Ghost Biscuit

​

Their fingers tap against the mattress as (Name) sighs, eyes closing, but it’s clear in their mind that they won’t be going to sleep for a while, if at all, this morning. Their ears softly ring, pressure against their eardrums for a moment, as they feel a wave of dizziness hit them, eyebrows furrowing slightly. They whine quietly against their pillow, head rolling to press their face further against it, as if it would ease the headache fading in once the dizziness leaves them.

They can hear the sound of Qifrey talking to someone they assume to be the new apprentice–Agott, they think her name was. The two were outside; no doubt, they wouldn’t hear them otherwise since (Name)’s room was in the basement of Olruggio’s section of the atelier. Qifrey’s voice is soft, discussing techniques of drawing consistent circles and straight lines, even when walking or talking.

It’s nice to hear it in the background, but they stop paying attention to it when a knock at their door echoes in their ears, making them huff at the sound. Their eyes open to glance at the opening door, watching Olruggio enter their room, the steps glowing softly with each progressive foot the man takes.

“Breakfast’s ready if you’re awake.” His voice is a stark contrast to Qifrey’s in the morning, gruff and heavy instead of quiet and light, but he quiets down when he notices (Name)’s current position on the rounded bed.

They’ve been here for a year, which was plenty of time for the two adults to learn the difference between sleeping, nightmares, and groveling in pain. This was groveling.

He sighs, closing the door softly before taking as quiet of steps as he can until he reaches the edge of their bed, sitting softly on the mattress as he hears a small whine escape (Name). He’s quick to bring the self-warming blanket over their body, his hands moving softly over their shoulders, one palm resting on the back of their neck as he feels the tension roll over their body.

“...Scale?”

“...nine.”

“Hm…”

(Name) feels his hand move from their neck to the base of their head, right where their spine meets their skull. He scoots closer, his other hand leaning on the bed as he begins to press and rub against the joint, hearing the kid’s whimper. They don’t decline the massage, knowing it’ll ease the tension in their head and ears in a moment if they let him continue.

Olruggio sighs, his focus on their expression, watching as their eyebrows slowly unfurrow, the wrinkles on their nose smoothing out, their jaw finally unclenching as he brings his hand away from their skull and onto the side of their head. His thumb brushes the joint between jaw and skull, feeling the tension along it ease up as they let out a long sigh.

They stay in silence for a moment until (Name) speaks up, their scratchy voice more hoarse than usual from their own exhaustion, “...Rub my back, please?”

The man grunts in response, his hand letting go of their jaw and moving down to their back. He’s not good at massaging, truly; they both know that, so all his hand does is move up and down their covered back, the warmth of the blanket mixed with the gentle pressure of his hand easing the aches. It’s not the best, but it’s enough. (Name)’s muscles relax slowly but surely, and while their joints still ache and they fear that if they move their position on the bed they’d go back to being in deep pain, the administration of a tender touch to their back was enough to ease their mind into lulling to sleep.

They don’t feel him stop even while their breathing evens out, barely conscious as they hear a soft voice come from behind them–whether it was Olruggio, Qifrey, or maybe even Agott, they couldn’t care. They were too tired and sore to care.

​

By the time they wake up, it’s around midday, the warm orange of the rising sun long gone into a much harsher, brighter light of noon. (Name) groans, twisting around as they feel their body still scream at them for daring to be alive, one wrong move of their leg causing them to retreat into a pointed position as their hip spikes in pain. They move their head to the side with a sigh, eyes blinking slowly as they realize their day is going to consist of lying around and hoping one of their Masters comes down with medication.

On the nightstand, (Name) notices there’s a bowl of what they can assume to be food, likely a soup or porridge for their aching body, the bowl itself keeping the contents inside a consistent temperature as they try to move again.

Slowly, they’re able to situate themself against their headboard, moving their hands to their face as they groan in them. Luckily, their arms aren’t as achy as their legs, making it easy for them to grab the bowl and spoon and begin eating their first meal of the day. It’s simple and smooth against their throat, and was warm enough for their stomach to growl for more. They know it’s Olruggio’s cooking, given that the porridge was more savory and hearty, filling them up more easily without a sugary aftertaste Qifrey’s cooking seems to always have.

It doesn’t take long for the door to open again, and they’re surprised to see the new apprentice trot down with a small huff.

Agott was new to the atelier, only joining about three weeks ago, and the two kids barely talked to one another during that time, primarily because she was extremely focused on her work. (Name) had tried to ask her to play with them on numerous occasions, requesting “help” in the garden or just wanting to talk, only to be shut down by the purple-eyed girl as she gave short responses about needing to focus on her witchcraft and sigil memorizations. They couldn’t help complaining to Olruggio after the first week, knowing he was worried about their socialization skills–but lo and behold, it seems like Qifrey nabbed someone with even less childish cares.

Back to the present, (Name) watches as Agott moves closer to the ten-year-old, her hands holding the circular spell journal Qifrey gave to her on day four of living here. She moves onto the mattress and immediately opens it to a saved spot, closing the circle and waiting. The slightly dark room is then illuminated by small beams of blue and pink lights, fizzling out as Agott stares at (Name), expecting some sort of reaction.

The older child tilts their head with a small smile, hiding the aches in their hips from the sudden dip in their mattress while looking at the girl, “That was pretty!”

“Hmph,” Agott looks down at the page, “Of course it was.”

(Name)’s head tilts the other way, confused at the reaction they received from the younger girl–they just complimented her magic; why was she upset? The bowl is placed on the mattress beside their sat form as they open their mouth to mumble an apology, but their thought is interrupted as Agott flips the page and begins sketching a new spell with a pen and ink (Name) didn’t realize she had brought with her.

“It was supposed to be flowers,” she mumbles, not looking up at (Name) as she moves closer to their side, sitting herself right beside them, back also pressed against the headboard, “See?”

They look at the paper, noticing the sigil designs laid out before them. It all appears correct until they notice the odd structures of certain sigils. They point to it, a tilt to their head still noticeable, “Are these flowers?”

Agott nods, “Yes, they’re supposed to look like those flowers you keep talking about–the pink and white ones.”

(Name)’s eyes widen at the confession–if they’re being honest, they thought Agott didn’t like them. They were standoffish, especially to the idea of practicing magic or joining in Qifrey’s lessons with Agott, and they knew she could see their disdain for even drawing a simple pyreball spell. They also knew she was the daughter of an extremely prominent witch, so magic was something she was passionate about. (Name) didn’t want to be rude and talk badly about her passion, and she was young–a little over one year younger than them–they couldn’t squander that just because they had terrible experiences with forbidden magic.

They hum softly, tapping at the paper as Agott tries to continue to redraw the spell with cleaner, slower lines, “...maybe just try flowers, not specific ones.”

A huff is the only response the girl gives, eyebrows furrowing at the idea of doing a spell at its base level without any alterations. She didn’t want to do that; she wanted to do a more complex spell, and she knows this is an achievable one–if Olruggio can make colors form in light, she can, too. But after another failed attempt at making the flowers colorful, instead making the beams of light twist and turn around themselves, she hesitantly agrees.

It doesn’t take much longer, and once the circle is complete, a flower is formed by pure light. The form of it is stable for a minute, giving both children time to admire it. (Name) could count the petals; that’s how stable it was. “Wow…”

The single word made Agott look over with a pleased expression. She wanted to show off, didn’t she? (Name) thinks to themself, looking over with a small, tired smile as Agott moves off the mattress once the spell fizzles out again. They wince softly as the mattress moves beneath their hips, trying not to bring attention to it.

“I can show you more, if you’d like,” Agott states, holding the journal to her chest as she looks over to the stairs, “But we’d probably need to go outside for them.”

(Name) hesitates to respond–did they really want to see spells be performed? Not really. Did they want to befriend Agott, the only other person around their age they could reasonably befriend without using the twinning pens? Absolutely. But at the same time, their legs still ached, and the thought of going up any form of staircase made their lower back sting. “...I would, but I don’t think I can.”

Their words made the younger child’s expression turn to confusion, her gaze moving down (Name)’s face, “Are you sick?”

“Um…yes…?” (Name) says without much confidence. They didn’t know how to explain it, and while their vocabulary was definitely better than when they first joined the atelier, they still struggle to find the correct phrasing and words when talking about complex topics–physical pains with reasons they couldn’t explain to Agott was definitely fit to be under the “complex topics” category–“I’m hurting, and do not want to use stairs.”

Despite a reasonable explanation, Agott doesn’t seem to understand it. Why are they hurt? Did something happen? They don’t look injured. Do they just not want to see her spells? She huffs, looking down at the floor for a moment before making a small “Hmph” noise and leaving the room.

(Name) doesn’t try to call out to her, sinking into themself as they watch her form retreat, the glowstones the last thing they see as their door is shut behind her. They sigh, a part of them wanting Agott to stay with them in this lonely room.

It isn’t long before they hear Olruggio’s voice muffled by the floor, and Agott’s own responding to whatever he’s saying. They can’t make out the conversation, and they lack the care to try–it could be about anything under the sun, which was a lot according to the two adults. Their hands return to the bowl, going back to eating in silence as they move their feet back and forth, wincing slightly as their ankles tremble with each movement, only solidifying their regretful decision to stay in bed for the day.

Their door opens after a few more bites, their eyes spotting Agott and Olruggio stepping down, the stairs glowing beneath them until they get to the lowest step. The three stay silent, Agott slightly blushing as she looks at the floor, Olruggio barely letting the silence settle before his hand brushes her back, “Go on.”

She moves over to (Name)’s bed once again, this time at the foot of it, and speaks with some guilt laced in her words, “I’m sorry I left like that. I didn’t know why you were hurt.”

(Name)’s eyebrows furrow, looking up to Olruggio for the reasoning–she couldn’t know, right? I mean, Master Olruggio does have permission to tell anyone in the atelier, but…

“She doesn’t understand that sometimes your body hurts just to hurt,” He explains, his gaze watching as (Name)’s own expression relaxes.

They shrug, swallowing the food in their mouth before speaking up, “It is okay.” They put the bowl back down as they look over to the stacks of books on their desk, then the journal only halfway used beside the stack, before returning their gaze to Agott and Olruggio. “We can still play here?”

Their words make Agott look up, some shock in it as (Name) pretty much waves off her rudeness. She hesitates before nodding, moving over to grab the journal she’s seen (Name) draw in numerous times.

Olruggio watches as (Name) winces while moving over, giving more space to Agott as she climbs onto the bed. He sighs, rubbing the back of his head before turning back around, “Just call for me if you need anything; I’ll be right up the stairs.”

The two kids call over, “Yes sir!” – “Yes, Master Olruggio!” Before returning to their respective journals, quiet voices now speak to one another as Agott begins to talk about Qifrey’s most recent lecture on pen pressure and control, (Name) responding with their own knowledge when they were with the Knights.

​

Once the door closes, Olruggio smiles softly. He was worried his apprentice wouldn’t get along with Qifrey’s; both of them were rather reserved in their socializing. (Name)’s skills in communication are still very limited, and Agott has proven herself to be less than communicative with the child.

​

A beat passes between the two, making Agott look up at the still confused (Name), tilted head and all, before their eyes gleam.

They gasp, and before they can explain why, they’re running down the stairs to their master with an excitement only ever seen when they’ve bested someone in the atelier at a card or trivia game.

Once their feet meet the lowest step, they can see Olruggio leaning in the front doorway, one arm raised as his voice calmly speaks to whoever’s in front of him. They move closer, about to begin speaking–bragging about how they were right when questioning the rumors.

~~~

“I mean, who else would fit the rumors of a forbidden child’s Master, hm?” They ask, rocking from heel to toe and back again. (Name)’s watching Olruggio draw a spell that’s to be used for some small town’s festival in a few days, allowing the stones to glow under each step in a certain area–something about a parade needing a certain magical touch they couldn’t get from regular lighting.

Their master sighs, rubbing his forehead for a moment before looking up from his perspective, “I’d rather not think about Qifrey bringing yet another child into the atelier. I already had to deal with you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” They tilt their head with a small glare. Four years have passed since they joined the atelier under Olruggio’s watch. Four years of teaching a child with the verbal intelligence of a kindergartener and enough trauma to make a war veteran bow in respect.

“If the child is an outsider, it just doubles the work needing to be put in,” He explains with a wave of his hand, rolling his wrists before continuing his work, “I don’t think I could put up with teaching yet another kid the basics.”

(Name) huffs, finally moving to sit next to their master, legs sprawled out in front of them, facing the opposite way of Olruggio. They have a small pout on their face, and when Olruggio looks over to them, he can’t help but recognize the growth the child before him has made.

They’re three tests into this apprenticeship, the third one only being taken because some kid at the Great Hall said they couldn’t, and (Name) has grown into being quite a stubborn child, with enough pride it could rival that of their own shyness at times. They’re still learning vocabulary, but they’ve been able to properly speak without much need for interference for the past year; their reading comprehension is now on par with the other apprentices, and their use of a pen is nearly on par with Agott’s. If only they wanted to actually use that penmanship for magic.

Olruggio ruffles their hair, giving a small, amused scoff as (Name) swats his wrist away and fixes the messied locks. He returns to his commission, rolling his eyes when the kid speaks up, “...I am just saying, I would not be surprised if we return to a new app’entice at the door.”

“Apprentice.”

“Huh?”

~~~

Olruggio crosses his arms, “When exactly did your little stable of apprentices multiply?”

The girl–Coco–watches from Qifrey’s side as a face pops around Olruggio’s shoulder, absolutely beaming in amusement, as their eyes focus on Coco, then up at Qifrey.

“This is a special case,” Qifrey begins, his hands rubbing one another as Olruggio’s expression grows more annoyed with each word, “Coco is a victim of forbidden magic–”

“The forbidden spell?” Olruggio asks, finally walking out of the atelier and grabbing the girl’s wrist.

He’s about to speak up again, but (Name)’s cackling–then a quick cough–before continuing to cackle, grabs his attention for a moment, turning back to see them leaning on the doorframe as their scratchy voice calls out, “I was right!”

Qifrey tries to speak up now that (Name) has subtly eased some of the tension, “Olruggio–”

“--I’m handing this girl over to the Knights Moralis.” He states firmly and plainly, leaving Qifrey and (Name) at the atelier’s door.

Their eyes widen at such a statement, cackling stopping as soon as his words register in their mind. They weren’t on bad terms with the Knights, far from it, but they knew what it meant when someone was taken to them, and with how Qifrey freezes in front of them, standing outside even as the clouds begin to rain down on the three outside once more, they knew he wasn’t pleased at the idea.

“M..Master Qifrey?” They start, watching him draw on his palm-sized journal, not able to finish their train of thought as he kneels and places a spell on the floor, their eyes following the water from puddles rising, the trickle of rain within the air itself stilling, before erupting into a large wall that surrounds Olruggio and the new girl.

It was a tricky situation for the teen–they’ve been around the two adults during spats and arguments, but the two were always mindful to keep magic away from their usual quarrels. This wasn’t a usual quarrel, at least not to Qifrey. They knew he wouldn’t do anything that would injure his companion, but the sight of him using magic against Olruggio was enough for their nonexistent hackles to raise, their hand holding the doorway tighter than before, eyes focused between the two, gaze flicking over the girl with each pass as their amused smirk falls into a pale frown.

“I cannot allow you to take Coco,” he begins, a darkness in his voice that makes (Name)’s posture against the doorway shift as they slightly hide themself further within the atelier, “No matter how close a friend you may be.”

Their master has stopped moving, shock in his voice as he looks over his shoulder. He’s been the target of Qifrey’s spells before, but never in such a defensive–nearly aggressive–way, the tension only rising as he side-eyes his friend, then the girl, dropping her wrist, “You would turn your magic against me? Just who is this girl to you…”

The world stills around the three as the wall of water wobbles and falls, (Name) hesitantly keeping the door open despite their anxiety tugging at their heart to flee. They unintentionally hide further back once Qifrey stands, face tilted downward as their eyes shift focus from the white-haired man to the young girl–they couldn’t agree more with Olruggio’s questioning: who was this girl, and why was she so important that Qifrey would do this?

“Please, let’s get out of the rain; I’ll explain inside,” Qifrey requests, arm lifting to direct the two to the atelier where (Name) still stands.

Their presence makes Olruggio’s stance falter–they look nervous, almost fearful as their head stays tilted down, eyes no longer trusting, but back to that calculated glare which took years to ease, now focused on the young child between them. One spell is all it took for them to retreat into silence, and it made their master’s own head tilt down shamefully.

Qifrey is the first to enter, only giving (Name) a soft smile and a gentle pat to the side of their head; Coco follows, glancing up at them before skittering off with an embarrassed glow on their cheeks; and Olruggio trails behind them, stopping in front of (Name).

