Idle Hands

The door to Medivh's quarters was ajar. Although he hadn't responded to a polite knock, Khadgar pushed it open without hesitation. He'd climbed an inordinate number of stairs to bring this stew still warm from the kitchen, so he'd take the scolding, deliver the food, and Medivh would darn well eat it.

The room was a mess of clothing and travelling gear; Medivh's pack was half-emptied and strewn across the floor. The magus himself was at his writing desk, still clad in the dusty travel robes he'd arrived in barely an hour ago, its cowl flung back. He'd wasted no time in settling down over a tome with pen in hand.

Khadgar cleared his throat. Medivh ignored him. Khadgar cleared his throat again, louder, and Medivh continued to ignore him equally loudly, so Khadgar took that as an invitation to approach. He set the stew at Medivh's elbow, who started upright and promptly knocked it to the floor.

He looked at the mess, then at Khadgar. His eyes were shadowed with weariness, his dark hair a riot of knots and loose strands, and at least one twig.

"Sorry, sir," Khadgar said, "I thought you'd be hungry—did you lose a fight with some shrubbery?"

Medivh gave a sigh. "I sometimes wonder who you think you're talking to," he said with a ghost of a smile. "I should rake you over the coals. Get that cleaned up before it attracts rats."

As though any rat would scurry up so many stairs in search of foodscraps. After a trip down to the kitchens and then back to the apex of the tower with a mop and bucket, Khadgar and his thighs were of the opinion that it was a much worse punishment than a reprimand would've been.

Medivh had returned to his rapid jotting, paying him no heed as he wiped down the tile floor. He sat up again when Khadgar failed to resist temptation and tried to pluck the twig from his hair. It snagged.

"Ouch," Medivh said, somewhat perplexedly. "What is it now? Can't you see I'm busy?"

"You had something." Khadgar gestured with the twig.

"Yes, well, that as may be," Medivh grumbled, teasing back a straggling lock of hair. "But you're my apprentice, not my manservant. You should be attending your studies, not attending me."

"Well, nobody else is going to do it." It was obvious Khadgar was trying Medivh's patience this evening, but that didn't make what he said any less true. Moroes had already retired to his quarters, and without intervention Medivh would likely fall into bed just as he was, boots and all.

Medivh fixed him with a look that was an inch too bemused to be a glare. "Very well," he said after a moment, and turned back to his books. "Whatever it is about my being that has you all atwitter, Young Trust, satisfy yourself so that I can get some peace and quiet."

"By your leave," Khadgar said. Medivh's tail had come halfway out of the leather thong that bound it. He tugged it the rest of the way free, and after a brief reconnaissance of his rooms, found a hairbrush atop a dresser that was easily more scribe paraphernalia than grooming implements.

The first tug of the brush through his hair had Medivh hissing a curse and tossing his head like an ill-tempered pony. Khadgar sensed he wouldn't tolerate much of this. Light, where had he been to get in such a state? Maybe the twig could tell him later. Khadgar's nature magic was practically nonexistent, but Medivh might be halfway impressed if he could manage to divine its origin.

For now he recalled a different spell, one he'd observed when he'd sailed out of Lordaeron on a Tirassian clipper. The sailors had used it to keep their knots tight and their rigging untangled. It was simple yet practical, and with a little alteration Khadgar decided it would serve well.

The next stroke of the brush unravelled the snarls in Medivh's hair with ease, gliding through it like a ship parts the water. Magic crackled and lifted some flyaway strands, but it was satisfying and Khadgar felt quietly pleased with himself. He sensed a shift in Medivh's demeanour with it: his shoulders loosened from their tense hunch and he paused at the next dip of his pen.

"A deckhand's blessing?" he said. "I don't know if I'm insulted or impressed."

Khadgar just grinned to himself and, while Medivh was sitting up, took the opportunity to bring the soft bristles of the brush to his hairline and draw it back over his scalp. Without thought, he stroked his hand over the passage the brush had just taken, smoothing down stray hairs. The texture of it was coarse against his palm where Medivh had silvered at the temples, though softer where it was still black.

Medivh's pen wavered near its inkpot, and Khadgar felt abruptly conscious of the intimacy in the gesture. He set about things in a brisker fashion henceforth, brushing Medivh's hair out until it lay against his back in heavy dark waves, shot through with grey. For his part, Medivh made no further complaint; indeed, he set his pen aside and leaned back in his chair.

By the time Khadgar had combed his hair out to his satisfaction and gathered it up, Medivh had become utterly quiescent. His head was bowed so his chin almost touched his chest, his breathing deep and slow. As he secured it into a tail at the nape of his neck, Khadgar found himself wondering when anyone had last touched him with kindness, or touched him at all.

"There," Khadgar said. He felt strangely buoyant. "Much better."

Medivh reached back and brought his tail over one shoulder, and ran his fingers though it, just once. His features softened. "You have a kind heart," he said. "And a foolish one. That's enough, lad. Let me be."

Khadgar tore his eyes from the bare nape of his neck, and bid him goodnight.