sort of look that makes you suddenly aware of yourself, as though he's not merely looking through you but at you. You shift slightly, a strange unease stirring beneath your skin wherever his gaze lands.

Right before you can look away, Phainon drops his gaze first. "Nothing. Just wondering what it would have been like, if the two of us had been students at the Grove together. Oh!" He ducks his head to riffle through the satchel tied to his belt, fumbling for a moment before producing a pastry—some of the flatbread the serving girl had given him earlier. "I just remembered that you like this. Snack?"

Normally, you'd reach for pita without second thought. Now, there's something making you hesitate.

"…My hands are dirty."

Phainon beams. He holds it up to your mouth, excuse rolling off him like water off a duck's back. After a brief moment of reluctance, you lean forward and take a small bite.

It's good. Warm and airy and soft. You don't know why that's annoying you so much.

Between growing bites of flatbread and several more rounds of trial and error, you finally manage to coax the rings into proper alignment. When the last one slides into place, the water at the top finally begins to flow unimpeded, racing along the newly connected grooves to pour into the narrow channel at the base of the door. The mechanism within the stone whirs, so low you can feel it grating in the back of your skull. Faint blue light seeps through.

Soundlessly, the doors part.

You exchange glances, and Phainon reaches up to pluck one of the torches from its sconce. The two of you step through the doorway. The firelight flickers across the walls, revealing rows of pockmarked recesses—probably where jewels or inlays once rested, long since pried free. The work of temple robbers, most likely. Your footsteps echo softly as the passage opens into a small, gilded chamber.

Mounted upon the far wall is a massive fish-shaped gargoyle carved from pale stone. Its lips are parted over a shallow basin that looks bone dry, its surface cracked and dulled with age. It's as though the poor creature has been begging for water for years.

"That's it," you murmur, starting forward.

Phainon's hand closes around your upper arm before you can take more than a few steps. "Wait."

There's a sharp undercurrent in his voice that makes you halt at once, hands instinctively withdrawing to your chest. He's already still, head tilted ever so slightly to listen. You follow his line of sight despite seeing nothing.

And then, you hear it.

It starts off faint—so faint you could almost mistake it for breath, or a trick played on your ears by your hypervigilant mind—almost like what you would imagine whalesong to sound like. But this sounds less of a song and more of a wail. It echoes through the corridor in slow, undulating waves, rising and falling like the tide, gradually getting louder.

Getting closer.

"Abyssal sea sirens," Phainon echoes your thoughts. A pale glow gathers in his left hand, outstretched, his greatsword materialising within his grasp. The flickering flames catch in his eyes as he holds out the torch to you, and he smiles briefly, reassuring. "Stay behind me, alright?"

"I don't have a death wish," you mutter, but you take the torch anyway.

The words have barely left your mouth when monsters spill into the inner sanctum—amorphous, ink-dark shapes resembling all manner of marine creatures, illuminated by an eerie, violet glow. Titankin of Phagousa, gone mad in their search for the broken pieces of her chalice. They're nothing more than mindless Black Tide creatures now.

Phainon surges forward to meet them, a dam bracing against a rising swell head-on. Never before did you think that you would describe fighting as beautiful, until you'd watched Phainon fight for the first time. His greatsword cleaves through the tide in brutal, sweeping arcs, silent grunts slipping past his teeth with each strike. You remain pressed against the wall behind him, torch gripped tightly in your useless fingers. The rupturned Titankin crumble into brittle fragments that clatter against the stone ground.

He makes quick work of them. The sirens wail—thin, distorted echoes that ripple through the chamber—but their voices have since lost whatever power they once held. Their warped forms shatter beneath his blade until the ground is littered with lifeless stone husks, their eerie glow fading into nothing.

Only when the last of them breaks apart does the tension in Phainon's stance finally ease. He turns back to you almost immediately, the weapon in his hand dissipating into a scatter of fading light.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

You don't know why he bothered asking. Not a single Titankin made it past his guard. The torch in your hand wavers slightly, its light dancing across the slopes and planes of his face. The corners of your mouth dip into a frown when you catch sight of a thin scratch along his cheek.

"…You're bleeding."

It's minor, more the result of stray fragments than any real injury, but golden ichor still beads along the side of his face, the colour of ripened wheat under sunlight. Phainon lifts a hand; it comes away smeared on his fingertips.

