Chapter Text
You stumble backward, hitting the ground with a hard thud, instinctively dropping the scrolls in your arms as you catch yourself on the dirt road. You had been on your way back to the Holy City of Strahl when you ran into a group of bandits — though, by sheer luck, two adventurers happened to be traveling along the same path.
As the dust settles and the bandits are driven off, a hand enters your field of vision. When you take it, the warmth of his palm seeps into yours. His grip is rough — as expected of a warrior — although they hold a certain steady reassurance to them. The mysterious elf pulls you effortlessly to your feet, his free hand brushing the dust from your shoulder as though the danger had never existed.
“You’re alright now,” he says. There’s a quiet confidence in his tone that finally allows you to breathe again. His green eyes hold yours, the care in his gaze sending a strange tingle through your body.
“Marry me.”
For a split second, his eyes flicker with shock — his brows lifting in surprise — before a genuine laugh bursts from him. The weight of your own words hits you all at once, your cheeks flaring hot with embarrassment.
Why couldn’t the Goddess simply strike you down now?
“Well now,” his priest companion chuckles, nudging the taller male with his elbow. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a little fan club.” The human wiggles his brows, eyes dancing with amusement — at least someone was enjoying this. “Though I must say, my companion here requires a bit more before he can accept that kind of gratitude.”
Your pointed ears burn with mortification as you settle on his implication. Before either of them can react further, you lunge for your scattered parchments, fingers frantically gathering them in a panicked frenzy. Several scrolls crinkle beneath your grip as you snatch them up, then break into a full sprint down the dusty road.
It was humiliating enough that the only time you encountered another elf was while you were in distress — but to blatantly propose to him within moments of meeting him? Unforgivable.
You shake your head, trying desperately to banish the memory, though your face remains aflame with embarrassment. “Ah— stupid, stupid!” you groan, clutching the scrolls tighter to your chest. By now, they are long past their once-pristine condition.
Even with your long lifespan — and your notoriously poor memory — this is one moment you know you will never forget.
***
“Y/N! Y/N!”
The cathedral’s cellar is damp and gloomy — perfect for taking naps. The air carries the faint scent of old parchment and candle wax. The only light illuminating the space comes from a nearby candle, its wick sputtering as it nears the end of its life.
You stir at the sudden voice, burying your head deeper into your arms atop the table. The voice persists — more insistent this time.
“Y/N, how long have you been down here? The sun set two hours ago!”
You turn your head to the side, eyes still closed, and mumble, “Go away, Otto.”
Green eyes flash with annoyance as he descends the cellar steps. “We’ve worked together for over fifty years, and you still don’t know my name — unbelievable!” He looks tired — dark circles beneath his eyes and a stiffness in his shoulders that wasn’t there before. Yet despite his fatigue, he moves with his usual flamboyance. “I’m starting to think all you elves are the same—absolutely no respect for time.”
The priest carries a wooden tray holding a steaming bowl of soup and a slice of bread, the aroma quickly filling the cellar. Your stomach growls in response.
“I don’t think priests are supposed to be racist, Welt,” you say lazily, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.
This only further infuriates him. “For the last time, my name is Heiter!” He sets the tray down on the table with a huff. “At least I only have two more weeks of this.”
You push yourself upright, your back aching from the hard surface. The soup smells rich with herbs and broth — his attempt at making something you’d actually eat. You recite a quick prayer before taking the spoon and dipping it into the steaming liquid.
“Two weeks of what?” you ask before taking a bite.
He lets out an exaggerated sigh as he drops heavily onto a nearby stool. “Playing caretaker with you. I’ve finally decided to retire.”
You continue eating, nodding along with mild disinterest. You’ve heard this speech many times before, from an array of different priests.
His eyes soften as he watches you eat. “You’ve worked here your whole life. You should go out there — explore the world.”
No response.
“Surely you’ve met someone you could travel with,” he presses.
You pause mid-spoonful. “She’s busy…”
“Then maybe another elf?”
A certain elven warrior comes to mind. You shake your head.
“I know an elf,” he says thoughtfully. “Perhaps the two of you could travel together.”
“No, thank you.”
Heiter sighs, posture slumping in quiet defeat. “It’s a shame that with such a long lifespan, you have so little motivation to do anything with it.”
“I work,” you offer weakly.
“That doesn’t count. Have you ever thought about settling down? Maybe with a nice elf boy — starting a family?”
Your mind drifts back to the elf you met over a millennium ago.
“Maybe.”
Your answer earns a smile as Heiter rises from his stool. “Think about it, alright?” He pats your shoulder as he heads for the stairs. “And remember — you’re always welcome at my house.”
Little did Heiter know, you did consider his words. Although you would take the next decade before making your decision.
***
Extra
A month later, you find yourself standing at the edge of a small, lamplit house.
Heiter’s house.
Warm light spills from the windows into the dark, the curtains drawn back just enough to reveal the simple interior. Inside, Heiter sits at the table — he looks different. Across from him sits a small girl with violet hair.
She eats carefully, posture straight, listening with rapt attention as Heiter gestures wildly, spoon in hand, no doubt lecturing her on something trivial and overly dramatic. She nods at the appropriate moments. Occasionally, she frowns.
You watch as he pushes the bowl toward her, insisting she take more. She hesitates, then obeys. He ruffles her hair, earning an annoyed glare in return.
You pull out your small notebook and flip to a familiar page labeled Heiter. Beneath his name, written in neat, careful script, is another.
Fern.
You pause, then add a small note beside it.
Purple hair.
You close the notebook quietly and continue watching the way he cares for her.
Your chest tightens.
Good, you think.
The word surprises you with its certainty.
You remain there until the candles burn low, until Fern gathers the dishes and Heiter leans back in his chair, satisfied.
Only then do you turn away.
You leave without a sound, the warmth of the house lingering against your back long after the light fades from view.