LUMO

Ever raging and unpredictable, a push and pull that could very well take but never give back—the water is an endless depth where control seems so easily within grasp only to ebb away the moment you grab hold, slipping and drifting off into an unknown abyss. And for witches, it is something that takes their greatest weapon and turns it into useless splotches of ink on wet parchment, diluted strokes weeping into the paper until it's nothing more than unintelligible lines and blurs of shapes. It's just another reason for Qifrey to despise it, among other things—water slowly dripping, flooding, drowning—he suppresses a shudder as he stares at the tantrum of the waves beyond.

This was meant to be nothing more than a little trip to the shore-line, one that he was loathe to take but did so anyway, before heading back down south to the atelier. With the numerous signs before him, Qifrey definitely should have known better—the clouds so dark and heavy that it seemed one wrong breeze would break the load, sending torrential downpour hailing upon the lands and the winds whipping against him, clawing at his skin in sharp blows and threatening to strip him of his cloak.

Upon arrival, the rain had already begun to pick up, and while he had a spell on hand to repel the rain, some locals of a nearby seaside town spotted the witch before he could reroute home. Which leads him to his current predicament—saving a boy that had gone fishing now stuck mid-waters.

Just looking out unnerves him, the ocean even more so than other bodies of water as it had the ability to imprison, just endless depth that could only take you further into it's clutches. He's suppressing a shiver despite the faux composure he forces upon his frame until it seems natural, like the discomfort was never there in the first place. The cries of the Outsiders that begged for his help did little to persuade his unwilling frame to go out there, but he knows he should, into the terrifying grasp of the sea.

In the midst of his bubbling thoughts, the calls for him stop, and it becomes just quiet enough for the witch to tilt his head up, eye widening at the blur of teal flying off into the distance, far enough that they're nothing but an indiscernible splotch against the lashing waves. He yells for them, almost unable to recognize the voice that rips through as he begs them to come back.

Right, you, his dearest little apprentice that endeared him so—charming under any circumstance despite how he'd first found you, causing him to care far too deeply, far too fast that he doesn't even remember when it happened. You who he adored so much, he was willing to walk the edges of the sea just to see the smile on your face as you yipped with excitement.

You, now being splashed ever violently by the unwavering anger of the sea as you try to grab at the young teenager who's boat tossed and tumbled with the waves. Your figure is small and fragile, and with the added weight of another in your arms, you struggled to keep your body balanced while avoiding the waves that threatened to grab you and pull you down. It was his hesitation that put you out there, vulnerable to the water's seizing hands. He has to save you, was his first thought.

And yet before his sylph shoes can even touch, a collapsed heap in the sand catches his attention accompanied by an exhausted groan, wheezing breaths coming in short bursts as you attempt to chase at what little air is in your lungs. A cap falls to his feet, his arms catching you by instinct as your legs wobble from being bullied by the sea—the salty scent is strong on you, sea water and sand clinging onto once pristine teal fabric as you tremble in his arms.

His clothes dampen as you hold onto him, every bit of you soaked through, though that means little when your frame looks even smaller in his arms than he was used to. Your name slips easily from his lips, in a worried whisper, holding you up by the waist as he pushes back the hair clinging to your cheeks that were now flushed as you regained your bearings.

"Breathe for me now, there you go…" your master's voice reaches your ears in a muffle, as he guides the feel of your breathing beneath his palms. It anchors you, the warmth of his hand radiating against your back in contrast to the clinging cold on your skin as he counts to the rhythm of each breath.

As you calm down, Qifrey crouches to come eye-to-eye with you, a quiet worry settling as each beat of silence passes, taking your hand in his, feeling the fingers pruned, "What you did was incredibly dangerous… You shouldn't have rushed out there all alone."

You almost retreat at the chastising, but decide to stare back instead, returning his hold on your hands with a far tighter grip, "I know… I'm sorry, but…"

Qifrey waits as you pause, wondering what it is that had you flustered, before you speak again, "I just didn't think! My body felt like it was moving on its own. I have the power to help so I couldn't wait, not when someone's life is at risk!"

