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“Mister Stark, move!”
The firm hands of Fern push at Stark’s shoulders, sending him tumbling to the earthen ground. His head makes the first impact, and he hears the distinct sound of something cracking as his vision goes dark.
He groans, dragging a hand against his forehead, shuddering as his bandages come back red. It’s all blurry at the edges of his vision, but blood is blood, and it won’t stop pouring from his wound. “Mister Stark, can you hear me?” Fern asks over the booming sound of spells hitting claws.
He looks over his shoulder, and finds those long strands of dark purple are shielding him from seeing that beautiful face of hers. If he could see her, well, he would smile and wave away the pain as if it were nothing.
Fern made the pain easier, outside of Stark’s own tolerance to it. Her soft eyes, and her unwilling smiles, eased his troubles. Or even those sidelong glances of hers that made his skin crawl with the assumption that he did something wrong again. And, to her credit, he usually did do something wrong. This time, however, it was just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, because the corpse they’d come across had been targeted by none other than a Geisel.
It lashes its beak down at Fern, who throws her staff up in a wide arc. In its wake is an array of hexagons, all joint together to withstand the brunt of the attack. Fern digs her heels into the dirt as the Geisel goes in for a clawed attack.
Stark tightens his grip on his axe, minding the warm blood that flows down his face. It is a reminder that he’s still alive, and that Fern was willing to sacrifice herself for him without a moment’s hesitation.
If he were to count the ways in which he loves her, that would be the first on his list.
“C’mere, bird brain!” Brushing off the sluggish weight in his bones, he pushes himself to his feet, and past Fern’s defense spell. The Geisel is torn between both prey as it turns its large, feathered head from Stark and then to Fern–without even realizing that a second mage had entered the fight.
Stark lifts his axe, his muscles contorting, veins popping, as the Geisel decides to target him with its next attack. With one swoop of his weapon, dark blood spills out from where the Geisel’s clawed foot once was.
He’s almost willing to celebrate that hit, until the second claw takes Stark into its hold.
As reality catches up to him, he’s close to losing consciousness as Fern screams out for him.
“Pretty bird, nice bird, let me down now,” he murmurs, dazed. He thinks he might puke and get it all over Fern’s new cloak–new because he had ruined the last one in a similar way.
“Mister Stark, move your arms!” Fern is yelling, but he doesn’t really understand what she means, since at least one of his arms is pinned to his side and the other is flailing uncontrollably.
Ahh, she means to move the arm that’s flailing.
He simply holds it steady and draws it closer to his chest, just in time to feel the harsh winds of the Geisel’s wings stop . And just like that, he’s free falling, still clutched in the Geisel’s iron grip because Frieren did not consider freeing him before she eviscerated the monster’s head.
A putrid smell attacks Stark’s nostrils as he plummets toward the ground, unable to fly like the mages he travels with, and without his axe to free himself.
“So this is how I die.” He surmises, making peace with getting crushed by the oversized body of a Geisel.
“Mister Stark, you’re not going to die!”
I’m not?
Fresh air reaches his lungs as the claws are slowly pried away from his cramped and crushed body, replaced by the sweet scent of lavender and lemons.
That would be the second reason why he loves Fern–she smells like home.
Not the home that he left, no, but the home he built with her and Frieren.
As his feet touch the blessed ground, he has half a mind to bend down and kiss the dirt.
Frieren reaches them a second or two later, concerned over a tear in her sleeve. “Fern,” she cries, “Can you fix this? We’re days out from the neighboring town and I don’t want to ruin it even further.” She’s pouting, again, and Fern quickly moves from Stark to her mistress. “Can’t let grandma walk around with a torn sleeve?” He murmurs, dusting off sand and dirt from his trousers.
Fern sends a glare over her shoulder, and Stark doesn’t even have to see it to feel the effects. Goosebumps litter his skin, and he’s fairly certain that he also loses a year off of his overall lifespan.