He hesitantly lifts his hand, and when his apprentice doesn’t cower away, he rests it on their shoulder, thumb brushing their cloak flat, “You a’ight?”

“Yes,” they whisper back, looking over to Qifrey wrapping a towel around Coco’s shoulder, before looking through their lashes and fallen hair with a cheeky smile barely bit back as they state with amusement, “I told you, Master Olruggio.”

A partially amused, partially annoyed scoff escapes him; his hand leaves their shoulder and instead pushes against their head in a teasingly light manner, “Yes, yes, I hear you.”

“Aaand?” (Name) tilts their head, leaning down to get eye-to-eye with the dark-haired man. If they had one in this form, their tail would be wagging.

“...you were right,” He states, leaning away from the kid to hide the smile creeping onto his face. He couldn’t help but find (Name)’s pride about mundane arguments/facts endearing, especially because not even a year ago, they would’ve gone pale at even the idea of talking back to Olruggio.

Perhaps it was Richeh’s introduction to the atelier that caused the change; the girl was always trying to just be herself, poking holes at any rule she deemed unfit. Olruggio should probably try to dissuade this attitude if it keeps going, but it seems that (Name) only “back talks” when it’s something that they wouldn’t get into any trouble or danger with, so he supposes he can let it slide.

(Name) hears the pitter patter of feet running towards the doorway, looking over as tension quickly rises in their body, only to relax again as they spot Tetia and Richeh running underneath a bowl and satchel as the rain rolls harsher overhead. They feel Olruggio’s hand pat their back as he leaves the room, and (Name) decides that it might be a good idea to leave him and the other two be in the living space.

“Aaaah!” Tetia cries while running into the front entryway, the two girls’ dresses and hair soaked. The pink-haired girl gasps with a wide smile when spotting (Name), barely letting the teen close the door before jumping over and hugging them, “(Name)! You’re back!”

Richeh barely glances over as she takes her shoes off, her soft voice mumbling, “You’re getting them wet, Tetia.”

She moves off of (Name) with a bounce in her step, arms still raised out as she follows them over to the kitchen where Richeh is sitting. “How was your trip? Did you bring any treats? Did you draw any cool spells?”

“The trip was fine, but rather boring,” They answer with a sigh, taking out the two link rings they had in their pocket. They clink together, gently drying off the two girls with a warm burst of air. “No treats this time; we did not stay long enough to shop…” ‘not to mention that the only time Olruggio was off was at night…’

The spell ends soon after, rings dimming in color as (Name) unlinks them, taking them off quickly as they listen to Tetia begin to complain–not about the treats, but instead about the weather.

“It seemed like the weather was clearing up…” She took a towel from the kitchen, rushing back to dry off Richeh’s hair, which hadn’t completely dried from the link rings as (Name) would’ve hoped, “But now it’s raining even harder than before.”

She then jumps up, her hands grabbing at (Name)’s arm as she begins to rattle on, “It’s going to be a really stormy night!”

Those words make (Name) hesitantly smile, “Just means it is a good reading night.”

A whine escapes the pink-haired girl, her head shaking as she continues. Richeh looks around the halfwall beside her, eyes watching the two masters and Coco sitting in front of the hearth, “...Yeah, sounds like it’s going to get rough…”

​

(Name) eventually gets the two to go back to their room, wanting to give the adults some privacy in whatever they’re trying to figure out. They can hear Qifrey begin to explain what a Watchful Eye is, and what they’re tasked to do. Tetia whines up to (Name) with complaints about wanting to listen in to their conversation.

“If you stay in your rooms, I will sneak candies up to you after breakfast tomorrow,” (Name) whispers back, their hands on the backs of both girls, Richeh’s hair pushed around their hand. The two girls quiet down and look at one another before nodding to each other, then up to (Name).

“Sounds like a plan,” Richeh states, giving a thumbs up to the teen before getting to their door. (Name) ensures they actually close the door and won't try to leave again before walking back down the stairs with a sigh–they’ll have to take some candy from their own stash for the two girls; no way would they be able to get away with stealing some candies from Qifrey’s.

They get to the last step and hear Olruggio’s firm voice, spotting him standing up from the rug as soon as they enter the room, “Fine, the girl can stay.”

He moves slow enough to let (Name) catch up to him as he strides up the stairs to the catwalk, turning back around, “But if there’s even a hint of trouble, I’ll be reporting directly to the Great Hall–” He rests his hand on the teen’s upper back, thumb pressing slightly against the bump where their spine meets their neck– “That is my duty, after all.”

(Name) catches the slight furrow of Qifrey’s eyebrows as Olruggio speaks, but doesn’t dwell on it for long, nor ask about it as their Master gently guides them into the catwalk, then into the workshop.

The door is closed, and Olruggio rubs his forehead with his fingers, likely thinking over the fact that he has yet another mouth to feed and another set of hands he has to keep an eye on. The teen tilts their head, sharp eyes rolling over his frustrated expression, then the tired bags under his eyes, speaking up with a small hint of worry, “...should I worry over the Moralis?”

His eyes widened at the question, as if he didn’t even think about it with the added stress of (Name). ‘Shit, that’s right, this kid’s just another set of eyes I have to make sure doesn’t see (Name)’s transformations.’ A groan escapes Olruggio as both hands push against his face, muffling the sound. He looks up, exasperated, hands pulling at his cheeks as he almost prays to whatever god is above them to somehow take at least some of this newfound stress away.

Another tilt to (Name)’s head makes their entire body tilt, eyes looking over with more worry without a true answer from their Master. They weren’t worried about the Brimhats, they’ve been told over and over again that their existence was wrapped in secrecy, their image completely wiped from any Outsider minds: no one knew of the beast that roamed that village years ago, and no one knew of a young child that was taken by the Brimhats even longer ago–they’ve scoured already for a missing child or a missing family surrounded by pink carnations and white forget-me-nots, nothing ever showed up.

No, they were worried about the Knights Moralis showing up and taking them away, deciding that after years of them being here, the atelier was actually not a good fit for them. It would be detrimental to their own mindset, practically restart their social circle, and not to mention the less-than-lenient way of the Moralis compared to their Masters here. It might be a selfish look on the entire ordeal, but they didn’t know this girl enough to truly care about her memories, even if Qifrey decided they were.

“We’ll just need to keep an eye out, yeah?” Olruggio finally answers with a sigh, moving over to the stairs.

(Name) huffs, deciding it wasn’t worth the argument over ‘what ifs’ and possible eyes on them now that a fifth apprentice is living here. They move over to the stone spire off to the side, pressing down on it and watching the stones beneath them light up–the warmth of it eased their mind a little more, moving over to the stairs and following their master up.

—

—

In the main atelier, Coco watches the two new faces leave the area, worry and guilt still lacing her features as she looks back over to Qifrey, about to apologize before he cuts her off, “No need to worry. Olruggio’s time is usually dominated by requests to fashion contraptions, rarely emerging from his side of the atelier.

“Besides,” he says with a gentle smile, his hand grasping hers. He pulls her to her feet, “You passed the test of your very own accord; you should stand tall and proud as a proper apprentice.”

She hesitantly follows, a smile growing on her face as she listens intently to each word, looking back over to the catwalk. Her head tilts slightly. ‘He’s explained who the man was, but not the kid…they couldn’t have been too much older than me and the others, too…’

“Master Qifrey,” She begins, finger moving to her chin as she asks while keeping her eye on the spot the mysterious person was, “Who was the other person? The one with the darker blue cloak?”

The hesitance Qifrey provides the girl only makes her more curious, her gaze catching the sudden change in his expression: He’s staring at the catwalk, too, eyebrows furrowed as a hand scratches his cheek, as if contemplating how much information he wants to give her–how much information he should give her. It makes Coco begin to wave her hands, “N–Never mind! Forget I asked! It was rude of me to not ask them themself; I shouldn’t be asking to talk behind a person’s back, even if that just means getting a name; oh, I’m sorry–”

A gentle hand on her head makes her movements and words freeze, gaze looking up to see Qifrey’s expression has returned to normal–that gentle smile and a small chuckle accompanying it.

“There’s no need for that now. They’re Olruggio’s apprentice, (Name).” His words ease Coco’s curiosity just a smidge, but also raise more questions in the girl–Olruggio’s apprentice, not Qifrey’s? Doesn’t that negate the entire ‘Watchful Eye’ balance? Do they learn the same things she and the other girls do? Are they some sort of special case because of Olruggio’s ties to contraptions?

It seems that her curiosity is leaking into the air, Qifrey giving a more worried expression, with upturned eyebrows and a weary smile as he adds, “You’re more than welcome to ask them yourself tomorrow morning.”

He releases her head, gently guiding her away instead as he speaks, “You’re still damp from the rain; off to the bath with you before you catch a cold.”

His words make Coco finally return to the present, nodding with a smile as she moves the towel over her arms, “Yes, master.”

—

—

(Name) spots a little brushbuddy wiggle into the cracked open door, making small ‘pii’ noises as it chases them up the stairs, face occasionally leaning towards the ground as if sniffing something. They tilt their head, hand on the edge of the halfwall as the tiny, fluffy thing jumps from one stair to the next, stifling a chuckle as it missteps once, almost tripping.

They catch it once it gets to the top step, feeling the tiny paws grip and move on their hand as they hold it up by the armpits. “Master Olruggio, we have a guest.”

A confused hum escapes the man as he turns around to see his apprentice with the brushbuddy now squirming in their grasp. He stands up from his desk, sighing as he walks over, watching with tired eyes at the brushbuddy who’s escaped their hold and is now climbing up their arm, more tiny noises escaping the little thing as (Name) giggles at the ticklish paws on their shoulder.

They spin around to try and spot the animal, but it seems to have nestled itself within the hood of their apprenticeship cloak with a small whine. Olruggio smiles softly, linking two rings together to dry the creature off. The warm wind makes (Name)’s own hair flow and warm up, causing the brushbuddy to nestle closer.

The adult then unlinks them, gently brushing the fur on the animal’s forehead with a single finger to make sure it’s completely dry. “Quite cute, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, sir,” (Name) says, looking over their shoulder to their master, recognizing the fact that they wouldn’t be able to see the little guy if it’s nestled behind their neck. The teen is about to speak up, but the sound of the door creaking open catches their attention.

Looking over the edge with a tilt to their head, (Name) spots the new girl.

“Um… is anybody here?” She asks into the dark room, hands still holding the door as she takes one step into the workshop, “Little brushbuddy? Pleease come out, you’ll catch a cold from being wet…”

Olruggio is first to make his presence known with a firm, “Hey.”

Coco jumps at the noise, looking up to see the two on the higher level, dread filling her stomach as she sees his tired, stern expression right beside the tilted head of a curious onlooker.

“When the door says ‘do not knock’, it means I don’t want you in here at all.” He picks up the brushbuddy from (Name)’s cloak; a protesting ‘pii!’ escapes the little one as he jumps down to the first floor.

The sylph shoes work splendidly in catching him, easing his trip down as he tosses the brushbuddy towards the girl. (Name) is quick to follow with their own jump down, catching themself with their own sylph shoes before moving next to Olruggio, one hand holding his sleeve as they partially hide themself behind his arm, watching the girl’s fascination.

“...How’d you dry off so fast..?” Coco asks, holding the fluffy animal. (Name) watches as Olruggio raises the same two rings, linking them together and watching as the warm air swirls around the girl, water rising in the air and stilling into vapor. The spell ends soon after, and (Name) can see the excitement in the girl’s eyes only grow, “Th…Thank you.”

(Name) is quick to move out of the way as Olruggio walks back, taking off the rings and dropping them into the bowl with the rest of them, “It’s part of the job; can’t have you catching a cold or else that’d be my problem, too. It’s my own fault for leaving the door open.”

Coco watches as the two begin to ascend back to the stairs, her eyes following (Name) with curiosity, stepping forward to ask them something. Her foot steps on the glowstone, and it brightens underneath the touch–of course it does–but her gasp quickly causes the teen to jump and look back, Olruggio not too far behind as he’s cut off from warning her to not touch anything, “--I said ‘don’t touch anyth–’”

The two recluses stare at the girl’s brightened eyes and childlike smile, her gaze moving up with a brightness (Name) would argue rivals Tetia’s. Her entire body practically bounces with each word she says, kneeling on the floor with her hands on the stone, beaming up to the two, “These are the cobblestones that light up when you step on them! I walked on these the day I learned to love magic!”

Her words make Olruggio nearly cringe, (Name) tilting their head at such an idea–sure, all of the other apprentices here appreciate magic for their own reasons, but loving magic isn’t something (Name) ever actually thought was possible. A toddler’s dream, not a twelve-year-old’s. At least, they think the girl’s twelve.

They watch as Olruggio steps past them, explaining how the glowstones work, but they keep their gaze on Coco, her face now pressed on the ground as she rubs the stones with her hands as if they’re the most precious thing in the world. It makes (Name) slightly uncomfortable. How could a child see this and think so highly of it? Does she not understand the terrible things magic can do?

A small, confused glare reaches (Name)’s expression, but they do their best to hide it as they hear Coco explain how special the glowstones are to her, “...When the stones lit up under my feet, it felt like I had magic inside of me.” –(Name) cringes at the phrasing, and can feel Olruggio take a small step closer to them, one hand resting on their elbow as a way to settle their nerves– “These stones…this magic gave me a dream for the future.”

Coco then smiles up to him with a brightness that makes the teen nearly squint at her, “So thank you for giving me my dream, Master Olruggio!”

They feel their master freeze, a small ‘Hu–’ escaping him before he grabs the girl and brushbuddy, pushing them out of the workshop quickly while rambling, “I am not your master–get out of here already!”

It’s a silly sight, but it’s clear it’s understood as Coco runs off with a smile, looking back at (Name) and waving with that same optimism that sinks deep into (Name)’s chest. Jealousy? Maybe. But it’s still deeply uncomfortable for the teenager.

Olruggio returns inside, mumbling while scratching the back of his head, “So they’d take away her passion for magic, too, huh?”

​

The door stays open.

​

(Name) lays on their mattress, sighing deeply as their eyes watch the thin window to the outside world–it’s raining heavily, but they can still hear the animals scurrying in the bushes outside. They don't dwell on the idea that their hearing is better than anyone else in the atelier at the moment--no, instead, their mind wraps back to Coco and the discomfort they felt when she shared her excitement towards the magic. It wasn’t the same as Tetia’s optimism, nor was it the same as Agott’s passion; it was pure childish adoration.

Perhaps that’s why it made them feel so…icky. She’s young, of course, and they know she’s new to the world of witches and magic, but she must know the dangers associated with each stroke of her pen, right? She has to know the caution she needs to take when around new witches and magic contraptions–there’s no other way to this life. There can’t be…can there?

The sound of a horse sprinting to the atelier is quick to divert (Name)’s attention back to the window; a harsh knocking at the door accompanied by the shoutings of a man makes the teen raise their head. Oh, how they wish they could join in whatever emergency is happening, but alas.

They hear Qifrey’s voice, and soon after Olruggio’s and Agott’s. Then silence.

​

With another hum, Qifrey moves to the living room, cheerfully calling in, “Olly.” 

His one word wakes the man up with a start—sharply gasping as he sits up quickly, blanket pooling on his lap as he rubs his eyes with a yawn. Olruggio looks over to Qifrey, furrowing his eyebrows at the sight of his sly smile and almost pleading eyes, “…what is it now?”

He moves the letter in front of his friend, “Seems like we’ll be having a third in the atelier soon.”

“No.” Olruggio states, taking the paper quickly while standing up, “I’ve already declined their offer. The first letter stated the kid was some sort of secret. I’m not handling that with whatever apprentice you decide to house.”

Qifrey hums as he watches him walk to the letter maker, following him closely before leaning over the table with his chin resting on his palm. He doesn’t try to explain why this secret child interests him, but if he was being honest: a secret child with this amount of rules connected to them makes him link their entire existence with the Brimhats. They might not have anything substantial to his quest; Hell, it might just be a trial run for the Knights to make sure their atelier is a good fit for apprentices. But the slightest chance to get even an inch closer to the Brimhats was enough to make Qifrey hopeful and eager. 

He watches Olruggio pull out the required materials to send a letter back, and finally speaks up, “I could choose them to be my apprentice.”

The dark-haired man glares at Qifrey, pen hesitating over the paper before him. The coy smile on his face, his eyes almost glistening with eagerness at the idea of having an apprentice simply being handed over to them. It’s like watching a dog see an opportunity to go to the park. Olruggio sighs, hand moving to his temples, fingers massaging the soft spots before stating, “The letter states they’d be under me, not you. I’m not even certified to be a Master.”