You reach for your satchel. "I have a—"

"No need." He waves it off with a short laugh and, when your frown deepens, quickly continues. "We should hurry. There might be more sea sirens still lurking in the temple."

A protest lingers at the tip of your tongue, but he's not without sense. Yet the irritation remains. Phainon has always been like this since the first day Aglaea introduced you both—so quick to dismiss himself, his own well-being, as though he is the least important thing in any given situation. You're just about to give voice to the thought when your gaze suddenly lands on the fish gargoyle behind him.

A sudden idea sparks in your mind.

"I have an idea," you say, grabbing Phainon by the sleeve of his coat. "Come with me."

Phainon quirks a brow at you, clearly bemused, but he allows himself to be tugged over to the basin without protest. You drop his sleeve and turn your attention to the gargoyle, leaning forward to peer into the pipe hidden within the fish's mouth. The interior is cast into shadow, pale stone worn smooth by centuries of running water. At the moment, it's tragically dry.

You slide your hand into its maw. Your wrist and forearm disappear past its thick lips, shoulder twisting with the awkward angle. After a few seconds of rooting about the back of its throat, your fingers meet something solid.

It's clogged with debris, most likely. You're not certain how it got there, but the more pressing matter still stands: you don't know how to get it out. The channel is too narrow to properly dislodge by hand, andyou have no way of checking how far the blockage extends. If only you could get the water flowing once more, even for just a moment…

You exhale softly, withdrawing your hand to press a palm against the carved gills.

"Are you going to…?"

Phainon leans in almost unconsciously. It's as though the sight never grows mundane to him, no matter the number of times he's witnessed it. You push aside the sudden distraction of his attention, his proximity, focusing instead of recalling the words you've long committed to memory.

"O Oronyx, Lord of Time, Weaver of the Evernight Veil…"

For a brief instant, the air itself seems to still. A second of silence, and then a faint rattling begins to echo from deep within the pipe as the grains of Oronyx's hourglass flow back upwards. It's followed by a sputtering gurgle, the sound of trapped water attempting to force its way through, and Phainon bends over the rim to peer up into the fish's throat just as the final clump of debris collapses into another pocket of time.

Water rushes out in a sudden rush. It bursts from the gargoyle's mouth in a powerful stream, directly into Phainon's face. He sputters.

You drag him out of the way in alarm, but it's too late. Phainon stands before you, mouth slightly agape and completely drenched from head to toe. Water streams from his hair in steady rivulets, darkening the white of his coat to a dull grey, dripping from the tails. He blinks the wetness out of those too blue eyes before they fall on you. Your teeth catch your bottom lip on instinct, bracing yourself for the irritation that is sure to follow.

"I—"

Instead, Phainon just starts laughing.

"Was this the idea you had in mind?" Phainon manages between sputtering giggles as he scrubs a hand over his face. You hastily step forward to help without thinking, and he lowers his head to meet you halfway, eyes slipping shut while you wipe at his forehead and cheeks with your sleeve. A faint pang of guilt rises in your chest all the same.

"Ahh—no. Water blessed by Phagousa is meant to possess restorative properties…" A trace of embarrassment slips into your voice. "Apologies. I wasn't expecting the water to just surge out like that."

"No worries. It was my fault, sticking my head there like I did. Woah." Phainon's eyes flutter open again when you withdraw your hand. He lifts his own to touch the cut along his cheek—or rather, where it'd been. He rubs over the spot a few times, brows raised. "Restorative properties, you said?"

"The ancient texts say its supposed to soothe the soul. It mends minor wounds and cleanses the body, too."

"Well, I've definitely been cleansed." Phainon smiles around a humoured exhale, pushing back the damp hair clinging to his forehead. The two of you watch the gargoyle in silence for a moment. Water gushes now from its mouth in a steady stream, the sound of it echoing gently through the enclosed chamber as it pours into the basin. From there, it must flow down to beneath the temple grounds, and eventually, the Soul-Purifying Spring in the town.

You linger just long enough to ensure the flow remains steady, before turning to the exit.

"Let's get out of here."

That night, the town celebrates.

The people have strung up burning lamps along the perimeter of the square, their flames reflecting in the now rippling waters of the Soul-Purifying Spring. While the air still clings to the heat of the day, the temperature's dropped together with the setting sun, just enough to be pleasant. A pair of brewers had cracked open a cask earlier in the evening, too—vinted with water from the Spring," they'd proudly declared.