“There you go. All better.” Fern tugs at the threads in Frieren’s jacket sleeve just to be sure, before turning around to inspect Stark. He bats his eyelashes, and purses his lips. She frowns. “Your axe is over there by the corpse. Pick it up before we leave.”
Ah.
“And my very bloody injury?” He asks, pointing to the cut on his forehead.
“Do you know what your name is and where you are?”
He thinks about it and then nods.
“Then you’re not concussed. I want to move soon before any more Geisels come. The mana radiating off of that corpse is palpable.”
Frieren agrees, and that settles it. Their belongings are packed up and they’re back on the road before sunset that same day.
Fern walks ahead of Frieren and Stark, her eyes closed, her pace slow. Even her breath comes out in long swaths, turning into white puffs of air as the sun sets.
“Stark,” Frieren says, still facing forward. She is acting as Fern’s eyes, in a way. Stark doesn’t presume to know as much about mages, and he doesn’t try to ask, but he does feel a tinge of worry for the girl in front of him. Fern approaches a small ditch in the ground, and Stark is almost certain that she’ll trip over it, but she stops, foot hovering above the ground. After a moment, she steps over and clears the hole.
Frieren begins her trailing of Fern not long after, and Stark joins her, his heart continuing to hammer in his chest.
“Can you please remind me what this is for?” He asks, clenching and unclenching his fists, almost compulsively. He wonders if he should do some sort of grounding technique, but he isn’t sure if they’ll be stopping for the night.
Frieren smiles mischievously. Stark gulps.
“Fern has decided that she wants to broaden her understanding and awareness of mana. It’s simple.”
“So why are you looking at me like that?”
Frieren nudges his shoulder, and he swears that there’s a twinkle in her eye as she does so.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how close you two have gotten lately.”
Stark laughs, and it’s a loud guttural sound, until he realizes that Fern’s concentration wouldn’t last if he continued.
But when he opens his eyes, wiping away the single tear, he finds that she’s still walking before them, eyes closed, feet sure.
That is something else he loves about Fern: her focus.
Her brows tend to knit together when she’s truly focused. Sometimes, she’ll stick her tongue out without even noticing it, and Stark never has the heart to tell her how ridiculous it looks. And when her concentration is broken…her cheeks burn such a bright pink, Stark is reminded of a flower from his hometown. He desperately wishes he could go back and pick a bouquet for her.
“Your head has been in the clouds lately, Stark. Tell me what’s on your mind?” Frieren quirks her head to the left, and this time, there is a genuine smile on her lips. Inviting, even.
Stark shrugs. When it was especially late, the moon past its zenith, he would dream of a future with Fern. They would share a cottage he thinks, and she would specialize in obscure spells in honor of Frieren. He would be a mercenary for hire, or a blacksmith, whatever brought in enough coin. They would have a dog or a cat and they would go on walks together every morning when the fog was still low and sticking to the grass.
They would not need to worry about demons and monsters.
Frieren would visit sometimes, maybe bring a trinket or two.
There is too much on his mind to respond to Frieren, and he finds his tongue immediately twisted.
“Can I tell you a story, Stark?” Frieren asks when she doesn’t get an answer from the red-haired boy.
“Sure,” he responds, coolly.
“It mentions Eisen, so…maybe don’t mention this story the next time we run into him.”
This gets a soft chuckle out of him, but he relents. “Tell me.”
Himmel cannot, for the life of him, decide which spell book to buy Frieren.
The last village they visited paid them handsomely, even with his assertions that they did not need the money. Alas, his coin pouch jingled with each step he took. Frieren had already spent her wares on various monster parts that a traveling merchant had tucked beneath his coat. Heiter would most likely spend the majority of his coin on spirits, and Eisen, well…he was a wild card. His axe had been badly damaged in their last fight though, so Himmel supposed he would be in the market for a new weapon.
Himmel, on the other hand, had everything he ever wanted.
That left him with one choice: to purchase small gifts for his companions.
For Heiter he found an amulet that rejuvenated the wearer once per day.
And for Eisen he found a new clasp for his cloak, supposedly made by Dwarves long ago, but Himmel was less sure of that.
