Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Trust came in chapters to Stark.

After his brother, the first person he'd felt safe with was his master, Eisen. 

He’d kept running and running without a destination in mind. Unable to feel his bloodied feet, unable to see or hear, but with only one thought:

“You must survive, Stark.”

His body must have known something he hadn't, for not long after, he found himself collapsed in front of a sloped door built into a hillside.

And from there, his life changed again.

They were different. 

Where his brother had been gallant and kind, his Master was hard and stoic. Always to the point, without a care for feelings. 

But at times, when the old dwarf would place a steady hand against his back—rough and calloused from a lifetime of battle—when his Master looked at him straight in the eye, strong and unwavering, and said, “You can keep going, boy.”

Stark knew, they were the same. 

Master Eisen’s cape may have been red and worn—miles away from any hue close to white—but to Stark, they were the same.

Life was peaceful here.

That is, until the day his Master struck him across the face, leaving a weeping scar. He'd been so young, and angry, and confused then, that he hadn’t bothered to look back as he packed up his things and left. 

He scoffs at himself now. He had been fourteen and foolish.

Because it had never been about the scar.

Master Eisen hadn’t said a word, his only blessing—if it even was one—came in the form of a battle axe. Already propped against the door. 

Stark had hesitated, only for a moment,  a bag tossed over his shoulder and the weapon gripped in his fist. He'd contemplated simply throwing that down too, rejecting it altogether.

But fear seized his heart in spite of the picturesque landscape that beheld him beyond the jamb of the door. This had been home. 

Even then, his master's back was still as stone. He thinks back now to what could have been different, had they both not been so stubborn. 

In the end, there was no praise nor encouragement for the young boy, even once.

Stark left his second home similarly to his first; running. The weight of more than just the axe, heavy upon his shoulders.

He and Fern fought a lot. He thought they'd never get along and that he wouldn’t really care. 

After all, their time was only temporary, born from a promise sent by his master.

But when she turned her back on him, and stomped off at his reluctance to fight a dragon, he had to admit he was struck by fear greater than that of facing demons. He thought, "this was it, they’ve given up on me too.”

He was being praised a hero of a village when he'd quite literally done nothing, and even the two closest people he’d find to his Master thought it was pathetic. 

“But you still faced it didn’t you? Scared or not, you never left them behind. When it came down to it—in between the dragon and the people, stood you—and you surely would have chosen to stand there forever if you had to.”

Frieren’s words left him stricken, like a hard blow, all the while she stares off into the space her apprentice had disappeared to, at least a millenia’s worth of wisdom in her gaze.

He recalls her words, “You can surely protect these people.”

Just trust me. She seemed to say.

Old memories flash through his mind: A village up in flames, every last man, woman, and child slaughtered. And at the forefront of it all, was a brother long lost yelling at him to run, sword in hand.

He too had turned his back to him, then.

But under the darkened sky, the screams of the dying, and destruction. A resounding voice cuts through his memory. His brother's back was a solid wall of gleaming white.

“Stark, you have to live!” 

So, he alone fled. 

And he lived. 

He guesses all this time, he had made excuses for himself. The real reason he’d never left this village was because he sought atonement for his past. And because he chose to blindly believe in those words. No matter what, he would survive.

“You are a good warrior, Stark.”

She looks away, when in the silence, he weeps. 

In the beginning, he never knew it was possible to displease someone as much as he did with Fern.

No matter if he brought up a light-hearted joke, or suggested they switch to more convenient plans or openly showed his reluctance to engage in quests that required beating a powerful enemy or any possibly life-threatening labor; it seemed that everything he did made the mage inexplicitly angry.

He was sure it was because, in her eyes, he was nothing but a helpless coward.

Yet at the same time, he couldn’t help but forgive her.

Stark had quickly learned in their short time together that outside all her apathetic bravado, Fern cared deeply.

It showed when she asked him to help get Frieren up at dawn, or trusted him to watch their meals at the fire as she wrangled her master's hair, or neatly cleaned and mended his jacket, leaving it out for him to find, or gave him any number small, menial tasks as they went about their daily lives.

