Work Text:
༯
Frieren's POV, Present Time
The sun was warm on her face that morning. A soft breeze blew strands of long white hair from her face, billowing behind her like a flag.
It was undone today—Fern was in one of her moods again, though it wasn’t like Frieren was completely innocent in the matter.
She had overslept yet again, setting them back in their travels by a few hours, meaning they missed sunrise and the chance for an early start.
Instead, they were now hitching a ride from an elderly farmer on the back of his wagon, settling down in the back for a bumpy ride through the forest over a path full of potholes and loose stones.
And to make matters worse, the donkey pulling the wagon was as old as the farmer himself.
According to said farmer, his land was just on the other side of the forest, and he made this journey quite frequently, so he knew the safest paths to take.
Fern wasn’t comforted. So now Frieren and Stark were paying the price.
Stark was rubbing his ribs from where she’d ‘accidentally’ elbowed him while getting on the wagon, and well—Frieren’s hair was a long tangled mess.
Stark shot her a pleading look, one she’d come to recognise as, please do something, or more specifically, please do something to calm Fern down.
Frieren would love to do something to calm her apprentice down, really, but at the moment, she was acutely aware of the scowl burning into the back of her head. And so she didn’t want to risk the wrath of her grumpy apprentice for fear of her hair getting pulled.
Instead, she curled up against the barrel in the corner of the wagon and shut her eyes, allowing the warmth of the sun rays to soak into her skin.
She heard mumbles coming from Stark, something along the lines of, damn unreliable grandma, and cracked an eye open, arching a brow.
“That’s strike two.” She said, and Stark scooted backwards, hands raised sheepishly as he relented.
She settled back down, ignoring the quiet voices of her party as Stark smoothed things over as best he could.
Somewhere, in the back of Frieren’s mind, she was getting that vague sense of déjà vu. Though she’d been getting that feeling ever since they started retracing her old steps, something about this one felt different.
But for the life of her, she could not name it.
“Oh, Mistress Frieren, you’re wearing the ring today.” Came Fern’s voice, soft with surprise.
Frieren opened her eyes a smidge, and gathered from Stark’s relieved look that Fern had calmed down, for now.
Glancing down, she saw her own fingers spinning the silver ring Himmel had given her around her ring finger.
In truth, she’d barely been aware she’d even been doing it.
“There’s a small hole in my bag.” She spoke after a moment, watching as the band caught the sunlight. “I didn’t want it to fall out, and lose it again.”
For once, she didn’t miss the glance between Fern and Stark.
But she didn’t bother saying anything else.
Her mind was too caught up in the lingering memory of another hand holding hers, gently slipping the ring onto her finger, some time ago.
If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel his thumb, brushing over her knuckles, leaving a trail of blazing warmth in its path.
It even had her hand curling around the fingers that were no longer there.
“...him?”
Frieren blinked, looking up to see Stark staring at her curiously. He’d said something, she realised. “Pardon?”
“I asked you if you could tell us about him. Himmel.” He said, scratching the back of his fiery red head. “You always seem to mention him or your party, but you never really go into detail.”
“I must admit, I’m a little curious too.” Fern caught her eye for a moment, before turning and rooting around in her bag. She pulled out a hairbrush, and gestured for her to sit in front of her. “Come here. I’ll fix your hair while you talk, if you like.”
Frieren eyed her for a moment, wondering what the chances of it being a ploy to pull her hair were, but finally, she shrugged her shoulders. She didn’t care enough to avoid the possible trap and instead sat in front of Fern, legs hanging off the edge of the wagon. Fern gathered the long white locks in her hands, and gently began brushing through the tangled mess, starting with the ends and making her way up. It was a soothing feeling—a gentle pull, the brush starting at her roots and smoothing through the length of her hair in one go.
It was a warm feeling, too. And something about it reminded her of Flamme, doing something similar an age ago. A carefully carved comb brushing through her hair, her master’s steady hands weaving a firm braid over her shoulder.
“What would you like to know?” Frieren asked after a moment’s comfortable silence.
“Anything.” Fern hummed, placing the brush down and separating her hair into two parts, then splitting both parts three ways.
“What was his favourite food?” Stark asked eagerly.
“L’oeuf omelette.” Frieren replied almost immediately. “A portion large enough for four people, every time. Though he mostly ate it all himself.”
A warm, fuzzy image of herself, Himmel, Heiter and Eisen sitting around a table in a boisterous inn eating their meals brushed against her mind. Himmel had been lively that night, cheerily requesting another l'oeuf omelettle, while Heiter drank himself into oblivion and Eisen tried to get by quietly. Himmel, of course, had picked up on that immediately and slung his arm around his companion's shoulders, a laugh so bright bursting from his lips, that it made the Warrior himself chuckle along too.