Frieren, naturally, left him perplexed.
They decided they would move on past this riverside town by sunset, which left him around two hours to peruse the stalls.
He considered a magic ball that allowed the user to see someone’s past, but figured that would be too obvious for Frieren.
He also considered a necklace that reminded him of her eyes…
If he were to count the ways in which he loved Frieren, her emerald eyes would be at the top of his list.
However, what would she find fascinating about a necklace? No, he needed to do better. He needed to find something for her that she would use–something that would remind her of him when his days betrayed him.
There was her love for strange spells that had nothing to do with the defeating of the Demon King. She would conjure them at the most useful of times, and all three men would stare at her, flabbergasted.
Himmel began with making a mental list of each and every spell he knew that she possessed. It was short, as his capacity for memorizing spells was…poor, but it was a good starting point. Recently, she had used a spell to fix Heiter’s broken walking stick, so that was something Himmel could avoid when looking.
Eisen needed a haircut and Frieren enchanted a pair of scissors that took care of him in record time. She even offered to give Himmel a cut but she had that mischievous smile on her lips and he quickly told her he needed no trim.
She even had a spell that polished Himmel’s sword.
It made the villagers especially excited when he held aloft his blade and it was purged of blood and gore. They were none the wiser to Frieren’s quick spell casting once he felled the final demon, leaving the people safe at last.
That was something else he loved about her. Despite her disinterest in human affairs, she still listened intently to Himmel’s ideas. She did not laugh, as Heiter did, but treated them as sincere.
He wanted nothing more than to show her his appreciation in the form of a spell that perfectly encompassed Frieren.
Walking before the main thoroughfare of the river-side village, a vendor called out to him, “Himmel the Hero! Please, come see my wares.”
And, without considering his own lack of time, he sauntered over to the vendor with a kind smile on his face. “Good afternoon. What is it you sell?” He asked, eyeing the strange contraptions before him. The table was a solid, carved wood, but the wares themselves made little sense to the swordsman.
The merchant gestured vaguely to his table, arms wide with what Himmel hoped was pride. “I sell many things, but I mostly deal in the creation and distribution of magic.”
Himmel’s eyes widened, “Magic?” He repeated. “Does that include spells and spellbooks?”
The vendor nodded, a gleam in his eyes. “Indeed. Is there something you’re looking for in particular?”
“The strangest spells you have. Please, there is nothing too uncouth.”
“Ahh. Trying to impress someone?”
Himmel placed a hand on the back of his neck, “You could say that.”
The vendor tapped a finger on his table, and Himmel waited patiently for whatever it was he’d suggest.
Suddenly, he turned away from Himmel, and began shuffling through a basket of untitled, leather bound tomes. “I believe that I have just what you’re looking for,” he said, blowing the collected dust off of the selected tome.
Himmel leaned over the table, mindful of the delicate contraptions at his fingertips. “What is it?” He asked, his eyes trailing the engraving on what he assumed was the cover.
The vendor flipped to one of the first pages, and held the tome out for Himmel to read.
“I’ll take it!”
The campfire shone against Frieren’s ivory skin and lavender hair.
Heiter and Eisen were given their gifts, both appreciative, both admiring their new amulet and clasp.
Himmel was far more concerned for Frieren’s reaction, though.
That was something else he loved about her. She was ceaselessly thoughtful.
Her silence was not meant to be taken as a slight. If anything, it meant that she was heavily considering what it was she was given or told.
She thumbed past the introduction of the tome, muttering quietly to herself as she read the words aloud. He loved it when she did that–reading aloud. Half of the time it was in a language he couldn’t understand, but it still warmed his heart to see her wield such beautiful magic.
“Himmel, why this spell book if I may ask?”
He smiled, and taking her hand into his, pointed to a specific spell on the next page.
Her skin was soft and warm, and he very much wanted to keep ahold of it–perhaps intertwine their fingers together, if she allowed it. But, he understood how she felt about such things, and quickly let go.
“Go on, practice it on me.”
Frieren slanted a brow, “Truly?”
