Chapter Text
I was asleep before I could share
The secret I once learned of a pomegranate orchard’s prodigious growth:
Old trees, dying, may burst after fruitless years into sudden bloom,
A final exuberance of flower and sugar. Towards sun.
At the last, even trees ache in their sap for pleasure.
– C Pam Zhang, Land of Milk and Honey
As a child of Ghodrey, Olruggio once knew trees only as evergreen.
Sometimes, when the faint heat of what could almost be called summer cracked through the north’s endless winter, the trees of his childhood scattered their emerald-toned pines for hawk moths and lappets to make home. But mostly, the pines were covered in snow, and their stickly leaves held steadfast to their branches.
It wasn’t until adolescence, until escapades away from the weight of the Great Hall’s expectations, that Olruggio discovered the wonder of a temperate forest’s autumn. Of valleys of foliage molting into yellow into red into gold, of wind-borne columns of leaves blown from tree to sky to sea.
Falling leaves, he learned then, were autumn’s ephemeral treat.
Not a marvel of winter.
And not meant to be silver.
And not falling from Qifrey’s cheek.
In the candle light, the leaves almost shimmer.
Their argent glimmer reminds Olruggio of a familiar tale, one that’s burned into memory from childhood lullabies and studied and studied and studied Witch history.
The stars sail the night as a silver boat
Gazing below at the world’s silver branches
The silverleaf once caught a star in its boughs,
And to it, the power of the night was granted…
The implications of this ubiquitous fairytale rouse a faint echo of pain behind Olruggio’s temple.
His hands shake, almost imperceptible, as they have for decades when the echo of Qifrey’s secret resounds through the canyon of his once-forgotten memories.
His shaking hands need to do something draw something fix something but he draws only a blank, draws up only the thrumming throbbing notion that he must do something, so he jumps to get dressed and forces Qifrey to do the same.
“A cold,” Olruggio diagnoses as he paces, frantic, limbs finding pants socks tunic shoes. “This must be some strange cold brought on by your gamble outside last night. I bet you just need to warm up, to cover up, and this affliction will go away.”
“It’s not… that’s not how this works, Olly.”
Olruggio throws Qifrey his clothes. “Just get dressed, Qifrey. We can talk about this once we’re both dressed; the brain thinks better when it’s dressed better.”
Olruggio knows this folk truth doesn’t here apply, but he holds on to false hope anyways, folds his head into his hands, tries to think tries not to think tries to breathe but he can’t, he can’t, he can’t, he feels like a failed fire started with no space between the logs, like he’s stepped into the Ocean of the Great Hall and he’s the one drowning in a sea of memories once-frozen, now softening, melting, emerging in one giant too-slow-to-surface tidal wave of ache.
“Qifrey,” he pleads, “tell me. What the hell is going on.”
Qifrey, to his credit, is remarkably calm as he fastens the clasps and garters of his clothes.
He’s calm like this isn’t a surprise.
Calm like whatever the hell is growing out of him has been there for a long, long while.
This is arguably worse than Qifrey being equally freaked out about the whole branches-growing-out-of-him thing, because it implies Qifrey’s been suffering alone with this beautiful awful mysterious malady for who knows how long.
And it means that this whole time, even though Olly’s been divulging nothing but confessions all night, Qifrey never told him.
Olruggio lunges towards Qifrey, grabs him by the shoulders. His eyes are wide in anguish in distrust in despair. “Qifrey. Tell me. What the hell is going on.”
Qifrey sighs. There is a part of him that lives in the tension behind this question, that will never escape the wait the anxiety the suspense that accompanies every forced occasion to confess.
“... I’m a host, Olly.”
“A host?”
“Of a tree. A silverwood tree.”
Olruggio freezes, stunned, in disbelief. And then he catches the sight of new sprigs emerging from Qifrey’s temples, from his wrists, from his hands, all budding ominous argent leaves that seem to mock Olruggio, he who dared to grow smitten with the silverwood maiden.