Frieren felt her lips twitch at the memory.
“Favourite colour?”
“Really Fern? Favourite colour? That’s such a basic question.” The boy-warrior teased.
“You said favourite food. In what way is that better?” She huffed, rising to the bait and accidentally pulling too hard on one part of her hair as she braided one side. “And it’s only basic depending on the answer. You saying your favourite colour is red would be basic, Master Stark.”
“But it is!”
“Point proven. Please continue, Mistress Frieren.” Fern beamed.
Frieren hid her amused smile. “His favourite colour was blue.”
Silence.
Then, a snicker from Stark. “You just called Himmel the Hero basic.”
“Be quiet.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“You know, you remind me of him sometimes, Stark.” Frieren spoke all of a sudden, turning her face as they passed a cherry blossom tree, watching the pretty pink blossoms flutter from the branches to the forest floor.
Stark perked up, surprised. “Me?”
“Every town and village we visited adored him for one thing, and for another, he was always out helping people, even when we’d settle in for a few days to rest. Just like you do.”
Frieren could tell the words meant a lot to the boy. He smiled to himself, looking at his hands fiddling in his lap. Frieren had noticed this, but seemingly, it wasn’t just his master he looked up to.
Then again, who didn’t look up to Himmel the Hero?
“He was incredibly brave.” She murmured. “In all my time in this world, I have never come across another as selfless as Himmel.”
Actually, I’ve never come across another like Himmel at all.
“He was one of a kind.”
“It sounds like he left quite the impression.” Stark commented, receiving an elbow from Fern. He yelped, clutching his probably bruised ribs, shooting her a wounded look.
But Frieren just smiled. “I suppose he did.”
Fern’s hands paused in their braiding, and her eyes widened. She’d never heard Mistress Friern openly admit something like that before.
“Why don’t I tell you about the time Himmel accidentally stepped on a dragon’s tail?”
The pair gasped and exchanged an eager glance. “Please do!”
Frieren smiled. As they went down the winding forest path, the golden light of the sun warming her face, she glanced up at the orange-pink sky.
You would’ve gotten along so well with them, Himmel.
༯
Himmel's POV, 81 Years Ago
His hands are warm as they brush against hers. They always are.
There are many times like these, where his hand happens to brush against hers. Perhaps when he’s reaching for a map, or other supplies or simply by accident.
But whatever the reason, Himmel cherishes the feeling of her hand against his, even for a split second.
Her hands are cool. They always are.
Not cold, per se. But they feel refreshing against his. Is that the reason he enjoys the sensation so much? The reason those little ‘accidents’ always seem to happen?
No, of course it isn’t.
Looking up as Frieren walks on like nothing happened—which for her, nothing did—Himmel knows exactly why. He’s known for a long time now. If only he had the courage to tell her. Tell her exactly how he feels about her. Tell her that she’s his first thought in the morning and the last before his eyes close when sleep takes him each night.
Tell her that he loves being in her company, even when she’s distant, and not talking.
Tell her that he loves that grumpy face she makes each morning after being woken up too early for her liking.
Tell her that he loves the way her eyes light up upon the prospect of being that 1% to stumble upon a mimic that holds treasures inside.
Tell her that he loves how passionate she is about her grimoires.
Tell her that he loves every single spell she’s ever uttered.
Tell her that he loves how kind she can be. How brave. How strong. How utterly terrifying.
Tell her that he loves her endless teal eyes, her soft white hair that turns to silver under the moonlight and that turns to gold under the sunlight.
Tell her that he loves her heart, her mind and her very soul.
Tell her that he loves her.
That he loves every single part of her. That he is so completely taken with her, she has been the only one in his heart for a near decade.
God, he loves her. But Himmel isn’t brave enough to tell her just that. He doesn’t know if he ever will be. And even if he is, if one day he finds the courage within himself to confess, Himmel doesn’t know if he even would. Because something about confessing his love to the person he holds dearest, who’s unable to reciprocate, seems selfish to him.
And the last thing Himmel wants Frieren to see him as, is selfish. Pressuring.
Frieren is his dear friend, and it would pain him greatly if his selfishness were to disrupt the harmony that had grown between them. So for now, he is content with these ‘accidental’ touches. The lingering eye-contact. Those gentle smiles that he always reserves just for her.
Himmel would spend his whole life loving her, and unbeknownst to the hero, Frieren would one day come to love him for the rest of hers.