Now, that amber liquid swishes in your cup as you idle at the edge of the agora. Water spills endlessly over the lip of the fountain, as though it'd never ceassed flowing in the first place.

"I'm glad to see you stayed," a familiar voice says.

You look up just as Phainon lowers himself onto the diphros next to you. His own cup is grasped loosely between his slender fingers, eyes glimmering like cut sapphires in the firelight. There's already the beginnings of a flush high on his cheeks—the combined result of drink and spending the past hour fending off a crowd of admiring townsfolk. They'd swarmed him when you'd returned from the temple earlier, and it'd been almost amusing to watch his increasingly frazzled—and futile—attempts at redirecting the praise while you observed from a short distance away.

"It's not as though I had much of a choice." You return your gaze to the fountain, lifting your cup to take a measured sip. The honey brew is a tad smokier than what you're used to but goes down remarkably smooth.

If it had been up to you, you would have long retired to the rooms the townspeople had provided for the night. Or at the very least, spent the remainder of the evening sorting through the supplies they'd given you. As it stands, the townspeople had unsurprisingly insisted that Phainon join their celebrations. Phainon had all but begged you to join.

Well, the atmosphere is lively enough, and spirits are high. The drink is good, too.

"It's only right that you're here. You did most of the heavy lifting." Phainon leans over to nudge your shoulder with his. He seems to have shed both his pauldrons and his coat, leaving him only in his lighter underlayers. It makes him look more unburdened, you think. Less like the Chrysos Heir of Okhema and more like any other young man simply enjoying the evening. He glances sideways at you, a hint of amusement lingering in his eyes. "You vanished rather efficiently earlier, by the way."

"Easy to do when you don't have a scent. Watch."

You thrust out your free hand, wriggling your fingers in his face before you let it fall back into your lap. Phainon stares at you, clearly bemused.

"What was that supposed to do?"

"It's how I disappear. You can't see me any longer."

He stares down at your hand, then back up at you. The corner of his mouth twitches inelegantly.

"Oh, dear. Where did you go?"

"Precisely."

Phainon manages one—no, two sharp exhales through the nose, before his restraint breaks.

The sound of his laughter rings through the air, soon joined by the soft pluck of stringed instruments. A few musicians have brought out what seems to be lyres while someone starts an upbeat rhythm on the castanets. The music falls into a jaunty tune. It doesn't take long for the townsfolk to begin drifting towards the fountain, forming a loose circle around it for a dance.

It doesn't take long for someone to notice Phainon, either. The serving girl from the tavern spots him from across the square. She breaks away from the dance circle to make a beeline straight for him, catching him by the sleeve before he can react.

"Please, join us for a dance, Sir Phainon!" Her smile is still abashed but wide with expentance. Her early shyness has clearly been dispelled by drink and festive atmosphere. "You musn't refuse!"

She doesn't so much as spare you a glance. There are a pair of ribbons braided into her hair now, twin ends trailing down her shoulders. Silk, cornflower blue. Phainon blinks, visibly flustered by the sudden attention.

"Ah, I'm not sure if—"

"Everyone is excited to meet you," she continues brightly, tugging at his arm. "They want to hear more about that massive sword you carry!"

"I'm really quite terrible at dancing, so—"

"That doesn't matter! The fun of it is in the mingling, isn't it?"

She manages to displace him a few inches closer to the fountain, and Phainon glances back at you helplessly from the half-crouch he's risen into, his eyes a silent plea. He is, you've come to realise, remarkably terrible at saying no on his own behalf. Any other time, you would have found it faintly amusing, almost endearing, even. But now…

You banish that thought before you can finish it, tilting your cup at him with a raised brow. Go on.

Phainon hesitates, seemingly torn. Then, abruptly, he changes tactics.

"Come with me," he says. The blue of his eyes softens in the firelight as he looks back at you. He holds out a hand, fingers outstretched in invitation. "Just one dance."

"I don't dance."

"Neither do I. You can learn with me." There's something almost beseeching in Phainon's tone now. The same sort of careful persistence he's been directing at you for weeks, perhaps months now, that you've never allowed yourself to interpret. You drop your eyes back to the cup in your hands. "It'll only be for a little while. Please?"

