Work Text:
33 years have elapsed since the death of Himmel the Hero.
Fern hefts the last of the grocery bags atop the small counter. The room of the inn they were staying at was fairly quaint this time around; however, it had a homey feel to it. Was it because of the neatly swept, aged arbor flooring? Perhaps it was due to the large window pane that invited plenty of sun to dance inside. Fern couldn’t put her finger on it, but something about the furnishing of this inn brought her back to her girlhood thirteen years ago when Mr. Heiter was still around to dote on her.
A small smile creeps onto her face. She’s been reminiscing more as the years pass, and it’s hard to believe that five years have already flown by since their journey to Aureole began. A “mere” five years, Miss Frieren would say, but Fern digresses. Their latest escapade landed them deep in demon territory, and the party had to fight tooth and nail to overcome the remnant army lying in wait to ambush them. Thankfully, they had managed to snag yet another triumph from the jaws of defeat, and Miss Frieren had decided to replenish their supplies at a nearby settlement before continuing the journey north.
Speaking of Miss Frieren, she had told her and Mr. Stark to run errands while she went into town looking for any odd jobs that could be rewarded. Despite being a long-lived mage, Miss Frieren was incapable of properly managing her funds; ergo, the party was once more on the edge of bankruptcy. Their journey was far from over, but these brushes with financial ruin have become common over the last few months. Fern sighs. She wouldn’t be surprised if the request that fished them out of the red was a particularly ridiculous one.
Just like the time you danced with Stark .
She flushes at the memory, before slapping her cheeks to disperse the thoughts. How many years ago had that been, and why could she still remember it so vividly? No, why was she even thinking about him, now of all times? To her credit, Mr. Stark is a rather memorable fellow… The unique way his dark roots blend into a fierce crimson, how his roguish looks mask a gentle spirit, and even the way his calloused palms press delicately against her own…
The blush on her face explodes into a searing scarlet as she catches herself fantasizing, the tips of her ears burning just as hot. Her mind has become an enemy, she surmises, and she’d be a fool to entertain it any further. She shakes her head violently before taking in a deep breath. Right, it was best to stay busy.
“Mr. Stark, are you back yet?”
The silence that met her query wasn’t the desired response, but she hadn’t expected him to return so soon either. Miss Frieren had rattled off a seemingly endless list of chores to the poor warrior, reasoning that he could finish them faster than anyone else in their party given his resilient build. Nonetheless, Fern couldn’t help but picture Mr. Stark as a dejected pack mule lugging off into the distance when they had split up to finish their respective tasks. Honestly, she wouldn’t have minded helping Mr. Stark with some of the errands, but Miss Frieren was adamant about her decision of only Mr. Stark going. Strange. He must have called her an “old hag” or something of that nature to be punished in such a manner. It was none of her business; however, so she didn’t inquire any further.
Still, being alone for the whole day isn’t something Fern’s keen on. An eerie, restless energy overcomes her in these rare moments of solitude, a humming electric current that prevents relaxation. Idly, Fern rocks back and forth on her heels, scanning the room for something to sort or clean to pass the time. She spots the abhorrent pile of junk in the corner of her room, likely the spoils of Miss Frieren’s rampant plunder. She shudders. Maybe she’ll start with something a bit easier.
She eyes Mr. Stark’s room. Slowly, she turns the knob and steps in after a moment of deliberation.
No, this isn’t a breach of privacy. I’m just cleaning. I’m sure he’ll be tired after running around town all day, and it would be cruel of me if I didn’t help him out. Besides, I have nothing better to do.
Fern tries to reason with her conscience, but a niggling feeling of dishonesty persists in the back of her mind. She’s just here to clean. She’s just here to avoid Miss Frieren’s mess. She’s not here because she’s interested in Stark— Mr. Stark.
“Liar,” Imaginary Miss Frieren deadpans. “Liar.”
Absentmindedly, she looks over the room, pretending not to hear the phantom of her master. There are some unfolded clothes strewn across his bed, but besides that, the room is fairly well-kept. To no one’s surprise, it’s much tidier than how Miss Frieren keeps herself.
“Hey,” the imaginary elf argues powerlessly. Fern smirks. Serves her right.
