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Noon breaks on the hour, so the belltower tolls.
"Since you continue to dress this way, you may as well have your hair cut properly."
Indifference, like brushing off a leaf from his vestment.
The ringing gets louder. Louder, louder still, piercing her senses.
The bells won't stop ringing.
Lebkuchen squeezes her eyes shut, turns on her heel, barrels through the heavy doors, and storms out of the damned church — they're still ringing.
Her hands find the edge of the fountain, fumbling to hold herself up. What she sees in the water gives her pause.
It's herself — a rippled reflection of Lebkuchen staring back with hazy eyes.
She doesn't wear her habit and veil anymore. One after another, they had "mysteriously" fallen into disarray, until Lebkuchen couldn't be bothered to get them fixed up again.
Lebkuchen was given Father Hans' old clergy uniform long ago. It fit her to a tee. She entertained the idea of burning it once she could get another new habit.
But then, she decided against getting rid of it. It felt like a waste.
She still wears his old clothes. He doesn't care anymore. It's hers now.
Discarded, brushed aside, everything she thought she knew fell apart right under her nose. She's been staring at the painting too close to see the full picture.
All of her — every single part — is nothing more than a farce to please distressed villagers. It doesn't matter how she looks during it.
She never needed any of this, did she? Everyone finally stopped complaining about her habit, so what's more? Father Hans said so himself — Lebkuchen might as well at this point. In fact, it'll be easier on him if it never has to be brought up again.
Who cares? What else is another broken rule, what else is another act of impudence, what else is another ruined habit and veil, what more can be done, the only thing being inconvenienced is Lebkuchen, and really, who cares?
This braid, whatever's left of her hair, falling over her shoulder… She doesn't need this either. Why would she— who even cares anymore?
There is one person.
Her stomach flips because she does know. There's only one person left in Kieferberg who would. If there was anyone left…
She grabs the tail end of her braid, all too ready to tug out the thick strands. Her hand stings. It hurts, but she doesn't let it show.
Lebkuchen knows how to mask it all: no anger, no pain, no suffering, no spite, no tears, no selfishness.
Nothing. She's a blank slate.
Her grip falters. Lebkuchen stands up straight, arms falling slack to her sides.
Without a moment's hesitation, she heads toward the fields, storming past the curious stares, away from the incessant ringing.
A gentle breeze sweeps over the wheat fields, caressing Freya's face in a gentle embrace as she hacks at the wheat with her sickle.
There's still so much to be done despite how long she's been out in the sun. Harvest season only lasts so long.
"Phew," Freya sighs, wiping the sweat from her brow with her oversized gloves. Little bits of dirt smear her forehead in the process.
Seeking a moment of respite, she closes her eyes and simply listens to her surroundings. The birds chirp, the children giggle, and the bell tower chimes in the distance. Everything is calm, peaceful, serene.
Almost too serene.
She glances at the far expanse of the field, its emptiness seemingly taunting her.
The burden fell on Freya's shoulders to grant the townsfolk's every whim and wish — every apple to harvest, every log to chop, every window to wipe, everything rests on Freya's capable shoulders.
Who else will do so if she refuses at this point? Her father is more than busy running around town as is. The least she can do is lend a hand to anyone who asks her.
That's what keeps her here, day in and day out.
A tinge of loneliness tugs at her heartstrings. She shrugs it off and forcefully swings her sickle once more, watching the grains fall.
Her grip slowly tightens as her mind begins to wander — from memories of the past to her uncertain future.
She glances down at the delicate rye resting in her other hand. Its bristles softly sway in the wind, as if leaning into her touch. Freya sets it aside.
Just keep moving forward.
The gravel crunching to a quickstep rhythm snaps Freya out of her trance.
"Freya."
She jerks her head towards the source of the voice she knows all too well.
"Oh, Leb! What brings you here?" Freya calls out, putting on a smile to rival the afternoon sun.
"You're usually so busy this time of day, it's rare to see you anymore. Well, I suppose I've been quite busy too, but my hands are full because of the harvest! You on the other hand — staying cooped up in the church all day is going to leave you as pale as a ghost!"