Her kindness showed in all the ways she made life normal, as if he'd always been there with them.

He was grateful for it. 

Despite her obvious disapproval at his lack of will, Fern has always reached out first.

"So this was a result of your training." It's the most lackluster reaction he's seen to the chasm he's personally worried into a cliffside.

At first, he had really thought she was coming back to pick a fight, what with the way she had stormed off earlier that evening.

But she comes to find him, hands clasped behind her back; the picture of leisure. He's left puzzled and a bit annoyed at her for coming just to ogle him. Asking him whether he would fight the dragon, despite already knowing the answer.

She had to be mocking him. And if this was a new form of torture, then kill him now.

He slams his axe into the ground, gathering the courage to give her a piece of his mind when instead, she stuns him into silence.

"I do not believe Stark-sama would run." She says, eyes downcast. Apologetic.

When she reaches out to take his hand, he flinches in the way his Master never would. It only serves to heighten his own feelings of shame, anger…remorse. 

Don't say that. He couldn’t do it again, he couldn’t handle another look of disappointment.

But her touch is unexpectedly soft and so warm against his cold fingertips.

There is a painful ache in his chest and burn in his throat; he clenches his free hand harder to stop himself from doing something stupid. 

“What would you know about me?” He croaks, voice strained. 

If she notices, she doesn’t say anything. 

Instead, she turns his torn hand as if to convince him, and amends, "I don’t know a single thing about you. But I believe your will to protect this village is surely genuine.”

A steady breath, “All you need is the resolve."

He almost scoffs. It was such an absurdly simple line, that he almost mistook her words as another joke, while here he was bearing his entire heart to the mage.

But when he finally looks up to retort, red meets violet, and it’s like the words are stolen from his tongue. 

He swears he sees the corners of her mouth lift into a small smile.

The moonlight turns her hair a near ethereal silver in its glow and there’s almost otherworldly magenta glow to her eyes, as if she’d sealed a vow in magic. 

There was such a conviction in her gaze, as if underlying her own personal resolve…

Trust me.

He couldn’t help but believe her.

The body of the dragon slams heavily on the ground next to him, as Stark lands the finishing blow.

Fern approaches him from behind her hiding spot with a rare mirth in her eyes as if saying, "See? I told you so."

And his chest swells, he thinks he might cry. Because while it wasn't much, it was enough.

What a wonderful thing it was, to believe.

It's a few months after they'd departed on their journey from the village, that Frieren imparts him with her wisdom once again. Fern is setting up their encampment for the night, prodding at the embers in the fire.

“That’s a finely crafted axe you’ve got there.” Stark looks up from his position on the ground, polishing the blade of his axe with a damp cloth. He finds Frieren looking over him, a knowing look in her eye. The elven mage smiles mysteriously and he can't help but fidget in place. Even Fern stops what she's doing to look over curiously.

“What do you mean?” He prompts. The axe had seen far better days he had to admit.

It hadn’t been the most beautiful thing to begin with, forged with several dents and knobby bits in the dark wood. In addition, the large double-sided blade now sported several chips from his handling.

Though despite this, he cared for it daily, it was the only thing he'd ever been really meticulous about.

Frieren doesn’t say anything more, simply crouches down besides him and points to the engraving at the base of the handle, just below where one would usually hold to wield it.

The engraving is rough and ugly, crudely cut out in indistinguishable patterns. The lines had always been there, so naturally Stark assumed it was simply a sleight of hand by the crafter.

"Those are Eisen's initials. He made this axe himself." Frieren cocks her head to the side, ignoring Stark's shocked expression, "Though it's a wonder one can make it out at all, that is some truly horrendous handwriting. For a dwarf, a race known for their greatest warriors and finest weapons, Eisen never had a talent for this type of thing."

She sighs, aghast but clearly amused, "During our ten year journey, he never did have a thing for aesthetics. And I can see it's continued even into his old age; it's not the prettiest weapon at all."