"Don't worry about her, Sir Phainon," the serving girl interjects, already starting to pull at his sleeve again. "She'll be fine here."

"But—"

"You heard her," you cut in evenly. "I'll be fine here. Don't keep everyone waiting, Phainon."

Phainon's expression falters for just a brief second—something frustrated and unreadable flickering across his face—before it vanishes, like a trick of the firelight. When he turns back to the serving girl, he's traded his disappointed countenance for a polite, gentle smile, and he allows himself to be pulled over to the fountain. The dancers part readily to make room for him.

The music quickens, lapses into a vivacious triple-beat. You watch them circle the fountain without really observing, sipping idly at your honey brew. Phainon's not a practiced dancer—or any sort of dancer, for that matter—his feet shuffle awkwardly, the effortless grace he shows in combat entirely absent here. The serving girl spins him beneath the lamplight anyway, their feet moving in tandem across the painted flagstones. Her intent is unmistakeable in the way she moves—the subtle lean of her shoulder towards him, the light brush of her palm against his as she guides him through a turn. An invitation to scent, to mingle.

You lower your gaze to your cup. The drink is good—strong, heady, the taste of honey lingering uncloyingly on your tongue. And yet, for all its sweetness, it is a poor consolation for the situation you've put yourself in.

Phainon's voice carries easily across the square, and your attention betrays you by honing in on that sound with frustrating precision. It's as though some part of you has become irrevocably attuned to him without your permission, despite your knowledge that such a thing would be biologically impossible. And yet, you seem to notice him all the same.

He laughs again. You don't look up, raising your cup once more to drain it instead.

It's easier than putting a name to the emotion stirring inside your chest.

The two of you set off the next day as planned at the break of dawn, the sun hanging low in a sky the colour of overripe plum. The townsfolk are still fast asleep or only just beginning to stir, worn out from a night of dancing and revelry in Phagousa's honour that had stretched long past Curtain-Fall Hour. The road to Loukas stretches north, further than your eyes can follow, though the map assures you that the terrain should be mostly forgiving—wide paths, gentle inclines, a little more than the occasional ridge to break the monotony. An easy stretch of travel, all things considered.

Despite this, Phainon is drinking more water than usual.

Not excessively enough for you to remark on outright, but enough to noticeable. The two of you stop by streams and rivers more frequently than you're accustomed to, his water skin seemingly always emptying before yous. You also catch him wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand more often than should be necessary. The repetitive motion makes you frown.

At first, you manage to brush it off. Perhaps he simply had one cup too many last nights—he's always been terrible at holding his alcohol, and it wouldn't be the first time he's felt its aftereffects longer than he should have. But when the same behaviour carries into the next day, and then the one after that, that same reasoning begins to wear thin at the edges.

You confront him eventually one afternoon, rounding on him beneath the shade of an olive tree.

"Phainon."

"Yeah?"

"Are you feeling alright?"

"Hm?" He glances over, blinking once, then twice. "I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

"You don't look fine."

"That's not a very polite thing to say."

You gesture at the waterskin he's holding to his lips, ignoring his attempt at humour. "That's the third drink you've had in the past quint."

Phainon pauses as if to consider it. "I'm thirsty?"

"You're also sweating more than usual."

"I'd be surprised if I wasn't, with how the weather's cooking us alive."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes to Aquila. You don't know why you even bothered with questions—he'd give you the same answer even if impaled through the gut by a Titankin's arrow. You settle for studying him out of the corner of your eye instead. His complexion is slightly off as he continues to drink from his waterskin, a faint flush high on his cheeks that bleeds down his neck and beneath the collar of his undershirt. Aside from this, he seems lively enough to walk it off, so you decide to let it go—for now.

The road continues to wind steadily north. Along the way, you insist on longer breaks in the shade, inns over roadside camps. But despite your deliberate efforts to slow your pace, Phainon's condition only seems to worsen.

He comments on the heat more frequently. He's also taken to tugging absently at the collar of his shirt, whether he's in the sun or not, fingers dragging roughly over the sun-mark at the side of his neck. And yet, no matter how many times you bring it up, Phainon dismisses your concern with the same, stubborn insistence—I'm fine, just a little under the weather, it's nothing unbearable.

