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“I think this is the perfect spot,” Qifrey announces.
Olruggio, lost in thought over the seven half-finished devices sitting on his workbench, looks around for the first time since they embarked on the walk Qifrey told him would absolutely unblock him.
He squints his eyes in confusion. They’ve barely gone anywhere. He could probably count the number of steps they took from the door up to the top of this hill and come out under a hundred.
Qifrey surveys the landscape, nodding as if extremely satisfied at having gone nowhere. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Perfect.”
“Perfect for what?”
“Lots of sun, a good view of the atelier, a good view straight across the country…” Qifrey ticks the qualities off on his slender fingers and smiles ruefully.
He’s just described most of the area around the atelier, and rather than actually answering Olruggio’s question, he’s now closed his eyes and is breathing deeply. The wind catches the ribbon on his hat, sending it whipping back and forth, and Olruggio ducks out of his way.
“It’s kind of windy for ‘perfect,’” he grumbles.
Without opening his eyes, Qifrey takes his hat off.
“Where are your students?” Olruggio asks.
“Off at the Assembly. Went through the gate this morning. Beldaruit has a lesson of sorts for them.”
“And you didn’t want to accompany them?”
Qifrey waves a hand in the air. “They can handle it. They barely need me these days, anyway.”
And yet Qifrey needs Olruggio to accompany him on a walk just outside his own door.
“You know I’ve got a million things to do other than sunbathe with you.”
“I’m sure you do,” Qifrey replies softly, his voice barely louder than the breeze. He gives a small, fake smile. “Just take a minute with me here.”
Olruggio rolls his eyes, but he tries. He tries to enjoy the sunshine the way Qifrey appears to be doing. It’s just that he’s never been any good at that kind of thing. He scans over the atelier and catalogs what fixes they might need to do in the near future. He flexes the sore fingers of his dominant hand, tired from all his drawing, and his thoughts automatically turn to wondering if changing the device to be a ring would solve the issue of—
“Years ago,” Qifrey says suddenly, “And you won’t remember this, you made me make you a promise. And I’ve kept it, until now.” As he talks, Qifrey fidgets with his hat. He turns it around and around in his hands, then unhooks the ribbon from the point.
“Hey—”
Olruggio steps forward as if to stop him, but it’s done. Qifrey twists the ribbon in his hand, crumpling it.
“That’s—”
“Your ribbon. And my promise. I’ve worn them both for years. For you. And for myself. But Olly—I asked you here because I can’t do it anymore.”
“What are you…?” He feels a surge of confused anger. What the fuck did he drag him out here to even say? Is he—what, ending their friendship? Based on some… some lie? He’s worn that ribbon for years. It’s—they’ve— “You stole that ribbon from me.”
“No, I didn’t. But it’s fine. I won’t tell you the whole story, because…” He sighs and looks off into the distance. “You’ll figure it out. You always do, but this time… you’re going to be too late. You’re already too late.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You saved my life so many times. So… this time, when you don’t, and when you figure it out—what you could have done—don’t think that your plan failed. It didn’t. You bought me a lot of time.”
There’s a sickness growing in the pit of his stomach. It’s like Qifrey is talking to someone else, some other person who knows what the fuck he’s talking about—someone who lived some other life. A one-sided conversation, because Olruggio doesn’t know his part. He doesn’t know—he doesn’t remember.
How did his ribbon end up off his hat? Why does seeing it in Qifrey’s hand make him want to start screaming?
“Qifrey, whatever this is, whatever you did—”
“You’ll forgive me,” Qifrey says, a horrible smile on his face. “I know. You always do.”
Always. How many times… how many times have they had this conversation?
“What did you… what did you do… to me?”
He doesn’t want to know the answer, but Qifrey’s expression says it all.
“I thought maybe I would grow to hate you when you started this,” Qifrey says. “I was so… maybe I did a little at the start. I cried so much I had a lifetime of ink. But I don’t hate you. I just… don’t. Every time I look at you and I feel that guilt you gave me, it only makes me love you more. I even started to love the guilt.”
He chokes on a laugh and wipes his cheek. Or maybe it was a sob.
Olruggio can’t follow, can’t comprehend it. There’s panic flowing through him, a panic he understands less than Qifrey’s words. “I don’t… I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“You will. You’ll figure it out, so you have to let me just say it, okay? Because then I will have said it all, and you can remember it this time. Forever.”
He raises his hand to make some objection—he doesn’t even know what he is about to say—but Qifrey takes it. He takes his hand and holds it between both of his own, the ribbon that should still be attached to his hat smashed between both of their palms, and Olruggio’s heart leaps into his throat and lodges there. He can’t speak. He can’t move.
“Olly… every good memory I have is thanks to you, and I’m so grateful. Every good thing that ever happened to me. And any good thing I ever did for anyone else, that was also because of you. I want you to remember that. You didn’t fail.”
Olruggio shakes his head, because he did fail, even if he doesn’t understand how or when. He knows this is goodbye, and it doesn’t make any sense. There’s something—he could do something to stop it if Qifrey would only tell him… if he just knew one thing… he can almost remember it—
“I need you to do two more things for me,” Qifrey says. “The first is easy: take care of the girls.”