Frieren's lips turn up a fond smile and Stark can almost see a distant memory play in her mind, "Despite its looks however, it is a good blade. You're very lucky to have been gifted it." Then with a gaze that sees through everything, "You're very cherished."

Stark sits in stunned silence at the nonchalant revelation, all he can stutter out is,

"Why?"

"It was his blessing to you." She says, standing. The wind blows the strands of her silver hair, filling his vision. It reminds him of white capes, and broad shoulders, and of his master.

"Eisen surely believed in you more than anyone else. But I've gathered that for all his past carelessness, he's become a bit of a worry wart in his old age.” Frieren doesn’t snort per se, but it’s a close second, perhaps finding the idea egregious even to her.

But she eyes the axe and something new settles over her; it ripples, like a profound realization come to acceptance. She looks at him as if seeing him for the first time and says, “If I were to guess, he made you this so you’d always have something to rely on, no matter how afraid you are."

"This is Eisen's way of saying that he will always be with you."

This time, he lets the tears slip freely. They drop in misshapen spheres on his reflection in the obsidian blade. How troublesome these people were, he thought. Frieren and his master were really so similar in that way. They never told people how things really were until the end.

He knew it was strange all along, that for someone that seemed so uncaring, his master's axe had a smooth handle with a rich brown finish, made the perfect length for someone much taller than a dwarf, and a laborious dual colored blade.

It really was a finely crafted battle axe.

He doesn't cry, but his companions huddle close regardless. Frieren places a gentle hand into his crimson hair as if praising him for a job well done, and Fern sits beside him, offering her silent support. The symbolism of it all isn't lost on him.

After all, these were the people he'd come to trust.

Chapter Text

"You and I are rather similar." Fern murmurs, voice muffled. Exhaustion laces her word as she sighs into his jacket, barely holding on.

Stark grips his axe tighter from under her legs, and hoists her higher up his back to keep the mage from slipping off completely. She's only tired, he knows. Nonetheless, he quickens his pace; the faster they meet back with Frieren, the better.

The gash in his side protests, burning with each step. "What do you mean?" He grunts. 

Because there's no way that's true. His hands are still shaking, even hours after their battle. But Fern? Fern fights like she's been hardened by war. Like she is made from heat, and flame, and butterflies manifested from smoke.

Their eyes meet between the ashes of their felled enemies and the sparks of battle, and Fern is brilliant.

"I mean, Linie and Lugner were strong, weren't they."

That's rich coming from the girl that just obliterated one of them. "I seriously thought we'd die." He admits.

To his surprise, she also confesses, "So did I." And adds, "But you refused to run. Surely you must have believed we'd win?"

He isn’t so sure. When you're raised in a warrior village that hunts demons for a living, few things come with certainty. He just knew that between life and death, he recalls hearing his master's voice say 'Get up.' As long as he gets back up, it wasn't over.

Rather than winning— "I just kept thinking that I hadn’t lost yet; because I was still standing. And you were still standing. So we hadn’t lost."

He shrugs, feeling her arms tighten around his shoulders. "I guess, it all became less scary knowing that we were still fighting together."

He hears her chuff, a smile in the edges of her voice.

"Then, we're the same."

Contrary to common belief, Fern doesn’t think much of Stark in the beginning.

In fact, she thinks nothing of him at all. She neither liked nor disliked the warrior; their relationship simply was. It existed regardless of what she thought or said, and it manifested in to her life much as Frieren did the day her guardianship was transferred from Master Heiter.

They were traveling companions and that was it, nothing more.

That isn’t to say her opinions of him remained stagnant. Rather there were plenty of times she was utterly disgusted, or disappointed, or confused by him. He'd fight a dragon or demons one second, and completely flee town the next. He was irrevocably a lowlife deep down.

Other times, in rare quiet moments, she'd find him to be just a normal boy her age (not as if she knew what boys her age really did). Whether that was playing around with kids in a passing village, or helping the people in town, it amazed her how someone could naturally attract so many people.

She thinks that in a way, this makes up for his cowardice. And in this way, the boy Stark is far more human than she is. Sometimes, she was almost envious. Perhaps things could have turned out differently for her, had she not been raised by two such unlikely teachers. But then again, perhaps not.