The more you push, the more determinedly Phainon shoves back. That much is predictable. But what really concerns you is the inexplicable shift in his temperament. Usually, Phainon is the one to converse with strangers—the obvious choice between the two of you—with his charisma and genuine warmth. Now, you're not so sure. At times, his replies have come out more clipped than yours—an achievement in itself—and he's even begun interrupting your conversations on occasion, something you have never known him to do.

You give him a pass the first time, then the second. He's unwell, and therefore more irritable. But the third time he does it, cuts short yet another harmless exchange for directions, your patience finally wears thin.

"Phainon!" you hiss, rounding on him once the confused traveler is out of earshot. "What are you doing?"

Phainon blinks before stiffening. His gaze still lingers in the direction the man you'd been speaking to left, eyes faintly narrowed. They drop to you when you plant yourself squarely in his line of sight, though, the sharpened edge of his expression faltering before he manages to paste a half-convincing smile over it.

"What do you mean? I didn't do anything."

You drag a hand through your hair and back, frustrated. You can't believe that you, of all people, are the one telling him this.

"You can't give people death stares for helping us."

His lips press into a thin line. "I was just watching him. He was standing too close to you."

"He was looking at the map I was holding."

A complicated expression mars Phainon's delicate features. His normally pleasant countenance falters, hands working into fists before he tugs at the edge of his coat.

"…He was trying to scent you," he mutters.

Now that takes you slightly aback. Scenting. It's always been a foreign concept to you, part of a world you've never and will never be able to understand. When you think back to the exchange, though, the man had been standing rather close, one hand resting lightly on your elbow as he leaned in to glance at your maps. At the time, you'd simply dismissed it as simple curiosity.

Had he been trying to scent you then? The thought of a stranger doing so without your notice is… uncomfortable at best. But that's not the point right now.

"Even if he was, it shouldn't matter to you." You cross your arms, heels digging in stubbornly. "I'm just a beta. Scenting doesn't mean anything—"

"It does!"

The force with which those words leave his mouth startles you both. Phainon falters almost immediately, brow knitting. A faint tremor runs through his hands before he curls them into tight fists at his sides.

"It meant that he wanted—" Phainon cuts himself off abruptly. His jaw tightens even as the rest of him seems to shrink in on himself. Vanilla and aternoon sunlight and sharp neroli. It's as though he can't decide whether to double down or swallow the thought back into his mouth entirely. "It meant that he was… interested."

In you, goes unsaid.

You stare at him, barely comprehending the words. You're still attempting to wrap your head around the intensity of his previous response. He's never raised his voice—not like that, at least—before.

"Oh. O—Okay…"

Phainon meets your uncertain look for a long, drawn out moment. There's a volatile tempest behind those too blue eyes, a whirlpool of emotion churning until the tension in his expression suddenly gives way.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles. "I just—I don't know why I did that either. I just…"

Phainon trails off, helpless. All his earlier defensiveness seems to have crumbled like poorly constructed stone fortifications, leaving him strangely disoriented. It's a jarring sight. Phainon normally carries himself with the effortless sort of confidence that makes everything seem easy. Seeing that certainty stripped from him is…

He tugs at his collar again, lower lip catching briefly between his teeth—an anxious tick you've come to recognise in him. All in all, Phainon looks downright miserable.

It's impossible to remain upset. You sigh, the last of your irritation dissolving in the face of his distress, and reach out to squeeze his wrist.

"It's okay," you say. You try to be gentle—you don't know if you manage. It's almost akin to soothing a spooked oryx—jittery, skittish, and all too ready to bolt. "But you're starting to worry me. If this, whatever this is, gets worse, we'll go to the healer the first town we come across. Alright?"

Phainon inhales an unsteady breath through his teeth. For a moment, you think he might still protest—the delay in the mission, that he can still go on—but he doesn't. The tension in his shoulders linger for a beat longer before he finally releases it, fingers curling loosely around your own.

"…Alright."

You wake the next morning to the insistent glare of morning sunlight.

You refuse to open them at first. They're unbearably heavy, as they often are after sleeping rough on the road, and you turn on your side with a groan in a futile attempt to hide from daybreak. Alas, sleep refuses to take you back into its embrace, the growing warmth and brightness too persistent to ignore.

You lie where you are for an indefinite span of time, half-awake but unmoving. The camp is oddly silent.

"Phainon?" you mutter, voice still thick with sleep. No response.

A faint crease forms between your brows despite the lingering grogginess. You push yourself up onto one elbow, lips parting midway between a frown and a yawn.