He shakes his head again. That’s not easy at all, and he’s not going to do it because they are Qifrey’s apprentices, not his. He’s not a teacher. “No,” he chokes out, but Qifrey ignores him.
“Tell them…” His gaze falls to their hands. “Tell them whatever you think is best.”
“No.”
“The second thing—”
Qifrey falters. He scans over Olruggio’s eyes, his hair, his clothes, everything. He squeezes Olruggio’s hand. “You’re all hazy,” he says.
One hand releases Olruggio as Qifrey pulls his glasses from the bridge of his nose. He inspects them for a moment, then throws them to the side. “No use now,” he mutters.
His eyes. That’s it. Qifrey’s eyes—the missing one—he can almost remember—
Qifrey tugs hard on Olruggio’s hand. Olruggio stumbles forward, his limbs stiff with shock and dread, and then Qifrey’s arms are around him.
He’s too thin, Olruggio thinks absently, but the way he holds him, such strength in his arms, like he’s trying to press Olruggio into his heart. He relaxes into it, even if he shouldn’t, because he knows what it means, he knows what Qifrey’s doing. He knows this is goodbye
“I’m sorry we couldn’t do this before,” Qifrey says, his hands traveling up Olruggio’s back, squeezing his shoulders. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do it every day.”
Why not? Olruggio wonders. What stopped us? Why weren’t we…?
Qifey’s slender fingers run through his hair, and Olruggio clings to him. “Qifrey,” he says against him, the name coming out hoarse. He swallows and tries again. “Don’t—just don’t—”
“The second thing,” Qifrey says, “Is for you to run.”
His arms drop to his side, but Olruggio doesn’t let go, and he doesn’t run.
Qifrey twitches under his hands. He makes a small sound, like he’s in pain, then the ground rumbles beneath them. Olruggio grabs him tighter, but it’s not an earthquake. It’s Qifrey. He’s—his body—
Qifrey shoves him with arms that have grown thicker. “Run,” he urges.
A root bursts out of the ground—out of Qifrey—and knocks him off his feet. He lands in the dirt and stays there, the ground under him rippling as he stares agape at the roots and branches that don’t stop coming.
“Qifrey,” he whispers as his oldest friend is enveloped in a silverwood tree.
He doesn’t know anything about silverwood trees. No, no, because everyone knows about silverwood trees, learned about them as children, but Olruggio doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember a single useful thing.
He looks at the balled-up ribbon in his hand.
No. No, he does not accept this.
“I’m getting you out,” he says.
The library. The information he needs is in the library, not just on the trees but—but Qifrey knows that. Because Olruggio—he would have done this all before. He would have stopped this all before. But why. Why stop him from remembering how?
It doesn’t matter. He runs back to the atelier, down the stairs to the gate, and he stares, wide-eyed, not comprehending what he is seeing.
It’s broken.
There are pieces of it lying on the floor like someone smashed it with a heavy object, but more than that, he’s rubbed out some of the runes. It would take hours to put this back together and figure out what symbols are missing, days even.
Qifrey, you bastard.
He staggers and catches himself against the wall. He can’t go to the library. He can’t find out—he can’t learn what he’s forgotten. Not in time to help him.
You didn’t fail. That’s what he said. No, no, he didn’t fail, because he was sabotaged.
He heads back outside, but without the energy he had before. Qifrey’s tree is enormous, and it’s not the perfect spot at all, because he’ll have to see it every day, looming over the hillside.
“I won’t ever forgive you for this,” he lies. “Do you hear me? Never. Not ever.”
Underneath the mess of branches, a small portion of Qifrey’s face is still visible. He smiles. “I hope you don’t.” His voice is weak, scratchy. “It’ll make… it easier.”
“Qifrey! Qifrey!”
Olruggio bangs his fist on the tree, but it just keeps growing around him. He thinks about all the spells in his notebook he could use to blast the damn tree away, but it is Qifrey. It came out of him, from him, and he’d just be blasting him, killing what’s left of him.
Olrugio’s skin starts to bleed against the bark as he beats at it, but he can’t stop. Soon he can’t see Qifrey in there at all.
“Qifrey, are you still—are you still there?” he asks.
He doesn’t get an answer.
Some time after dark, he trudges back to the atelier. He stands in the doorway for a long time, unsure of what to do, where to go. He realizes that with the gate broken, the girls have to come home the slow way, and he’ll be here alone for a while.
He heads for Qifrey’s room. It’s neater than usual, like he knew other people would be seeing it.
Sitting on his workbench is a single journal. Printed on the cover in Qifrey’s handwriting is “Olruggio’s Lost Memories.”
He flips through it without reading the entries. It’s laid out like a diary, the dates of each time Qifrey stole pieces of his life from him. It’s not very long.
The answers are in here.
In the front, Qifrey stuffed a note. It just means that I lived a good life with you.
Olruggio hugs the book to his chest as he sinks to the floor.
He can still feel Qifrey’s hands on him. I’m sorry I couldn’t do it every day. That’s what he’d said. A good life? It could have been better. They could have held each other every day. They could have…
Olruggio wipes his cheeks and lets the book fall open so he can read the story of his own life.