Perhaps all young mages simply had this demeanor that made it harder to connect to others, it’s not like she's ever tried or cared about making friends. Naturally, they disliked devoting energy into endeavors that may not produce results.

So her relationships had always just happened. Whether by consequence of surviving or through traveling with Mistress Frieren.

Regardless, she supposes it is this subconscious envy of hers that brought about an acute awareness of her newest traveling companion at all times. Perhaps if she watched him enough, she could…understand.

She quickly comes to the realization that what she sees only serves to confuse her more.

One moment he goes from valiant warrior, one that surprises even her, to the same level of helplessness as with Frieren. Both, so hopeless at taking care of themselves that she simply could not watch any longer as he tore through his clothes and soiled bandages like nothing.

Coin did not grow on trees!

She supposes that no matter Priest, Elven Mage, or Warrior, adventurers like them were always the same. Were there no capable people anywhere?

It starts with the little things, like having him prepare dinner by himself.

Having him fetch the fish or demanding he learn how to wash laundry (without tearing!!). Or helping her collect and chop the firewood. Or mending his clothes when he inevitably tears them anyways.

At some point, Stark simply starts fitting into her life. It’s only natural, she’d tell herself.

The thing she supposes she really hates the most, is admitting that Stark simply makes it so difficult to dislike him.

His earnestness makes up for his lack of courage, his steadfastness makes up for his shortcomings, and his kindness makes you simply unable to leave him be. She hates that for all the things she hated about him, she couldn’t help but also be incredibly fond of them too.

When he finally learns how to mend his jacket, no matter how often she scolds him for doing it wrong, he nods attentively and tries again. Though he asks her relentless questions, he learns quickly, admitting that it was so he wouldn't have to bother her with his clothes all the time. And what could she say to that? She can’t help but find it kind of sweet.

Just a little.

Eventually, even she can’t help but sigh and lower her voice, patiently moving his hands in the correct directions, watching him make each stitch slowly until the whole thing is mended.

When he turns to her and quietly says, "I couldn’t have done it without you.”  He smiles ear to ear, and holds his fist up expectantly.

She flushes; but slowly, shyly, their knuckles brush as she returns the gesture. He presses his hand against hers more firmly, solid and sure. 

"I-It's nothing." And after a moment's hesitation, she adds earnestly, "You did a good job as well." Her cheeks aflame, and she swears she catches the tail end of a snicker. She wants to smack that stupid grin off his face.

But…

This was nice.

She supposes she didn’t mind being friends like this.

Far into the future, when she acquires a certain laundry spell from an ancient elf, she’d refrain from using it on occasion. 

She’d convince herself it’s only so her companions wouldn’t become lazy and dependent.

Though some may suspect differently.

When she finally locates Stark on his birthday, she finds him sitting alone muttering to himself and watching the clouds.

She'd find it endearing that his first thought was to share his discoveries with her if it wasn't for the fact that they were all somewhat disturbing. Disgust shows visibly on her face, when he turns to look at her.

What was with this boy sometimes? 

Are they all like this?

Her initial reaction, however, melts away when she spots his happy expression upon seeing her.

"Fern!"

"Stark-sama, would you like to go on a walk?"

Ultimately, she purchases a bracelet for him that they pick out together and it's the first time that she's ever bought something for someone besides Frieren or Master Heiter as a gift.

It's new and somewhat exciting, she can't help but feel a little proud of how far they've come since day one.

"The past doesn't matter." She'd told Stark that, but really it was also for herself.

When Stark picks out a bracelet for her on her birthday she insists that it’s silver. She clips it onto the opposite hand to his, watching them gleam underneath the sun, two different yet similar bands peeking out from just under the cuffs of their sleeves.

Though she’d never say it out loud—goddess knows how insufferable both he and Frieren would be—she likes to think of it as a physical manifestation of their connection.

It was proof that even after all of this was over, no matter how many years this journey took, that they were still…Companions. Partners. Friends.

