⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Qifrey understood that feeling all too well. He didn't have a family that he knew of. (They were probably dead.) He couldn't tell anyone where his home was. (Any time he tried to think, all he could think of was that cursed box.) He didn't even know simple questions about himself, like what was his favourite colour? (Blue – at least he thinks it is. But not blue like the ocean; but like the bountiful sky he was barred from seeing.)

(In his darkest moments, where he lies awake at night, he often thinks about how Qifrey was not even his true name. He thanks Beldaruit for gifting him an identity, but there will always be a hole that he won't be able to fill. He has learned over time to make a name for himself – He is Qifrey the Apprentice and no one would be able to take that away from him. Yet the mind, as wondrous as it is, is also the heart's most dangerous ally, for only it can think about the alternate universes where he is not Qifrey but a boy with a family.)

(Please don't take my life again, he begged, but there would be no one who would listen. He would soon learn to make that decision for himself.)

Beldaruit was certainly wise, and with his age comes a certain way to manipulate the truth to fit his narrative. And he wasn't wrong; technically, Qifrey can't be an Unknowing if he doesn't know anything to begin with. The other sages agreed, although Vinanna was always wary of him. He supposed that it couldn't be helped as the 'Wise in Principle'. It was her job to keep all of witchkind in check, and he stood as the biggest threat to their security as of late.

Even after an extermination attempt, if one cockroach survives and is left alone, another infestation is bound to follow.

Perhaps one day, Qifrey would be a grand enough witch so that he may drown out all of the scum that has infected him. Maybe then he will find his eye and all the memories stolen from him.

But for all his effort, he couldn't make these spells work for the life of him. They would technically perform – the fire will burn, and the wind will blow – but it never takes the form he needs it to be. Nor go in the direction he wants for it to go. Even with Beldaruit's gentle encouragement, there always seemed to be something that would go awry.

(He just wanted to create a spell that would keep him dry.)

It seems as though the olden witches were right in their decision to create the pact. If magic were truly for everyone, shouldn't everyone be able to use it intuitively? Instead, he was struggling just as a child would struggle to write. Vinanna was right to be suspicious of him; he truly was an unknowing.

But it wasn't fair – not his stolen memories nor his distaste for water. Qifrey was barely a man, and he was sure that if his mother were around, he would still have been considered her child. Except he would never know what his mother was like, or if he even had one. His entire life was ripped away from him, sitting somewhere next to his missing eye.

Qifrey gripped his hair, ripping it from his skull. His head seared with pain as the ache of his ignorance and the sound of the rushing water around him. It unfortunately didn't help that the entire assembly felt like his little box, except this time, he had plenty of people to share his personal hell.

Did he even need magic? Qifrey thought to himself. Part of him was willing to run away to the outside world, away from the rules and regulations that bound his hands and silenced his tongue. He was quite young, and there were always ways for him to grow – both in stature and in spirit. Perhaps if he focused on his body and not his penmanship, then perhaps he could brute force his way through the Hats.

But if they can use magic without creating a magic seal (if his research is to be trusted), then simple knives wouldn't fare all that much against his most loathed foe. His frustration was even enough to mask the scent of roses that appeared. Weren't they under the ocean? Were flowers that fragrant even survive down here?

"Your lines are sloppy." A curt voice spoke over his shoulder, haughty in tone and confident in nature. Qifrey jumped in his seat, surprised by the uninvited voice. He was often used to people letting him wallow in his misery, so this was a change of pace; he just wasn't sure if it was welcomed or not.

He looked to his side to see a child's face, probably someone around his age, whose eyes were glaring at his magic seal. With a raised eyebrow and a disgusted look, he could only imagine the type of person you were. Haughty and all-knowing, like the other apprentices who shame him for his lack of knowledge. It took a lot of restraint and coaching from his master to not lash out when he was taunted. 

The second thing he noticed about you was the clothing you were wearing. They were simple in colour, the solid white being a standard for most apprentices. Yet yours were adorned in golden and red accents. The crest on your chest was his final clue that you were someone of importance. Whose life would matter if you went missing.

Unlike him, so forgotten by the world that even he is left ignorant of his own existence.

(Qifrey wasn't wrong. It was just a shame that no one could find you in time.)

When he didn't react to your taunt, eyes focused back to his paper and pen, you scoffed. You placed your body between his focused face and the desk he was hunched over. Qifrey – ever the menace but still a gentleman at heart – pushed away from your invading frame, glaring at the intrusion into his personal space.

"What in the devil is your problem?" he sneered, trying to push you out of his way. All of the assembly apprentices were the same; if they weren't fearful of him, then they were trying to pester him to leave. At least he had the conviction to stay and learn; that's more than what he can say about those who had magic handed to them. 

"Your magic isn't stable, which makes the flame weak." You turned away, looking back at the desk. Once you have deemed his seal sufficiently scrutinized, you point at it. "See? The lines are shaky, and the sigils aren't centred. You're never going to get your desired result if you rush like this."

"Aren't the best witches supposed to be able to draw their seals with speed?" Qifrey asked with an annoyed tone. It was one thing to hear Master Beldaruit's gentle criticism, but here you were lambasting his poor attempt at magic.

"Yes, but they also master precision first." You turned back around to look him in his eyes – or eye in his case. You squinted, and he could almost see the slight recognition on your face. "You're the unknowing stray Uncle Beldaruit brought in." Damn it, of course you knew who he was. Now he had to face the same ridicule that he's been receiving from everyone else.

"Quite the harsh way of putting it?" he said with a sardonic smile. Qifrey was finally able to push past you and went to gather his belongings from the little desk. So much for being able to work in peace away from the bustle of the Assembly. He often found himself by the outskirts and near the water barrier in order to find some form of serenity. The occasional droplets that burned his skin made him good at preventing him from letting his guard down. "Now, if you excuse me, I am going to work elsewhere."

Before he could turn away, you managed to surprise him.

