#coughs

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

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

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

But thankful isn't enough anymore.

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

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

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

None except Olruggio.

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

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

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

A child can dream, after all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What's wrong?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"If Master wants," you say.

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

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

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

You only nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay."

The Argentgard is cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Qifrey. A moment, please."

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

"I have other matters to attend to."

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

"I really don't."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you want to know?"

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

"Former apprentice."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time, his answer comes out without hesitation.

"Every day."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is he?"

"Yeah! What's he like?"

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

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

"The prettiest."

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

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

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

"Is that so?"

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

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

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

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

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

You raise a hand in response, but nothing more.

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

You shrug. "They were nice."

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

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

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

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

After a while, he nods.

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

It rains that night.

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

Then—

A soft knock sounds at his door.

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

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

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

"Did something happen?"

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

"I thought Master would be asleep."

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

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

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

"Mm."

"Do you need something?"

A shake of the head.

"Can't sleep?"

A pause. Then, slowly, you nod again.

"Oh."

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

"…Can I stay here for a while?"

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

"Of course. Come in."

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

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

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

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

"…I had a bad dream."

Oh. "What about?"

"Drowning."

Qifrey goes very still.

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

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

You nod.

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

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

Nothing will.

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

"How old were you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hears you inhale softly.

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

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

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

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

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

You barely hesitate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We should head to bed."

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

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

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

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

"I would feel better if Master were closer."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's him.

Time passes quietly after that.

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

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

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

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

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

Qifrey hears the pegasus carriage before he sees it.

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

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

"Olruggio!? What are you doing here?"

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

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

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

Olruggio raises a dark brow.

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

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

"The Council assigned you as my Watchful Eye?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Uhm. Hello."

You continue to stare at him in complete silence.

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

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

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

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

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

"Mr. Olruggio," you repeat.

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

"Don't encourage this!"

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

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

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

"I think they dislike me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is he gone?"

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

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

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

"I didn't think that."

"Then what's wrong?"

You're silent for a while.

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

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

"Master sounds fond of him."

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

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

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

And then—

"Can I help?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Master?"

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

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

"…Sorry."

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

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

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

Qifrey blinks once before deciding you're probably right.

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

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

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

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

Olruggio raises an eyebrow. "They did?"

"Yeah."

"You sure it isn't poisoned?"

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

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

"Don't be ridiculous."

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

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

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

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

"…Yeah."

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

"I'm glad."

Qifrey blinks. "Why?"

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

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

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

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

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