Not wanting to waste any more time, she moves to the bed to start folding the clothes but stops when something catches her attention out of the corner of her eye. On Mr. Stark’s desk lies an unfurled parchment, ink lines scribed in steady strokes. Wait. Mr. Stark writes ? In just a fraction of a second, a thousand questions pour out of Fern’s mind.
When did he learn to write? Had he always known how to write? That would make sense— Mr. Heiter always wrote to Mr. Eisen, so Mr. Stark naturally would have been taught by his master. Is he writing to Mr. Eisen, then? No, that wouldn’t make sense because Mr. Stark wants to tell his master about their adventure in person. Who is he writing to?
Fern takes a step forward before she abruptly stops in her tracks. A cool breeze blows into the room and settles on her right shoulder. When she turns to see what’s on her shoulder, she’s face to face with a mini Mr. Heiter, whose kind features are rumpled into a slightly disappointed frown.
“You’d respect his privacy, right, Fern?” Imaginary Mr. Heiter asks. “It’s not kind to snoop around.”
He has a point... She wouldn’t want Mr. Stark rummaging through her belongings, so she should reciprocate the sentiment here. Fern was about to walk away when another breeze settled onto her left shoulder. A mini Miss Frieren manifests out of thin air and nudges her cheek with an elbow. Conspiratorily, she leans into Fern’s ear and whispers:
“Aren’t you curious, though?”
Mr. Heiter clicks his tongue. “Frieren.”
“Oh come on, what’s the harm? Just one quick peek.”
“This is obviously a private note. He would have shared it if he wanted to.” Mr. Heiter chastises.
“And he must have forgotten to share it with Fern,” Miss Frieren shoots back. “Don’t listen to this Corrupt Priest, Fern. Go ahead.”
Mr. Heiter is absolutely appalled. “Fern, no!”
Miss Frieren sparkles. “Fern, yes!”
Before Fern could register it herself, her feet had already traveled the short distance to Mr. Stark’s desk, the letter directly in front of her. Blood rushes into her ears, drowning out the sounds of the twin hallucinations arguing for dominance. This is wrong. She shouldn’t be doing this. There’s no way to justify doing something like this.
“But don’t you want to know him?” Miss Frieren chimes in unhelpfully.
Mr. Heiter scoffs, retorting with, “You’ve known him for five years, Fern. You don’t have to do this.”
“You traveled with him for five years,” Miss Frieren corrects, something akin to melancholy bleeding into her voice. “I traveled with Himmel for ten years and knew nothing about him. You never knew that Stark wrote letters, right, Fern? What else have you yet to learn about him?”
“They’re good friends,” Mr. Heiter appeases, but even he sounds unsure. “She knows enough.”
Miss Frieren frowns. “Does she really, though?”
Mr. Heiter and Miss Frieren both look at Fern, anticipating her decision. Who does she choose? Does she have to choose? She closes her eyes tightly, and, when she opens them again, they’re both gone. From behind her, she can hear Miss Frieren’s voice distantly, a parting shot that’s barely audible.
“Don’t live with regrets. Life’s too short for humans.”
No regrets, huh? Fern balls her hands into fists before slowly relaxing them. She’d surely regret it if Mr. Stark grew to dislike her after this— that whatever they’ve built for the last several years came crumbling down like the walls of an ancient ruin. Still, she’d regret it even more if she didn’t truly know Mr. Stark— that the person she risked her life with and admired is nothing more than a fleeting illusion. Tentatively, her fingers reach out to the page and gently take hold. She briefly hesitates before taking a deep breath to steady herself. Her eyes dart to the first sentence of the letter.
I’m sorry Mr. Stark.