"My apologies, I understand how that term can be insulting." You didn't make an excuse, nor did you mince your words to downplay what you have done. Perhaps you had more sense than most of the apprentices that he's had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting. "Unfortunately, there isn't a more… kinder way to explain your kind."

"To your dismay, we are not some otherworldly creature that hides under your bed." Was it truly strange to have people who weren't born into magic enter your world? If knowledge was best shared so that it could be innovated and improve the lives of people, then why were you witches so hellbent on keeping it a secret? He would follow your fallacious rules if only to keep learning about this magic that has ruined his life.

"Well forgive me that I've never had to interact with an unknowing– I suppose human would be a more fitting term." Your insufferable tone returned, long gone any regret from your voice. Qifrey was always confused when the other witches referred to the 'unknowing' as human, as if everyone wasn't made of the same flesh and blood. There was a story in his heart of how the world came from clay, even if he couldn't picture where exactly it came from. 

Yet before he could continue this banter – that Qifrey begrudgingly found some enjoyment in – the Sage of Distrust fell from the sky and landed behind you. Great, not only did he have to deal with you and your insufferable voice, he now had to pretend in front of Vinanna that he was a functional member of magic society. Not that he isn't, but he knows that she is looking for one chance to put him on trial once again and cast him out into this cold and unforgiving world. 

"Dear grandchild?" Her voice was still stern; he wouldn't dare call her soft. But when the great Sage spoke to you, there was an exasperated fondness in her eyes. Like a person who watched their cat knock down another vase. Perhaps you had more of an edge than he gave you credit for.

"Come now, it's almost dinner time, and your parents are worried for you." She turns to Qifrey, and with all warmth drained from her heart, she acknowledges him for the first time during this interaction. "You best return to your master, young one. Beldaruit tends to worry for strays that wander too far from his care."

Qifrey understood quickly where you get your blunt tongue from.

He nodded, bowing slightly with respect. As much as he thought respect should go both ways, he wasn't about to create a scene with you present. He didn't have the chance to make a clean exit when you turned back to call out to him.

"Using fire magic to create a drying spell is needlessly difficult. Try using water magic and use a sigil to repel it away from you." Qifrey internalized the advice, actually finding it quite helpful. Logically, it would make the most sense to try to repel water rather than to loop the fire magic to endlessly keep him dry. But bless your heart, you weren't aware of his aversion to liquid, and he'd rather not practice with something he was petrified about. 

Although maybe it would be best for him to become a master at it. It would be the best way for him to overcome his fear. His poor, unfortunate heart, you gave him much to ponder over this evening. 

Despite the growing distance between the two of you, Qifrey could still hear your grandmother chastising you for speaking to him. Whispered warnings about how you must stay away from that boy and how he might drag you back to that group again. It was the again that caught his attention, wondering what Vinnana could possibly have meant by that. Perhaps the two of you had more in common than he thought, but he shrugged that thought away. There were more important matters at hand, like implementing your advice into his spell.

After he composed his thoughts, he gathered his things and rushed back to the centre of the Assembly, but not before running into another nuisance.

"I see you've met the Great Sage's grandchild!" Olruggio's voice perked up from the side. Qifrey observed him, and with the way he was leaning casually against the wall, it seemed like he watched that entire bastard. What a nosy bastard, and he didn't have the decency to even step in and save him from his humiliation.

"I didn't know the Sage even had a child, let alone a grandchild." He stopped to acknowledge his fellow apprentice, because calling him a friend made his heart creak and his eye ache. 

Olruggio hummed with acknowledgement. "Yes, they don't tend to make an appearance often, letting the more public spectacle fall onto the Sage and their parents. But from what I've heard, they're a prodigy at their craft and every master has been begging them to join their atelier."

Qifrey would hope that you would be half decent at magic. Perhaps that's why you were judging his own seal – probably to see where you would have been had you been born to a regular family. But then how much of your success could be attributed to you as a person rather than the family crest you carried on your chest?

"Besides, they're quite a beauty aren't they? Dare I say they're the prettiest witch in our cohort of apprentices?" Olruggio started to daydream about being your knight in shining armour, and Qifrey could see what he held for you was a childish fantasy at best. He refused to feed into any more delusions that his peer would come up with.

Qifrey does agree, though, that you were quite pretty – pretty annoying that is.

(He dares not think about the way his heart quickened and creaked when you stared at him. Your stare was so heavy that he was tempted to spill all of his secrets at that moment. Whoever you were, you were dangerous to him – your beauty, the most complicated spell and your tongue, the sharpest knife. And he realized all of this before noticing that his left eye started to function less and less as the days went on. The smell of those sweet roses that permeated from your skin was going to haunt him for the rest of forever. Or at least if he was a weaker witch, that was what he thought would happen.)

But it was alright, because he would never have to see you again. The two of you hovered in different social and magical classes. Sure, he was the apprentice of the great Wise in Teachings, and the two of you were apprentices; but that didn't change the fact that you were of noble blood – practically royalty in the eyes of his peers and elders – while he was just some eyeless boy the Sages took pity on.

So when the next day, you plopped down on the bench where he was eating lunch, sitting in the spot where Olruggio usually occupied, he raised his eyebrow with suspicion. You had no food with you, so you weren't looking to sit and have a meal. And if you were, he was sure that any of the other tables would have pushed their own to have you grace them with your presence. He could feel the envy radiating off of the other apprentices – not that he minded all that much. Still, his curiosity was piqued. Why were you here with him and not somewhere else?

"I heard that you have a history with the Brimmed Hats?" From the way you were so sure of yourself, Qifrey didn't know why you even bothered to ask. If he had to suspect, you probably heard from the conversations your grandmother had with your parents. How aggravating that his lack of life was reduced to table-side gossip for you and your family.

