Chapter Text
It's a quiet morning when the letter is sent to the quiet atelier of Qifrey who, unbeknownst to everyone else under its roof, is putting away dishes and breathing slowly such that the branches crawling under his skin won't pierce his lungs.
When he reads the page, it's with some pained relief that the top words send his heart racing double-time, locked miserably into fear and beating back the creeping of his fate. To the daughter of the esteemed Librarian Adina Arklaum and apprentice Witch of the Atelier Qifrey, Agott Arklaum;
Agott disappeared after breakfast; silently, as she always does, her hands already fidgeting in her robes, circles visible underneath the fabric, already leaps and bounds beyond her fellow apprentices—though this, too, does not stymie her fear.
His voice carries through the open spaces, the soft, sloping roofs; too much house and not enough work. "Agott?"
She appears promptly, hands already flecked with new ink, decorating the old. "Yes?"
"There is a letter addressed to you. From the Librari—"
She's already racing down the stairs, sylph shoes thumping on creaking stairs, a miracle she doesn't punch right through and land on the first floor. Agott's at his side in a mess of quick puffs of breath and her poof of hair seems bushier.
Her eyes dart across the page. Her lip worries at the introduction, but the pen is still wobbling and writing out its contents.
To the daughter of the esteemed Librarian Adina Arklaum and the apprentice Witch of Atelier Qifrey, Agott Arklaum;
We hope your years with Atelier Qifrey has been fruitful in your development and wish with sincere belief that it has allowed you to move beyond your more tumultuous years.
However, it is with this sincere belief that we bring news of your mother.
Ere-yesterday, your mother passed while at her duty as Librarian of the Tower of Tomes. We are not at liberty to tell of the circumstances surrounding her death, but we assure you that she died as honourably as any Witch could hope to.
Her death also means her unofficial position—the Arklaum Librarian—has opened up.
It is our understanding that she did not wish for you to inherit the position, but the nature of the Tower of Tomes and its entanglement with the Arklaum family has left us with no recourse but to contact you.
Thus, we—the remaining Librarians of the Tower of Tomes—would like to extend you an offer.
In exchange for your current aid to and future work as Librarian of the Tower of Tomes, we will take you as our collective apprentice. Your curriculum will be as vast as what we are at liberty to share, in the Tower.
We will also caution you that, should you choose not to accept, there is a possibility that the Tower of Tomes and the Librarians themselves will not be able to function as previously. For this reason, we would like you to carefully consider our offer, and to not take the presence of it lightly.
Yours in Truth,
The Tower of Tomes
The pen dangles for a second, like a hesitation from the writer, before it recedes back into its spot. Outside, the wind rustles, missing someone.
Agott is breathing heavy now, her hand bunched up at the corner of the letter—not touching it, but only just barely. Her eyes are still glued to the page, to the pen; anticipating and crushing hope.
Qifrey taps her lightly on the shoulder and she jolts, looking up at the man—one part hope, one part betrayal. Her lip is still captured in her teeth, her hand tight and white.
"... I'm sorry for your loss." He lifts the paper and senses that the ephemeral solidity that the Tower carries with it. "It is... as far as I can tell, legitimate."
She's still standing there, silently buzzing; her hand relaxes for a second before seizing up again, eyes darting around the room, landing on the paper once more. She inhales, once, twice—the heaving post-cry sound, without the tears.
"I will probably accept, Master Qifrey."
His hand hovers over her shoulder and he feels a cold chill pass over him, one that cracks the roots inside him and leaves behind grit and sediment. He convinces his face to form a soft smile.
"I have no right to tell you not to become someone else's apprentice," he hears someone else's voice say, a paternal tone that echos wrong. "I... I only..."
What can he say? That she should not chase after the object of her ambition, the one he knows has been her guiding light since she was young? That oh-so-familiar desperation? And what if she finds what she's looking for at that Tower? Her issues are not his own, after all.
He swallows silently, and kneels to look in her eyes. This is the last thing he can do for her.