“So? I’d help!” Qifrey starts with a small jump to his feet, hands clapping together with a tilt to his head, eyes closed with a pleased smile, “It’d be a good learning experience for both of us! Besides, if you’ve already sent a letter of decline, and they’re still going through with sending the child over, I don’t think another letter will do much, Olly.”

It made sense; the Knights weren’t one to back down without proper reasoning–and Olruggio didn’t have a real reason to decline; he just didn’t want to take care of a kid. It wasn’t his specialty, and he truly didn’t believe he had it in him to teach a young apprentice.

So with another long sigh and another hand to his face, Olruggio nods, “...fine.” Qifrey gives a small giddy clap once again, but before he can thank Olruggio or say anything after, the dark-haired man adds with a pointed finger, “But you’re the one who’ll be playing with them; I have too much on my plate with the commissions already.”

The white-haired man nods, watching as his friend begins to write back with a groveling expression. He hums in agreement, looking over his shoulder to reread the letter, mumbling while moving his finger over his lips, “I wonder what’s so important about this child that requires so much…surveilance.”

Olruggio doesn’t give any answers–he can’t; he’s just as in the dark as Qifrey, even with the additional letter that came to him about two weeks ago. The letter was nearly identical to the one currently beside his non-dominant hand, and the man was just as unwilling to give in to the Knights then as he is now. He’s not in the witching world to teach and raise; he’s here to build and aid those in need before returning home and sleeping. The stress of a child under his mentorship is heavy; it tightens his heart and makes his lungs feel weird with each inhale–if anything happened to the kid, it’s on him. The injuries, the regrets, the mistakes- it all returns to him as their mentor. And he’d rather not deal with that unnecessary stress in his daily life.

But seeing how…eager? Curious? Maybe some mix of both? Qifrey is under the idea of an actual apprentice, he was destined to give in. Even if it was only two silly sentences from the man behind him that made him cave. 

Once the letter is written with an acceptance and a list of names (two) that will have access to this child’s–(Name)’s–documentation, Qifrey pretty much immediately gets to work fixing up the atelier. He set up one of the rooms with what he’d assume a young apprentice would appreciate: pens and pencils, their very own journals and research books, some blankets and pillows on the empty bed, and some clean clothing both he and Olruggio decided on.

The room, and the items within it, changed once the documents came in. 

It was only two days after the acceptance letter that they got bombarded by stacks of pages from a poor mail runner. It was almost an entire binder's worth of information on this kid, and lots of it wasn’t positive.

“Log 1: Written by Captain Vinanna of the Knights of Moralis.

Name: N/A. Brimhat experimentation.

Notes: The “Beast”, as the townsfolk called them, was a child under intense starvation, eating livestock for survival. Their vocal communication is extremely lacking, and they refuse to talk to anyone aside from me. Based on observations from last night, I believe it is safe to say they’re scared of witches and magic. 

The experimentation on their body is direct: ink injected into their body, seemingly beneath the skin of their back, with visible scarring, and the spell itself can be seen through their skin. The spell conducts a transformation of the physical body every morning and evening–it is not a visual transformation of light being refracted, but instead an intense physical alteration of bone and blood to physically morph the body into that of what can be described as a hybrid between a scalewolf and a whiskercat. It hurts the child to the point of blood being coughed up. I do not know if it’s their throat that’s cut, or their lungs, and it takes quite some time for them to recover their physical capabilities after they transform.

Their age is unknown, but the doctor from this morning assumes it to be between six and eight years.

After numerous meetings with the Three Wise, it was decided to keep the child under heavy observation for the time being. The only other option is to end the spell, but with how deep the spell appears to go within their physical body, I worry the only way to do that is to kill the child. I do not see that as a mercy. Perhaps we can get them within an apprenticeship, but as of now, they will be under the supervision of the Knights Moralis until otherwise stated.”

To say that the two men were disgusted would have been the biggest understatement of the year. Not at the child, not at the Knights–for once–but at the situation the poor child was in. It took hours to read through all of the logs, one per day, 239 logs total, and the men both took breaks throughout them to calm their own emotions down before continuing.

Olruggio was angry, concerned, and felt extremely ill-prepared for who they were about to house. He absolutely hated the idea of forcing this child to go through this apprenticeship. It was clear in the logs that they didn’t, and still don’t, trust magic, only doing the tests because the Knights told them to, only learning what they had to, without interest in what made magic fun. Of course he understood why, and that’s what makes it worse–who was he to become this kid’s Master? They probably hate him even now, only a few days before they’re transferred over. And he’d completely understand that hatred! It’s shocking to him that the kid allowed the Moralis to teach them reading, writing, and basic mathematical skills. It was even more shocking to hear that they passed the first test without complaint. 

It hurt his heart to know that whatever trust they had grown with the Knights was going to be erased in a few days. They’re being forced into this solitary atelier not for their safety, but for the safety of the unknowing population that has no clue how bad magic can truly be. The horrors that magic can do to a small child. It hurt even worse knowing he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

Qifrey was quiet; he didn’t speak once throughout the hours of reading and rereading the logs. It’s one thing to assume a child can bring you closer to the Brimhats; it’s another to actually know that the child can bring you closer, and the reason as to why they can. He was pissed, the anger boiling in his chest, and it made him almost double down in his goals. Was it selfish? Absolutely. But now there was more to it. If this kid was let go because they faked being feral of mind, they might recognize a location, or maybe even a face. It could be a huge break for the man, and the anger only strengthens that resolve because it’s no longer just him, but it’s with the kid, too.

The days leading up to their transfer brought more stress than it did comfort. The room was quickly moved into Olruggio’s atelier basement. It was quieter, darker, and more spacious compared to the other rooms in the atelier for apprentices. Qifrey decided it was best to get rid of the inks and pens for now, leaving just pencils and paper, and left the blankets and pillows on the new bed within the basement. 

If they were still under the assumption of a regular child, Olruggio would’ve complained about how his space was no longer privately his, but with the knowledge of the logs and what that child had gone through, Olruggio actually felt more comfortable with the child being in close reach. The idea of being forced to do those transformations described in those logs every morning and evening, alone, was worse than the idea of having less privacy in the workshop.

Qifrey had decided it was a good idea to research easy meals for a kid like them—as best as he could, at least—and Olruggio was instead interested in how to aid traumatized kids in general, going to both witch and outsider libraries for any books on the subject.

It didn’t help the concern and anxiety within the two men, Olruggio less than Qifrey, as they sat at the dining table, books sprawled out with two relatively tired men. Tea is set long cold beside Olruggio and an empty cup next to Qifrey; the two occasionally write a note in their personal note pads before looking over to the other, returning to their book eventually.

“Do you think the entire raw meat thing will be an issue? We could always make Kitfo or Tartar or something,” Olruggio says, leaning his entire weight on his hand as he watches Qifrey stay nose-deep in a book discussing food insecurities and snacking.

He shrugs, “I’m more worried they won’t eat at all.” The logs the Moralis sent were both informational and extremely useless after a certain point. 

The topic of food stopped being written about by month four, and most of the logs after month five discussed only changes that could be seen, not about patterns or possible interests. He really only knew that they tolerated magic, tolerated witches, and four months ago they were still hesitant about eating anything that was given to them by anyone who wasn’t a select few people (Captain Vinanna, Knight Utowin, and surprisingly enough Master Beldaruit). Of course, the logs were heavily focused on the medical aspects of their life; for example, their vocal cords are scarred over and nearly fried, causing a scratchy noise to follow every syllable they speak, and can cause their breathing to sound ill after any form of exercise heavier than a simple walk.

Olruggio nods, “Yeah, ‘m worried they’ll shut into themself ‘nd not give us a chance.” 

It was a valid concern, one that made Qifrey nod and mumble a small ‘Yeah’ before returning to the book. 

“Y’know, we could always ask your old Master Beldaruit for help with that,” Olruggio adds with a teasing smirk, “You weren’t the easiest to open up.”

Qifrey gives a curt glare to him, waving his hand at the idea as he speaks, “Oh please, he’d immediately jump into theatrics with the kid. I wouldn’t doubt it if he already has.”

Olruggio chuckles, shaking his head before returning to the book with a shrug, “Just food for thought.”

The white-haired man hums, returning to silence between the two.

The day of arrival was stressful for (Name): one bag packed with the clothes the Knights had given them, some random toy the old man in a walking chair gave them, and some sweets Utowin snuck in at the last minute. The transfer was easy enough, with Captain Vinanna opening the windowway and immediately being able to set foot into the downstairs area of what they could assume to be the atelier.

Two men waited for them on the other side, one a dark-haired, dark-cloaked individual, the other a white-haired, light-cloaked individual–both had their hats on. The light-haired one was smiling and greeting Vinanna warmly while the other stayed quiet and to the side, only greeting her when she spoke directly to him. 

She then turns to (Name), waving slightly over to the dark-haired man, “(Name), this will be Olruggio, your Master, and this is Qifrey, the other witch within the atelier.”

They nod twice, glancing at Olruggio first, as if memorizing the patterns on his cloak, then to Qifrey, his smile making their brain correlate him with the happier Knights and witches they’ve already met. They look at the ground after another minute, barely flinching as Vinanna rests her hand on their shoulder. She returns her attention to the two men, “You both read through the logs, yes? We would have sent it through the windowway, too, but I thought that wouldn’t be polite of me to stroll right on in.”

“Yes, we received it all, Captain,” The white-haired man states, moving closer to the two as (Name) hesitantly looks up again once Vinanna lets go of their shoulder. 

The two adults talk more as (Name) moves around the dark area, eyes darting around the cobbled walls, a slight twitch in their chest making it hard to differentiate between the original cell they were trapped in and here. Their teeth bite down on their inner cheek, stepping further in as they collect more observations: It’s not the same stone from the cell, there’s no creaky gate, and it doesn’t smell like piss and raw meat.

Their observations are cut short as Olruggio steps closer to them; his gaze had followed the child’s movements and slight changes in attitude–he could see they were uncomfortable here, so he stands beside them and asks, “Would you like to head upstairs? I can show you around while the two chat.”

His words get (Name)’s attention, calculating eyes focused on his expression–there’s no anger or pettiness in them–he just looks tired. His gruff voice is completely new to their ears; the only other time someone had a voice similar to it was back with the Brimmed hats. But he wasn’t smiling or chasing them; he didn't look at all happy at their arrival, which for some reason eases their opinion of him.

They look over to Vinanna and Qifrey, watching as he chuckles at something Vinanna’s complaining about before looking back at Olruggio. A short nod accompanies their movement as the man begins to walk away, waving at the other adults as they get to the stairway.

The stairs were enough to get (Name)’s breathing to turn to an uncomfortable wheeze, making Olruggio look back at the child. But they aren’t falling behind, one hand on the wall as they keep their eyes on the man. He’s reminded of the scarred throat, and returns his focus forward once more. There’s a heavy anxiety that’s fallen over his chest with the noise, his fingers tightening into his palm to try and quell it as they get to the brighter room, sunlight glistening into the atelier as the child stays two feet behind him at all times.

“This ‘s the living space,” Olruggio begins, moving to the side as (Name) stands by the cobbled wall to their right. 

Their eyes take in the sight: A couch is situated to the left–it’s almost too small in their opinion, and decided they shouldn’t touch it unless told otherwise–the rug underneath it is scrunched from its legs, a coffee table sits in front of the couch, a chair that looks like it should be in another room is in the right-hand corner in front of a stack of firewood, and the unlit hearth in the middle is almost intimidating with the large body and the thinning neck above it. Their hand messes with the hem of their shirt, the other one still holding their bag, eyes focusing then on the colors–natural woods and cobble, a light tan or cream on the fireplace with accenting colors within the tiles that correlate with the rug. 

(Name) hesitantly follows Olruggio as he walks up a small set of stairs, waving at the new room, once again stepping aside so (Name) can look around, “Here’s the kitchen ‘nd eating area.”

Once again, they quickly assess the area: The low-lying table with pillows surrounding it, a mug is left unattended on top of it. There’s lots of cabinetry and counter space, some of it reminding them of the medicinal cabinets they’d seen at the Great Hall’s Medicinal Spire, with pots and pitchers and jars messily arranged around the entire room. The lighting in this room was much brighter compared to the living space and windowway room, easing (Name)’s mind slightly now that they can actually see the outside world.

Olruggio notices the tension drop ever so slightly once the child’s eyes find the window, and he relaxes himself–they feel trapped in the new area, Olruggio decides. He grunts softly, walking further into the kitchen to the door.

A small tilt to their head is the only question (Name) provides, watching the man open the door, looking behind him to the child with his own tilt. His cloak moves softly as the cooling wind rushes in, making (Name)’s eyes squint softly as he speaks, the gruff noise of his voice still shocking them, “It’d be good for you to know where you can and can’t go, yeah?”

They follow soon after, quickly moving away from the man as best as they can, keeping that wide berth between them as Olruggio begins to talk about the property itself–something about owning the land in the area, the garden, and the types of flowers around there. To be truthful, (Name) wasn’t really listening. Their focus was instead on the outside world.

While their time with the Moralis was okay–they were taught a lot, and they were grateful that the red-cloaked individuals never raised a hand against them–they were still stuck within stone walls, unable to leave without supervision, and even then, the places they went were small and barren compared to the atelier they now stood in front of. 

The grassy hills brushed with the gusts of wind, trees freckling the landscape as islands in the vast ocean of tall grass. They can trace the dirt trails from constant use, the ups and downs of each providing some evidence of movement between the atelier and the outside world–if they were to follow it, would they somehow find their way into a town? It made them giddy to explore an area they had at least some knowledge of. (Name)’s so wrapped up in the idea, they don’t notice Olruggio stopping in front of them, causing them to walk directly into his back with a small ‘oof’.

He looks back, watching the kid catch themself before looking up with wide eyes, a certain paleness settling into their features as their calculating eyes rest on his expression. His eyes never glare, his eyebrows barely furrowing, and when he speaks, it’s softer than the monologue he was in prior, as if he’s concerned about the child, “You alright?”

After some hesitation, (Name) nods, gaze falling to the ground as they listen to him, watching his feet move, his body now facing them directly, “No harm done, right? I get it, it’s different out here, especially compared to the Great Hall.”

They shrug softly, one hand returning to the hem of their shirt as they feel their shoulders tense, the wind around them stilling for a minute before another gust brushes past the pair. A sigh escapes Olruggio as he returns to his walking, only glancing back to make sure they’re following him. They get to a small portion that stands just beside the atelier; a bench rests there, overlooking the sprawling landscape.

(Name) tilts their head again, eyes scanning the bench–simple, wooden, looks just as old as the atelier itself–before noticing Olruggio moving towards it. He quietly grunts as he sits, leaning against the bench’s back with a sigh, closing his eyes and tilting his head up. He doesn’t invite them over, nor does he look back towards them.

They could leave if they wanted, flee the witches and maybe fulfill that wish of theirs to simply ignore magic altogether. But they knew it was a dumb idea, so they stayed. 

A minute passes with Olruggio staying completely still on the bench, eyes closed as the clouds roll overhead, the sun still high in the sky. (Name) finally moves closer, feet barely making a sound as they reach the side of the bench, fingers touching the wood as their eyes focus on Olruggio alone.

He can feel their gaze on him, but he doesn’t look over, thinking to himself: If he doesn’t pay attention to them, maybe they’ll sit down and relax with him. And surprisingly, it works. He can feel the shift of weight on the bench as a small figure sits at the edge, and he can’t help the small smile tracing his lips.

Their eyes leave him as their hands grip the edge of the seat, bag dropped to the side as their eyes look at the vast expanse before them. It reminded them of the barn they resided in all those months ago, hiding away, alone, yet free. Well, more free than they are now. (Name) inhales deeply, sighing slowly as another gentle brush of the wind messes with their hair. It’s nearly autumn, days slowly growing shorter, and it scared them just a tad to think about. 

The Knights were quick to learn the transformation episodes, their traumatic nightmares that made it hard to return to sleep from, the episodes of memories that caused meals to smell like rotting frillram and any pointed hat to look rather brimmed instead. But they knew the Knights wouldn’t cause them harm, instead giving them plenty of space and time. Now? They have no clue how the two men will react to their first night here; they can’t make any assumption of their response to any episode they might have or any nightmare they might wake up from. It was terrifying.

A part of them believed that maybe, if they were to run back inside and down those curved stairs, Vinanna would take them back. Maybe they just had to say “please,” like how Utowin and Luluci taught them, or maybe tears and begging would do the trick. But they knew better–the Captain had already explained to the child numerous times before this was better for them, somehow. Something about sunlight and socialization–that second word meaning nothing to their juvenile list of words they understood. 

Vinanna also said this would be safer for them; the quieter, solitary atelier was easier for them to hide in, especially compared to the Great Hall, where lots of witches, new and old, constantly had questions about their arrival and presence, the Knights trying their hardest to keep their secret, well, a secret.

