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The thin line the Brimhat had drawn across her forearm hasn't faded.
It makes sense, Agott supposes. There is a reason for the forbidden arts to be forbidden, and magical tattoos are tough to erase – otherwise they could have helped poor Euini so much more.
She shudders at the memory that arises at that thought – of Euini's body twisting and then mending itself back into something wrong, something inhuman – involuntary and unbidden.
At least this isn't a glyph, she reminds herself. It is quite the shallow comfort, but it is comfort nonetheless. It isn't a glyph, so it isn't a crime.
Deep breaths in, deep breaths out.
If she were to be entirely honest with herself, perhaps Agott might admit that she hasn't always liked the art of magic, having been driven to the brink of tears (and beyond) over it multiple times, especially in her old home, suffocating under their gazes and drowning in their accusations – magic has brought to her quite the fair share of misery on occasion. And goodness knows she will never manage to fully appreciate the miracle that the art brings, having grown entirely immersed in it from birth as she has; one look at Coco is reminder enough of that.
But this? This is the moment she can look back to and mark as the first and only time where magic had ever felt truly and completely terrifying, had left her frozen stiff in fear.
The suffocating presence of the Brimhat’s cloak, the dizziness from being unable to breathe enough, lungs that refused to expand in terror. The pain of the clawed nib scraping against skin, the sight of the ink it left behind, the smell–
Agott finds herself drawn to the mark left behind, over and over again, even when there should be more important things on her mind: the supplementary test from the Wise in Learnings himself, and now the Silver Eve – her family, her mother. And yet, over and over she often distractedly traces the mark under her sleeve with her thumb, as though that would help it fade.
Even now, in the cover of the night, with her sleeve unbuttoned and pushed back (just like the Brimhat had, back then – she had lost buttons then, before the barrels at the Assembly's baths undid that damage), she follows the familiar dark path, blunt nail rubbing against her skin.
“What is that?”
From the crammed corner her back rests on, she jumps at the sound, her first instinct to cover her arm.
With her so lost in her thoughts, and her professor's footsteps so quiet, his voice might as well have been an explosion booming next to her ear.
Her heart races – she hadn't thought anyone was awake at this hour – except for Professor Olruggio, that is, and the smoke billowing from the chimney had told her that he wouldn't abandon his tower any time soon.
She really should have known better.
She tries her best to conceal her guilty conscience, to not flinch while Professor Qifrey skips the last few steps entirely in favour of his sylph shoes, and – “What is that?” he repeats, something very sharp and furious creeping into his voice, spreading like ripples into surging tides. And Agott finds out her best isn't nearly enough – like a child caught with her hand in the candy jar, she crumbles. But she's been caught with something far more sinister.
It isn't a glyph –
“...Agott,” Qifrey whispers, pausing in his single-minded stride in the face of her fear, rage tempered and forced away by gentleness, though it lingers just beyond the frame. He kneels down to her height, holds out his hand. “Would you mind showing me what exactly I just saw?”
Agott hasn't so much as told anyone about this before – only confessed in passing to being frightened by the Brimhat’s idea of magic before Tetia, and Coco – of all people. By the time everyone had reunited in the Serpentback Cave, even that detail she had omitted, along with any acknowledgement to her being attacked all together, skipping directly to Euini’s transformation.
The liar's apprentice is also a liar.
Riché and Euini, accomplices to her lie, had said nothing either.
It's not a glyph.
Professor Qifrey just keeps waiting, for what feels like an eternity that it takes for Agott to peel her hand away from her arm.
It isn't a glyph. It isn't –
“This is…” Quietly behind the clear lens, there is fury the likes of which she has never seen brewing darkly in his eye, and yet the grip with which he holds her proffered hand remains unbelievably gentle.
“At Romonon, the invisible Brimhat targeted me first,” she admits, confessing a truth long overdue. “He wouldn't have – he wouldn't have even gotten to Euini if Euini hadn't blown the path up to save me. I'm– mmph?”
In one swift and fluid motion, Agott surprisingly finds herself drawn into a hug by her professor that swallows up her apology. It's no loose embrace, either – her face is squished against his shoulder. There is desperation in his grip.
“Professor…?”
She can feel him shaking like this, and surely hunching over like this couldn't be good for his injury?
“I wish they would leave children alone, at least,” he quietly whispers in a confession of his own, a lifelong grief finally given words, “my students most of all.”
That's when Agott remembers just who it is that she is talking to, recalls every rumour that has strayed her way. It's embarrassing, really, the time it took for her to realise – that Professor never ever talks about it is barely an excuse. Has she truly been that out of it?
Awkwardly, she pats his shoulder – the uninjured one, of course, in a lousy attempt at comfort: once, twice.
A rustling of fabric, shuffling, and she feels Professor Qifrey letting go, returning to sitting on his knees. Discreetly, he wipes away a tear from the corner of his eye.
(Deep down, she wonders how her mother would have reacted.)
“Ah, my apologies for the abruptness – that must have been uncomfortable. It simply frightens me sometimes, you see, as your teacher, the danger that keeps on coming you girls' way.” There is something profoundly sorrowful in his expression. “Though I wish you'd tell me right away if you were under harm in any way – Have I been incompetent, or otherwise given you any reason to believe you couldn't?”
“No,” Agott holds her head low in regret. “No, that's not it. Just– ”
What would her family have thought, she thinks, what would the Assembly have said, if word had gotten out – the disgraced Arkrome girl, nearly turned a Brimhat's prey – shame of her mother's flesh as she already is?
(It's reassuring to know the same can't be said for her Professor.)
“Nevermind. It won't happen again.”
“Thank you,” Qifrey smiles. (His heart still pounds so fast beneath his ribs, he fears it might burst.) “Your safety is more important than anything else.”
“Professor?” she softly asks, thumb pressed against the mark.
“Yes?”
“Do you think it will fade?”
“Oh, Agott,” he softly says, placing his hands on her shoulders in comfort. The darkened lens glistens in the light, offering her a distorted reflection of herself. “I don't know.”
“I see,” Agott mumbles, changing his hold into a rare and quick second embrace – at least this angle wouldn't hurt Professor's shoulder as much. “I guess we'll have to wait.”
“I suppose.” His hand settles on the back of her head – it feels broad and heavy and safe. “I suppose.”
His shirt smells of ink: he must've spilled some over it again. For the first time in a long while, the scent doesn't make her nauseous.
Trivial though it might be, it is a start.