Something lodges in his throat at that; even if it had been just a moment, he'd hesitated—and despite his fears, as your master he should be leading by example. Witches beyond the day of the pact train to spread good virtue to those that cannot access magic, and you were growing to be the very epitome of that. His first thought hadn't even been the fisherman—it was you.

Just when did you become the forefront thought of his mind? And just when had you grown into such a capable witch?

"… What a lovely sentiment," he breathes out your name, almost content but still letting the worry burrow in his heart—he can't be too relaxed now. Picking up the sand covered hat and dusting it off as best he can, he places the cap back onto your head, a proud smile on his face that radiates so much warmth a similar one crawls up your face, warming your cheeks, "I have no doubt you'll be a witch that surpasses me by leaps and bounds."

"However, that doesn't not mean you should lack temperance," he pinches your nose, "It is a vital component in becoming a proficient witch."

You shiver—whether that be due to the cold or the sudden tightness in your chest, you don't know, but you shake your head at your master, embarrassed by the sparkly glimmer in his eyes as he watches you, "I—don't be a sap, Master..! Let's just go home..."

"Hm, yes, let's," he hums, "Though, I'd like to carry you home. You may have been lucky during the rescue, but the water could have altered the seals on your sylph shoes."

"Ah—! No! That's embarrassing!" you protest, but his arms are already looping under your legs as he stands, sitting you on his arms like a throne as you complain, a petulant pout settling on your lips alongside indignant complaints of how childish this was.

Pleasantries are exchanged and the boy is handed off to a local doctor, and as the two of you fly away, you hear the calls of the townsfolk and the boy's family in thanks, chasing your figures in the sky before they slow down as you disappear farther into your retreat. You look down and give them a small wave before holding on to Qifrey with a satisfied hum, "Can we have something with parasol jellies for dinner?"

"Of course, I think you rather deserve it," Qifrey grips at his arms tighter.

Gossip was an unavoidable thing—humans, after all, craved a distraction from the mundanity of their lives, allowing rumors to feed their need for something novel. Kalhn was a town no different from the rest in that regard, with each ambling alley and twisting road teeming with people, there was no true way to silence the whispers that fluttered into the air, just loud enough that you needn't strain your ears to catch a stray sentence or two. However, today was particularly loud.

It was tragic, really. An atelier, just to the west of Kalhn had burnt down, and while many believed it had been forbidden magic, an investigation by the Knights Moralis proved otherwise. Still, the incident left a pit in many witches' stomachs—after all, that atelier was one of high stature, having produced some of the most talented of witches in their respective eras. The kind of magic able to wipe out an entire atelier and kill everyone inside sends a shiver up Qifrey's spine just thinking about it. It was much too akin to them.

All that was left in the aftermath was the remaining embers embedded in burnt wood and a child, the latest of the apprentices and the only suspect.

The witch didn't realize that something like that could be a risk when taking in an apprentice, for them to have a power not even their teacher can contain (allegedly). Still, it was a risk Qifrey was all too willing to take should he want this creeping parasite to keep away for as long as possible. Unfortunately, no child has approached him about an apprenticeship. Despite how prepared his atelier was to accept one, there would be no point should no one seek him out.

Sighing, he pulls back from the produce he was looking at when a figure bumps into him, shoving him to the side. A voice follows, yelling out in a gruff cadence, followed by short puffs as an older man chases after a figure that disappeared into twisting alleys, panting as he stops and puts his hands to his knees, grumbling to himself in a more inconvenienced tone than angry if anything, "Damn it all! If I had me sylph shoes…"

Curious, Qifrey follows with short steps, "Oh, what seems to be the matter?"

"One of the hand pies from me shop was stolen!" the man grumbled, scratching at his head as he composed himself, his breathing beginning to even back out.

"That is quite the predicament," Qifrey hums before offering his assistance, "Would you like some help in apprehending them?"

The man waves him off before straightening himself out, "Na', with the rumors goin' around about the rogue on the loose, I'd rather not deal with it. Sends a shiver down me spine."