They look over to Olruggio once again; his head is still tilted back, his eyes are still closed, and he looks relaxed. (Name) couldn’t understand why. Even the Knights took a few days to be this…trusting of the child. They had a room and were observed for a few days before the Knights allowed them full access to most of the rooms–under supervision, of course–but this was different. Yes, they were technically under supervision right now, but was it really when the witch who’s supposed to be watching you isn’t watching you?

Another moment passes, and hesitantly, (Name) closes their eyes, too, with a slight furrow in their brow. They tilt their head back, just as Olruggio has his, and try to figure out why he’s doing this specific position. It’s not super comfortable, but they can feel the warmth of the sun hit their face, their cheeks being the first to feel the heat, and the wind moving around them almost easier with their head tilted back. It was calming with their eyes closed; they didn’t realize how tired they were until this moment.

Vinanna left a little bit ago, and Qifrey set the windowway back to its original position once he saw Vinanna drop down the spiral stairs on the small island on the other side. He sighs, eyes closed and rubbing his neck as the window itself ripples back into the original sight. It’s not like he didn’t like Vinanna; she was there when he and Olruggio were just apprentices themselves, and presently, they both enjoy the small conversations they have, complaining about his old master and her friend, but it was still socialization that he simply didn’t care to continue once the child was obtained.

He knew he would have to be patient; he couldn’t immediately jump the gun and start asking about the Brimhats nor about their traumatic history. He honestly didn’t want to; something about even the idea of asking about it made Qifrey’s stomach drop and his skin crawl with discomfort. But he wasn’t going to lie and say he wasn’t curious about it; he wasn’t eager to try and figure out how much information he could gain from this new apprentice.

His eyes widened once they opened, the windowway exposing the outside world and with it, the small silhouettes of two figures on a bench not too far from the atelier. Olruggio and (Name), copying each other’s positions as the wind moves their hair and clothing, clouds softly following the same direction. 

It warms something in him, seeing such a terribly traumatized kid relaxed–well, as relaxed as they could get from day one of being in a new area with two new faces that could very well be recognized as threats–sat next to his companion. It’s quickly thrown out once Qifrey thinks about the child themself, reminding him of their troubles and how this will likely be the calm before the storm later that evening. 

Said evening arrives faster than any of them wanted. The rest of the day was taken by the rest of the tour: Qifrey’s room, the bathrooms, Olruggio’s workshop and bed, and finally their own room. (Name) was surprised by the fact that the two men didn’t immediately try to keep them within that room, instead allowing them to go wherever they pleased as long as it was within the atelier’s walls. They were also surprised at how casual the two were acting around them–talking between themselves and occasionally asking questions to try and bring the child into their conversations, mundane chores were worked on with only some explaining when (Name) was nearby, and dinner was quickly prepared as (Name) stayed watch in the walkway right outside of the kitchen, only walking in once they invited them to sit and eat.

But once the sun began to set as they sat on the rug in the living space, their body ached, and they could tell by the watching eyes of the two adults that they weren’t doing this alone. It was scary–only Vinanna and a few other Knights stayed to watch, and even then, the first time was when they were being chased. They didn’t know how the two would react, and it caused more panic as tremors shook their hands.

(Name) realized too late that they had waited too long to retreat into their room before the episode began, a crack of a joint the start of their downfall as they heard a sharp inhale from one of the men.

The two watched in abject horror as the child before them began to physically change in the worst ways imaginable.

It started with their bones, pops of joints, and the crackling of intense growth and shrinkage could be heard underneath the child’s pained whines. Their limbs elongated and grew deformed, fingers moving in unnatural angles before cracking into place, skin overgrowing their fingertips and palms as their wrists and hands themselves elongated and tore until they resemble paws rather than hands. Their feet do similar movements, toes stretching and curling as their ankles make clear cracking sounds. 

(Name)’s whines turn into quiet sobs as their body falls to their elbows and knees, hands–or paws–grip at the rug as their back arches, their spine and ribcage can be seen moving underneath their clothes and skin until their chest expands, ripping the shirt. Olruggio looks away with furrowed brows and an ill feeling in his stomach. Qifrey continues to watch with the same disgust on his face, his eyes widening as he sees the tattoo burn harshly against the child’s skin. A harsh sob escapes them as their spine grows a tail right in front of them; the mass of it can be seen through the skirt they wear.

Qifrey continues to watch as their collarbone snaps and folds away, causing (Name) to cry out again as their shoulder blades and arms morph into a stance that is anything but human biology, their hips following closely behind as their legs sickeningly contort into those of an animal’s hind legs. 

Their muscles begin to move underneath the skin, as if it’s its own entity, detached from the skin itself. Some portions swell while others shrink; the crying that’s escaping (Name)’s clenched jaw contorts and deepens as their face begins to change. Their skull morphs with a terrifying sound that mixes squelches and the crunching of bones, causing Olruggio to grasp onto Qifrey’s cloak, his eyes wide as he keeps his gaze away from the child. 

The man keeps his eye on (Name), not once looking away despite their teeth sharpening and thickening in their agape mouth, tongue rolling out as it lengthens without their jaw following. Their nose flattens as their face contorts into a humanoid-wolf, eyes still shut tightly as their cries become painful yowls, blood and saliva trickling down their tongue and dripping onto the rug.

Fur has begun to sprout along the edges of the spell’s ink, rolling onto skin that is way too taut against the muscle around them. The color is grey and tan mixed into a marbling pattern; turquoise scales begin to form over their upper back as their nails thicken and turn into claws, digging into the rug beneath them. Their ears stretch into points, moving along their face until they sit on the top of their scalp, fur enveloping where hair once was, covering their cheekbones, then their snout. Tufts similar to a whiskercat emerge next as the fur runs down to the tip of their wolf-like tail.

And then silence—well, from their physical alteration. The child’s yowls haven’t stopped, gagging once before tremors hit their body, causing them to fall to their side.

Qifrey is quick to move, Olruggio finally looking over at the changed body before him, tears on the verge of escaping his eyes. 

The white-haired man is quiet and slow as he kneels, hands raised but not yet touching their vulnerable form. He speaks softly, watching the two ears fold back with a wince, “Is it over, darling?”

A small, pained grunt escapes the newly formed creature, eyes opening after another moment as they look around the room with exhausted eyes. They can feel the tremors in their muscles, the ache in their joints, their lungs pushing painfully against newly formed ribs, the pressure that makes their head feel shrunken, and their ears ring painfully. That’s how they know it’s over.

Another person moves over, but (Name) couldn’t care at the moment if the witches were there to poke and prod anymore. Those thoughts end when a soft piece of fabric is rolled over their body. It’s hard to look over, their vision shaky and blurry, but they can see the two opposite-dressed men kneeling and sitting in front of them. Qifrey is closer to their head, Olruggio closer to their back. 

“Is it usually this painful?” Olruggio asks, his voice just as quiet as Qifrey’s, maybe more so as his eyes move down the child’s form. He felt like he was going to throw up throughout the entire transformation process, just by looking and hearing the terrible process. It only stayed in his throat and stomach at the idea that a child so young has to deal with it physically twice a day.

They watch as (Name) nods, before shaking their head. It was a complicated answer for a simple question—this one was more painful than the last one, but it could’ve been much worse. At least they didn’t start to throw up on their rug, although the faint scent of blood makes them acknowledge the fact they likely ruined it anyway.

It’s easy to notice the two men looking at each other, having some sort of in-mind conversation between them as (Name) feels their chest ease, the burning sensation on their back also slowly giving in.

Another moment passes before Qifrey stands up. (Name) flinches at the sudden movement, and he whispers a soft apology before leaving the room—grabbing something, perhaps. 

Olruggio doesn’t speak up for a few minutes, his eyes constantly shifting around their form—it’s exactly what the logs said, some sort of hybrid between two animals. Their hind paws are similar to a scalewolf’s, but their forepaws are closer to a whiskercat’s, and their fur is an odd amalgamation of the two animals, thicker fur wrapping around their back and neck, with thinner fur around everything else, the patterns of which clash into an oddly mesmerizing marble pattern of browns and greys. The turquoise scaling along their back is mixed with the fur; not nearly as many sprout from their back as a scalewolf’s would, and the tufts of fur on their ears and face made it clear it was a whiskercat and not another feline. 

“I assume you can’t speak in this form?”

(Name) shakes their head with another grunt.

“Hm…” He looks over their face; the squinting eyes, pinned ears, and barely concealed snarl make it clear they’re still in pain. And he hated that he couldn’t do anything about it.

None of the logs said anything about aiding their pain, no comforting sensations or even proper medication for such a complete transformation of their body. He felt trapped—and then felt guilty for feeling bad about himself when the child in front of him was quite literally trapped—which only caused him to feel the lack of control even harder. 

“Are you hungry?” A quick shake of their head makes Olruggio nod, asking instead, “Would you want some water?” And once again, (Name) shakes their head.

Qifrey walks in with a bowl and a rag, moving to sit directly in front of (Name)’s face. They watch as he dips the rag into the water, bringing it closer to their face while explaining, “It’s warm, just to clean your fur.”

He’s extremely slow in his movements, giving plenty of time for the child to move away if they don’t want his attention. But they were too tired to move their head away, allowing the rag to be gently placed onto their muzzle, cleaning off the blood that still stings at their throat. 

“I’ll bring some pillows over; I don’t think it’s a good idea to get them to try and walk to bed,” Olruggio speaks gently, directed more at Qifrey than at (Name), but they still listen and agree. Although a mattress underneath their aching limbs doesn’t sound too bad.

The rag gently brushes their chin—or where their chin would be—before moving to their cheek, the damp sensation soothing the itchy skin and aching muscles. A shaky sigh escapes them as they close their eyes, ears still pinned back.

The man watches with a gentle, somber expression, his mind entirely focused on the child, no longer thinking about their use for his goal. He moves the rag to their forehead, brushing it gently over the brow ridge and over the whiskers that tremble with each touch to their base, their fur a gentle damp now as he watches their ears relax into an upward position. A heavy inhale alerts him further, his eyes moving to their back that’s covered with the blanket; the tremors don’t stop.

(Name) can feel the pressure within their skull ease as the warm rag stays pressed against their forehead; the gentle brush of a thumb would usually cause them to try and flee, but they’re too tired, and the warmth calms their aches. They don’t notice their own breathing even out, their ribs no longer aching against their lungs; their spine still tingles with pain, but it’s quiet enough for their mind to ignore it. A noise around them makes their eyes open, glancing over at Olruggio placing pillows around them. He situates them so that if (Name) rolls around, they wouldn’t hit the coffee table beside them, and another blanket is placed over their body.

They watch as he moves back over and sits down beside Qifrey. His expression is just as somber as Qifrey’s, tears still unshed in his eyes, making them glassy, and he stops himself from asking another question as he watches their eyes still calculate what’s around them.

Both of the men’s scents are on the blankets and pillows, an amalgamation between burning wood, old ink, grass, and books. It was new, completely different from anyone in the Great Hall–which had a constant smell of the salty ocean that surrounded the building–but it wasn’t scary. 

It wasn’t like their first transformation at the Hall; here, the sunset still provided some light as it continued to descend under the horizon, and the soft feeling of a rag on their forehead was a completely different feeling compared to the cold nothingness of gazes and written observations. They can feel themself lull into a sense of…security? (Name)’s definitely still distrustful of the two adults before them, but they can’t help their mind ease away from anxious thoughts of cold hands sifting through their fur to retrace the spell the two no doubt saw with each movement of a warm rag and a thumb along their brow.

Minutes pass before (Name) finally closes their eyes, their head rolling against their paw with a final exhale of consciousness. They were tired, their joints still in pain underneath itchy skin and sore muscles, but they still fell into slumber.

Qifrey keeps his hand on their head even as he notices their posture change, their breathing softening and deepening with each inhale, their ear flicking with the occasional brush of invisible air touching the tuft on its tip. He sighs after another long berth of silence, leaning away after ten full minutes of brushing his thumb over their forehead and brow ridge.

“...I feel guilty,” He states, the rag placed back in the bowl as he readjusts his position on the ground, moving to lean against the couch as he keeps his eye on the rise and fall of (Name)’s chest. 

Olruggio nods, not yet speaking up as he also adjusts his position, his hand finding the back of his head and giving it a quick scratch. His own observations are kept to himself: the twitches of muscle and paws, the tip of a tail barely seen underneath the two blankets, their nostrils twitching occasionally. It’s as if they’re dreaming so quickly after falling asleep, but that eases little in his mind. He recalls the logs and how the Knights made it clear that the child rarely had a night without waking up in screams and stuck in the memories of torture and starvation. 

“I hate how there’s nothing we can do,” Qifrey adds, his own hand moving to his hair, scratching the side of it before rolling his palm over his cheek, hiding his mouth behind it as he looks away, gaze focused on the darkening sky.

“They seem to like the blanket,” Olruggio starts, “And the rag.” 

Qifrey hums in acknowledgement, eye shifting left to right as his friend moves to his side, leaning back with a quiet groan. The white-haired man then mumbles into his hand, perhaps just for his ears, “...might look back through the logs, send a message to Vinanna and ask if they know of any methods to ease their pain.”

His companion nods at the plan, hand returning to rubbing the back of his head, thinking for a moment before standing up with a quiet grunt.

“Where’re you going?” Qifrey asks, following his movement closely.

“See if I have anything to warm the area up,” He starts, moving to the stairway and stopping to explain, “Kid liked the sun, liked the blanket, ‘nd the rag was warmed by water.”

He starts his movement again, leaving Qifrey with an amused expression on his face–’and he was worried he wouldn’t be a good Master…’

Sharp nails are scratching at their skin as (Name) runs through an inky forest, eerie laughter echoing around them. They can feel their back burn as a hand grabs the back of their neck, another snaking around their waist, stomach twisting from the sensation as they trip over something that’s now on their ankle. They cry out, hands bracing themselves on soil.

The soil eats at their skin as they kick against whatever’s on their ankle, the wrapped arm around their waist leaving, too. (Name) sobs loudly, the soil morphing into wood as they’re slammed into what’s now a comically large table, their vision moving between first-person to third-person, now watching themself squirm on the wood.

Another harsh sob escapes them as pain begins to erupt from their back. They watch as their skin rips on its own, exposing what their child brain could predict was inner muscle and cartoonish bones of ribs and their spine. Ink bleeds from them and begins to fill the entire table, cries turning into gags as the ink drowns them in a metallic-smelling, black liquid. 

(Name) breathes harshly despite being in a viscous liquid, their dream-self morphing into an amalgamation between beast and human. Their hips grotesquely twist left as their torso loses all of the skin around it, pooling around their wrists as the liquid turns spiky, stabbing at their muscles while their spine pops and twists alongside their neck. They sob, red oozing out of their mouth as they feel the scratching of their scarred throat start up. 

Their skin is replaced by the ink itself as it drains away, and then the ink seeps off their body to expose the tan-ish, grey-ish fur they’re used to seeing in their beast form. Their face has grown distorted, nose and jaw protruding as their eyes sink into their skull, their ears never changing into the whiskercat form. 

Hands begin to grab at their body once again, laughter starting up again as they blink back into their pained, halfway transformed body. They can feel the fingers, as cold as ice, of their captors graze their body, more hands grip at their wrists and ankles, another pressing their head against the bone dry table beneath them with that cooing they always seem to return to. It starts with that shushing that haunts (Name) throughout the night, then the amused laughter as they feel something stab at their back. 

Sobs wrack their body as their kicking and scratching go nowhere meaningful, coughing up a mix of blood and ink as they feel a thumb press harshly against their temple. They practically scream against the table, the viscous liquid mix filling their mouth and nose, not actually leaving their orifices, choking them once again. Another hand grabs the back of their neck with freezing fingers–

–Quickly, (Name) sits up, scratching at an arm that’s pressing against their shoulder, kicking off whatever warmth is on their leg, sobbing with wide eyes, unable to focus on their surroundings.

The sound of someone hissing barely registers in their ears as they fall off of the piece of furniture they were just on, left wrist twisting painfully as they catch themself with their hands, crawling away with unfocused vision, merging whatever dream they’re still in with the reality settled around them. The pain in their back screams at the front of their brain, more sobs wrack their body as they curl their legs to their chest, hands quick to cover their ears and head as they tremble.

Aside from the sobs from the child, the room is silent, frozen still as Qifrey holds his arm, eye wide and concerned while watching (Name) from the side of the couch. He sighs, looking down–they nicked him pretty good, blood trickling down his wrist as the two-inch long scratch stays irritatingly red. He stays completely still next to the couch, not wanting to scare the kid any more than they already are.

