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Serie is nothing but memories. She is an infinite archive of memories, a museum of memories, a stronghold of memories.
Long ago, some awed acolytes coined the moniker of “living grimoire” for her- an epithet to be spoken in hushed tones. A breathing testament to the magic of now and antiquity. An ever updating encyclopedia of spells.
Apt enough.
But to be the living grimoire is not just acquiring knowledge at face value. It requires knowing the applications of aforementioned knowledge.
To be Serie, Great Elven Mage, means being ambassador to eons of history.
She was here before humanity stood upright. Before they kindled their first fire for feasts.
She was here to bear witness to the evolution of a trickster beast’s lineage into the demons of today.
And she will be sentinel to the ages long after humans die out. Memories, memories, memories. Serie is past, present, and future.
Serie is made of memories. Memories of both spells themselves and the people that loved them.
If someone asked her about what she loved about magic, she’d scoff at that impudent fool and say,“Magic is a means to an end. A tool, a technology, not a pastime.”
And yet the pupils she taught could not disagree more. For them, magic is not only for slaughter. It is whimsy, it is creation, it is joy itself.
First was Flamme. Flamme the brave, Flamme the warmhearted. Just a silly girl Serie taught on a whim. A dreamer, a pollyanna, a naive optimist who believed in mankind above all else.
A whim, or so she tells herself.
Privately, Serie thinks, “This girl will amount to nothing. Or everything.”
How wonderfully wrong Serie was for the initial thought. In private, she knows Flamme was humanity's greatest. And had she possessed an elven lifespan, she could've been even more than the greatest. Flamme's candle would've burned a thousandfold over, stable and strong- instead of being extinguished by a more breath.
However, it is because Flamme was human that she sought to leave her mark on the world with such haste.
Flamme is bright. Bright as in sharp on the uptake, bright as in burning with passion, bright as in inspiring to all.
Too bright, like the sun in midday. Hanging high in the sky and warming meadow and river and every wild place that it touches.
And for all that brilliance? Serie outwardly says she finds Flamme wanting. Mediocre. Ordinary. (Or so the elven mage says out loud.)
Once, Serie asked Flamme what her favorite spell is.
She smiles so innocently, bright as the spring sun, “A spell to make a field of flowers.” A field of flowers? How useless. Sentimental. Worthless.
Then what a useless sentimental fool she has made you, Serie. You have no reason to keep fruitless testimony to this long dead woman you "taught on a whim."
And yet the flower beds of your private garden implicitly suggest Flamme. She haunts you. You keep this perennial reminder of that girl who loved flowers; the girl who loved flowers that became the woman who revolutionized mankind's magic.
Her ridiculous will requested that you take command of the Imperial Mages. A world of magic of all? You cannot reconcile this rubbish. The request is torn to shreds, but is it is too late. That wildfire of a girl already blazed a trail so strong and bright for the whole world to follow.
You supposedly lock away useless sentiments. You can never face the fact that you miss her. Grief, sorrow, lamentation? Those are for the realm of humans.
And yet.
You see her in the magic she left for the world. Flamme, the human flame, passed on the torch for generations past and generations to come.
Her defensive barriers are an echo of her legacy, for her magic protects humanity long after she is no more. A stone skipping over a pond that never stopped skipping, leaving infinite rings in the water as it bounces from surface to surface to surface into the future's horizons.
She was the first of many.
You, hardhearted ruler of magic, miss all of your students ferociously. You miss them like a phantom stab to the chest. You miss them by the way you never quite forget how they lived and what they loved. In the corner of your eye, you see ghosts. Ghosts of children and bygone days of learning by sunlight, studying by moonlight.
This too, should be useless sentimentality. A weakness to be conquered. An affliction of the heart. Old wounds that scab over only to tear oh so slightly open with memories, memories, memories.
All of magic. All of your students.
Why would you care so much about the useless preferences of shades?
All of your students' favorite spells are engraved upon your heart and mind. You are haunted by them all, but the haunting is gentle. A reminder. A testament to those you might have even called your children.
There was that girl after Flamme; she delighted in creating water orbs with waves that rippled like dancers in the round.
There was that boy who loved ensnaring the birds of the sky to study how their wings curved in flight.
There was Lernen, who cobbled living golems together from unfeeling stone.
What is engraved upon the heart is irrevocably unforgettable. Like carving upon tree bark, like a well preserved scrapbook bound only in your thoughts- to be carried upon every which road you wander. Each page is worn, creased, and referenced. Each page is of someone you once knew. Knew well.
For you who have mastered magic, you do not master your memories.
At times, they get the better of you.
You call your students disappointments. Unfulfilled potential.
And yet. Perhaps the only real disappointment is that your time with them is always cut short.
The other disappointment would be Flamme's first disciple, come to call at the first class mage exam.
Frieren.
She baffles you. Magic for magic's sake?
Frieren, whose hourglass will run just as long as yours, is a frivolous girl.
She stands before you in the third trial of the first-class mage exam.
That girl smiles. She knows you find her wanting. Lacking.
An utter fool.
"You know why you don't pass, right?" you tell her.
"Of course." Frieren replies.
Sentimentality holds her down. She wastes her time chasing useless spells that matter little.
But you would be loathe to admit that sentimentality holds you down just the same.
You pass Fern. You offer her your tutelage but Fern is resolute.
The purple haired girl shakes her head. "I will continue to follow Ms. Frieren."
"But why? I have magic untold, power beyond your imagination." you query.
Fern smiles, and her expression mirrors Frieren's mischief and delight.
"Ms. Frieren has been with me for over half my life. There is no one with a greater curiosity towards magic than her. Through every frost and return of the flowers, there is no one I'd rather have as my teacher."
So she says.
So she goes.
You privately award that Frieren girl some credit. With some reluctance.
Only a great teacher could inspire such ardent faithfulness in a pupil.
You are Serie.
Your heart has a hard shell. It will remains almost impenetrable to all outsiders. It is a fortress. A hilltop castle.
But within the shell, within the fortress' confinements, within the castle walls, lies a great secret.
You loved all your students, and would gladly teach them all again.