“Something about your smile, Fern, ignites a forlorn aching in my soul. It only worsens when your eyes crinkle ever so slightly— the flames are fanned and scorch my bones. I know I can’t express what I feel to you without losing what we have. You won’t feel the same, and I treasure our friendship more than anything. Insidiously, these feelings attempt to coax me into losing control, traitorous thoughts poisoning rationality and appealing to desire. I don’t want to lose it all— these memories, the way you look at me, your entirety— but these bottled longings threaten to overflow. Before that can happen, ruining our camaraderie in the process, I’ll write it down instead. Maybe then I’ll find closure. I don’t know. I don’t think I ever will know.„
Fern lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding in. Palpitations thrum in her chest at a maddening tempo. When has Mr. Stark been so eloquent— what happened to that child who was so excited to tell her about clouds shaped like breasts and feces? Desire? Longings? As in romantic feelings? Budding hope blooms in her stomach but is quickly doused with guilt. She isn’t supposed to be reading this— this letter was for his eyes only. He didn’t want to ruin what they had, and she treasures their friendship too. Yet, if they could be something more… Fern’s eyes return to the page, zeroing in on where she left off. She’s too invested, too hopeful, to stop now. With bated breath, she continues reading.
“To my dearest friend, my inspiration, my dawn:
I fell in love with the steadfast ambition that shone so earnestly through your eyes, a determined violet glow that pierced through the drab grays of daily life. Your laughter, a pleasant mirthful melody, entranced me wholeheartedly, and nothing has stunned me more than the first time I heard your glee. Yet, it was your indomitable character that captivated me above all else. Your silent persistence when no one is looking, your uncompromising virtue, your unyielding willpower— whenever I’ve doubted myself, I think of what you would do to gather my strength, to steel myself against the torrents of adversity. In all honesty, you have become more than just a role model for me. The stars above dance radiantly amongst a sea of celestial bodies; however, even they pale in comparison to your luminosity. The heroes depicted in ballads and folklore are selfless, brave, and charismatic, but even they do not inspire me as you do. Whenever you are with me, there is no terror too wicked, no mountain too steep, no dream too distant. You have brought out the best in me, and on days when I was overcome with cowardice, you have continued to drag me forward, whether I liked it or not. I love you, earnestly, and each new thing I learn about you makes me fall even harder. The nuance behind each of your discrete facial expressions, the softness of your hands when you tend to my wounds, the joy you radiate whenever dessert is before you— all attributes human and indescribably beautiful. I am smitten by the curse of your kindness: so warm, so soothing, yet never intimate. I love you, but you will never love me. I love you because, to you, I am someone who can be trusted. I won’t betray that trust— your faith in me was not misplaced. I promise to always support you, for my love transcends that of the heart, the flesh, and the mind. I love you with all that is me.
Silently evermore,
Stark„
…
Fern tries to process what she just read, but she can’t think over the thundering beat of her racing heart. For some reason, she’s breathless, as if she’s been running from a Solar Dragon for hours on end. Fern reads the letter again, hoping the feeling would subside. It only gets stronger as she revisits the passionate declarations embedded in scratchy papyrus.
She’s never felt like this before . Was it boundless happiness? Relief? Affection? Giddiness? There’s no proper way to describe it. The warmth , for lack of a better term, spreads from her chest to the rest of her body. She wants to laugh and cry at the same time. She wants to dance until her legs give out from under her. She wants to hold—
Stark. Their eyes meet.
How long has he been standing there?
“Fern?” he questions, yet there’s an undercurrent of dread in his voice. Horror fills in his expression when he realizes what’s in her hands.
“Stark,” she acknowledges.
He gulps. “Hey… Um… You didn’t happen to—“
“I did,” she replies without a second thought. “Every single word.”
Stark deflates, his shoulders sagging visibly. “Oh,” Her words sink in and grief overtakes him. “Oh. ”
Tremors shake his arms like a monsoon tearing at willow branches. He’s scared, Fern realizes. If she were in his position, she’d be terrified too. Yet despite his fear, he continues to stand his ground— continues to look her in the eyes. It’s no wonder she fell for him— she never stood a chance against that look. Imperceptibly, she smiles.
“Not going to run?”
“Would it make a difference?”
Fern hums. “I suppose it wouldn’t. Thanks for not being a pain about this.”
A sad, despondent chuckle left his lips. Fern hated the sound. “I’ll apologize, so please forget what you’ve read.”
“That’s something I can’t agree to, Stark,” she responds, closing the gap between them. Annoying. He’s more than a head taller than her, and she can’t reach him even if she stands on her toes. “Did you mean what you wrote?“
Stark smiles— defeated. “Yep. Down to the last word.“
“Is that so? Could you bend down for me, Stark?“
He flinches but complies anyway, bracing himself. “If you’re gonna hit me, be gentle. Believe it or not, I’m—”
Whatever words Stark was about to say dies in his throat… More accurately, they sputter out pathetically against Fern’s mouth. They’re kissing, he realizes after several long seconds, his lips sealed with hers. She’s kissing him.