He didn't respond to that allegation, just simply nodding to confirm your already confirmed suspicion. You hummed, placing both of your hands onto the table to lean closer and whisper once again into his ear. He tried to keep a straight face, but once again the alluring scent of roses almost lulled him to comfort – a dangerous thing for his poor heart.

"You would be best if you stayed away from those wicked fiends." Your face was solemn, with none of your usual charm– or lack thereof. Qifrey understood why your words held more weight than usual. The talk of the Brimmed Hats was almost forbidden in the assembly, where the adults would rather live in a false reality where everyone followed the pact to the letter of the law. But when it comes to human laws that were treated like natural rules, there will always be those who argue against them. Perhaps it is where their convictions lie, or perhaps they simply wanted to break from the norm.

Yet this agreement not to acknowledge their existence made his investigation harder. No one was willing to speak to him – even after the 'I lost all of my memories' pity card he abused to get what he wanted. But his pain, albeit a little exaggerated for maximum emotional manipulation, wasn't enough to unlock the silence forced upon the people. Even Olruggio would subtly veer his curiosity away towards the more childlike wonder that came with magic.

Except for you. You didn't flinch nor looked away with guilt.

"Who are you to stop me from confronting them?" Qifrey never did like when anyone told him what to do, and he certainly didn't like being condescended to. A quiet anger simmered under his skin, the way a tree would radiate scorching heat when out in the sun for too long.

Your hand goes to the base of your throat like you were going to clear your throat, but there was a slight tension in your neck. It almost looked like you were struggling to breathe. You tried to open your mouth to say something, but all Qifrey heard were choked gasps and a frustrated groan.

"Just… heed my warning," you said after taking a deep breath. You stood up and walked away as if nothing had happened. As if he didn't get a small peek behind your facade, of a young child who was terrified of others making the same mistake as you did. But he wasn't going to listen to you – he couldn't. Not when, for the first time since he begrudgingly called this underwater prison a home, he found a lead for those dreaded Brimmed Hats. 

Qifery apologized to you in his head; he was about to keep you close for the most selfish reasons. It will all be worth it if he can get his eye back. Then, he would be able to properly admire you and all your glory with both of his eyes.

(He didn't need to know that you had your own reasons to keep him close. You weren't naive; the minute you issued your warning, you could see in his eye that he was not going to let this go. That was alright by you, as long as he didn't bring your shared past close to home. You clutch your necklace, praying that the magic seal inscribed upon it will last another day before it needs to be redone.)

When you had started joining the disaster duo on their hijinks and adventures, Olruggio had asked Qifrey why you had started to join them. "It's not that I'm complaining," he said, hands up in surrender. "But isn't it a little odd that the Sage's grandchild has decided to join two nobodies?" 

"You're the prodigy of Godfrey, and I am the apprentice of the Teaching Sage; we're not exactly nobodies," Qifrey clarified. You had brought a certain calm to his reckless plans and Olruggio's constant panic. Whenever either of the young boys veered too far on either end of the emotional scale, you brought them back to centre. It was refreshing having someone be normal – well, as normal as you could be.

The Knights Moralis were tasked to tail you in your everyday life. You weren't even able to walk inside a humble store without having at least two guards standing outside of it. Qifrey found it absurd; yes, you were a child of a Sage, thus were privy to extra protection; however, if the Great Hall was as safe as everyone claimed, then why were you in need of such surveillance? Even if a conflict were to arise, it wasn't like the Great Hall was in a shortage of witches to lend their aid. And even then, he would begrudgingly mention that you were a talented enough witch on your own to handle yourself. 

Qifrey watched as you tried to run away from your guards, your little strides failing to outrun the pace of the Knights. It was almost sad seeing you like this, and in his kindness (really pity), his arm shot out from the alleyway and dragged you to him.

"What are you doing?" you whispered harshly, refraining from yelling so that the Knights don't find you. You didn't resist his hold, following him to wherever you thought he was going. 

Qifrey didn't say a word until the two of you stood in front of his humble abode. Beldaruit had offered a place inside his own home, but Qifrey thought it would be best for him to have some level of independence. 

(The less attached he was, the better it was for his health anyway.)

"You can stay here if you ever need to run away from the Knights," he offered, opening the door to his room. It was less grand than what you were probably used to, but it was his, and he would take pride in it.

You stood there, head turning back to where the Knights were. After taking a moment to ponder – really, it was an obvious decision from the start, you had walked inside his room. Qifrey then walked in himself and closed the door behind him. 

Neither of you had spoken a word, content to sit in the awkward silence. Qifrey had tried to speak up – at least ask how your day had gone, but you had raised your hand to silence him. He huffed, not even knowing why he had offered his room as a sanctuary. Yet it was obvious in the way your shoulders sagged and your breathing deepened that this was the first time in a while that you were able to relax.

(At least, relax as much as the two of you could.)

The first time that this happened, you had let him know that this was never going to happen again. Fine by him, he thought. He couldn't spend another moment with your pompous self. But then the second time, you wandered in because you were in the neighbourhood. The third time, you were breathless and in need of a break from running. By the fourth, Qifrey had stopped believing your excuses.

"You're allowed to admit that you missed me," Qifrey teased, poking your heated cheeks. You didn't confirm his accusation, moving to sit on his bed. But you didn't deny it either.

Qifrey had once thought that this was part of his plan – a ploy to have you lower your guard and give him information on the Brimmed Hats, but he soon got distracted by other conversation topics. Slowly, he realized that he'd learned a lot of things, but none about the Brimmed.

Over these interactions, Qifrey had come to learn more about you beyond the basic information he heard on the street. You specialized in wind magic, creating gusts to help you float or harsh blades in the name of self-defence. That wasn't to discredit the other forms of magic you knew, but it was clear you prefer to wander in and out of the room, like a breeze in the wind or a ghost haunting the living. He had also come to learn that despite your refined upbringing, it often took you half a moment to remember what emotions were. In a room full of laughter, yours would be the last he would hear. Qifrey supposed it was just a quirk of who you were, so drilled with the idea of etiquette, you didn't dare breathe if it wasn't the correct thing to do. 