Now that intrigued Qifrey. But just as he's about to ask the man for more details, he'd already scuttled back to his stall. Still, it wouldn't be too much to try and catch a glimpse of this so called rogue loose in Kalhn. What if…? Qifrey clears his mind of these intrusive thoughts.

Deviating from his initial errand of buying materials for the apprentice he was planning on taking in, Qifrey decides to slip into the last alleyway the figure was seen in. But being a center hub of witchkind on the surface world, Kalhn does not lack in populace and instead can feel like it's dwindling with space. Shoving past other witches would prove to be a bit of trouble, not that Qifrey was so rude as to do such a thing anyway.

Just as he's about to turn around and give up on his search, a small figure bumps into him, before something falls to the ground with a wet splatter. The panic is almost immediate, watching as the pastry splatters onto the ground, filling spilling onto the pavement in a messy heap, leaving it completely inedible and eliciting a loud yelp from the figure that dissolves into a whimper, "No! I just got that! And I can't go get another…"

Qifrey can barely get a word out when the figure lets out a sniffle, tears streaming down their cheeks and dripping onto the very same pavement their food had fallen onto. Their hands wipe at their cheeks as their hood falls off their head, revealing their nose tinted red as they continue to cry over the wasted meal, "What do I do now…? Master, why…? Why me?"

So he was right—the thief was a child. And if he had to propose an estimate, they looked to be about 8-9 years of age, on the dreadfully young end of the spectrum to be an apprentice witch, let alone fending for themselves. Where was their master? They clearly had one. Could it be a case of neglect?

No, Qifrey knows the answer, if the man's reaction earlier was anything to go by. Should the rumours be true, you were the very apprentice from the recent incident. Though, you were much younger than the rumours ever made you seem out to be, having spoken about the remaining apprentice like they were much older and a scarier depiction than the trembling mess before him right now.

"Oh dear… I'm terribly sorry for bumping into you. Are you alright?" he mutters, crouching down to your level, his words seeming to aggravate you more than provide any comfort seeing as how you shuffle away from him, taking wary steps back.

"I truly am sorry. I can buy you a new one, if that will make you feel better," he offers, but it does little to patch the dam he's already burst. The feeling of having to console a child he himself upset is terrible and he very much does not know how to deal with children. While he'd, begrudgingly, approached his old Master on how to properly train an apprentice (especially with knowing how particularly difficult he was), trying to put it into practice was a different case all together.

"No…" the small voice leaves your lips, trying to move further away from Qifrey, but you know these alleys well—nothing but a dead end awaits you if you run further into them, and should you run the other, there's no way you're not to be caught by a man his stature.

The fear is evident in your eyes, analyzing each and every route to escape. Qifrey's eyebrows furrow at the very idea that you think he'll hurt you, but with the short interaction from earlier a small hint as to how the other witches think of you, he knows the reaction is all too reasonable. Unsure of what else to do, the witch pulls out a handkerchief from his back pouch, offering it carefully, "Please… I'd like to help. What can I do to make you feel better?"

Something about this seems to catch your attention, as you finally pause, angling your body to look at Qifrey in the face, properly, then to the handkerchief in his grasp. Tentatively, small fingers reach out for the piece of fabric, barely brushing against the cloth before they stop, your eyes drifting back up at man before you with swimming uncertainty in your eyes. When he doesn't budge, only smiling to urge you on, you grasp the cloth with haste, as though Qifrey would take it back should you not take the chance, eyes casting down at the pristine white fabric and feeling the smooth quality, "You… want to help?"

"Of course. It's alright to cry, it is natural after all, but I'd like to fix the problem I caused," his voice is soft to your ears, a kind you haven't heard since the incident.

He watched as you hid behind the small piece of fabric, nose scrunched as you felt the heat at the tip of it spreading to your cheeks as you tried to look elsewhere, trying to evade eye contact, "Then, uhm, yes. I want a new one."