“Truly.”
There was that mischievous smile of hers again. Himmel felt his heart soar at the sight.
She was breathtaking against the orange hue of the fire, intermingled with hints of yellow and red. Elf or not, she was ethereal. It was cruel that he could not profess his love for her, not without her easy rejection of him. Leaving him heartbroken so often, Himmel decided he would stop asking.
But he’d never stop admiring her.
Summoning her staff, the wind spurring the ribbon into motion, she spoke the words of the spell, in another language Himmel wasn’t familiar with.
The way she formed her words was melodic, forming each syllable as a sorceress does. He was infatuated with her, if not enchanted.
“Does anything feel different, Himmel?” She asked, and her voice had a sing-song quality to it.
Was that a lute he heard–was there a minstrel or bard nearby?
“According to this tome, your hearing should be replaced by melodies. Everything should sound sung.” And it did.
Even Himmel’s own voice had a rhythm to it as he said, “It does indeed. Have you ever considered singing, Frieren?”
She chuckled softly to herself, shaking her head. “I don’t have the time for singing when I’m meant to be protecting you.”
“Ah. How disappointing that is. We could start singing together, you and I.”
Frieren lifted her staff, spoke the words, and the calming minstrels faded into obscurity.
She closed the tome with reverence, holding it to her chest with crossed arms. “Thank you, Himmel,” she said. And, if he could not profess his love for her, that would be enough.
He would count the ways he adored her in the quiet hours of the night, when she could not see those thoughts in his eyes.
He could have this though. With a gentle touch, Himmel took Frieren’s hand into his own, and raised it to his lips. Her knuckles were soft against his lips, and she smelled of honey and nectarines.
“It was my honor, Frieren.”
Frieren is looking down at her hand as her story comes to its natural conclusion.
“He kissed me, and I believe it was the first kiss we shared.”
Stark’s face burns a bright red, and he really hopes that Frieren doesn’t see it with how dark it is outside.
“That was, ahh, a lovely story, Frieren.” Stark tugs at the collar of his shirt, suddenly deciding that it is far too tight. What was she implying with a story like that? Should he get down on one knee, take Fern’s hand in his own, and kiss it?
Ludicrous. Frieren had no idea that one had to have confidence to do something like that.
And to Fern of all people!
“Stark, I can hear your panic. Take a deep breath and consider my story rather than jumping to conclusions.” Frieren places a reassuring hand on his shoulder before jogging ahead to meet Fern.
“That’s enough for tonight. Should we make camp?”
Fern nods her head, and Stark cannot help but notice how tired she looks.
“I’ll collect firewood,” he offers, already turning to search away from the main path.
Stark was nothing compared to Himmel the Hero.
Himmel the Hero could make anyone swoon over his easy charisma and dashing good looks.
Stark was–he was– snap.
Well, there was one log that couldn’t withstand his frustrations.
He throws the cracked logs over his shoulder, and there’s a thud as they hit something that isn’t dirt or grass.
“Mister Stark!”
Oh…that is not dirt or grass.
Stark quickly turns on his heels, already forming an apology in his mind–that is, until he feels soft lips crash onto his own.
Fern tastes like vanilla, and standing so close to her like this, his eyes wide, he notices that she has a birthmark under her left eye.
It takes seven seconds for their kiss to end, but Stark isn’t ready for that. He’s already leaning forward again by the time Fern is backing away.
“Next time you want to go searching for firewood, please make sure you aren’t throwing logs onto your travel companions.”
“I didn’t–”
His apology is cut off by a second, longer kiss.
He has to remind himself to breathe once Fern is finished with him.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Fern quickly moves to walk past Stark, gathering in her arms logs and sticks of varying lengths and widths.
“And next time, Mister Stark,” she says, “Consider whispering when you and Mistress Frieren share a story together. I could hardly concentrate.”
Speechless, Stark nods.
When Fern is out of sight, he brings an idle finger to his lips. He can still taste vanilla on his tongue, and he decides that if he were to count the ways in which he loves Fern, that will be next on the list.