The first time they had a nightmare in their human form–which was day two–Qifrey made the mistake of overcrowding (Name), unintentionally, of course, but the mistake was made. He had put his arm over their shoulder loosely, and tried to calm them down with his words, but it was too early in their relationship, and (Name) nearly bit him on the bicep just to get away from him. It hurt his heart knowing that he caused unnecessary stress, so he held back, despite wanting desperately to help the crying child in front of him.

Their scratchy throat aches, eyes finally focusing on their thighs–their clothed thighs. In the soft fabric of pants Olruggio provided to them when they first arrived. Their fingers grip the dark pants, rubbing them between their thumb and pointer as their breathing begins to calm down. They sniffle, swallowing saliva and probably a little bit of blood and mucus from their throat. The searing pain on their back eases into a quiet ache, their mind registering reality and breaking off from the dream they finally recognized. 

It took another minute of sniffles and rubbing their own pants before (Name) let go of their head with their other hand, moving their forehead from their knees. They notice Qifrey standing a few paces away, the bright daylight glowing behind him from the windows, the rug underneath their form, and the blanket they kicked off sprawled on the ground.

…They made a mess.

They curl closer to themself, arms now curling around their legs with another sniffle, eyes cast down as they listen to Qifrey’s footsteps move quietly towards them.

He hesitantly sits in front of them, back pressed against the couch, while they stay nestled against the coffee table. He doesn't speak up yet, hands resting on his lap, fingers intertwined with each other as he keeps his movements to a minimum. It hurt that he couldn’t do much in this moment, but he knew if he did anything more, there was a possibility he’d cause (Name) to spiral even though they’re clearly awake and aware of their surroundings now. 

“...sorry, Master Qifrey,” (Name) mumbles, gaze not once looking up to the white-haired man.

“Why are you apologizing?” He asks, his head tilting down to try and direct their eyes to his own, “You did nothing wrong, dear.”

He watches them shrug, looking at their nails, then to the scratch that’s already dried and has begun to scab on his wrist. They hide their face into their knees once more, forehead nuzzling close as a tremor rolls over their body. 

They’ve been here for a little under two months, and they feel like they’re the biggest mistake the adults could’ve made. Of course, they know the Knights kind of forced Olruggio to take them in. They also know that both of the men were told about their physical… issues that make it so their entire identity is required to be shrouded in secrecy. Something they knew was a troublesome task.

They were simply an exception to the law–an eavesdropped sentence they heard Easthies state numerous times before when they were still with the Knights. 

They were a poor excuse for an apprentice, too. Scared of ink that smelled like Silverwood, scared of anyone wearing a pointed cap, scared of anything that remotely resembled a spell or sigil–(Name) doesn’t even use the weird magical toilet in the bathroom. They wish they weren’t scared of magic, they wish they didn’t know anything about it–they didn’t even want to be an outsider, simply ignorant of how it works, they just didn’t want to know of magic. 

Qifrey’s mind tries to find a way to comfort (Name) in a way they’d accept–they’ve only been here for about two months, and both men are still learning how to handle the child’s trauma. They’ve been relying on non-magical technology when around (Name), keeping their voices quiet during their transformations and after, and they’re still learning how to get the kid to eat the food they cook.

Both men are also trying to move (Name) away from this survival mode they seem to be stuck in–just yesterday, Qifrey had to explain to the kid that eating raw fish from their ice box isn’t necessarily okay for their stomach, or their scarred throat with the tiny bones in the fish.

(Name) huffs into their arms, and Qifrey sighs, arms bending to lean on his elbows instead. He untangles his hands, moving one closer to the child until one finger barely touches their wrist. They flinch slightly, but don’t pull away, keeping their gaze down as he speaks as quietly as he can, “Would you like to discuss what’s on your mind?”

Initially, (Name) shakes their head, their hair falling over their arms with each shake as they feel tears sting at their eyes–how long have they been crying? Were they crying this whole time? They couldn’t tell. 

The air is tense around them, which only causes their eyes to sting harder as they look through the locks of their hair, nose pressing against their arm as they look at Qifrey’s glasses, one slightly glaring the sunlight directly at them. (Name) quietly sniffles, gaze moving down to his hand that’s raised right next to them. 

His palm is up, fingers relaxed and curled upward. With another moment of hesitation, they finally move their hand to his.

It was soft–surprisingly so–with a calloused bump on his middle finger that (Name) can feel from their smaller grip; his palm was warm, not clammy like theirs, but warm. He’s gentle as he holds their palm within his, fingers nearly encasing the entirety of the back of their hand, thumb brushing the soft plush right beneath their own thumb. They hide their face again within their free elbow, nose flush against the angle as they look away from Qifrey.

“...It was the witches again,” (Name) practically spits the words into their elbow. 

He can feel the tension in their body increase as they whisper the word witch, their hand squeezing his for just a second. The sentence would’ve made any normal witch get defensive– “Not all witches are like that,” they’d say, “it’s the Brimhats, not just witches”–but Qifrey isn’t a normal witch, not in this way at least. He might be the best adult to understand what they’re insinuating, what they meant with those words. It reminds him of himself when he was first under Beldaruit, and it slightly annoys him that his old master’s words are nipping him in the bud, just as he said they would (“One day, you’ll be in my position as a Master, Qifrey”).

Qifrey doesn’t ask for (Name) to explain more, moving his thumb gently against the side of their hand with a long inhale. He knows (Name) doesn’t care for gentle words or soft praises that state they’ve survived the worst of it, that their sleepless nights will get better eventually, knowing he didn’t listen to those phrases when he was their age. The silence is no longer filled with tension, but he can tell they’re still high-strung. A soft sigh escapes the white-haired man, “Sometimes, dreams leak into real life.”

The child nods softly in acknowledgement, their eyes falling to the floor for a moment before looking over to the witch. Their head raises, free hand moving to move their hair away from their face before hesitantly leaving their coiled posture. Their legs fall to the left, moving their hand on top of it as (Name) sniffles again, flushed nose and eyes a hint of their recent crying episode. 

“...sometimes, I feel the hands on me,” (Name) adds, looking up to the white-haired witch in front of them, who looks over with interest as the child finally opens up to him. “...and…and I cannot move…”

Qifrey can feel their hand tighten against his as their eyes fall back to the ground, hand gripping their pant leg as their chin wobbles. He’s about to state that they don’t need to continue if they don’t want to, not wanting to push the child if they weren’t ready–it might be a selfish reason, but he didn’t want to see them cry again. He didn’t know how to help them when they cried, without comforting words or physical presence; it was like being forced to read a sad book without the ability to close the cover.

But (Name) continues to speak, their juvenile vocabulary only making the imagery within Qifrey’s mind that much worse as they continue to describe what he can’t tell is the memory, the nightmare, or their daily life, “...my back burns and…I smell myself on the table… and I cannot stop, they do not stop…”

He hesitantly moves closer, scooting over until his own back is pressed against the edge of the coffee table. He squeezes their hand gently, a silent promise of I’m here, as the image of (Name) being held down as those damned Brimhats cut open their back and tattooed muscle itself, stitching them back together as a way to seal their fate of constant pain and fear floods his mind. 

The documents they received before (Name) showed up had enough grotesque descriptions and theorized possibilities of what occurred to spin a story of terror that resulted in a traumatized child. Their words only added to those descriptions.

Silence fills the room again, only broken by the occasional sniffle and ruffle of clothes as (Name) slowly moves around beside him. It starts small, their hand relaxing in Qifrey’s, the warmth of his body calming their mind, and the pressure on their palm grounding in a way they doubt he’s aware of. 

“Thank you for telling me,” Qifrey speaks softly, his warm tone making the child look over with confusion in their slightly swollen eyes. He’s smiling gently, eyes closed with a small tilt to his head as he directs his attention solely to (Name). “It’s a very brave thing to do.”

They look away with a huff, flustered at the compliment. (Name) moves their knees back to their chest to wrap their arm around them again, chin falling into place on top of them. They can feel the adrenaline from the dream begin to drain, eyelids growing heavier with each second spent in the relatively comfortable silence now.

Subconsciously, their body leans against his arm, eyes closing for longer intervals with each blink as their shoulders relax.

A stifled yawn behind their knees makes Qifrey chuckle. He watches with a soft expression, hiding a somber, almost cold gaze as he fixes his position. They flinch slightly when he moves his arm, but don’t stop themself from falling against his side instead, their eyes watching his curled pointer finger gently brush over the bridge of their nose. His thumb resumes the gentle brushes against the side of (Name)’s hand, eyes looking over their eyelashes as they struggle to stay up, “Go back to sleep, dear child, there’s nothing for us to do today.”

He feels their head shake against his side, but the whispered sentence that sounds more like squeaks with their damaged vocal cords says otherwise, “Don’t want to… Scared…”

Qifrey nods gently, his curled finger moving over (Name)’s forehead and to their hairline, barely grazing their skin as the knuckle moves down to the tip of their nose slowly, then moves back up to the same spot on their hairline. “I’ll keep you safe, (Name). You don’t need to be scared of any more witches when you’re with me.”

The near promise eases their mind just enough to relax further into his side, sniffling softly as their eyelids grow heavier, their pupils following the gentle finger up and down, up and down. If they weren’t so tired, they’d have disregarded or completely ignored the promise, but right now? It’s what their tired, adrenaline-draining mind needed to hear. 

Each stroke of their face relaxed their facial muscles until finally, their eyes shut entirely. Qifrey keeps the motion going, watching (Name) as he relaxes his own figure despite the slight ache of his lower back from the lack of true support against it. 

His gentle smile fades into a somber look, eye swirling with a mix of emotions–guilt, sadness, frustration, more–as he watches them fall asleep on him. He only stops when he physically feels their body go completely limp against his side, mouth slightly agape.

Qifrey lies often and tries his best not to make a promise he can’t agree to with certainty. Most lies and any broken promises he’s made in the past were for good; most of the guilt that can be linked to them are faded aches in his chest and small regrets in his mind. But for some reason, this lie–the promise of safety in dreams–ached his heart in a way he hasn’t felt since he watched Olruggio–

–A sigh escapes his chest, gaze moving away from (Name) and to the couch right in front of them; his hand returns to his own lap as he hears the deep breathing of the child beside him. If Qifrey could, he would uphold the promise every time they fell asleep, but the dreamscape isn’t something he could aid in.

Not without forbidden magic, and that was off the table for a multitude of reasons–the primary one not being the forbidden-ness of it, but because even if he could, (Name) wouldn’t dare go near a spell.

All he could do was hope that the next few hours would be kind to the child.

Late one afternoon, during that time right before Qifrey returns and starts preparations for dinner, (Name) has decided to finally crack open that journal they’ve left on the kitchen counter for a good few weeks. 

They huff at the silence in the room, Olruggio fast asleep on the couch with his blanket barely covering his lap. It was boring during these moments, and they silently wished they could go outside and play in the garden or get Olruggio to read to them. But they wouldn’t dare wake him up–all he’d do is grunt and turn away from the child based on how deep the bags under his eyes are, anyway. 

Quickly grabbing the leather-bound book, they make their way into the living room, silent as a mouse as they sit next to the coffee table, legs sprawling out underneath it as they open the book. It smells like leather and parchment, their eyes grazing over the completely blank paper with a tilt to their head–what are they supposed to do with this? There’s nothing on it, nothing to copy or repeat or practice. It’s just them, a pencil they might’ve taken from Olruggio’s room without asking, and a blank piece of paper.

Remembering Qifrey’s words: “Drawing isn’t like writing a sentence, dear. It’s to visualize what’s going on in here,” he said as he tapped the child’s forehead, chuckling softly as they moved back and hid their forehead with their hands. They put the pencil tip on the paper and just press down.

A moment passes, the pencil stays still on the spot they have it pressed onto…

...

...Um...

...This is boring.

(Name) sighs, moving the pencil off of the paper and resting their arms over the journal instead, their chin finding its way to lie on top of their arms as they look around the room. Maybe instead of trying to visualize what’s on their mind, they could copy something around them? The adults said this was something they could keep hidden from them, so even if they made a mistake, the two men wouldn’t know about it! Safety in the bindings of a journal.

So they begin to move the pencil, that dot of graphite ignored as they draw a square, then more squares, then adding curves and erasing lines from before, they finish a rather childish, rough sketch of the hearth in front of them. It wasn’t good by any means, but a small part of their chest lightened at the idea that even though it wasn’t good–it was terrible in their opinion–it was something only they could see. 

A small smile graces their face as they move down to a clearer spot on the page, and they begin to try again, this time drawing a crude interpretation of the staircase, the window casting a light they can’t truly put into the paper with how little their knowledge of drawing goes. It’s similarly terrible in their eyes, but the freedom of being able to be bad at something eased them more into the idea of continuing this silly hobby.

A third drawing on the page–the window itself, this one ending up looking pretty nice because of the simple design of the window–is all of the room they can use, so they move onto the next page. 

Then the next, and the one after that, too. (Name) begins to draw random squiggles and lines, coloring in random sections of a triangle that results in a rhombus-like design, swirling into zigzags and eraser marks as they try to keep the pencil on the page for as long as they can. Their feet roll side to side, their big toes clicking with each swing as they continue to absentmindedly draw. 

They only stop when Olruggio stirs in his sleep, quickly shutting the journal as they stare at the man on the couch. He huffs and rolls to his side, arm wrapping around his own waist with a sigh, his back now facing the child. They sit still for a minute, watching with wide eyes before finally grabbing the journal and pencil, sneaking away to their room with a new interest in copying everything they could into their journal. 

Two weeks passed with this new, hidden, hobby of (Name)s, and the adults have most definitely noticed. The journal that had been collecting dust on the kitchen counter was moved, Qifrey has noticed they’ve been more at ease throughout the hours they’re awake, and Olruggio’s noticed the child has been keeping more to themself in his workshop, hiding “something” in their lap, occasionally looking over their shoulder or hiding this “something” behind blankets while looking at whatever’s caught their eye in his room. Not to mention (Name)’s handwriting has improved significantly, Qifrey praising the cursive that the child is easily writing in.

Currently, they’re lying in the hammock Olruggio usually sleeps in, pen twirling in their fingers as they kick their feet in the air, tilting their head as they look over the edge of the hammock. They’re back at drawing, but this time, their focus is on Olruggio himself. He’s hunched over his deck, hands messing with some metallic object, specialized pen at his side, ready to be used to burn ink into the metal itself.

His posture is odd, but the child was surprisingly quick in learning their odd style of drawing: sketching a light silhouette of what they want to focus on, before erasing whatever isn’t needed from the middle, using the silhouette to trace any details their childish mind thinks are important. 

It’s easy to follow how they’re learning from the numerous pages now filled with not only objects around the ateliers, but also copied illustrations in the books Qifrey gifted them, plants that surround the atelier, and the two men when (Name) is certain they aren’t paying attention to them–most of them being Olruggio asleep in odd positions and places. Qifrey’s much more attentive to (Name), most drawings of the man end up being quick, tiny silhouettes of him in his office, too focused on his spell work to notice the child taking out their journal and quickly sketching his backside.

Moving the eraser around their paper, fixing his back, eyebrows furrowed as they moved closer to the journal with a huff–it’s hard to figure out how his cloak works when it’s dark in the room, and the cloak itself is dark in color. (Name) tilts their head back to the edge of the hammock when they hear the movement of the chair Olruggio sat in, watching him stretch his arms over his head, before returning to his poorly postured position, finally grabbing his pen to start his work on the sigils themselves.

They return to the paper, drawing over a new fold they’ve noticed in the cloak. It’s comforting in the soft hammock, one hand holding the page down, the other holding the pencil flat against it as they hesitate to continue. (Name) hums in deep thought, moving the pencil’s end to their lip, chewing on it for a moment before returning it to the page, fixing what could be hair. 

The double-body work ends once Qifrey knocks at the workshop door, making (Name) quickly close the journal and look over the edge of the hammock, attention perked towards it as the white-haired man steps in, “Olly, (Name)! Dinner!”

They move off the hammock, feet barely finding the ground, arms gripping the blankets until their toes graze the wood floor. They drop down, hand holding the journal as they hear Olruggio grumble something about him needing more time to finish this commission before tomorrow. (Name) walks down the stairs, each step glistening with the warm light of the glowstones as they wait for the two men to walk.

“Well, you can finish the gadget after dinner,” Qifrey states, crossing his arms with a slight bend to his left knee, hip protruding out.

His friend huffs, “Or, I can eat after I finish this.”

The two adults stare at one another, Qifrey tilting his head down, “Olruggio.”

The man swivels the chair around, tired eyes almost glaring at the man, “Qifrey.”

(Name) looks between the two, journal still tucked in their arm, their expression turns to worry as they notice the glare on both of their faces. Their hand begins to mess with the robe around their shoulder, the dark fabric soft on their fingers.