Freya gives a hearty laugh, scratching the back of her head with her free hand.
"Just kidding~ You always look lovely, Lebkuchen!"
Yet Lebkuchen doesn't return the elation. Freya trails off, realizing this. Lebkuchen continues to stare into the distance. A void expression rests on her features.
As Freya searches the air for another topic, Lebkuchen pulls her eyes away from the horizon and turns to face her directly.
This isn't her.
Freya gulps. In the blink of an eye, Lebkuchen walks closer to her, seemingly dismissive of her growing concerns.
Did she do something wrong? Was it something she said? Did she accidentally strike a nerve?
"Uhm, Leb—"
With surprising strength, Lebkuchen rips Freya's sickle from her hand. She doesn't even have a moment to react.
"Lebkuchen?! That's dangerous!"
Her words don't reach her — Lebkuchen completely turns her back to Freya, holding the sickle up to her neck.
Freya's heart stops. Dread pools into her gut.
A glint of sunlight reflects off of the steel blade, almost taunting Freya as Lekuchen tugs the end of her braid with her free hand.
That sickle she's proudly kept at her side all these years, ready to swipe at Lebkuchen's pale nape…
"W-Wait a second! What are you—"
Freya desperately reaches out towards Lebkuchen, her whole body quivering as the silent suggestion develops a gruesome scene in an instant, flashing through her mind like lightning.
The blade cuts clean across.
"Huh?!"
Golden strands, delicate and soft like rye, flying, falling in slow motion. Her braid goes limp in her hand.
Lebkuchen's bare neck — pale and slender, like a ghost.
Blood trickles down the back of Lebkuchen's hand. The wound is shallow, yet with a heavy crimson glare.
The sight makes Freya shudder. She shakes her head in an attempt to recollect herself, not noticing Lebkuchen suddenly turning to face her.
They lock eyes, neither uttering a single word for what feels like an eternity. The lull is deafening.
Freya tugs at her shirt collar. The pit in her stomach slowly contorts into a mess of knots. She opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes out — she's unable to utter a single word. What can she even say?
Clearing her throat, she sputters out the first thing she thinks of.
"Hey… if you wanna talk—"
Lebkuchen's brows furrow. Her warm hues sink into tar.
Freya clutches her shawl in an attempt to calm the rapid pounding in her chest. With a shaky breath, she musters all the courage she can and faces Lebkuchen once more.
"Did… he say something, Leb?"
Whatever that "something" is, it must have been terribly disheartening for Lebkuchen to be so hollow.
Lebkuchen stares through Freya, or rather, at nothing. There's nothing left in those eyes. All the kindness that the town admires, the patience she has for all who need an ear — it's gone.
She just looks tired.
Without uttering a single word, Lebkuchen glances at the nick on her hand, observing her blood slowly traveling along the lines. Not once does her blank gaze waver, not a single wince, nothing.
Chills run down Freya's spine.
How badly she wishes to run up to Lebkuchen.
To gently grasp her palm and tend to her wound.
Reassure her that she will always be here for her no matter what.
Yet despite her best wishes, she's stuck too.
Freya's frustration only grows the longer Lebkuchen remains silent.
The sound of Lebkuchen dropping her sickle snaps Freya out of her daze.
Lebkuchen promptly turns on her heels, coat flaring as she walks off without a word or even a sign of acknowledgement.
She can't leave her like this.
Freya might not know what to say, it's all a mess of confusing and vague signs, but those eyes… There's no way she can leave Lekuchen alone.
"Lebkuchen! W-Wait! Wait up!" She grabs her sickle and quickly takes off after the distant figure.
The valley and all its lakes and farms held within are mere specks from where she stands.
How easy they seem to approach, how difficult the travel would actually be — Lebkuchen remains, pondering these obstacles, rooted to the edge of the viewpoint.
Why, she'd make for a rather lonely flower, wouldn't she?
"Lebkuchen…"
Freya tentatively approaches. She's careful to keep her strides even. Her hand hovers over Lebkuchen's back, fingers curling.
