Work Text:
Euini’s master hates him.
He doesn’t blame him.
Euini stares at the stone floor as Master Kukrow lectures about his failings on the last attempt he did on the second test. If you can even call it a lecture. Kukrow goes on and on about all of his faults, like Euini doesn’t tell himself the same things in the privacy of his own head.
“Worthless, utterly worthless,” Kukrow says, pacing the ground in front of him. “Why must I be saddled with such an apprentice? I’d return you if I could, blasted boy.”
He says this a lot; dreams of getting rid of Euini, regrets of ever taking on an apprentice, wishes of turning back the clock and never taking the last test. Euini’s heard it all before. He’s internalized the words, wearing them like a cloak around his heart. He’ll never forget them.
Sometimes he can’t tell who hates him more: Kukrow or himself.
Kukrow sighs and places a hand on Euini’s head, pushing his cap away. Euini’s heart leaps for a second. Is this like the times he’s seen other masters ruffle their students' hair? But no, Kukrow tightens his grip, holding his hair roughly then shaking his head side to side. Euini yelps and grabs onto his Master’s wrist, but Kukrow doesn’t let go.
“I should just get rid of you,” Kukrow grits out, his face twisted up into something ugly. He’s looking at Euini like he’s a broken toy he no longer wants. As if Euini was ever whole in the first place. “No one would miss you. Not even your parents wanted you.”
Euini feels tears prick at the corner of his eyes, grateful that his bangs hide them from his Master. He’s always been prone to crying. It’s one of the things Kukrow hates the most about him.
But then Kukrow pauses, a considering look on his face. He abruptly lets go of Euini, who falls onto the ground dazed.
“Yes, yes,” Kukrow mutters to himself. He places a hand on his chin as if deep in thought. A small grin curls upon his long face. “Perhaps…”
He turns around, cape flourishing, and leaves the room. Euini sits there, confused and vaguely frightened. He never truly knows what goes through his Master’s head, but he has a feeling that whatever it is this time, he won’t like it.
He picks himself off of the ground. He dusts his cloak, and picks up his cap from where it fell. He knows that others would look at the relationship with his Master and be disturbed, but he knows he deserves it.
His parents shuttled him off to someone else the first chance they got. Kukrow was an old family friend and agreed to take him in. Euini knows he’s lucky that he has a Master. More witches are born in every generation, and there’s no guarantee to gain an apprenticeship. He has at least that advantage over many of his peers.
He should be grateful. Grateful to Master Kukrow, grateful to his parents, grateful to the system.
So why isn’t he?
…
A few days later, Euini is shaken awake. He sits up with a gasp, feeling like the world is askew. He’s breathing hard like he just woke up from a nightmare, though he can’t remember what he was dreaming about. He hopes it was something pleasant.
Master Kukrow is by his side, a sickly sweet smile on his face. He’s sitting on his bed, one hand on Euini’s shoulder. He’s already fully dressed even though it must be the middle of the night.
“Is there something wrong, Master?” Euini asks. He reaches for his cloak by his bedside, but Kukrow holds up his hand, stopping him. Confused, Euini looks up at him.
“Yes, there is,” Kukrow says. Euini doesn’t know why he’s smiling so oddly if something’s wrong. “You’ve been a naughty little boy.”
“Wh—What do you mean?” Euini starts sweating. Has he done something wrong? He stretches his mind back over the last few days, but besides the numerous scoldings, nothing seems out of place.
Kukrow tuts, and reaches for something inside his cloak. “You should know better than to hide this illicit contraption from me.” He brings out a small object; a type of box with a seal transcribed on it that Euini has never seen before. “I now have to report you to the Knights Moralis.”
“No!” Euini gets a burst of energy and clutches the edges of Kukrow’s cloak, staring up at him, begging, pleading. “That’s not mine, I swear it. You’ve got to believe me.”
But Master Kukrow shakes him off with disgust. Euini falls back onto the bed, already defeated. “Do not doubt me, boy. I know this is your work. We must leave at once. Get dressed before you embarrass me further.”
