Work Text:
She’s dreaming again.
The sun’s nearly at its lowest, setting below the church’s domed roof and casting its golden hour glow upon his light blue hair. It shimmers in the wind, swaying softly in the most delicate way. Frieren has never seen him comb his hair; she wonders how he keeps it so silky.
“Frieren,” he says. Her stare moves down from his hair to his face, and when their eyes meet, his gaze feels soft against her skin. Himmel continues down from her eyes to the rest of her, looking up and down as if to analyze her small stature. Frieren feels her eyebrow twitch.
“What?” she asks impatiently.
He smiles, like he always does, eyebrows slanting as he meets her eyes once more. His expression holds a sense of bittersweetness, one Frieren never quite understood.
“I have something for you,” his smile turns sly. Mischievous. Giddy. Only then does Frieren notice how he’s hiding his right hand behind his back, as a child with a surprise would. She almost laughs at the immaturity of it all, but she puts on a straight face.
“Well? We don’t have all day,” she says, pouting. Brows furrowing in mild annoyance.
This is a dream.
His eyebrows lift, and he smiles, teeth bared, whisker dimples showing. The golden sunlight pours into his blue eyes, bringing out the flecks of green littering the area around his pupil. Iridescent, they were.
Everything about him was iridescent. His smile, his hair, his will, but especially his eyes. They reminded her of the magic crystals that illuminated dark caves, of the twinkling stars that scattered the dark sky. But only in her head, of course. She didn’t want his ego to inflate to another millennium at one little compliment.
“Here,” he finally says, pulling out his right hand from his back and revealing the surprise. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Frieren.”
He held out a bouquet of red carnations, twelve to be exact, wrapped in newspaper and tied off with a matching red ribbon. The petals bask in the light, painting it a bright red instead of their originally darker, richer tone. The tips even showed hues of orange in them.
It’s a bouquet, that’s obvious, but Frieren doesn’t remember asking for one. Nor does she remember saying she liked carnations, because she doesn’t. And she doesn’t even know what ‘Valentine’s Day’ means.
“What is this for?” she asks, looking away from the bouquet and back up at him, only to be met with a smile brighter than the setting sun itself.
“Do you like it?” he doesn’t answer her question. If he had a tail, it’d be wagging right now.
This is a dream.
“What is it for?” she asks again, this time with more force. “And what is Valentine’s Day?”
His gleeful smile turns sappy, expression dimming to a softer look. “The day when you give your valentine a gift.”
“And what is a valentine?”
“Are you going to take the flowers or not? My arm’s getting tired here,” he whines, shaking it to emphasize his point.
Frieren rolls her eyes at his dramatics. It’s always something new with him.
“Don’t gift me flowers,” she says, taking them from his hand anyway. She brings the posy to her nose, allowing the spicy-sweet, cinnamon-like smell to settle within. “It pains me to see pretty things wilt away.”
She holds them away from herself and back into the rays of the golden sun, memorizing how the sun kissed their ruffly petals, when she hears him laugh.
This is a dream.
He’s loud and unapologetic, as he always is. Doubled over and wheezing, unashamed, even though they were square in the middle of the town center. Frieren couldn’t even see his face, only his bangs that hung from his hairline.
She waited for him to calm down with a deadpanned expression, all care for the bouquet in her hand suddenly lost.
It took him a good minute or two to settle down, to stand upright and catch his breath. He wipes away tears of laughter with his finger, still grinning ear-to-ear. Frieren feels her eyebrow twitch. Again.
“What’s so funny?” she says, grip subconsciously tightening around the bouquet.
“Your pessimism, that’s what,” he replies, earning himself a kick in the shin from an angry elf.
“Ow! What was that for?!” he cries, holding his shin like he hasn’t been through worse. “You’re not supposed to hit your valentine!”
Frieren’s brows crease, “What is a valentine?!”
He halts his whining at that, pouty lips curling into that stupid, sly smile once more. “Secret~!”
She frowns, but she feels her lips threatening to curl.
This was a dream.
Frieren wakes up. And, for the first time in a long time, it isn’t because Fern is shaking her awake. She can still hear Fern softly snoring on the bed beside her. She didn’t know Fern snored. She doesn’t mind it.
She lies in bed for a while, staring up at the ceiling while trying to recount her dream. She knows she had one; she can still feel the remnants of a spicy-sweet floral scent in her nose, but it isn’t quite coming back. Only in bits and pieces.
A soft look. A cinnamon-like scent. Incessant laughter. A kick to the shin. Iridescence.
Frieren has had her fair share of dreams in her lifetime. No dream has ever left her feeling as empty as this one has. It feels important, today feels important, and the reason is on the tip of her tongue.
Closing her eyes doesn’t help, doesn’t jog her memory, nor help her fall back asleep. Even the sound of Fern’s rhythmic snoring doesn’t help.
She slowly pulls back the blanket and sits up, swinging her legs off the bed to stand. A faint light peeks from behind their curtains, the early signs of dawn.
It feels odd getting ready on her own. Usually, she’s in a half-awake state while Fern combs her hair, helps her dress, and gathers her things to get ready to leave. Today is different. Today feels different.
What day is it today? She wonders, brushing out the tangles in her hair and wincing when it catches a knot. She knows it’s sometime in the middle of February, hence the chilly weather, but she’s never been the one to keep track of dates. That’s Fern’s thing.