She still doesn't have a sound plan or organized thoughts, but she wants to help. Freya understands to be careful, because Lebkuchen is strong, too strong sometimes — enough to push Freya away completely.
Her lips part. She has to say something, she has to.
Freya reaches out further. As if sensing it, Lebkuchen immediately turns to her. Her weak glare, wrought with silent pleas, gives Freya the courage to let words fall as they please.
"It'll be okay. I know it's hard now, but things will get better… People won't stop talking, but things will be better in time."
For a split second, the faintest light still in Lebkuchen's eyes wavers. She looks down to her white-knuckle grip on her cut hair. Red stains her fingertips.
"My whole life has been about being what Kieferberg wants me to be… whether I like it or not. And maybe that's all I'll ever be in this town. Maybe I don't amount to anything else outside of listening and smiling. Maybe I'll be stuck here, listening, smiling, useless to do anything else."
Freya doesn't stop her. Lebkuchen wishes she would.
"If there's a problem, I'm the one they need. I can handle everything on my own… All on my own."
Her head hurts. She can still hear the damn bells ringing in the distance.
"I'll always— always… "
The sudden weight on her shoulder pulls her out. She holds her tongue before she slips. Lebkuchen looks up to Freya, all too aware of her tears welling up. How pathetic.
Freya's brows knot. A heavy frown sits as she sees through Lebkuchen, the unyielding chains entangled around her, constricting her chest with every shaky inhale.
She doesn't have any magic words to free her, because Freya is also trapped. Her heart still aches.
"I miss Elise too."
A flash of revelation — Lebkuchen's gaze darts from left to right before casting her head down. Her braid falls out of her grasp.
Freya fairs no better, her dry chuckles tumbling to the ground. Her fingers rub into the knots of Lebkuchen's shoulders.
"Do you remember back when I wore my hair out?"
A tentative nod, slow, but firm. Freya manages a brighter smile, even if Lebkuchen isn't looking directly at her.
"My mother loved braiding my hair so much, she did it every single day. I started to love it too. And then, I suddenly had to figure out how to do it on my own…"
Freya swishes her long braid to rest over her shoulder.
"I never made them as well as she did, not once. I probably never will."
She doesn't break her gaze, waiting as long as she needs to.
"So thank you, Leb, for braiding my hair like this — I love it just as much."
Lebkuchen stiffens. She dares to meet Freya's eyes again, slowly, bracing herself for the dazzling light to blind her — a dizzying brightness that mesmerizes and scares her all at the same time.
There are days where seeing Freya's tall, proud figure in trousers and loose shirts causes Lebkuchen to retreat to the church, to keep her bile of envy hidden within its imposing walls. The light that filters through the dull stained glass windows is much easier to face.
This is different — Freya radiates a gentle glow through her somber gaze. Reflected in those sunlit irises is Lebkuchen herself.
No one else: Lebkuchen, broken and empty.
Is it okay for her to be happy about that?
As the last shreds of doubt sink their claws into her thoughts, Freya's other hand cups her cheek and chases them away. She trails up to comb through whatever is left of Lebkuchen's locks. She brushes the sides, smooths out stray strands, before nodding, pleased.
The hand on Lebkuchen's shoulder trails down to her wounded hand.
"You look very dashing — it suits you."
Freya holds her like glass, running her thumb over unblemished skin, and presses her lips on her stained fingers.
Lebkuchen's breath hitches.
Forgiveness.
That's what she wanted.
She doesn't deserve it, she shouldn't have it, but she takes it. She throws away her hair in favor of this feeling — this little piece of euphoria that betrays everything she knows, clutching it close to her chest, never to let go.
Lebkuchen's tufts softly sway in the wind. She tilts her head, leaning into Freya's touch.
"You too, Freya." Her stone mask cracks. It crumbles to dust, revealing a dry smile. "You're very handsome yourself."
Freya flushes. A sheepish grin breaks through the shadows.
The bells still ring, too faint for Lebkuchen to care anymore as Freya's bubbly giggles fill the air, echoing in their small world.