He leaves the room. Just before he rounds the doorway, his face breaks out into a wicked smile. Euini just stares after him in shock. The Knights Moralis…? Is this bad enough that they will wipe his memory? He doesn’t even know what the contraption does. Will anyone believe that it’s not his?
His mind feels like it's a million miles away as he slowly puts on his cloak and shoes. There’s a chill in the air, or maybe that’s just him shaking.
Kukrow is already waiting at the entrance of their small atelier when he leaves his room. His shoes tap on the stone ground impatiently. He raises an eyebrow when he sees Euini. “Let’s go.”
They walk through the corridors of the Great Hall. Kukrow’s strides are long, and Euini has to keep up a small jog to match his pace.
They reach the room of the Knights Moralis in seemingly no time at all. It’s located at the heart of the Great Hall, near Beldaruit’s domain. They stand before the doors, and even Kukrow starts to look nervous. Euini gulps. He has to prove to everyone he didn’t create that contraption, but how?
Hesitantly, Kukrow brings up a hand to knock. The doors open immediately after the first knock, spooking the both of them.
Inside is a grand room, and gathered in the middle of it in a circular table are six people—the Knights Moralis. Their red cloaks are even more awe-inspiring in person than he’s heard. Euini realizes that it's the first time he’s ever seen a member of the Order.
Their heads turn towards the door, and Euini feels sweat bead at his temple. They look like they were in the middle of a meeting. A few of their eyes twitch as if in anger. Euini feels horrible for interrupting them.
“What’s the meaning of this,” one of them says. He has long black hair tied in a pony tail and looks particularly severe.
Kukrow clears his throat. Euini looks up at him. He’s sweating a lot as well, and is dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. “Sir Easthies, I’m here to report an instance of attempted illegal contraption selling.”
This catches the man’s—Easthies’—attention. He raises an eyebrow. “Of what kind?”
He’s intimidating, enough so that Kukrow fumbles with his coat before bringing out the same box as before. “This contraption here allows for any material put inside to be transformed to gold. My apprentice here has devised it in secret and was planning to sell it in the black market.”
Everyone’s attention turns to him. Euini’s throat tightens. It’s hard to breathe. He can’t even defend himself. He feels frozen to the spot. Why must he always be this way? He needs to speak, he must.
But he can’t.
Easthies gets up. The others hang back as the man strides forward, then kneels in front of Euini. The boy averts his eyes, once again grateful for his bangs.
Easthies brings up a hand towards Kukrow and gestures for the contraption, which Kukrow gleefully gives.
He inspects it carefully, turning it over and over in his hands, tracing the carved seal in the wood, then looks back up at Euini. “May I see your quire, young man?”
What?
Kukrow laughs nervously. “I don’t think that’s quite necessary—”
But a glare from Easthies shuts him up completely. Euini thinks he can hear a snicker from the table, but he’s not sure. Euini himself shivers at the force of the glare even though it’s not directed at him. Easthies turns back to him, face much softer now.
Euini dutifully brings out his quire and hands it to the man. Easthies flips through it, eyes considering each incomplete shaky spell Euini had drawn in there. He then shuts it with a click and stands up.
“This boy has nothing to do with this contraption,” he says.
“What?” Kukrow sputters. “How—I mean, why do you say so?”
Easthies narrows his eyes. “This is clearly not a level of drawing he’s capable of, nor is it in his particular drawing style. In fact, I’d say it more closely aligns with your style, Kukrow.”
It stings a bit to hear that he’s considered incapable of the spell, but then the rest of the sentence catches up to Euini. Easthies couldn’t possibly be implying…but Master would never.
Would he?
A lady with golden hair steps up from the table, moving closer with her spear. Kukrow backs up, arms raised in front of him. “You’ve got the wrong idea,” he says, stuttering. “The boy drew it, I swear it. Didn’t you, Euini?”
Euini looks at the scene in front of him. He looks at his Master’s pleading (threatening, he can see that now) eyes, and the knight that has her spear pointed towards him. He looks at the table of knights and their disgusted glares. He looks at Easthies and his cold demeanor, his confidence in Euini’s innocence.
For once, Euini chooses himself.
And when Kukrow gets led away by the knights for trying to frame his own apprentice, Euini finally feels free.