“It’s not healthy to skip meals. What sort of influence do you think this’ll have on (Name)?” Qifrey asks, one hand gesturing to (Name), who stands right next to him, their hand still messing with the robe, tugging at the edge of it with more force with each moment that passes.

Olruggio finally relents, sighing as he puts the pen in a secure spot, standing up with another stretch as Qifrey gives a small, self-appraising, clap, “Wonderful! Let’s go, dear.”

He barely brushes his hand on (Name)’s back as Olruggio gets to the duo, the door closing behind them. The child stops messing with their robe, eyes following the two for a moment longer before focusing on the walk to the main atelier.

Drawing Qifrey, as stated before, was a much harder task compared to drawing Olruggio. He’s not only more attentive to (Name), but he’s also nosy in anything the child shows even a mild interest in–they’re certain that if he caught them drawing in their journal, he’d ask about it.

However, that doesn’t mean it was impossible to do unnoticed. (Name)’s currently working on what Qifrey called ‘math,’ focused on counting and simple addition for now. They couldn’t care less for it, really, already able to count to a high enough number–they got to fifty-eight last time they tried without hesitation–and they can add perfectly fine–they freak out at numbers higher than eleven.

To say they were huffing and puffing through their worksheet would be an understatement. Their chin resting on their arm as their hand barely holds the pen, they were practically dragging themself through thick sand with how slow they were going about the worksheet. Qifrey was sitting beside them on the couch, but his attention wasn’t on (Name) anymore; instead, he was reading a book, occasionally looking over their shoulder to notice the page was barely worked on. 

He’d given up on soft encouragement and pushing to finish the worksheet promptly, the child basically ignoring his words in whatever mind palace they’ve stuck themselves in to ignore the math in front of them. It was cute the first time (Name) tried to get away with ignoring their math work, but it’s gotten increasingly more frustrating for the two adults–so much so that Olruggio’s thrown in the towel of teaching (Name) the subject, leaving Qifrey as the sole adult capable of doing it.

(Name)’s attention moves to Qifrey, tilting their head towards the man faced slightly away from them. They knew his vision was completely cut off on the right side, something with his eye or the odd way he styles his bangs–they couldn’t care less the reason–but as of now, they could get away with sketching his profile.

Using a pen was much different than using a pencil; the ink was different than the graphite, the body itself was heavier than the pencil, but it was a quick thing to adjust to–what they didn’t like was the permanent aspect of the ink on paper. They huff once the tip of the pen scratches the page, looking back up to Qifrey, making sure he’s not looking over, before returning to the start of their drawing.

The sketch is a bunch of squares and circles, the ink dragging along the parchment as swirls, and darkness fills the detail-growing profile perspective of their adult. (Name) barely scratches the page to add the side of his glasses, then brushes on hair that’s covering his eye, continuing on the drawing without looking up. The detail of his shirt is next, making sure the odd cross-hatching on the neck of it is defined enough to notice as (Name) gently colors in the black shirt barely enough to insinuate its color. 

“Such a lovely drawing,” Qifrey says, scaring (Name) to the point of shouting and flinching away from the man, heartbeat racing for a moment as they stare wide-eyed at the sudden appearance. They watch Qifrey stifle back a laugh as he raises his hands, the giggle in his voice not very well concealed, “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

They huff, eyebrows furrowing before moving back to their original spot, hiding their drawing with an arm as they huff again, “Do not do it again.”

Another laugh escapes the white-haired man as he nods, “Of course, dear, I apologize.”

Silence moves in once his laughter settles, his eye gleaming with amusement as he watches (Name) quickly work on the math sheet they’ve been clearly dreading to do all morning. They’ve fully hidden the doodle they’ve worked on with their entire arm, but the glance he was able to steal was plenty for him to understand two things: The kid’s not only drawing, but is drawing well, meaning they must be doing it often. Of course, he knows the child has been using the journal, but he’s been holding off his own curiosity to snoop through it, remembering the promise he’d made the child a while ago that the journal was for their eyes only, unless they gave permission otherwise.

But seeing the pretty good sketch on (Name)’s worksheet, Qifrey can’t help but contemplate how well that promise will soon hold up. He keeps his gaze on their work, paying no mind to the child’s flustered expression and hidden face behind raised shoulders. The work they’re doing is quick, but accurate, and he can’t help another bout of laughs escaping his chest at the sight–they clearly wanted to run off now that they’ve been caught.

Once they’ve finished the worksheet, they barely give enough time for Qifrey to compliment their speediness before stealing the worksheet and running off. 

They can’t believe they were caught–they swear they’re more attentive than that! How could they have let Qifrey spot their hobby in such an open way? It’s a silly hobby, something they’ve convinced themself that they were terrible at, that no one should see what they’ve been working on. Not in fear of rejection, (Name) knew the two adults wouldn’t insult them to their face. Neither man has yet to do so, which has only recently eased their mind into believing they wouldn’t do so in the future, either.

But the secrecy surrounding that journal and their new-ish hobby was something they didn’t want to share. It was a safe space to make mistakes and not worry about repercussions, something that–and they sort of hate to admit it–Olruggio was correct about. Some of those pages aren’t things around the ateliers, but are things that they’ve seen in their dreams.

Eyes, hands, harsh scribbles of nothing that resembled close-up perspectives of hardwood tables and rope they knew held them down that night. They couldn’t exactly draw the smell of blood, or the sound of condescending coos, but they could scratch the inked pen as harshly as the can into the parchment until the clots looked like splatters of the metallic liquid, and that meant something to them.

(Name) didn’t want the two adults to see those. Not a single one. But at the same time, they would rather them see those than the numerous sketches of Olruggio asleep in different areas of the atelier, or the rather juvenile drawing of the pathway they could see from the small window in their basement dwelling, or even the beginning sketches of the blankets Olruggio had made special to ease their aching body by using a spell to warm the fabric to a comforting temperature.

It was much more embarrassing.

Another evening transformation passes, and (Name) sleeps as peacefully as they can in their feline–canine hybrid body, nestled under the same blanket they were just drawing in their journal that lies open on the now broken coffee table. 

Qifrey sat next to their sleeping form, fingers gently massaging the child’s spine as their muscles twitch and ease against the pads of his fingers. He sighs, looking over at Olruggio, who’s walking back into the room after putting away the remaining bandages and wet rags. They stay in silence for a moment, taking in the sudden calmness after the large storm named (Name).

“...I wish there was something more we could do,” Olruggio mumbles, taking a seat close to Qifrey, moving his own hand to (Name)’s head, gently rubbing the spot right behind their ear with his thumb. They let out a small grunt, whiskered ear flicking before relaxing again as their head rolls to its side.

“Me too,” Qifrey agrees, head leaning against his knuckles as he watches the rise and fall of (Name)’s torso underneath the warm blanket, “The blanket seems to be working wonders, though.”

Olruggio shrugs slightly, “Doesn’t feel like it’s enough.”

“Yeah.”

The two men sit in silence once more, one sighing as the other readjusts their posture.

“...You notice (Name)’s been drawing?” Qifrey asks, tilting his head towards the dark-haired man next to him. He smiles softly as he watches confusion wrap around his friend’s face.

“No?” He states, looking over to him with furrowed brows and a small frown tugging at his lips, “When did that happen?”

Qifrey makes a small ‘I don’t know’ noise while shrugging his shoulders, “Must’ve been soon after we got them the journal.” He then tilts his head to where it lies, still opened to the sketch of the blanket from not even two hours ago.

The dark-haired man leans back with a small groan, grabbing the journal with one hand before returning to his usual hunched posture. His thumb grazes the spine as he stares at the drawing–it wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t half bad for a kid their age with their background. It’s slightly chicken-scratched, but most of the lines were well-defined, eraser marks aiding in what Olruggio could only define as a grasp on how lighting works. He could trace and understand each bend of the fabric, the pattern only slightly wonky in perspective, but it was much better than what he expected when suggesting the drawing hobby to the child a few weeks ago.

He then flips the page back, noting more household items and even a rudimentary sketch of the kitchen itself. Qifrey has leaned closer to Olruggio at this point, watching over his shoulder to focus on the drawings.

“They’re not half bad.”

“That’s what I said,” Qifrey responds, moving his free hand to the page, pointing at a drawing of one of the clay pitchers he knew was sitting underneath the window in the kitchen. It was drawn with constant swirls to make the silhouette of it, with erased edges to define the pitcher more, with a handle and the slight lip added on afterwards. “They have a good handle on copying what’s around them.”

Another page is flipped, and Olruggio’s eyes widen–three distinct drawings of himself are now facing the two. 

Qifrey laughs softly, looking up at Olruggio’s face before returning his gaze to the page, leaning closer to the man beside him as he teases, “Seems like you’re their muse.”

He gets a quick shove at his shoulder, earning more laughter as he leans away once more. His fingers still brush up and down the spine of (Name), his gaze moving over to their beastial form in quiet contemplation. It wasn’t uncommon for them to be silent, alone in their own head even if both of the men were with them in the same room. But Qifrey did notice their changes since joining their atelier–even more so since they received that journal:

Their transformations haven’t gotten easier, per se, but all three party members have gotten used to them, and now know how to aid as best as they can with the aftermath without scarring the child any more than what they have been. They’ve been verbally communicating more easily, using complete sentences rather than two-word responses or only nodding their head. They’ve also allowed more physical comfort from the two men, which included hugs, gentle massages to aid in their sore muscles, and their hands being held when they’re overwhelmed. And their sleeping schedule has slowly grown better, sleeping more easily throughout the early nights and early mornings, especially with the aid of Olruggio’s blanket.

“...Qifrey,” Olruggio’s somber voice returns his focus to the journal, leaning closer to the man’s side only to freeze at the sight.

The page Olruggio had absentmindedly skipped to was nearly fully covered in ink and graphite, splattered ink intentionally dried in clotted ways, graphite used to circle the middle of the journal’s spine, of which both sides show what Qifrey can only assume is a memory of a nightmare. It’s two human figures–no defining features aside from wide, erased eyes, one of them with a wide smile using the same erasing method, both had pointed heads and brims that dried with dripping ink. Witches, no doubt. Both men could distinguish spindly hands along the edges of the page, too, with tensed fingers that looked like they were grabbing at something, more dripped ink, and pressured motions that they both wished the meaning of wasn’t what they assumed it meant. 

Olruggio closes the journal, and both men sit in silence for a moment until he speaks up, “...I mean, they’re using the journal.”

Qifrey hums in response, eye still staring at the journal’s cover for a beat longer before leaning away from Olruggio. He watches over (Name)--they both do now–with a gentle, almost guilt-ridden expression as they doze calmly.

“They’ve been getting nightmares less frequently,” Qifrey adds quietly, his fingers resuming the gentle massage when he feels their back twitching in their sleep, their paws moving as if they’re running. They stay silent, no whines or pained yowls, the two keep an ear out for during their naps. “I believe your journal idea’s worked.”

He hums in acknowledgement, putting the journal on the ground with a sigh. The drawing was heavy on both of the men’s minds for differing reasons. Olruggio hated the idea that (Name) relived whatever memory that image could be referring to with such a deep sorrow that it made his eyes glaze over with unshed tears. Something about it ached at a part of his mind that he couldn't fully understand why it ached so much, as if the reason was just out of reach.

Qifrey wasn’t any better in his hatred towards the fact that the drawing correlated to some memory (Name) has to relive when they sleep, but it also doubled his reasoning to get back at the Brimhats. This wasn’t just for him anymore, not what was taken from him, but was taken from them, too. Even if their lack of memories from before was because of the trauma itself, even if they don’t have the same thing in their body that he does in his–they were both in those witches’ hands. They were both victims of the same blade, and his sentiment to his cause tightens and coils in his chest like a flame only burning brighter at the fuel pushed into it.

He contemplates whether he should ask about the drawing, to bring up the idea of (Name) sharing their dreams with the adults–they could have information, a location, a name, a face. But looking at the child before him, he’s hesitant to do such a thing. He doesn’t want to cause them to fall back in their recovery; it was already hard enough to get them to where they are now. If he were to push on such a delicate line of trust, it could disintegrate.

For now, he’d have to wait; maybe one day he’d explain why he requested Olruggio to accept the Knights’ insistent nagging to take the child. Maybe they’d understand his selfish intention wrapped in new bonds of care and worry for the child.

Hopefully, they’d forgive him and his wrongdoings.

“The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog,” Easthies reads out of a notebook, fingers grazing over the written statement. The notebook itself was thick, filled with aiding lines for children to learn how to write, and is–almost–completely empty for (Name) to use for their growth in this endeavor.

He watches the young child struggle with their pen, their fingers shaky on the body of it–one with grooves that helped fingers situate themselves without worry of slipping out of a proper hold. They’re pressing into it with enough force that it makes their skin grow pale around it, making Easthies’s eyebrows furrow slightly, hesitantly stopping himself from fixing the problem.

They write just as pressured as their grip, ink blotching immediately and drying out before the word “The” can be written. (Name) huffs, their eyebrows furrowing as they watch Easthies in their peripherals, the tall man taking his own pen and drawing over their lines with a more delicate touch.

“Watch what I do, and try to repeat it.” His words are short, almost annoyed, as he writes the sentence beneath the start of their own. His hold on the pen is steady, the pen slow and delicate as the sound of scratches on the paper barely reaches the child’s ears. The words are just as delicate on the paper, gentle swirls and completely connected to one another–complete with a small swirl at the end of the ‘g’ in dog.

The child tries again, their hand still far too tense around the pen’s body, resulting in the pressure on the page being just as harsh. The pen scratches the surface with too much ink, the harsh sound making (Name) cringe as they watch the ink dry out before finishing the word “quick.”

They can feel their anxieties begin to take hold–if they couldn’t do what Easthies wanted, would they get reprimanded? It hasn’t happened yet, but these are witches; they could get upset for even the smallest of things. Their breathing hitches, eyes grow damp as they hear the man sigh next to them–this is it; he’s finally grown tired of them. They move the pen back to the ink container, but are stopped by a large hand against theirs. They flinch harshly at the contact, about to pull away when Easthies mumbles quietly, “It’s alright, it’s just me.”

He gently fixes their grasp, moving (Name)’s fingers to an easier position on the beginner’s pen and grazing their knuckles with his thumb until they relax. He moves his chair slightly, twisting his body to sit behind the child, allowing his free arm to rest on the armrest beside (Name). Eathies’s words are still short, the deep tone of his never ceasing, but it’s evident to those who know him that he’s being soft with the child: “If you want to write, your grip needs to be delicate–soft. Using too much pressure hurts the pen and paper.”

His gaze follows theirs, watching their understanding turn into confusion, then into realization as they look at their own hand. He begins to gently move both of their hands to the page once more, allowing the child to physically feel the amount of pressure he wants them to use on the paper. They lean closer to their hands, eyes watching intensely as they notice how the pen’s tip barely touches the paper, his movements remaining gentle against their grasp as he writes the sentence.

Once the writing stops, (Name) leans back again, glancing over their shoulder as Eathies drops his hold on them to move back to his original spot. They stare at him for a moment longer, before tilting their head, scratchy, quiet words asking, “You– soft?”

Their words–a compliment, perhaps?–makes his eyebrows furrow, before hearing a small laugh come from behind him. He looks over quickly, a blush enveloping his cheeks as he notices Utowin leaning against the entryway of the room, his hand covering his lower face. “Don’t even.”

The redhead raises both hands, a smirk rising on his face as he begins to walk over to the duo, “I didn’t say anything.”

(Name) tilts their head to watch the man–they like him; he sneaks candies to their room after meals and sneaks extra blankets to their room during their transformations. They nearly get giddy as Utowin sits in the free chair beside Eathies, who glares back at him.

He then waves at (Name), gaze moving to their hand, then their paper, “Oh, doing some writing practice?”

(Name) nods back after some hesitation, eyes falling back to their page with a slight blush creeping in, almost embarrassed that all they have to show for practice was crappy beginnings to a single sentence.

They dip their pen in the ink once more, and with a more relaxed grip, they begin to copy the sentence above theirs. 

The words are still shaky, clumsily connected in a way that is akin to a toddler’s writing, but they’re able to follow along and finish about half of the sentence without running out of ink. They look at the cursive of their sentence and compare it to Easthies's much more legible one, and a swirl of frustration aches at their chest. 

“Good job,” Easthies says, his focus back on the child as Utowin rests his head on the back of his hand, “You’re getting better.”

They barely glance up at the man before returning their gaze to their writing. They truly didn’t believe his words. Not one bit. It was messy, and they didn’t even finish the damn sentence. Why would a witch praise their work when it wasn’t even done? Why would a witch–

A hand brushes the back of their own, causing them to flinch away and look back up at Easthies, who looks down at them with a gentle concern: “You’re still learning, child.”