"Phainon?"

Still nothing.

That's strange. The sun is bright enough to pierce through the foliage—it must be well past Entry Hour now. Phainon usually wakes you before then, if not with a warm hand on your shoulder then with the sounds of him tearing down the camp, despite his best attempts to be quiet. You're almost certain he couldn't sleep in even if his life were to depend on it.

So, the only reason you could be waking up to sun instead of his usual, overly cheerful greeting is—

You kick off the threadbare blanket covering your legs and scramble to your feet. Your heart lurches into an uneven pound all the way up in your throat. The worry only eases somewhat when your eyes find his bedroll, with a familiar, Phainon-shaped lump beneath the loose drape of his coat.

You hurry over regardless, too impatient to pull on your boots. Loose sand and grit shifts beneath your feet.

Phainon is seemingly fast asleep, his back turned to you rising and falling steadily with each breath. You crouch next to him and grasp his shoulder, gently rolling him over with the intent to shake him awake.

Instead, you find him shivering.

Phainon's face is tight with discomfort, even in sleep, complexion flushed under the morning light flitering through the trees. Loose tendrils cling damply to his temples and the nape of his neck. Concerned, you press a hand to his forehead at once and a small moan slips past his lips as he leans instinctively into your touch, hands curling against his chest.

He's burning up. Your hand drops to his cheek, then to his neck. He's feverish everywhere, skin clammy with cold sweat.

You reach up to shake him. "Phainon," you repeat, more urgenly this time. "Phainon, wake up—"

His fingers close around your wrist. Before you can react, Phainon tugs, and you pitch forward with a startled gasp. The next thing you know, you're half-sprawled over him, one hand braced beside his head while the other remains caught in his grasp. His fingertips are searing points of heat against the skin of your inner wrist. There is only the distance of a hand's breadth between the two of you, and this close, the fever radiates off him like heat from a charcoal brazier, seeping through the damp material of his undershirt.

Phainon blinks down at you, gaze fevered and heavy-lidded. If he's aware of the compromising position he's put the two of you in, he doesn't show it.

"It's hot…"

You swallow hard at the peculiar quality his voice seems to have taken. Focus. The nearest town is still some distance away, and you don't know if Phainon can even stand, let alone walk there.

"Can you—"

You don't get to finish your sentence. Phainon drags you closer still, his other arm sliding around your waist. You're too disoriented to respond, mind empty of everything except the press of his chest against yours, the heat of his hand spread at your lower back. His face buries itself in the crook of your neck with a quiet noise that sounds almost like a whimper, the tip of his nose pressing against your jaw before tracing down your jugular, breath hot and moist against the sensitive skin there and you—

"Phainon!"

You wrench yourself back on instinct, one hand flying to your neck. Your entire face is hot. It's unmistakeable, what he'd been trying to do. Seeking for a scent gland there—where they would typically be on an alpha or omega—on you.

No one has ever tried to scent you there before. Not your own family when you were still young and unpresented, and not any of the few beta partners you'd taken into your bed since. The strangeness of it all leaves you more rattled than it should.

"You…" If you had any subsequent words, they fail you now.

Phainon clutches at his coat as he sits up fully, fingers digging like claws into the fabric as though it's the only thing anchoring him. It looks as though some awareness is returning to him, but his gaze is still unfocused, pale lashes trembling as he blinks. He shivers as though seized by a sudden chill.

'Sorry—" he starts, one hand coming up to clutch weakly at his collar. He tries to muster a smile but fails. "I—"

"Don't apologise."

"Sorry." He apologises again immediately before he cringes, shoulders curling inward. "I… I didn't mean to do that. I don't know what happened, I just…"

"I said don't."

You're struck with the sudden, almost absurd desire for Phainon to make a joke. Some ridiculous, inane remark that would have you hitting his shoulder and him grinnng playfully at you. It doesn't feel that long ago that the two of you were bickering over landmarks and maps, trading verbal jabs with familiar ease. How did things turn south so quickly, without warning?

If only you could bottle the water from that Soul-Purifying Spring. How inconvenient that it loses its potency once removed from its source. You purse your lips around a frustrated sigh.

"We're heading to town," you announce before Phainon can say any more. You're not in the mood to hear any more undeserved penitence from him. "Sit here. We'll leave once I'll pack up camp."