“So the stories of silverwoods casting magic…”
“Were not without the suffering of those possessed by their seeds.”
No, this can’t be…
The weight of the history Olruggio thought he knew and of its newfound implications pushes Olruggio to his knees.
He has the nagging sense this is a familiar scene.
“How long have you…”
“A very long time, Olly.”
“And how many times have I…”
“Many, many times, Olly.”
Olruggio’s face writhes in despair. He flashes back to the first time he crumbled under the weight of his own powerlessness, barely a schoolboy, barely a child, during that godforsaken frozen blizzard in Noz.
It was cold, then, too.
He didn’t know what to do then, too.
He lost people he loved, then, too.
He whispered the same mantra then, too.
I’m a witch. I should have been able to do more.
I’m a witch. I should have been able to do more.
I’m a witch. I should (have) be(en) able to do more.
I’m a witch. I should be able to do more. I should be able to do more. I should be able to do more.
“Olly, please,” Qifrey consoles, kneeling until they're face to face. “This is not on you. This is not your burden to bear.”
Olruggio looks up at him. A haunted angry terror blazes in his eyes. “Qifrey, you expect me to let you go through this shit alone? After I just told you I’ve loved you my entire life? Do you not know what love is," he cries, "or do you simply take me for a fool?”
“Neither, Olly.”
“So why won’t you let me help you.”
“I have, Olly.” Qifrey can feel them, the branches snaking out of his skin from his shoulder, from his vertebrates, up his neck, around his spine.
With every sentence, they grow wilder.
“And I promise, I will,” Qifrey divulges. “Again. And again. And again.” New branches sprout from his ankles, his feet, find footing in the legs of Olruggio’s bed.
Qifrey, still yet mobile, still more skin than bark, lifts Olruggio's chin with a blooming, rugged hand.
“Don’t you remember, Olly? Every time, I divulge my secret to you. Every time, you help me. Every time, you forgive me. And every time, I hate myself all the more for it.”
And finally, finally, finally, the dam breaks, and Olruggio remembers.
I’m a witch. I won’t be able to do more. I'm a witch. I won't be able to do more —
“I’m a witch,” Olruggio whispers, defeated, “but I won’t be able to do more. No more than stop the bleeding. I’m so, so sorry. I can’t do more for you.” I’m sorry. I can’t do more for you. I’m sorry I can’t do more for you I’m sorry I can’t —
“You’ve done enough, Olly. More than enough. More than I could have ever asked for.”
And as Qifrey endures the writhing of the tree inside of him, he wonders who he is now that he’s as much plant as he is witch, as much cellulose as red blood cells, more petiole than metatarsal, with roots threaded around his veins and a yearning to face the light, to do all he can to soak in the brightness of his torch that will cross the skies to find him again, and again, and again.
Olruggio’s whisperered grievances quiet. Turn to resignation, then to the faint traces of resilience. “Qifrey — I can’t do more for you. But I can stop the bleeding. So please, tell me. What do you — what do you need me to do.”
“You have to get my cap, Olly. And my glasses. The seal… it's on my cap. In the living room. By the front door. Please. And thank you. And hurry.”
Olruggio spots roots inching towards his prized contraptions.
“Think of terrible awful things, Qifrey,” Olruggio demands. “Don’t wreck my room. Wait for me.”
Olruggio runs out, finally lets tears stream down his face, flushed by the cold, cursing his fate. He soon returns to a Qifrey entangled in the still-soft encasing of a just-forming silverwood trunk.
Olruggio approaches the downy bark until he's flush with what remains exposed of Qifrey’s body. Leans his forehead against Qifrey’s. Closes his eyes. Knows he should bear better witness. Knows he can do better next time.
Chokes on the knowledge that there will be a next time.
Qifrey starts crying again, they're both crying again, creeks of tears pooling down across skin and branches in despondent acceptance of their fate.