He'd also come to learn about the things you disliked; the knights were an obvious one, but you also disliked the general crowd and the performed flattery that they provided. The two of you had a shared dislike for the watery walls that surrounded you, and he was surprised to learn that you didn't care for physical touch. It was a shame considering how often he found people granting themselves access to your body.

Qifrey, for what it was worth, had tried to reciprocate the information that you had shared, but the more he tried to think about the little facts about himself, the more rage he felt at what was robbed from him. But still, that didn't stop him from finding peace in these mundane conversations; you were not the Sage's blood, nor was he Beldaruit's stray. Just two children who were able to find friendship with each other.

(Yet after every meeting, his eye would sear with pain, and your heart would be left aching. A phantom pain of what was to come.)

Qifrey had learned through the hard way that the thing you hated the most was when people would spit gossip about you when your back was turned, which unfortunately was quite a common occurrence for you. "I don't understand why people are entitled to information that serves them no purpose," you had once complained to him.

He remembered the one time he had to witness it.

Whispers tend to follow regardless of where you go. It was to be expected given that you are a descendant of a Sage, yet willingly surrounding yourself with those who were below your status. Those rumours didn't bother you all that much, always holding your head above the water. But there was once when someone had asked you about an event a few years ago – a disappearance of sorts. They taunted you, asking how a witch of your calibre could have been taken, even if you were too young to hold a stable pen.

When he saw that person again with a black eye and missing teeth, Qifrey asked you what had happened. He really meant to ask what did you do to that poor child.

"They were prying into business that didn't concern them. I merely gave them a reason to not look any further." Your tone was absolute, and your voice was casual, as if you had done something like this before. In most cases, taking violent action such as this would have landed you on trial with the Knights Moralis, but when your grandmother was the head of it all, it made sense why you hadn't faced any consequences.

Still, he didn't ask you any more questions, lest you decide to take his remaining working eye. 

Despite your refined and sharp edges, Qifrey noticed that it wasn't your natural state of being. You were blunt and enraging at points, but you were never rude on purpose. Whenever he would struggle with a spell, your advice would come in absolutes – do this, and you won't fail. For better or worse, you never hid the knowledge that you knew. It took Qifrey a few months to learn that's how you show your care.

He even saw it in how you interacted with the younger apprentices, taking the time to earnestly answer their questions regardless of how simple they were. You helped them use the right sigils and gave them advice to keep their little hands steady. Qifrey thought about how you would have made a fantastic master and how wonderful your atelier would be. He'd volunteer to be your watchful eye – fiercely protecting your borders from any threats that would dare to lay harm. Somewhere far away in the valleys in the Zozah Peninsula, where you and he can be far away from the stiff air of the Great Hall.

Qifrey hissed in pain, hand clutching his missing eye. You looked over with your eyes furrowed and mouth open to say something. He waved you off, letting you know that it was nothing and for you to attend to your makeshift students. It didn't stop you from keeping your eye on him. 

(He couldn't forget a conversation he heard in passing between two fruit vendors. Of course, they were talking about you because it seemed that the Great Hall didn't have anything else better to talk about. But for once, they weren't criticizing you for some minuscule reason. "It's quite strange to see them like this," one of them spoke in hushed whispers. His eye kept glancing toward the Knight stationed not too far off. "Ever since… their incident, they haven't been the same.")

("Quite a shame too, they were such a bright child. The only ray of light in this underwater city.")

He often wondered what had happened for you to become so jaded. Was it the expectations unfairly placed on your shoulders? The ones you carried with such grace, it was as if you were born with it. Or perhaps it was something darker – something that he knew too well yet couldn't remember.

"Couldn't sleep?" Your voice had broken his concentration, ending another night where all of his thoughts led back to you. You sat beside him on the log – a makeshift seat used to sit around a campfire. Under the light of actual stars, your eyes weren't as dull as usual, and your shoulders weren't as stiff. He liked to see you like this, a glimpse of the child that you kept protected in your heart.

The two of you sat in silence – another thing that he loved about you. Unlike you, many of the other people he's interacted with in the Great Hall would ask him countless questions, from his magic to his past to even about his master. Qifrey didn't have your patience to answer all of them, giving the shortest answers so that he may exit as quickly as possible. Even Olruggio, despite being one of his closest friends, would often fill his silence with his thoughts. He has come to enjoy hearing Olruggio speak, but sometimes, he just wants quiet. Silence that didn't demand to be ended.

You and your darling heart had granted him that peace.

Olruggio snored off to the side, lying on top of a portable sleeping cot that he had brought with him. Qifrey smiled as he watched his friend, both amused and baffled as to how he could fall asleep so quickly. Did he not have dreams that would leave him awake and unsettled? Until the next time he has to fall asleep? He watched his beloved friend as he breathed the air like it wasn't a struggle. Perhaps one day, he too would never feel that rush of panic.

"Do you ever wish you could sleep as peacefully as him?" Qifrey asked, eye turning to look at your face shining in the moonlight. 

You pondered for a moment, letting his question linger in the air. In that quiet moment, Qifrey took his time to observe you. Under the watery prison of the Great Hall, it was clear that you were missing some colour in your face, always tinged a soft blue. But you glowed under the glow of the sun and the light of the moon, colour coming to your face. Utterly ethereal and completely divine, if he had to ascribe a face to the Star who fell for the Silverwood Tree, it would be yours. 

(Wood creaked under his bones and he winced at the pain in his head, begging for his heart to become the seed it was always meant to be.)

As much as he wished to confess to you – despite the odd pain it would bring whenever he thought about it  – he kept his mouth shut. Even on the small chance that you actually felt the same towards him, your status was too much of a difference between you. He would never want to drag you down with him, lest you become subject to even more gossip and vitriol.

A domesticated stray was still a stray at the end of the day.