"I don't want you to get lost in that Tower. There are an infinite number of spells, stories in there. You are more than clever, Agott, as you are. The Tower will try and swallow you whole. I don't want it to do so."
She stares at him—not understanding him, not believing him. She can't hear his heart beating like it's trying to escape his chest, a rush of dizzying, disgusting relief.
He offers her a hug.
She has never taken them before but does so, hesitantly, now. Because she will be leaving.
That evening, as Agott hoists her austere briefcase—packed, he knows, top to bottom with everything of her life she can bear to bring—she does not cry.
It's very resolute of her; between Richeh's quiet melancholy, expressed only in her solemn wave, and Tetia's blubbering tears, expressed in an overzealous goodbye, Qifrey doesn't even know if he can keep his eyes dry.
Olruggio's not here—always too soft for his own good, he passed Agott an extraordinarily early prototype of his, and patted her back with the stoic certainty of a proud father, before disappearing into his own corner of the atelier, presumably to drown any more feelings of his in his commissions.
(They had argued; of course they had. Olruggio couldn't believe Qifrey was letting her go so easily. Qifrey couldn't believe Olruggio couldn't see how firm Agott's grasp on that letter was.
He knows they will argue about it again, but he knows Olruggio felt the stiffness of Agott's gait, and he knows how his heart will never quell its pulsing.)
So he's stuck opening the windowway, adjusting to that familiar pattern, smelling the salty spray of the sea before they can see the ever-churning waves. From here, he catches the glimpse of Agott that she doesn't let show—a deep uncertainty, a deep fear, a deep sadness. Her lip trembles.
She's uprooting her life for a promise she doesn't know will come true; a promise that has been broken before.
Qifrey almost breaks the windowway pattern, sliding one dangerous future away from her, but he steels his hands. He stands up, dusting them off, and offers one to her.
Agott glances at him, the full force of her young age written on her face, and takes it.
He smiles at her, as warmly as he can manage. "Alright, Richeh, Tetia. Be good until I return."
He says it easily, buoyantly, like he's about to pop out for some ink refill; something pedestrian, everyday.
He steps through the same way, too, like one-fourth of his life isn't crumbling under his feet. Get a hold of yourself, he grits, she chose this.
(Besides, some vindictive, watchful part of him stares out through his missing socket, isn't this for the better for you too?)
His grip tightens for just a second; Agott looks up at him with alarm but he smooths it over with a smile.
They arrive at the door to that—awful place. The Tower of everything and nothing. He...
"Agott," he says, memory-gripped by those endless shelves. He's sure his voice sounds more alarmed than he can suppress but he can't help it, either. "If you ever, and I do mean ever, decide to return to the atelier—no matter how old you are, or how lost you feel—so long as I live and breathe, I will take you back as an apprentice."
(Not that it is as solid a promise as the Tower itself.)
She looks up at him—she is so small, Qifrey has forgotten, because he has gotten used to her implacable lines and her stable work, so much older than she is. Her mouth works, like it's trying to formulate any number of words—questions, requests, demands—but then she nods.
"Okay." She's tilted her heads and her eyes are squeezed like she's trying to dissipate the tears, but then her grip is tight in his. "Should I go in now?"
The tall, unyielding doors, housing that tall, unyielding stack of knowledge. Maybe she will be freed by this. He nods.
Agott lets go of his hand, one last squeeze—an apology, or maybe a last comfort—before she strides forwards towards the door. She pushes against it and it opens with a dusty creak, more yielding to her than it would anyone—or so Qifrey imagines.
He stands there for a long, long time, as the sun melts from its orange until it disappears, replaced by a million mocking stars. His cloak is sprayed and stiffened with sea water before he accepts that Agott has decided, and she will remain.
He turns away from the Tower one more time, and trudges his way home. On the other side, Richeh and Tetia are still there, watching the waves break upon the shore sleepily; they sit up when he returns, and Qifrey smiles softly to them. "Alright, girls. I think it's bedtime."
They don't say anything but they exchange glances; they have always been better at that.