“You’ve been the hand that guides me from the abyss,” Qifrey whispers. “I would still be in the dark were it not for you. And I know that you’ll forget this, too, but I won’t forget how it feels to tell you: I love you, Olly. As a lover. As a friend. As the one who’s taught me all there is to know. I love you. I always have, and I always will.”
Olrguggio tastes tears. He’s not sure which are Qifrey’s and which are his and he treasures them all the same, holds Qifrey’s face tenderly, lovingly, shaking.
For as many seconds as he can, as many seconds as Qifrey will let him, Olruggio savors his midnight memories of the one long winter’s night that was Qifrey. Wholly his, wholly honest, wholly unafraid.
He senses before he’s told the time has come for them to put this show to an end.
Olruggio unclasps Qifrey’s cap. Presses the snaking black and white seal of his fate to his own forehead, pauses a beat, closes its circle.
“Until next time, old friend,” Qifrey whispers as Olruggio collapses.
The roots and branches and sprigs holding Qifrey ransom choking holes in his heart and his lungs retract, make room for him to breathe, and he struggles for air for only a moment until he knows what he must to do.
Reset.
Breathe.
Reset the room.
Breathe.
He does it all as best as he can, blows out the candles in the workshop and wipes down the desk and rearranges blueprints and contraptions and hoists Olly, lovingly, carefully, tucks him into bed, kisses his nose his cheeks his forehead, turns out the light and locks the door of the workshop behind him.
He has laundry to wash and breakfast to prepare, and by this point he's sure the fruit’s oxidized and he needs to turn back time just long enough so the apples can return to how they once were.
If only it were so easy for him and Olruggio to do the same.
In any case, Olly gave him back his fate. It’s the least Qifrey can do to give him a proper breakfast. He'll welcome him back with the tastes of sugar that melts in his mouth and fat that dissolves on the tongue and make sure Olruggio's hunger is met in every aspect except the one Qifrey can't seem to forget, the one that yields equal pangs of heartbreak and heat.
Come the faint dark-blue rays of morning’s arrival, Qifrey hasn’t sleep a wink.
Olruggio wakes to a too-bright morning light marauding him from the windows of his workshop.
He’s groggy, hungover, hungry.
The last thing he remembered, he and Qifrey were making…something? Did they change their minds about the best use of their time and make liquor instead? Is that why his head hurts and he’s still wearing his clothes and why his room is such a mess?
He’ll ask Qifrey. Qifrey must know. He always knows.
Olruggio reluctantly crawls out of bed. Heads into the atelier. Scans for any trace of human life.
The girls are nowhere to be heard, which means they must be out, which means Qifrey must be with them, too.
In their place, on the kitchen table, a note.
Olly,
The girls and I are out for some practical magic lessons. We should be back by mid-afternoon.
What fun we had last night. That silver nectar wine is something truly spellbinding… Though I regret I didn’t hold back in offering you so much to drink. I hope you’ve recovered, dear friend.
Perhaps we’ve grown too old for this vicious cycle of indulgence and regret and recovery.
More importantly: before we brought out the drinks last night, we were making tarts, remember? I managed to save you some, much to the girls’ chagrin. There’s leftover soup from yesterday in the usual spot, too.
Eat up. Rest up. After your adventures yesterday, plus that lovely soiree long past our bedtime, you’ve been through enough.
See you when we return.
Yours in late night mischief,
Qifrey
Olruggio sets down the note. Eyes the rose tarts. Reheats a bowl of soup and sits down for a quiet breakfast.
He wrestles with himself, whether to start with the soup or the tart. Decides on the latter. Warmth, like a hot cup of marktea, floods through his body.
One bite was more than enough to discern the tart-sweet taste of home.
He says a quiet prayer of thanks for Qifrey’s marvelous cooking.
At the thought of Qifrey, Olruggio wonders when he’ll return.
He remembers that he once declared during a different drunken midnight bout of mischief that waiting is the best part. The whole appeal of it all.
He must have been right in saying so.
For no matter the wait, no matter the distance, Qifrey's always right by his side.
Always has been.
Always will be.