"I do, though it's quite concerning to see him lose his guard so suddenly." Your criticism was softened by the fondness in your voice. "Doesn't he look like a tired cat who spent the day lazing around?"

"He does," Qifrey chuckled, his own care for Olruggio tainting his voice. He often wished that he could spend forever with the two of you – the most important people in his world. "I do wonder what kind of nightmares a noble child such as yourself would have to suffer. Did your tailor bring you clothing in the wrong shade of red yet still worth more than the gross earnings of the  peninsula?"

You scoffed, opening your mouth to retort to his claim, but nothing came out. Yet again, Qifrey saw the words you desperately wanted to say get stuck in your throat. But this time, you didn't cough like you usually do. Instead, you took a deep breath and continued with a forced deflection. "Do you often have nightmares of what the Brimmed Hats did to you?" 

Qifrey took in a sharp breath. He never spoke about his time with those damned witches, and to your credit, you never asked him about it further after that lunch. Even when Olruggio would become curious as to why Qifrey was so intent on hunting the Brimmed down, you would expertly redirect his attention to something else. You never asked, and he never answered, even if he didn't have anything to go off of.

"It's hard to have nightmares when there isn't anything to remember," he spoke honestly. His hands shook at his vulnerability, and his head seared in pain. After years of repressing his emotions, it somehow felt worse to let it all out.

"I suppose we can count that as a small blessing." You didn't say anything after that, continuing to amuse yourself with the odd sound Olruggio would let out. As much as he wished to agree with you, Qifrey needed answers to everything: his past, his eye and where his future would take him.

A true blessing would be to remove this veil of ignorance. If no one else was going to do it for him, then he would have to do it himself.

After taking his third test, Qifrey had known what his next course of action would be. It was only natural for him to head towards the Tower of Tomes. They say that every single book and writing relating to magic appears in the tower, and surely that would have to include any notes the Brimmed Hats wrote about him. Even a single page would be enough for him to deduce what had happened to him all those years ago.

Qifrey explained the thought process behind his plan with a manic glee, pacing around the room as though he were a mad scientist. "It's a perfect plan!" he exclaimed, ignoring the concerned look his friends were giving each other.

Olruggio, always wanting to be supportive of his friend, was concerned with how obsessive he was becoming. The adventures they were going on, the sneaking out to the outside world and the discoveries they would make were all good fun for him. Yet the minute Qifrey reminded them that his sole focus was on the Brimmed Hats, his mood would sour. Learning about magic to better their skills and help the Unknowing – that had been his reason to become a witch. To see his most dearest perverse such a dream into something that focused on vengeance pained him.

"Promise that once you discover your past in the Tower, you leave it behind to focus on your future," Olruggio pleaded. What was the point of a future if it wasn't one where the three of you were together? To his credit, Qifrey had agreed to his request. He, too, desperately wanted to be free of a burden he was ignorant of.

You, on the other hand, were more hesitant to let him go. Constantly, you would ask if this was truly as he wanted and that perhaps the result of his pursuit of knowledge shouldn't be the answers he desired. That the journey was enough for it all to be worth it, even if he never got the answers he sought. Perhaps even letting the Knights continue their pursuits and putting his need for revenge aside.

"How dare you ask me to leave all of this behind?" he snarled at you when you made your concerns known. You were sitting in your tower, so high that the suffering and plight of those below were unknown. You would only care for the water flooding your people if you were inconvenienced by the smell of their rotting bodies. "The Knights Moralis were never going to grant me the justice that I deserve. Unlike you, I don't have the benefit of being missed." There was enough disdain in his voice to make you step back, but your face didn't lose its composure. 

"Fine, go and discover their secrets. But do not come crying to me when the answer isn't what you wished it to be." With that, you walked away, leaving behind a resolute Qifrey. His heart panged against his better judgment, for he truly wished that you would come with him. For support? For comfort? He wasn't sure – Qifrey just has come to realize that he needs you more than he's comfortable with admitting. With another headache and a heart that was ready to burst, Qifrey walked away to find Olruggio and come up with a plan.

It was a disaster. Despite how many scenarios Qifrey had simulated, there had been no feasible reason for him to expect this. 

A Silverwood Tree. The Brimmed Hats not only took away his eye and past, but they had also violated him so heavily that he cannot have a future. They had decided to rip him into shreds, dig their hands inside of his body for their sick need of knowledge. The Tower of Tomes had plenty of stories on this topic; some myths and legends of people turning into Silverwood Trees and some fact-based research about why this phenomenon occurred. But the information he needed was not there, even after pouring through every page and volume.

There was no cure – his only option was to wait out his days until his skin turned to bark or he died before then.

His head sears with pain. His fingers turned into branches and his hair into leaves. Olruggio's sacrifice spares him a few more years. All in a blur that he would remember for the rest of his waking days. Yet for now, he blocks the memory like a dam in a river, opting to just wait for Olruggio to wake up. There would be time to ruminate and examine his memory, but now he wished that he were back in his room.

He wishes that you were there with him– no, he can't think of you like that. Unless he wished to see Olruggio's pain go to waste.

"Have you come to find your answer, Qifrey?"

Qifrey's head perked up when he heard your voice, whipping his body to see you standing at the edge of the forest. You might have been a figment of his imagination, given that he wished for your presence a few moments before. But as you walked closer, covering Olruggio's unconscious body with your cloak, he came to realize that you were very real.

"Well?" You raised your eyebrow, stopping just short of the edge of the cliff. You didn't sit down next to him as you'd usually do – deciding to loom over him like the ancient statues of bygone witches.

"I didn't learn anything." He couldn't look you in the eyes as he lied. So Qifrey decided to look over the horizon, jealous of the birds flying above with no care in the world. Were they not empathetic to the fact that his entire world had been uprooted for reasons he cannot remember?