“And you learn quickly,” Utowin adds, a smile gracing his features as he puts two fingers to the paper, tapping the words, “This is readable text, right here, and you’ve only started learning last week. That’s more progress than the knights I have to train.”

They look between the two men, their heads tilted down slightly. They both seem genuine in their statements, but still…

(Name) finally nods, deciding to not push against their praises, even if they don’t fully agree. They look back over to the paper, sitting back up with some determination in their grasp as they dip their pen into the ink once more.

The two adults watch over the child’s progress for a little under an hour, Easthies occasionally critiquing their form or their use of space. During that time, Utowin began to talk to him as if they were on break–which he very well could have been. They discuss trivial matters, prices of fruits, weather up north, a new whale calf spotted in the waters–nothing that truly brought the child's attention towards them, mostly because half of the words meant nothing to their limited vocabulary.

Their improvement was noticeable even within such a short time, and by the time the child grew bored of the repetitive motion, the ink wasn’t nearly as blotchy, their cursive getting smoother between the words, and the sentences were getting longer with each trial. Until finally, (Name) writes in their childish cursive: ‘The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.’ 

They stare at the page, eyes widening at the completed sentence, before looking up at Easthies. He nods softly, about to speak up before Utowin beats him to it with an enthusiastic, “Great job!”

It makes both of them flinch at the sudden loudness, Easthies sending a glare at the man as he stands up and moves over to the child. He almost enthusiastically jumps in place while leaning his hands on the table to stare at the paper, “Look at that! You’re even growing your own style of writing, look at you go!”

His enthusiasm rubs off on (Name), their own enjoyment of their completed goal bubbling up until they smile and nod along, a scratchy, barely audible giggle escaping their lips.

Both men’s eyes widen at the sound and sight. Utowin’s smile turned into a shocked ‘oh’ before doubling down with an even wider smile. He laughs full-belly, shoulders bouncing slightly. Eathies stays silent throughout his friend’s laughing fit, eyes focused on the child.

He remembers the night they were called to the village, the night the Knights caught the child, and when he first watched their gruesome transformation take hold–how he had asked Vinanna if it would be a mercy to kill them there and then. His memories turn to the first few nights at the Hall, trying to explain to the other residents that the screams of the child weren’t to be concerned over–even though his own concern and inner turmoil caused his hands to grip at his staff and his stomach to drop with each sob coming from the child’s room. He remembers throughout the past two months that not once has this child shown a shred of happiness, or even relaxation, in the Hall. No favorite foods–not even the candies Utowin “sneaks” to the child–no verbal praises or comforts, no nights of restful sleep that lasted longer than four hours. 

The glee on (Name)’s face stirs a mix of emotions in Eathies. Guilt, for even thinking of running a blade over their back for the possibility of breaking the seal, for even suggesting the idea of killing a young and innocent child; and joy, watching a child with no happy memories or safety nets finally smile.

A soft chuckle escapes Easthies as he watches Utowin get chased by (Name) around the table, his eyes relaxing as he leans back in his chair. He looks over at the paper (Name) was writing on, then moves over to flip through the pages, noticing how, with each one, their handwriting slowly becomes more confident. In fact, looking between his example and the most recent one (Name) wrote, Eathies can’t help but notice the similarities between the two–as if the child was intentionally trying to copy his own style of cursive. 

He supposes that’s normal for a child still growing, and leans away once (Name) and Utowin return to his sides. They get back into their chair, giggles still squeaking out of their scarred throat, and they look up at Eathies with a wide grin. 

“...you did well,” He says, his smile still warm over his expression as he watches the child beam more with the praise. “Go ahead and do it again.”

And just like that, the child freezes, like a glass was broken in the background, as they look back over at the paper. Deflating, (Name) grabs the pen again as Utowin chuckles, dipping the tip into the ink once more.

Olruggio sighs, using a recently sharpened knife against some potatoes at the counter. He can hear footsteps entering the hallway to his left, barely needing to glance over to recognize the child’s walking pattern. They had only transformed back into a human about three hours ago, so they must’ve just woken up from their nap.

He hears them stop right at the frame between the hall and the kitchen, their hand resting on the wall as their eyes hesitantly observe his movements. (Name) lifts themselves onto their toes, looking over as best they can without actually entering the room. They watch as Olruggio’s shoulders move in tandem with the sound of the knife cutting through the potato held in his other hand. It was easy to infer he was cooking, and (Name) didn’t want to interfere despite their curiosity. They move slightly to their left, then their right, trying to figure out what he’s cooking without making their appearance known–

“Afternoon,” He states, tired eyes looking over the child as he moves the cutting board to the other counter, pouring the chopped potatoes into a bowl, “Qifrey’s gone to the market, says it’s supposed to rain hard tonight, and doesn’t wanna get stuck with the rations we have ‘round here.” 

(Name) slightly curls into themself as he greets them, before relaxing slightly as he continues his way around the kitchen. They watch him go to what they’ve been calling the “cold box,” opening the top of it to take out whatever ingredient he needs. It makes a small noise once his hand reaches in, the cold air inside seeping out as he pulls out a slab of steak. The red meat makes (Name) salivate at the sight, despite now being told that consuming raw meat is something they no longer have to do.

The lesson between raw and cooked meat came after Qifrey caught them eating a fish from the cold box in broad daylight. They were hunched over it, one hand holding the fish while the other held the box open. The crunching of tiny bones could be heard from Qifrey’s position in the hallway. While he didn’t say it during the lecture, (Name) was certain that they scared him that day, especially since they still haven’t seen any fish in the cold box ever since.

Watching from the hall, (Name) continues to tilt and sway, one hand resting on the wall as Olruggio begins to slice pieces of the meat with a clean knife. It was comfortably silent between the two, the man occasionally glancing over at the curious child before returning his focus to the task at hand. Finally, he hears their footsteps patter closer. Their gaze moved between the meat and Olruggio with every other step, as if anticipating a scolding voice or a shake to his head. 

When they get to the counter, Olruggio speaks up, his voice softer than before now that the child’s in front of him, “Curious as to what I’m cookin?”

(Name) looks at him, chin barely reaching the counter while standing on their toes once again. They falter back to their heels, eyeing the meat, before finally nodding.

“It’ll be steak strips with some mashed potatoes ‘nd a salad,” He explains, finishing up the slices. Moving over to the designated stove area, Olruggio draws a simple pyreball spell, moving it underneath a grill-like contraption before finally placing a well-used pan on top. 

(Name) follows around the counter, not yet standing by his side, but is definitely observing how he heats butter in the pan, moving back over to grab what they know is garlic, and putting it into the pan as well. They take a step back when Olruggio grabs another pot, putting it next to the grill and putting another spell underneath it.

The silence from before returns, a soft atmosphere wraps around the two as Olruggio continues to cook, keeping an eye on the reactions (Name) shows with each sizzle and pop. The potatoes go in, and he mashes them with milk, a little butter, and some fresh herbs he had grabbed before starting his cooking. 

When he puts some into the pot, he notices the confused, almost nervous expression (Name) now wears, “It’s just some herbs.” 

The word means nothing to the child, their hands moving around one another, fingers scratching their knuckles as they take another step back. They move to their toes again, watching as Olruggio takes a small piece of the greens he had put into the pot. He moves closer, kneeling in front of (Name) with the piece of plant–parsley, “It’s just to make the potatoes taste a little better, nothing to be nervous about.”

They watch with widening eyes as Olruggio pops it into his mouth, shrugs after a moment, and says, “See? Nothing harmful,” before standing back up, his hand moving to their hair to ruffle it softly. He moves back when he feels their flinch, mumbling a soft apology before getting back to the magic stovetop.

When Olruggio notices (Name) didn’t flee the room from the touch to their head, he can’t help but feel a little giddy–even if it was accidental, the child has been clearly against any form of physical touch since getting to the atelier. It wasn’t anything that the two were surprised at; in fact, it would be more concerning if the child wanted two strangers’ touches. 

While it isn’t a big deal to not want it, Olruggio did mention to Qifrey that if they’re scared of the touch, it would make doctor’s appointments and emergency scenarios a little difficult. They both agreed to try and at least desensitize the kid to soft pats on the back and head, with the hope that they’d eventually become okay with it. Currently, the only times the child accepts their warmth is when they’re exhausted after a transformation, stumbling into whatever warmth they could find.

It didn’t take much longer for the food to be done; Olruggio takes off the steak strips, plates up the mashed potatoes, and garnishes them with more herbs. He puts them on the island, watching (Name) stand on their toes to watch the steam rise from both of the dishes, hands hesitantly holding onto the edge of the wood before falling back to their flattened feet.

“Wanna help me with the salad?” Olruggio asks, grabbing the head of lettuce and cutting it in half before taking out the thick stem from the bottom of both. He looks over to see the child tilt their head, contemplating the request before finally nodding. “C’mere.”

They follow his instructions, moving to his side as he hands half of the lettuce head to them. He then hums, looking around before walking away. (Name) stands still, the light green-to-dark green vegetable oddly cold in their palms. They flinch when they hear the sound of a chair moving, a small curse escaping Olruggio, before they see him return with one of the wooden chairs in his hands.

He puts it down in front of the counter, patting the seat slightly, “This’ll make it easier to reach the counter, don’t you think?”

(Name) tilts their head again before following what they assume the instructions are, getting onto the chair as best as they can while keeping one hand on the lettuce. They swear they can hear Olruggio stifle a small chuckle at the sight of them clumsily getting up with only one hand.

They huff as they put the lettuce on the counter, looking over to see Olruggio put a cutting board underneath the lettuce, and hands them a dull knife. (Name) stares at it before looking back at Olruggio, then finally takes its handle, their hand brushing against his.

“Go ahead and put your hand on one side of the lettuce, and curl your fingers like this,” He explains, showing his own hand on the other half of the lettuce head and how he’s curling his fingers, watching as the child follows his movements. “Good, now use the knife from the darker green parts, and cut them into slices.” He once again shows what he means, eyeballing a good bite-sized chunk before using his much sharper knife against the vegetable.

After watching him slice three times, (Name) looks over at their own slab of lettuce before moving to start their own cutting. Because the blade is dull, it takes more strength and a sawing motion for the child to eventually cut the slice. It’s less clean, and (Name) hesitates to try again as they look back over at Olruggio’s example.

Their doubt doesn’t settle for long as the adult hums, “Good job, just make sure they aren’t too thin.”

Without a stern reprimand, (Name) slices again, and again. They get halfway through their lettuce before sighing, their arm slightly aching from the repeated motion with the dull knife. It makes Olruggio huff in amusement, and he moves over, his hands gently covering (Name)’s. “The knife’s not the best, but I don’t want you to cut yourself on accident.”

(Name) tenses slightly as they feel his palms over the backs of their hands, their fingers gripping their objects tighter before relaxing slightly when they feel him move the knife with their hand still underneath his. Their attention is solely on the knife now, watching as it cuts through the lettuce more easily with the help of an adult. They quickly look over at their other hand when Olruggio moves it back slightly once the knife gets to where they were holding the lettuce.

Despite his easy movements with the blade and the child’s hands, Olruggio’s primary focus is the child beneath him. He almost immediately caught onto their discomfort at his touch, but as they continued the task, he could feel the discomfort leave (Name)’s grasp and shoulders. Yet another win in his books.

Once the lettuce was cut to the base, he let go and turned the cutting board, grabbing his own knife instead while staying behind (Name). He slices the lettuce in half before scraping it onto the other cutting board he was using. He hums softly, putting the knife down with one hand on his hip, “...this might be too much lettuce.”

(Name) looks at the rather large mound of greens on the board, before nodding in agreement to Olruggio. 

The meal was finished: steak strips, mashed potatoes, and a rather large salad. They sit down quickly, watching Olruggio plate up both of their meals before following them over to the table, sitting in front of them as he hands them their fork. 

They take it without hesitation, and without another second, they immediately begin to dig in. Their teeth clank onto the fork as they eat the steak strips first, the still-warm meat tasting wonderful as they hear Olruggio bless his meal.

What they don’t hear is Olruggio’s pride almost doubling at the sight of the child eating without their usual hesitation. Their small noises of appreciation as they get to the potatoes, scooping food into their mouth, don’t go unnoticed by Olruggio. He chuckles softly, “Slow down, will ya? You’ll choke if you’re not careful.”

(Name) freezes at the words, their eyes focusing on the man as they swallow what’s actually in their mouth. A small blush begins to form on their cheeks, their gaze falling to the food in front of them–hesitation.

“It won't go anywhere,” Olruggio tries to even out his statement from before, “You’ll get sick eating too quickly, that’s all.”

Their hesitation fades softly as they watch Olruggio eat his own food. They take their fork and begin to scoop food again, copying Olruggio’s pace.

========================================================================

The transformation that night was rather taxing for the child. Olruggio now sat beside the slumbering beast as they curled up in front of the fireplace; soft rain hit the glass as the storm began to settle over the atelier. He sighs, focused on his work in his lap with tired eyes, head aching softly from the cries of the child that were only silenced ten minutes ago. 

(Name)’s breathing has finally evened out, their paws resting underneath their muzzle, ears still folded back from the residual pains in their joints and muscles, skin still itchy from the growth of fur, especially around their back. The warmth of the fire was helpful to their body. It was something so simple, and yet it eased their physical soreness; it stopped the memories of the cold cell and blades against their skin; it allowed their mind to instead dance with the pinks and whites of those flowers, and occasionally, the sound of a loving lullaby whispered into their human ear joins in.

The door opens, and a dry Qifrey walks in with an audible sigh. His cloak and hat are put on the coat rack, and his sight settles into the dark atelier.

“Oi, in here,” Olruggio states, leaning his back against the couch, his arm moving over the cushion as he watches the white-haired man make his way to the living room. He’s tired, no doubt, and that small furrow of his eyebrow indicates something had happened during his commission. 

But seeing (Name) asleep, tail flush against Olruggio’s leg, the tension in Qifrey slightly dwindles. He moves to the couch, sitting with a hum, “How was this evening?”

Olruggio groans softly, rubbing his forehead, “Still hurts them, still can’t do anything about it.” He then tilts back, head resting on the back of his knuckles as he looks up at Qifrey, “But I think I know how to help with meals.”

“Wonderful,” Qifrey smiles, hands folding together as he tilts his head with closed eyes, “Do tell.”

His friend shrugs, waving his hand as his journal is left ignored on his lap as he speaks, “They watched me cook, ‘nd I let them help with some of it.” His eyes darken slightly, his head resting back on his knuckles as he watches (Name), “It makes me wonder about the meals they’ve had before, though…they didn’t like it when I added herbs ‘nd spices to the pot, makes me think they’ve been poisoned or something.”

Qifrey nods along, his own hand moving to his face as he thinks back to the other moments with the child. “It wouldn’t be surprising, especially since they’ve been in the hands of the Brimhats.”

The two continue to talk, their conversation transferring from (Name) to Qifrey’s commission, the topic changing throughout the night. Both keep their voices quiet for the sleeping child, occasionally going silent when their beastial form shifts and moves. 

It wasn’t long before Olruggio yawned, the hours of being awake finally hitting him. Qifrey chuckles at the sight, tilting his head once more as he speaks, “Time for bed, I assume? I can take (Name)-watch for the night if you’d like.”

“No, no, you’re the one who just got back; you go to bed,” Olruggio states, finally moving his gaze back to the journal, “I can keep myself busy.”

Qifrey almost scoffs into a laugh, “Are you saying I can’t stay awake?”

“You’re putting words into my mouth,” Olruggio says, looking over with a finger pointed, a small smile on his face, “But I won’t disagree with your assumption.”

It all went to shit only three weeks into their stay at the abandoned barn. That evening’s transformation was rough; hours after, their toes were still numb, claws extended, their body still trembling from the aftermath of the pain. 

Their stomach wasn’t nearly as hungry as they used to be, with their diet for the past three weeks consisting of what could be considered one meal in calories, maybe three if they were in their human form. But they were still in a survival mindset, their brain still hardwired into eating when they could, not if they should. Perhaps if they were older, they’d leave this town and find another, so the humans wouldn’t get suspicious, or maybe they’d be intelligent enough in human society to integrate rather than hide. 

It wouldn’t matter, though, for they left that night, stalking through the same tall grass with shaky limbs, hips and shoulders aching from the recent transformation, their maw already bloodied from their own raw throat and bitten tongue. It hurt to move, but their mind was set–who knew when the next time they'd be able to eat. Who knew when they’d be caught by those witches? 

It was a quick trip to the nearby frillram pen, something that has become almost a comforting sight if it weren’t for the constantly shrinking herd that had slowly left their usual grazing spots near the fence.

