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“It looks good.”
Stark peaks from the corner of his eye to see Fern giving Frieren the okay to start her day. Face washed, teeth brushed, hair combed. Everything taken care of. Frieren thanks her apprentice quietly, tells her she’ll spend the rest of the day in a shady old man’s shop, and exits promptly.
There is silence. A comfortable kind, that they both sit in.
He sees her take the brush and start to thread it through her own hair. Slow strokes, untangling the tiny knots and smoothing the rest.
“Does anyone brush your hair?” When he receives no response, he turns. “Fern?”
A small sound leaves her, and he checks over his shoulder. She’s staring at her own reflection, brush in her lap.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, feeling immediately like he’s done something. What, he’s not sure, but it’s not good.
“My mother.”
He exhales slow, staring in front of him. The weight of what he’s instigated sits heavy. “Oh.”
“I think she did,” she continues, and her voice is absent of irritants. “I don’t know for sure. Maybe I wish she did.”
He smiles a little. He can understand that. What he envisions his parents did for him before they were no longer…there.
Fern has similar visions.
“Can I?” He’s gotten to his feet and stepped behind her chair by the time he says it. Looks at the mirror to see her reaction and feels calmed by her small smile. He leans down to take the brush from her hands, which is held limp within them. She lets him, that’s clear. It almost feels calculated, because this is Fern, after all. But it doesn’t matter. He wants to touch her, somehow, someway.
Slow strokes slide down the back of her head. He keeps a hand at the base, holding the locks gingerly, like he’s seen her do for Frieren. He’s not experienced with this, but he knows when she winces, he needs to stop.
“It’s alright,” she whispers when he hesitates. “It’s just a tangle.”
He grips at her roots, hoping that it won’t cause her pain when he pulls the comb through then. When she hums contently, he pulls it. Silence, and he breathes a relieved sigh.
“That’s good,” she sighs, and his heart thumps.
That’s good.
Those words will inspire him for years to come.
He’s still careful. Takes another lock in his fingers, combs through. Lays it to rest and admires it.
She has such pretty hair.
Pretty eyes, pretty skin.
Pretty pout.
His stomach clenches, and he takes another portion of hair into his fingers. Slides the comb through, his fingers, lets it fall. Sighs, deeply.
“Thank you,” she whispers, and his guts flip. “I don’t know….I don’t know the last time someone did that for me.”
He’s ready to get to his knees and beg her to let him do it for the rest of his days.
He drops his hands, one with the comb, and smiles down at her when she turns. All sweet softness.
“Willing and ready,” he stutters out, wondering if it came out too corny.
Her covered mouth and smile are all he needs.
The comb is shoved in his pocket, a precious treasure.
It’s for her, and her for him.