"Qifrey, if you are going to lie to me, be a man and do it to my face," you scoffed, kneeling down to meet him at eye level. Your hands gently held his chin, and you moved his face, petrified eyes meeting calm ones. "Are you going to tell me now?"

"There is nothing to tell!" he jerked away from your comforting touch and stood to move away from you. He heaved with rage that he would never be able to bask in your warmth – that someone who wasn't aware of your disdain for the small closets and your love of stars would have that pleasure. He isn't physically able to be the man that you deserve. Even if he was able to shed the title of pitied stray, he couldn't love you in the way that you deserve.

There would be no loving words that would make poets blush. Nor would there be grand romantic gestures with the help of his magic. It pained him to admit it, but he loved and respected you more than to trap you in a stagnant marriage. It would hurt to see you with another man, but perhaps that pain would do him some good.

"How did you even find us here? I thought you didn't want any part of our plan today." Qifrey crossed his arms and stood a few feet away from you. Perhaps if you hated him, it would make this forced separation more bearable.

"I happen to be in the area and saw Olruggio run around in distress," you explained, keeping your voice level despite his indignation. Qifrey often wished that you broke a little more of your shell, to step further away from the dignified noble persona that you were boxed into.

("Quite a shame too, they were such a bright child. The only ray of light in this underwater city.")

"Well as you can see, everything is alright here. You know how Olruggio is, always passing out at the most inopportune times–"

"I'm aware of the parasite that you are afflicted with."

What? Qifrey's mind had gone blank at your statement. What had you meant by that?

Neither of you said anything else, and every time you tried to open your mouth, you stopped before you could let any of the words out. He pleaded with you, begging you to answer the plethora of questions that bombarded his psyche, yet you didn't answer any of them. Qifrey was starting to believe that you couldn't answer any of them.

Instead, your hand slowly went around your neck, fiddling with the necklace you had guarded fiercely. You refused to take it off, despite the amount of teasing the two boys had put you through. Qifrey even once tried to snatch it away from you, before you scratched him with a crazed look in your eyes. It was the most emotion that he'd ever seen on your face. He wished to see more of that side of you.

When your necklace fell from your neck, he would come to realize why you were so protective of it.

From the roots of your hair to its ends, your hair slowly transitioned from what he thought was your natural colour to white with a silver hue. The same as the snow that Olruggio spoke fondly of when he thought of home. The same as the leaves of the Silverwood Trees in the various magical shops.

The same as his own hair, and he had come to realize the reason for his hair. There must have been a magical spell on the necklace – an illusion spell perhaps, that kept your hair a different colour.

You were like him. You were also infected with a Silverwood Tree.

"Why didn't you tell me any of this? Why keep it a secret from me?" he cried, eyes tearing up at the betrayal. You had known what his problem was and perhaps you even knew of a solution, yet you kept your mouth shut. And for what reason? Because the entirety of witch society was so content with turning a blind eye to the suffering of others because it wouldn't fit their narrative? 

What is the reason for compiling all of the knowledge under this starry veil if it is only good for it to be locked up in a tower?

"I thought we were friends– I thought you cared about me!" Anger had become a familiar friend to him, always sitting right under his skin, waiting for a day to be released. You shouldn't have been the recipient of his rage, but you were a representation of everything he had come to hate about the magical world he was forced into. You were privileged enough to be born into a magical family of high status, and you would never understand why there were people who hungered for answers like a starving dog. Not when the whole world was open to you at the tip of your pen. 

You did not take kindly to his accusation, stepping forward into his personal space. "I never kept anything from you! It's not my fault that they–" a violent cough interrupted your speech, leaving you keeling into the ground. You tried to continue to speak to defend yourself and your decision, but you continued to choke and cough, to the point where you spat out blood. It was only when you tried to stop speaking did your pain end.

Qifrey stood above you, concerned and confused. There were points over the years you had known each other where he noticed this odd quirk, but this is the worst he had ever seen it.

You didn't say anything else; your throat was probably still raw from the coughing fit. Kneeling onto the ground, you beckoned Qifrey to come closer, to which he obliged. He knelt in front of you, still keeping his safe distance. You still beckoned him closer, and even with every cell of his body saying otherwise, he still listened to you.

Qifrey sat so close to you that he could see every detail about your face, from the little imperfections in your skin to the ways your eyes had dimmed, despite the sun hanging above you. Olruggio was right, you were absolutely beautiful, and he had been a fool to convince himself otherwise. Now, he would never have the chance to let you know.

"What I am about to show you, you must promise me you won't tell anyone else." Your voice was hoarse, borderline threatening in tone. It wasn't fear that had made him comply, and he didn't want to put a name to that feeling. He nodded, letting you continue.

You tipped your head back and opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out. He thought that this was an odd position, and he was about to stand out of embarrassment, but his eyes noticed a little scar underneath your tongue. Except it wasn't little. There was symmetry and sigils to it. 

It was a magic spell etched into your skin – something that even the freshest of apprentices knew was deeply forbidden. Qifrey stared at it, taking note of the sigils that formed on your skin. He may not know much about forbidden magic, but given his knowledge, he could probably deduce what the purpose of the spell was. It was to keep you silent, and he had an idea about what.

If the Silverwood Tree inside of him was placed inside of him, it was because of the Brimmed Hats… and you had the same parasite, and there was someone who was trying to silence you…

"If you cannot verbally answer my questions, then could you nod an answer?" he asked. An affirmative nod had urged him to continue.

"Was it the Brimmed Hats?" You nodded.

"Did they wipe your memory after?" You shook your head. Why had they spared your memories but taken away his?

"Could you recount your time with them?" You shook your head again. The magic seal on your tongue was put there to keep you quiet, causing you to agonize in pain, and then to talk about your experiences. It was a shame that he wouldn't be able to use your memories.

"Where was the Silverwood Tree implanted in you?" Your hand went over your chest, where your heart was– or supposed to be. Those damned Brimmed Hats took away the heart of the most caring person that he knew. He was going to get his eye and your heart back so that you both could be whole once again.