"But I—"

The look that you throw at Phainon shuts him up. He must really be feeling unwell, because he doesn't even try to insist on helping. Instead, he sits where he is, the lower half of his face pressed into his coat's collar as he watches you stamp out the remains of the fire with hazy, half-lidded eyes.

By some stroke of fortune, a merchant with a mule-drawn cart pass the two of you on the road to town. He takes one look at Phainon and immediately reins in, concern spreading across his face before you even have to ask.

"Thank you for stopping," you say, unable to keep the tight worry from your voice as he clambers down from his cart. He has a round face, soft eyes, a pleasant sort of smile that lingers as he takes in the two of you. His gaze flicks between you and Phainon.

"Your partner?" he asks curiously, as he dusts off the knees of his trousers. It takes you a moment to realise what he's asking.

"Oh—no, no. A friend."

The merchant nods easily and helps you load your things onto the cart. Phainon, however, seems to want nothing to do with him—each time the man comes too close, Phainon lurches away weakly, expression tightening like he's caught whiff of something unpleasant.

"Phainon," you whisper when the man moves to the front to soothe his mule, impatient with the delay. "What is with you?"

You feel more than hear Phainon swallow against your shoulder, fingers tightening in your sleeve. When he answers, his voice is small and muffled.

"…His scent."

"What about it?"

"It's making me nauseous."

Now, the man doesn't smell particularly pleasant—judging by the faint briny scent clinging to him, his line of trade is probably in fish and the like—but nothing that should warrant such a strong reaction. You frown, dismayed at his lack of courtesy and how much his condition seems to have deteriorated.

"You can't just say that he smells bad." It feels almost absurd that you have to say this at all. But Phainon just shakes his head, the movement tight.

"Not—Not his smell." He pauses, grimacing, as though struggling to find the words. "It's his scent." You're only slightly bewildered. What's the difference? "It's not that he smells bad, it's just that I can't—"

"I can ride at the front, if it makes him more comfortable."

Phainon's hold on your arm tightens to almost a vice grip. The way his fingers curl into the fabric of your sleeve is almost… possessive, if you had to put a word to it. You ignore that line of thought to turn to the merchant, a hurried apology already on your lips, but he only waves it off gently.

"Don't worry, I understand." He offers you a reassuring smile. "I'm an omega, after all."

You're not entirely sure what that is supposed to mean, but you don't have the luxury of mind to dwell on it. You help Phainon into the back of the cart as the merchant climbs onto his mule. The moment you settle on the thin straw mat that's been laid out, Phainon slumps heavily against you, the heat of his body seeping through both your clothes and his.

He's far too warm.

You manage to fish your waterskin from your satchel, soaking a handkerchief against your palm before pressing it carefully to his forehead. Phainon exhales softly at the contact. His head lolls whenever the cart rocks and sways along the uneven roads, eventually settling on your shoulder.

You almost think he’s fallen asleep when he suddenly pipes up, voice faint and slurred.

"I'm sorry..."

“I told you, don’t apologise.”

"Sorry..."

You huff out an exhale. "You sound like you're dying," you mutter instead, because it's easier than giving voice to the hundred other emotions you're feeling at the moment.

There’s a brief stretch of silence after that, broken only by the creaking of the cart and the uneven rhythm of Phainon's breathing. The wheels of the cart turn over the dirt road. He speaks again.

"The dancers by the founatin…"

You sigh. "Stop talking and go to—"

"I had fun dancing with them."

Something heavy in your chest sinks, a millstone vanishing beneath the dark water.

"Oh."

A pause. You can feel Phainon swallow where his face is half-hidden against your shoulder.

"…I wanted to dance with you, too."

"…Oh."

Phainon doesn't say anything more after that. He seems to have drifted off, breathing slow and uneven where it brushes the side of your neck. The sensation prickles faintly like warmed needles everywhere his breath touches. You fix your eyes on the road stretching out behind the cart and pointedly refuse to dwell on it.

"Seems to be a pretty bad one," the merchant says. You look up to see him glancing back at the two of you from the front, swaying with each slow plod of his mule. His warm brown eyes are soft with sympathy. "Take good care of him, eh?"

Your gaze drops involuntarily to the man next to you. His pale lashes lie against fever-flush cheeks as he sleeps, lips parting around each exhale.

"I will."

He doesn't have to tell you that.