Fern’s first kiss isn’t anything like what the fairytales made them out to be. There’s no faint taste of lemon, nor is there any lip biting or seductive tongue-on-tongue action. No, it’s far less sexy than that. She’s pretty sure that she smashed her forehead against Stark’s, and their teeth clinked against each other every so often. It’s a very awkward smushing of lips, Fern offhandedly thinks. Fern deepens the kiss, tilting Stark’s head back ever so slightly so that their mouths meld at a more inclined angle. He moans into her, shuddering as the stimulus overwhelms him. She preens, utterly delighted.
Her first kiss isn’t what the fairytales predicted, but it’s far better than what she could’ve ever imagined. She loves it. She loves Stark.
He grabs onto her wildly, stringing his arms around her waist and shoulders, and holding her desperately as if she would disappear at any moment. Electricity jolts between them, frenzied sparks that heighten enthrallment— it’s maddening, all-consuming. Fern pushes more of her tongue into Stark’s mouth, and he happily receives her with his own. There’s no coordination or method to the madness, just pure instinct piloting the both of them until they’re writhing masses of pleasure. Experimentally, Fern sucks at the bottom of Stark’s lip, teeth delicately taking hold and tugging gently at the fleshy fold. It proves to be too much for him, causing him to yelp and lose his balance.
Unceremoniously, they fall over, with Fern landing on top of him, and the kiss is broken. What a bummer, Fern pouts. They were just getting to the good part. Still, she can’t help but laugh as she catches a glimpse of Stark’s dumbfounded face, the warm sensation once again welling up in her chest.
“What—“ Stark rasps out, winded. “What just happened?”
“We kissed,” she explains easily. “I kissed you.”
He stares at her with wide eyes before pinching his cheeks. Stark shuts his eyes tight before opening them again forcefully. When he opens his eyes, Fern is still lying on top of him, a gentle smile teasing him playfully. The fragrant scent of her hair still lingers in the air, wafting over him and making his head spin. She’s so soft, so warm . Dammit, he’s starting to tear up.
“This isn’t a dream.”
“No,” Fern replies, wiping the corners of his eyes fondly. “I suppose it isn’t.”
“You’re not some cruel illusion I’m fantasizing about.”
“You’d think of doing this with me?” Fern grins. “Perv.”
Sheepishly, he averts his eyes. “Sorry.”
“No, I’m happy. I’m happy that you think about me so much. Honestly, I thought I was the only one.”
Stark’s brow arches inquisitively, and Fern lets out a sigh. There should be a limit to how dense a person could be.
“Do you need me to spell it out for you?” she frowns.
He looks at her, eyes filled equal parts with hope and caution. “If you wouldn’t mind…”
Languidly, she leans down and presses a chaste kiss against his lips. All prior reservations from Stark melt away, and he leans into her advance. He tastes sweet, she discovers, like a Jumbo Berry Special on a hot summer day. He’s perfect . Eventually, she pulls back, basking in the glory of his sprawled-out form.
“I love you,” Fern reaffirms, her lips curving upwards in an expression of complete adoration. “I love you, Stark, dearly.”
He smiles, a wobbly, pathetic smile with salty streams trailing down his cheeks. Fern has never seen something as precious. He embraces her, pressing her close to his heart.
“Thank the Goddess,” he whispers.
“Thank yourself,” she whispers back. “For having the courage to write such a letter.”
He laughs. The golden sound warms her further.
“I guess you’re right.”
.
.
.
Meanwhile, somewhere in the marketplace…
Frieren adjusts the ring Himmel gave her, running her fingers nostalgically over the silver band. The sun gleams off of the mirrored lotus, shining brilliantly as if more than eighty years hadn’t passed. Frieren smiles. By now, Fern should have found the note Stark wrote about her— Frieren made sure to leave it out in an obvious place before she left. Once again, she runs her finger over the timeworn ring.
“I hope they find happiness, Himmel,” she says to the sky. Jubilantly, the wind whispers back in mute agreement.