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    Summary

    "I'm not a child, Flamme. I'm one hundred and thirty-five years old. I've killed demons. I've mastered magic that most humans couldn't dream of. I know my own mind."

    "You're barely an adult by elven standards, for the Gods’ sakes–"

    "And you're human," Frieren's voice was soft but firm, "You have maybe fifty more years if you're lucky–if I’m lucky. Less if you keep taking dangerous jobs. Every day you spend pushing me away is a day we'll never get back."

    Flamme turned then, and the look on her face was anguished, "I don't want to hurt you."

    "Then don't push me away," Frieren closed the remaining distance between them.

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