(Your lack of emotion had started to make sense. How could anyone expect you to emote like a 'normal' person when you didn't have the function to do so. If he cannot see without an eye, it would make sense that you would not be able to feel without a heart.)

Qifrey stood up, eyes cold with rage and focus. He held his hand out for you to hold, pulling you up to your feet.

"Thank you kindly for letting me know of your secret. I promise to hold it dear in my heart, so long as you do the same with me." It warmed his heart knowing that he was the only one who knew you and granted him a sick satisfaction that he would be the only one who did. And he even knew that you would do the same for him.

"Your secret will be safe with me. But we cannot be as close as we once were," you say, an apologetic smile on your lips. He could see the remorse in your eyes and the guilt in your heart. You were right, neither of you could be in the same room together, alone and with no one with a buffer. Lest the tree sprout again, and poor Olruggio would have to lose his memories once again. The permanent ache in his heart left by your absence would at least do well to quell the comfort.

He tried to memorize your face as much as he could, not knowing when the next time he would see it would be. It was awful that he couldn't see you grow into the elegant young adult that you were born and bred to be. Nor would he be able to take you to his dream atelier in the Zozah Peninsula, far away from the nonsense of the Great Hall.

"I understand," he said, nodding solemnly. He walked back to the edge of the cliff and sat back down, waiting for Olruggio to wake up and to pretend that everything was alright. Qifrey hadn't known when you walked back to the Great Hall, just that eventually, when he turned around, there was a sign of you or that you had even come all this way.

Into the wind, he whispers a confession that his heart would never admit. He hoped that the winds would be kind and carry it all the way back to you.

(When you arrived at the edge of the forest, your path had been blocked by tangled vines. You weren't sure where they had come from, but this was no issue for you. You pulled out your little book of premade spells, finishing the seal to summon the wind and slice your way home. It did the trick, and you went on your merry way. But there was a voice in the wind from the boy you had come to care deeply for, despite every reason to not.)

“You’re clingy today,” you murmur, smiling to yourself.

“Am I?” He sounds genuinely surprised.

You turn slightly to look at him and immediately regret it, because he’s looking back at you with that soft expression that makes it very difficult to remember what you were doing before.

“I missed you,” he says quietly.

His arms tighten slightly. His lips press to the side of your neck. You feel your eyes close involuntarily. Your hand finds his arm where it's wrapped around your waist and stays there.

“I’m right here,” you point out.

“Yes,” he agrees, against your skin. “That’s better.”

It happens at the market too.

You’re talking to the vendor, and Phainon is beside you, which is normal, except that his hand is around yours, which is also normal, except that partway through the conversation you feel him shift closer, his arm pressing along yours, his thumb making slow absent circles against your knuckles.

You glance at him.

He’s looking at the vendor with polite, attentive expression. Completely composed. His thumb does not stop moving.

You conclude your purchase. The moment you step away from the stall Phainon turns toward you immediately, fingers laced through yours now, and he falls into step beside you.

“You were impatient,” you observe.

“I was very patient.”

“You were doing the thumb thing.”

“The—” He considers this. “I don’t know what you mean.”

You look at him. He looks back, expression mild, and squeezes your hand once. The afternoon light is falling at a particular angle across the square, and he sees it and simply stops walking.

You turn. “What—”

He kisses you. Right there, in the middle of the square, one hand cupping your face. Someone passing makes a small surprised sound. Phainon doesn’t appear to notice and kisses you even deeper. When he pulls back his expression is completely unrepentant. “You were standing in the light,” he says, by way of explanation.

“That’s—” You are fighting a smile and losing. “That’s not a reason.”

“It felt like one.” He takes your hand again and keeps walking. “I stand by it.”

You look at his profile as he walks: the easy set of his shoulders, the slight upward curve of his mouth. He is entirely pleased with himself and entirely unbothered about it.

You feel something in your chest do something warm and completely beyond your control. Your hand finds his without thinking about it, and you hold on, and that’s the closest you can get to saying it.

Later, on the way home, you make the mistake of stopping to speak with someone you know.

It’s brief and friendly. Two minutes at most.

Phainon is very gracious about it and says all the right things. But his hand finds the small of your back partway through, and stays there. A steady, light pressure that you’d read as a simple affectionate gesture if you didn’t know him well enough to understand that it is also, underneath, a man quietly reminding himself that you’re here.

The moment you’re walking again he simply picks you up.

“Phainon—”

“My arms,” he says, already carrying you without any apparent effort, “have been underused.”

“You were holding my hand.”

“Insufficient.” He adjusts you against him with obvious contentment. “This is better.”

“People are looking.”

“Let them.”

He carries you for an entire block before you stop arguing.

At home, you’re trying to read, trying being the key word.

Phainon began the evening at the other end of the couch. This is no longer where Phainon is. Through some gradual drift you cannot fully account for, he has ended up half-draped over you: one arm around your waist, his head tucked against your shoulder, one leg pressed along yours.

His breathing is slow and even against your shoulder. He’s warm and smells like sun-warmed air and something faintly fresh beneath it.

You feel his weight against you and hear the soft sounds he makes as if touching you unclenches something in him bit by bit.

With every small movement, he presses closer into you, until you’re acutely aware of every point where your bodies touch and your whole skin tingles from it.

Every few minutes he kisses somewhere: your jaw, your neck, the curve of your shoulder. The corner of your mouth when you glance down at him, quick and soft, like he just couldn’t help it.

“You’re distracting,” you tell him.

“Mhm.” He sounds entirely untroubled.

You look back at your book. You read two paragraphs. Phainon presses his face into your neck and exhales. You lose the paragraph, then start it again.

“Dawnlight.”

“What?”

“You’re very beautiful.”

You blink down at him. He looks back up at you with an expression of complete sincerity. He is so open in this moment. So unguarded and soft, with his smile tangible in his whole being.

