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In the backyard of their atelier, there is an empty space not far from but not too close to the atelier itself, a spot just beside and yet left untouched by Qifrey's garden – the one he slowly had coaxed to life from a land of dead, thorny undergrowth and hollowed trees. It lies there, obscure at first glance and barren but for mere grass, but quietly it soaks up sunlight aplenty, thawing the ground underneath the vast blue sky to something pleasantly warm.
Qifrey can see it out of the kitchen window whenever he cooks, the grass always glowing in a golden-green hue when bathed in dawn and dusk’s faint light.
Oh so jealously he guards that place in his heart.
“We can plant something over there too,” Olruggio had once suggested, pointing to the spot, his spot, “That seems like a nice place, y’know.”
(He knows. He knows it's a nice place – he can see it every time they sit down for meals.)
Perhaps he had simply caught on with Qifrey's inexplicable zeal about de-weeding that area and thought it odd, because really, for all his help in the daily chores, the man had no personal interest in gardening – a shame, really. Some sun and the good old outdoors could do miracles to his health, in Qifrey's humble opinion.
“We can,” he had admitted with a saccharine sweet smile, but he had known that he wouldn't. Olruggio with his watchfulness, quietly taking in the strain of his smile and the false cheeriness of his voice, never again brought it up after that either.
And sometimes, just sometimes, perhaps he wishes to simply stand in this spot of his while soaking up that warmth into his weary heart too – he doesn't dare, though. He never does.
The sleep he falls into is miraculous in its own right – after having done what he had, Qifrey had hardly expected to even be granted a night's rest, let alone a reprieve from his nightmares. And yet, sleep does grace him that night.
And it is not the usual terrors that haunt his dreams, but rather the deceptive lull of comfort – a foreign presence, a soft whisper into the shell of his ear. Subjugation under the pretense of salvation.
It gently lingers in his slumber, seeking to drag him back down into the oh-so-familiar earth – it rears its head as the vision of a fully laden table made for five in soft light, the fragrance of spices from food freshly cooked, the warmth of a roaring hearth, the faint hints of mundane conversation. Then slowly, ever so slowly the vision pans out to a world outside the window nearest to the table: a shower of stars, and countless flowers gracing the dimly lit vast plains, stubbornly taking root in every place imaginable – even that spot. His spot. And then frustration pools in his stomach at the sight, until –
Until suddenly a sapling sprouts from that precious ground, stealing away all his discomfort, softly glowing while unraveling its newly budding leaves and splintering into new branches and digging its spreading roots deep into the soil, bearing hundreds of pale fruits as it grows and grows and grows, laying its rightful claim to the place as it stretches on towards the freedom of the starlit sky –
Qifrey wakes up with a gasp, hand desperately clinging to his throbbing eye as his heartbeat thunders in his ears, trying to orient himself through the dizzying pain.
Slowly and shakily he drags himself out of the cold bed and to the window, every movement making his headache pulse. He throws open the curtains and despairs at the way how even the early morning's light makes pain sear through his eye while his vision recovers.
When he blinks the sudden tears out of his eye and perches the newly mended glasses on his nose, he sees Coco and Tartah out in the plains, up and about the first thing in the morning – his heart thaws, and his pain worsens.
The next thing he notices are the flowers, and his pain spikes into pure agony.
There are flowers growing in his spot.
In abundance as well, thanks to last night's star shower, insult adding on to injury.
“That's my spot,” he grumbles at them after he's back from visiting Mr. Nolnoa in Kalhn, because that is his spot that they are encroaching and invading, the stupid little wisps. Because as if he would allow even a measly little sprig to lay down its roots here, let alone an entire colony.
Ridiculous.
And maybe because last night has left him thoroughly unnerved, with his patience worn down to something thin and frayed: What a stupid dream.
(He will not think about the implications. He will not think of the table that was not made for six. He will not think of how the tree glowed silver in the night. He will not think of the way the pale glowing eyes the tree had borne on its boughs as fruits watching over the atelier, and he certainly will not think of floating up to that height just to see for himself if he can –
He will not think of the silvery leaves scattered across his pillow this morning. Not now, not until the time for the end is nigh. Not now, when he has enough guilt and rage coursing through his veins to ground him to his form – and he isn't oblivious to this irony.)
“That's my spot,” he repeats, hands clinging to his cloak as if he's still a petulant child, as if the emphasis would somehow compel the flowers to leave.
The evening breeze steals away his sigh, and then fills in the lengthy silence that ensues, making the grass rustle and the leaves dance as it slips and weaves through the gaps.
“Fine,” he relents with a groan in the end. Because it's not like the flowers will live for long after all. “Fine.”
“You can stay just this once,” he sternly instructs. “Only because stars are quite lovely.”
The flowers bow low in the wind, as though nodding.
Above them in the still sunlit sky, the soft glow of a lone star flickers into sight, unnoticed – the first of its kind to arrive, and unbeknownst to it, with the rest about to follow.
Qifrey sighs once again and heads back inside, resisting the temptations that the wind whispers into his ears, the allure that the spot holds.
Not now, he reminds himself. Not now. Not after what you've done, not before everything that is left for you to do.