She exits the room quietly, afraid to wake light sleeper Fern. The door clicks silently behind her, she locks it, and leaves their lodging to explore town.
There's a quaint farmer’s market by the domed church that serves as the landmark of the town center. It’s quiet and empty, some stalls are still closed due to the early hour. Frieren doesn’t mind; she enjoys the ambience.
Most stalls consist of vegetables, fruits, and the usual selection of items you’d expect at a farmer’s market. But one stall in particular catches her eye.
The seller is a frail old lady with spectacles and a cane who offers Frieren a small smile when she comes by.
“Welcome,” she says. “Looking for anything in particular?”
Frieren shakes her head, “Just browsing.”
Looking at the array of species, the pops of red, blue, yellow, and violet, the spicy-sweet, cinnamon-like scent still lingers in her mind.
“Actually,” she calls the attention of the kind seller, “I am looking for something. Would you happen to have or know any flowers that smell vaguely like cinnamon?”
“Red carnations?” she replies without missing a beat.
The name feels like a fresh wound in her mind, “May I see them?”
With the point of her finger, Frieren sees the deep scarlet ruffly petals and feels a wave of memories come over her.
A bouquet, wrapped in newspaper and tied with red ribbon. Ruffly petals whose tips turn orange in golden sunlight.
Someone had given it to her, someone with iridescent eyes and a bittersweet smile.
Somewhere where the sun was setting, with a church and a fountain nearby.
But who? And why?
Frieren feels mildly lightheaded.
“Are you feeling all right, young miss?” the seller asks, “Do you need to sit down?”
“No, no,” Frieren shakes her head. “I’m all right. Just feeling a little under the weather.”
“Oh dear, it is quite chilly this time of year. Be careful not to catch a cold.”
That reminds her. “Sorry to bother, but if I may ask; what day is it today?”
“February 14,” the shopkeeper flashes a knowing look. “If I’m not mistaken.”
February 14. Today feels important.
Frieren doesn’t know why.
She thanks the vendor anyway and continues scrolling through her wares, not looking for anything, but also looking for something. February 14. Her mind can’t seem to let go of it.
It’s on the tip of her tongue, something that started with a V, she’s sure. Something that’s got to do with flowers. All this memory jogging is giving her a migraine.
The dream’s not coming back; she has to learn to accept that. Despite her gifted elven memory, it’s all useless when it comes to dreams. Dreams that are orchestrated by her unconscious mind while she sleeps.
She decides to get flowers for Fern; she deserves a little something for always caring for Frieren in the mornings when she’s in her moods.
A posy catches her eye. They’re long-stemmed, much like lavenders are, but their flowers are special. Five-petaled and a vibrant royal blue at its center, with hints of violet painting its tips. Iridescent.
“Excuse me,” Frieren calls, “I’ll take one bouquet of these.”
The vendor smiles, “Good eye, you have.” She grabs a bunch of them, “They’re called larkspurs, quite the rarity around these parts.”
“Larkspurs…” Frieren mumbles to herself. It’s always something new with flowers.
She watches the shopkeeper carefully wrap the posy in newspaper, fetching an indigo ribbon to go along with the larkspurs’ hue. “Are you buying them for your valentine?” she asks.
Another fresh wound.
“What is a valentine?”
She doesn’t look surprised at Frieren’s question. “It’s a human custom,” she says. “On February 14th, we give flowers or chocolate to our loved ones in celebration of Valentine’s Day.”
So that’s what those flowers were for, Frieren’s lips tug at a smile. Himmel and his pointless human customs.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Fern,” Frieren said, holding out the bouquet to a very surprised Fern. She was surprised partly because of the flowers, but mostly she was surprised that Frieren had woken up before her.
She liked the flowers. Said they smelled nice and were her favorite color. But she, too, didn’t know what Valentine’s Day was. Frieren didn’t hesitate to tell her.
“If that’s so,” Fern looked down, “then who is the other bouquet for?”
“These?” Frieren gestures to the bouquet of blue, iridescent morning glories in her arms. “They’re for myself.”
Fern raised a brow at that, but said nothing more. Simply smelled the larkspurs in her hand with a contented smile on her face.
And maybe later, once Stark and Fern have gone off on their own to explore town, Frieren will visit his statue. Maybe she’ll bring the bouquet of blue morning glories along with her.
The midafternoon sun will shine onto his smiling face through the weeping willow leaves that serve as its grotto. His hair won’t shimmer as it used to, nor will his eyes, but they’ll have to do.
Maybe she’ll use a simple levitation spell to place the bouquet in his arms. The morning glories will turn iridescent in the sunlight, the blue will bring a nice pop of color against the dull grey of the stone.
It’ll be odd being eye level with him; Frieren’s only ever seen him from her height. She’ll notice his tall nose bridge, high cheekbones, the beauty mark right below his eye, and his heart-shaped lips that curve nicely into that same bittersweet smile.
Even in stone, he’ll look at her with the same expression.
Frieren will find herself smiling, too. Maybe then she’ll take him by his face, feeling the cold, textured stone under her palms as they cup his cheeks.
She’ll feel the defined lumps of his hair when she presses her forehead against his, the coldness and texture all the same. She’ll close her eyes and imagine his warm, smooth skin under her hands. His silky blue hair against her forehead.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Himmel,” she’ll say, before feeling stupid for talking to a polished hunk of rock.