"Perfect! Let's go then," he offered his hand, palm up in a way that you could hold onto it. Unfortunately, that's where the interaction stagnates, as you only give a passing glance at the outstretched limb before ignoring it completely, bringing it upon yourself to simply follow. He still thinks that's progress though.

As you pass by though, the witches around town seem to forget themselves, eyes blatant in their stare and lips loud with their judgment the moment you step out into the crowd. You must have been in some sort of daze, as once you'd become aware of the peering eyes, the panic sets in, realizing your hood wasn't on, scrambling to tug it forward. But it does little, everyone has seen you and they will do well to show you what they think about it.

Watching the crowd back with the same judgment pointed toward them instead, Qifrey notices when your small frame tries to hide in his presence, as though taking up the role of his shadow, while still avoiding making too close contact with him, so he does well to skew you from he peer of these irksome eyes. To cast such disdainful glares at a child the Knights have proved innocence upon, the young witch wishes he could do more than just this.

The more you follow the white capped witch though, the more your body seems to stiffen.

"I—nevermind, I don't want to—I can't be here—can we go somewhere else?" you finally speak, now completely frozen in your tracks as the stares become too overwhelming, too knowing of you and your situation. Even to a child as young as you, it's obvious what everyone still thinks, despite all the Knights Moralis have claimed to point otherwise. You are the killer apprentice in everyone's eyes, with an all too powerful talent for magic that must be contained—no, erased—and little would do to change that. He remembered feeling like this as a child, the Outsider taken in by one of the Wise of all people when he should have been stripped of his memories instead and left to live the true life of an Outsider.

An audible attempt to bite back a cry through a pathetic whimper pulls Qifrey out of his anger, "Ah, yes, my atelier is close by. But I might have to carry you though. Is that alright?"

He watches as you shuffle around, eyes cast down on your feet with an expression twisted in discomfort and frustration. You must be cursing your lack of sylph shoes, biting your lip as though the idea of being held or even touched disgusts you. Still, your eyes cast up at Qifrey and the patience that graced his face, lacking the disdain so many have held for you since the incident. He's been nothing but kind—a presence so warm you can almost feel it radiating at you. Permission and consent explicitly given to him by you was important and he wouldn't do anything should he not get it. Was there really anything to lose?

"Alright," you mutter, the sound so soft that it barely reaches Qifrey's ears. But he hears it nonetheless, smiling when you bring your arms up, causing him to shuffle close enough for your to loop your small arms around his neck, his arms settles beneath your bottom to make sure you sit secure.

The take off is a bit rough for a moment as he adjusts to the unfamiliar weight of another person, regardless of how small, in his arms. But the longer they're airborne the more comfortable he is holding you, clutching your head to his chest to make sure the wind doesn't whip your hair around. He can't help but chuckle when he finds your eyes shut tight, and hands digging into his cloak like it's your only lifeline. You really are just a child.

It's not long until their little trip ends and upon your arrival he leads you to the kitchen, allowing you to sit at the dining table as he puts on fairy tea to brew. With a strong enough spell, the scent flits into the room, the very smell of it soothing to the senses. Aware of your hunger, Qifrey knows he has little time to prepare anything fresh so he reaches over for the magic cookpot perched upon one of the shelves. It's still quite full, having only recently been made.

He takes the pot and places it upon the table, watching as you eye at the pot warily, flitting to the bowl he'd laid before you as though the soup contained bad intent. Giving you time to get acquainted with the meal, he fetches the steeping tea, along with a few teacups, pleased with himself when he return to find you heartily shoveling large spoonfuls into your mouth, "Careful now. You should pace yourself as to not overwhelm your stomach."

He can see the way you visibly freeze up, before your pace significantly slows—Qifrey can't help but smile at it, how skittish you are, like a bunny that threatened to flee the moment he made any noise too loud to your ears. It showed just how much of a fledgling you still were in a world that condemned you as though you were more than that. In his stupor, gentle hand falls against his forearm as you softly tug on the fabric and his attention. He watches as you pause for a moment, using your sleeve to wipe at the residue stew on your lips.