And there’s something about the way he loves that gets you every single time. You think you will never fully get used to it, no matter how long you have it.

You want to kiss him so badly your chest aches with it. Your body keeps trying to move closer, always closer, wanting to feel him everywhere even when there is no distance left to close. “…Thank you?” you reply finally, laughing fondly.

He considers this response. “I think I need another kiss.”

“You just had one.”

“Yes,” he says, patient, “and now I need another.”

You give him one, a smile tugging at your lips.

He puckers his lips again immediately, eyes still closed, waiting. You laugh and give him another.

Another.

And another.

“Phainon.”

“One more,” he says. “Dawnlight. Just one more.”

You kiss him again and he makes a small pleased sound against your mouth and catches your face in his hands before you can pull back, holding you there. The one more goes on considerably longer than advertised, his fingers spreading warm in your hair, his breath unsteady in a way that no amount of composure ever quite smooths over.

When he finally lets you breathe he rests his forehead against yours, eyes still closed. “You,” he says softly, “should not be allowed to be this.”

“This what?”

He opens his eyes and looks at you with everything he has. “This,” he says, like it’s its own complete answer.

You lean in and kiss his cheek. Then his other cheek. Then his forehead. He stays completely still through all of it, eyes closed, wearing the expression of a man receiving something he didn’t know he was allowed to want and craves it all the more for it.

“One more?” you ask.

Phainon takes a deep breath. Then, quieter than everything else, he says: “Please.”

⋆ ✦ ⋆

A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. :)

His armor is still on, the metal cool and solid beneath your hands, and you don’t care at all.

You press your face against his neck and kiss him there. Warm and a little desperate, the way you greet things you were afraid of losing even when you knew, rationally, that you wouldn’t.

For a moment, Phainon simply breathes.

He’s still in that composed, squared-off state he carries back from missions like a second skin. You can feel it in the way he holds himself, even as his hands come to rest at your waist. Even as something in his chest shifts.

He exhales. Long. Shaky only at the very edges. “There you are, dawnlight.”

The words come out undone.

His hands tighten at your waist, and the next moment he’s kissing you, properly, deeply, with the kind of thoroughness that suggests he’s been thinking about this for some time.

You make a small sound against him and he pulls you closer and that’s when the balance goes.

Both of you are tipping, a quiet startled laugh from him breaking the kiss as he catches himself with one hand against the doorframe, the other arm locked around you.

“Careful,” he murmurs, though he’s already smiling, and there’s no real caution in it at all.

He sets you back on your feet. Doesn’t release you.

You’re close enough still that your hands linger at his collar, fingers brushing his skin. Feeling the realness of him.

“Did everything go okay?” you ask, quieter now.

Something in his expression settles.

He tilts his head slightly. “Yes. There were certain complications, toward the middle,” he says, voice measured. “Nothing that could not be navigated. Everything resolved as it ought to in the end.” A faint, warm curve at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll give you the full account later. All the details, in the order they occurred, with appropriate dramatic weight.”

His hands are still at your waist. Neither of you moves.

“And you?” he asks, eyes moving over your face with that particular attentiveness of his. “What did the days look like, while I was away?”

“Oh, you know.” You lift a shoulder. “The usual.” A small grin. “I found a couple of antiques I thought you might like. A figurine and a painted fragment—I’ll show you later.”

Something lights in his expression immediately, but before he can follow the thread, you laugh. Just briefly, at his reaction, at how instantly and completely he is himself about it.

He goes still.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he says quietly. His gaze has softened into something almost wondering. “It’s just—” He pauses. “Even better than I remembered.”

You blink. “The antiques?”

“Your laugh.”

“You thought about my laugh,” you say.

Something shifts in his expression. Not embarrassment exactly, but that particular warmth that surfaces when he’s been caught being sincere and has decided to stay there anyway.

His hand moves to the back of his head. “Yes,” he says, and laughs quietly. “I did. I didn’t have much time to transcribe my thoughts, while I was away.” His eyes find yours, direct and unguarded. “But I committed the important ones to memory.”

The way he says it lands with the weight of someone who has been quietly composing something, line by line, in the margins of long nights away, and is only now letting you see the edges of it.

Your chest does something warm and inconvenient. “Phainon—”

His finger finds your lips. Gentle. The smile on his face is certain and entirely fond.

“Later,” he says softly.

And then he kisses you again.

Different this time.

His hands find your waist, your back, pulling you against him, and you feel the exact moment the duty-state falls away completely.

Somewhere between one breath and the next, the armor becomes an inconvenience.

You barely notice when pieces of it are gone. Just the shift of his body, the warmth beneath your hands replacing cold metal, the way his breath catches slightly when you tug him closer.

His mouth is unhurried but insistent, the kiss of someone making a point, making up for something.

“I missed you,” he murmurs against your lips. And then, lower, rougher, like the words have been waiting a long time for permission: “I missed you so much.”

You laugh and it barely has time to exist before he kisses it away, a little more desperate now, a little less careful. The balance tips again and this time he doesn’t even try to correct it.

You tumble back together with a soft thud, and his hands are at your hips immediately, lifting you without thinking, settling you against him like muscle memory.

He moves, and you let him, still half-laughing, arms around his neck as he carries you the short distance to the sofa and lowers you onto it carefully.

Phainon follows immediately, leans over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other warm at your hip.

For a moment he just looks at you. Really looks. Like he’s relearning you from the beginning and finding the exercise deeply satisfying.

And then he laughs. Bright and completely, helplessly delighted. That private laugh that lives only in rooms like this, with only you.

His eyes are very warm and fixed on your face with an intensity that makes your breath do something inconvenient.

“You have no idea,” he says softly, “how often I thought about this.”

You reach for him.

Phainon comes down to meet you like it’s a foregone conclusion, like there was never any world in which he did anything else. And whatever composure he walked through the door with is entirely gone.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. :)