The Beast had to stalk around the property, evading the spots where they could see the sigils drawn on the fencing, and hoping that wherever the rams were, it wasn’t near what the Beast called the “spiky wires.” Unlucky for them, the smaller herd was huddled in a corner where the barbed wire was the strongest.

It always hurt them to go in and out, maneuvering their way around and through the barbs; it always got them to bleed, and it always made them have an episode soon after their escape. Perhaps they could find a different way in? But that could end in an alarm being set off without even a single bite. Maybe they could snag one of the younger ones and pull them through? No, they aren’t that strong, nor are the younger ones any smaller than the mature adults by now. 

Damn…

They were hungry. But how hungry do they need to be to move through the wire?

What they didn’t realize was that the witches had set up a new trap that day. A silent alarm, where vibrations of a certain-sized animal would be sent through some mobile device to the witch stationed at the farm. This made it so they could sneak up to the beast–something they had only a vague description of, especially since the animal didn’t appear like any natural animal in the area–or even in the world. 

They stayed still, eyes moving around, whiskered ears twitching as they tried to contemplate their move. Until a distinct sound came from above, one they knew all too well: the sound of spell-induced wind. 

Their hackles raised, teeth baring as they notice the red flying towards them. They moved quickly, hiding in the tall grass, but it was clear the witch had noticed them, so they began to run. Their movements were harsh, barely looking back as their paws began to hit the ground louder with each meter they went, their breathing quickening as they felt something try to grab at their hind leg. It was some sort of fabric, but they didn’t dare try to stop and fight it; they just kept running.

Maybe it was because they’re young, maybe it was because they believed it would help, but they ran into the barn, squeezing through as one of the old boards scratched their back. The cut caused their panic to spike, their chest tightening again as their eyes looked at the roof, the red witch turning into two, more voices surrounded the barn now as they began to shake. Their back burned, their throat clenched–panic set in as they could only think: Not again. I can’t go back there. They’ll hurt me. Stop it. Go away.

Their thoughts became pained cries and panicked breathing as their eyes shut tight, their body trembling until they were once again nearly seizing on the hardwood floor–the feeling only there to worsen the memories that began to flood their vision.

The witches outside moved in fast, but paused soon after, watching this animal–which they knew was somehow made with forbidden magic–tremble on the ground like a panicked veteran. One tried to move closer, but their leader held her hand out.

The Beast looked over; human-like intelligence was clear in them, scared, in pain, and young. 

“...give them space, let them calm down.” Her voice was calm, her aged eyes looking over the Beast with a small tilt to her head.

Their yowls and trembling continued for another long minute, one of the witches whispering something to the older woman, earning a sharp glare and whispering back. They gag harshly as their eyes shut tightly, another pained whine escaping their chest as they begin to smell blood.

Another minute passed, their body finally relaxing once their diaphragm gave in and their heads spun from lack of oxygen. They kept their eyes closed for another moment, blood trickling out of their mouth and onto the old flooring, their body stopping their tremors. Once they open their eyes, they notice that the older woman is the only one in the barn. 

Her eyes are grey, along with her hair, the uniform a deep red that raises alarms in the Beast’s mind; two pairs of wings are situated on her witch hat. It’s enough to differentiate her from the witches the Beast knew from before, but it barely eased their mind. 

She moved closer, and in response, the Beast got to their paws and tried to move away with a growl–in reality, they stumbled back with a painfully scratchy chirp, tail tucked between their hind legs as they felt their side rub against the floor once again. Her soft shushing echoed in their ears as she took another step forward, kneeling down once she got to their side.

“You must be very tired.” Her words were just as soft as her shushing, her hands exposed at her sides as if showing she wouldn’t touch the creature, “I’ve heard some rumors about a child spotted in some corn fields, would that be you, too?”

The question caused their ears to perk up–someone saw them? It was enough of a reaction to cause the woman to chuckle. She groans as she moves to a sitting position, hands holding one another on her lap as she stares at the creature.

“Would you be able to change into the child?” She asked, tilting her head while looking down at the Beast’s body, noting the scratches and tremors that still occurred. The catalogue in her mind only grew as she noticed the stressed posture of scales and fur along the creature’s back, the notable features that could classify them as a combination of two animals, rather than being within one. Her heart ached when she noticed the blood on the young one’s snout, knowing it was from how harshly they were crying, no doubt in her mind that this wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last, that their throat would bleed from sobs alone.

She watches them shake their head at her question, only to ask another clarifying one, “Are you able to?” Another shake results in the woman sighing, her hand moving to the creature. They freeze up, hackles raising before stilling once her hand falls onto their cheek. Her thumb brushes the cheekbone underneath still taut skin and juvenile fur, her eyes staring at the child through the beast, whispering, “...you must be a very brave child, then, to survive all this time.”

Her words cause their eyes to widen, ears relaxing as their tremors practically freeze with the compliment. If they were human, they’d start to tear up. Their ears fold back once again, but instead of curling away, they move closer with their tail still tucked between their legs, and push themself onto her lap with a scratchy, extremely baby-like whine. 

The movement makes the woman hum in surprise, allowing them to curl onto her like a child after a nightmare, their whimpers muffled as their head rests right beneath her shoulder. Her hand moves to the child’s back, causing them to tense up, and they were about to back away again before she moved it to the child’s foreleg instead, “Don’t move, don’t move…it’s okay, I won’t touch your back, sweetheart.”

The gentleness of the woman contrasts with what they knew witches to be like; it’s scary, but they were exhausted and knew they were caught. The barn was surrounded, but maybe if they could somehow make it seem like they were innocent, maybe they’d spare them from whatever sadistic things they have waiting for them.

An ache slowly began to spread over the Beast’s body, a foretelling sensation that the sun was about to rise. It made their paws move, finally moving off of the older woman’s lap as their hips and back began the nightly sensation of pricks and simmering. Their movements were wobbly, hackles raised harshly as they looked over their shoulder at the scales and fur. They knew the spell wasn’t actually burning or glowing on their back; they knew the witch before them wouldn’t be able to see what they felt, skin already beginning to itch as they felt their joints pinch at themselves.

It always hurt, but the past few times, the pain was worse than before, as if their body was growing weak from the near constant pain and panic. 

The witch stood up, eyes glancing over the Beast’s body as she continued to memorize the movements and reactions. She’s already made the assumption that this transformation was somehow a timed event, and she was ready to actually see the spell on non-fur-covered skin, almost eager to quell her curiosity as she watched the child’s movements grow more painful. 

They whine softly at first, their feet and hands the first to begin their morphing–cracks of joints and a harsh yowl caused two witches to enter the barn, eyes searching for their Captain before freezing at the sight before them:

Scales fell off the Beast’s body, fur slowly retreating into human body hair as their legs and hips snapped and changed physically in front of them. Their muscles move behind skin, their nerves acted like fire was licking each molecule within them. Their shoulders popped out and into place as a collarbone formed, sobs and gags began to sound more human as the transformation continued, and blood was coughed up as their throat was scratched by each loud cry.

Their body trembled as they stayed on their hands and knees, their palms turned human as their claws retreated into nails. Their neck and spine physically moved until it was in place with their hips and shoulders, their skull twisted left, then right, as the craniocervical joint altered from quadrupedal to bipedal support. Their jaw and the muscles surrounding their face moved unnaturally until their sharp teeth shrank and retreated into place within a human mouth. 

Their lungs hurt, and tears fell once their humanoid face found their tear ducts useful. The sunlight from the horizon was ignored as the minutes droned on with muscles moving beneath skin, skin itself altered until it appeared human, more blood seeped out of their mouth and pooled onto the floor with saliva and tears. 

A human child was now fully exposed to the three witches, collapsing onto the floor. They were audibly panting between sobbed gag, hands gripped at the wooden floor, nails digging into whatever they could as the aftermath ached through their being. They barely felt eyes on their naked back, barely heard the footsteps of the older woman or her voice as she spoke softly to the two witches behind her.

Once fabric fell onto their skin, they looked up with a pained whine, quickly swatting away what their mind perceived as a threat as they tried to scramble away. Their eyes were quick to glance over to see the hats–their mind focusing on nothing else, as they began to sob harder.

“Go away!” Their scratched, bleeding throat hurt from just the two words, their body falling to the ground again as their arms wrapped around their head. They flinched harshly when they felt the fabric once again fall over their back. The searing pain of the sigils constricted their breathing as they felt a hand on the back of their head.

The two witches at the door had taken their hats off once their Captain had done the same, one quietly walking out to begin whatever preparations they required for the child. The other witch moves closer to their Captain, whispering a question that made her shake her head.

Her words were quiet, but the child could hear them as she whispered back to the witch, “This isn’t a scenario where that would be useful. They didn’t ask for this fate; it’s up to us to give them some semblance of normalcy after what they’ve gone through.”

The words both eased and raised the child’s anxiety; it quelled their belief of all witches being sadistic–it didn’t sound like they were going to harm them or try to skin their back off of them–but it was clear as day, at least to the young child’s mind, that their freedom would be stripped away once again.

They relax softly into silent cries after another moment of quiet brushes of the woman’s thumb on their aching scalp, their hands moved away as they look over to the adults before them.

The other witch was a tall man with long black hair and sharp red eyes. His glances were more like glares, and it scared the child. They whimpered softly as they felt the woman’s hand move to their shoulder, moving their posture to sit up as she spoke again.

“How do you feel, sweetheart?” Her words were gentle, eyes looking over the child’s face and nude body, catching the trembling of their fingers and legs as they sat on their knees. 

They shrugged, a sniffle, and a quick rub to their cheek was the only response they gave to the woman, eyes looking down at the red fabric that had pooled around their thighs. It smelled like the woman, and had some residual body heat still within it–but they didn’t gain comfort from such a factor. They contemplated whether they should return to how they used to act, how they survived in the cell with those other witches.

It wasn’t a thought that lasted long, though. The woman sighed as her hand rubbed their shoulder, “You’re very strong, do you know that? I don’t think I could handle such a tremendous feat of staying awake for that transition.”

They looked up at the woman again, swollen eyes gleaming with more unshed tears, then looked over at the other witch, who stood tall and imposing, back now towards the two as he kept an eye on the door. 

“...I tired,” The child’s voice is still scratchy, barely audible over the roughness of their throat and the harshness of their inhales. It was as if breathing hurt the child, which would make sense based on the amount of blood that had left their mouth during their sobs. 

The two words made the other witch look over with furrowed eyebrows, the woman gently nodding as her hand moved from their shoulder to their cheek, thumb drying their skin as she spoke to the child, “I bet…it must take a lot of energy from you to do that.”

They moved a hand to the red cape. It’s soft on their fingers, and they move it closer to their body, wrapping it further around their torso while nodding softly at whatever the woman was saying. Their throat hurt, their muscles ached, and their mind was split with a decision they likely wouldn’t even be able to make. They felt the woman’s thumb brush their cheekbone once more as they eased into her touch, “My name is Vinanna, and this is my deputy, Easthies.”

Looking between the two, the child nods softly, watching as the man finally turns back to the two, kneeling down with one hand on his staff-like weapon. His voice is much deeper and more serious compared to the woman’s, causing a pool of unease to settle in the child’s stomach. “We’ll be taking you with us, you’ll be provided food, clothing, and a bed to sleep in.”

Another soft nod is the only response the child provided, moving their face away from her hand as they rub their eye with the back of their hand with a scratchy yawn. They were too tired to argue or fight; their heart wasn’t racing or panicking at the idea of going with the two. Their thoughts circled the idea of imprisonment, of torture, but looking back at the woman’s eyes, they felt a sense of understanding from her, and decided to trust their tiredness rather than their gut.

Neither of the witches asked for a name from the child, nor did they try to look at the spell that clearly pained the child with each morning and evening. All they did was stand, the older woman’s hand outstretched as she asked, “Would you like some help getting to the carriage?”

They hesitate, their hands holding onto the cape around them as they watch the taller witch whisper into her ear once more. She nodded, he left, and they finally reached out and grabbed her hand. Their shaky knees eased with each step, leaning close to the woman’s side while watching the barn that had been their safety for the past three weeks. They look up at the witch, her hat is still off, held in her free arm.

“...name means..?” The child asked, their feet pressing against the soil outside. Their question raised alarms in the woman’s mind, but she hid her surprise as she looked down, noticing the confusion in their exhausted, pained expression.

She looks back up, the other witches either already gone or are waiting for the two to get to the shared carriage, speaking to the young child while continuing their walk, “It’s what others call you, sweetheart. People call me Vinanna, they call him Easthies, and her name is Luluci.”

Their eyes glance at the new woman–she’s much younger than the woman–Vinanna–with blonde hair in a bun and blue eyes that remind the child of the sky itself. They hide closer to Vinanna as they get to the carriage. Both the man–Easthies–and Luluci wait for Vinanna to enter first, the child still holding her hand, before entering the carriage themselves. 

“Do you not have a name, sweetheart?” She asked, sitting to the right of the child. They followed her movements, cape still wrapped around their body as they pushed their legs on the bench, too, curling as best as they could in on themself while keeping their hand in Vinanna’s own palm.

“...I don’t know,” The child states, eyebrows furrowing as they try to remember anything about a name in their life. They could remember the silhouette of a woman, the chuckle of a man, the feeling of soft lips on their forehead, the start of a lullaby…and pretty pink and white flowers. The flowers hid their eyes from everything else, even the silhouette was behind a veil of white petals, the chuckle and lullaby muffled behind petals.

The only thing to remember was their cell and the witches. The Brimmed-hats with no names, harsh hands, and the pain they caused. A whimper escapes the child as they hide their face in Vinanna’s arm, curling closer into the cape wrapped around their entire body by that point.

She moved her arm over the child’s shoulders, rubbing their arm gently with soft shushes, “No need to hurt yourself trying to remember it, we can figure it out later.”

The two witches in front of them silently observe the interaction between their Captain and this child, both slightly tense about the entire situation. Easthies couldn’t help but remember the horrid scar on the child’s back–it was the worst one he’d seen in his time as a Knight, and the child’s age only made the idea of it worse.

They watch their Captain rub the child’s arm, her eyes only on the young thing as they sniffle and ease out of their trembling fit once again. It was clear to all three adults that they had some sort of panic or post-traumatic association with practically everything that surrounded the child. Their hats being one of the triggers, they could only assume that their time before the barn was in the hands of witches. 

It didn’t take much more time for the child to fall asleep, the comforting warmth of the woman’s side and her thumb brushing their now covered skin was something they had subconsciously yearned for ever since their kidnapping. Their eyelids grew heavy, their body slowly relaxing as they heard the younger woman whisper something to Vinanna, her own body vibrating with her response. The child doesn’t catch onto the conversation, already halfway asleep, the world growing lighter and fuzzier until their head rolls back, nuzzled between the woman’s side and the back of the bench.

“...What is the plan for the child?” Luluci asks quietly, her eyes glancing at the–what she assumed to be–sleeping child. “We aren’t really prepared to take care of one, especially not one so young.”

Vianna sighed; her own gaze fell on the weight against her. A part of her wanted to be selfish, to claim the child as her own and go from there, but she knew her age would get in the way, and she wasn’t prepared to take care of a child this young anyway. They weren’t apprentice-aged, that was clear, but to define their age was hard under the assumption that the child was likely starved and physically altered from both trauma and physical experimentations they all knew occurred under the Brimmed-hats.

“We’ll bring them to the hospital to start, make sure they aren’t a host, or if there are any underlying concerns. It would be best if we kept them under our supervision until we understand how to help them with their transformations.”

Easthies then speaks up, his gaze moving from his Captain to the child, “We cannot allow them to leave, not with such a prominent, blatant act of Forbidden Magic stuck to their skin.”

The women nodded along. Vianna’s hand moved over to the child’s hair, thumb brushing over the tangled, dirty locks, “It might be a good idea to hide their identity as a practicing apprentice.”

“Or we could find a Watchful Eye,” Easthies adds, “Might make their time with us shorter, and it’s usually better for a child to grow comfortable in one building, rather than pushing them from one place to another.”

Luluci hums, scratching her cheek before stating, “We should make sure they’re at least on-level with other kids their age, intelligence-wise. If we are to assume they’ve been with the Brimmed-hats for a while, I seriously doubt they can read or write.”

They continued the soft-spoken conversation while the carriage moved along the air. The child stayed asleep throughout the entire ride, whining softly as Easthies picks them up to allow Vinanna access to leave. Their head rests on his shoulder as he moves out next, sighing in slight irritation as the three adults begin to walk into their underwater town. The plan? Educate the child as best as they could, train their body and mind for the transformations they were now forced to go through, and find a Watchful Eye in a relatively remote area who’d be accepting of a long-term job.

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