"Why did you help me, sir?" its not a question a child should be asking, yet it falls from your lips so casually, as though being refused help was the default you'd known. Qifrey pauses, the soft flow of tea into the dainty ceramic pausing, drops trickling before coming to a complete stop.

"What a silly question, little one. Why wouldn't I help you?" he hums, before continuing to pour tea into the cup until it nears the rim.

You fiddle with your fingers, nails picking at the skin surrounding them, a knot between your brows summoned by pure frustration, as though you can't fathom how condescending his answer is, as though the idea you'd proposed was the absurd one when everything you'd been shown since your atelier burnt down proved otherwise, "You know. Surely, you know—I know that you do! Master always said you can tell a lot about people by their eyes! You know! You know but you—!"

"You don't look at me angry—like I did something bad. Not like everyone else does. It's not my fault! They Knights say so too!" they grasp their cloak, pulling it over their head as they try to reign in their emotions. But their just a child, and their feelings become too big for them to contain, coming out in a rasped sob, "But no one believes me! Why won't they believe me?!"

A warm hand comes atop your head almost immediately as Qifrey comes down to your level much like he did in the alleyway. He uses the pad of his thumb on his free hand to wipe at the falling tears, hushing you as you stared the tears still coming down in waterfalls, "I believe you. And that's why I helped."

The emotions almost come in waves—first was disbelief, then relief before pure joy consumed you, stumbling into him as he startles, making sure to catch you. You sob loudly, a volume that he would have never imagines to have come from a child as small as you. You tears dampen his cloak as he rubs your back, soothing you as you continue to cry, hiccuping and struggling to catch your breath, "Then please—Please be my master! I don't—I don't want to be alone anymore!"

Qifrey pauses before wrapping long arms around you, so small and fragile. A small breath of laughter falls from his lips, "Of course. But first, will you tell me your name, little apprentice?"

You mumble it into his cloak, words almost caught by the fabric before it reaches his ears but he hears it anyway. He repeats your name, foreign on his tongue but something he's sure he'll get used to at some point. Taking you in as his apprentice might lead to a path unknown, but he's sure it will turn out fine. And if it doesn't, that's all the more reason he should keep you in his care.

He speaks your name again, pulling away and placing his hands on your shoulders, "Why don't I show you around? Then we'll get you cleaned up."

Yes, you would be his apprentice.

"Master."

Qifrey tilts his head up staring at neatly peeled pile of parasol jelly legs before him, your miffed expression—a pout he finds truly adorable, though would never admit to you—painfully endearing as you hold it out to him. You sigh, rubbing your fingers of the briney feeling that enveloped them as he takes the plate of unshelled legs, and places it down on the counter, watching as you move in on him with suspicion, "Are you alright? You were looking at me strange."

You can't help the warmth that spreads to your cheeks as he smiles, rubbing the back of his neck in a sheepish way—he knows how he was caught looking, that same adoring look in his eye every time. It's embarrassing how aware you are of it—like you're the thing he's most proudest of when you've done nothing to elicit such an expression from him.

"It's nothing at all, my dear. Can't a master admire his favorite apprentice?" his words come out in all but an attempt to flatter, as though to try and distract you from his strange behavior.

You snort at the attempt, ineffective on you as you move up to look at the bubbling concoction brewing in the pot, sighing in bliss as you catch a whiff of the mixing flavors while your master slices the parasol jellies into thin strips. For a moment Qifrey almost thinks you've decided to let him off the hook and ignore the way he was staring, "I'm your only apprentice, master. Now, talk."

"Fine, fine. Nothing escapes you, my dearest," he shuffles in beside you, ruffling at your hair as he pours the strips he'd made into the stew, stirring the thick broth to distribute each piece just how you like it, "I was just thinking how much my little witch has grown."

You sputter for a bit before elbowing the man softly in the side, "Ugh, I shouldn't have asked…"

He laughs, the sound spreading a warmth through your chest as he scoops up some stew for you to taste on a ladle, "Good?"

"Mhm, always."