A pair. 

She'd never admit it, but secretly she liked how the bracelets looked when they stood side by side.

Like the promise of forever.

It's the quiet moments in between their journeying that are the most significant to Fern.

It's raining outside, and the two of them sit side by side within the safety of the inn. It was childishly comforting, in a sense.

Bored, Stark clumsily braids her hair, fine strands catching on his calloused hands—just the once, she graciously forgives when he tugs too sharply—as she reads another of Frieren's old tomes late into the night.

And all is simple and still. Easy.

Fern likes these moments.

When Stark is finished messing with her hair, he curiously leans over and joins her in reading the book. Or for him, it was less of anything close to reading and more like just looking and asking, not bothering with the text at all.

If she's feeling generous, she'd scoot over so they could both view the grimoire together. Other times, as the daughter of a scholar if not a questionable priest, his questions alone would be enough to raise an hour long discussion out of her about the basics of magic. 

In the end, they'd never truly get anywhere beyond Stark's inability to grasp "where does magic even come from," and her defeated answer being, "The Goddess."

But when they'd bump knees, and brush fingers, and butt heads (quite literally) as she animatedly points to diagrams in the book and he nudges her hand aside to point at something else in response. She thinks that, maybe, the enthusiasm was enough.

When he’d look up at her, excited that he’d gotten something marginally right, she thinks she can let go of logic, just a bit.

Her books are soon filled with her annotations and his, side by side. Hers are neat script, and his looking more like bored doodles (she lectured him for a week about literary respect). And between journeys, the words quickly build up.

Later, when Fern is packing up her things , she'd spot their joint writing in the margins and her heart would do a funny little flip flop in her chest. She looks around the room as if committing a crime, and it's– exciting. And Fern thinks she’s okay with that, this breathless, racing, wildly beating heart of hers. It was like a secret rendezvous between just the two of them, their moments in the margins.

If Frieren notices the extra notes in the returned books, she doesn't say.

There was once a time when Fern thought it all futile.

Her parents dead. Her village slaughtered. Her home raided and reduced to nothing more than a pile of ash. To nothing more than a single girl's faded memory.

"Were it not for Heiter-sama, I would have…I would have perished long ago," she whispers one particularly cold night in their cabin, curled up on the singular armchair by the hearth. Seeing nothing…perhaps, seeing fire. "Another tragic story, forgotten at the bottom of a cliff face."

"What convinced you?" Stark asks. He sinks to the floor by her chair, and leans against her knees, idly picking at the threadbare rug.  "I mean t-to stay with Heiter, and to not…you know— " he shrugs vaguely, in a way that would have irked her given any other day. Tonight, she humors him.

There's a click, and Stark looks up to Fern holding her hair clasp in her lap. She traces the ridges fondly—sadly—"I didn't jump. Because Heiter-sama told me it would be a waste to let those beloved memories die."

There's a long pause. A deep watery breath. "You know, there's this belief in the Southern Lands… that butterflies are actually souls of the departed." She chuffs,  "I used to think it was a load of jargon."

But there was this saying: 'What the caterpillar perceives is the end, to the butterfly is just the beginning.'

She laughs mirthlessly, the clasp glinting against the light.  "And well I thought, if that's the case then I should be able to do at least this much…and live. "

"So I will carry them with me—my memories—like Heiter-sama did. And how Frieren-sama still does. And when we finally reach Ende, by then I will have so many stories to tell— why, it'll be like living all over again."

Her throat feels tight, and her eyes burn. She doesn’t dare to blink; just closes her eyes and presses a sleeve hard against her face.

Stark is quiet for a while, until she's sure it's her fault. Who said she could go and be so uncharacteristically vulnerable—so burdensome—but then he tugs on her sleeve, tilting his head.

And with an earnest unwavering gaze, he says,

"I'm glad you're here."

Ah…

She thinks of homes; how she's had three. Two were lost, and one was somehow patched together. She thinks of all the people who occupied those spaces in her life. How many mothers, fathers, and unique companions she's made.

She thinks of hair ornaments, and bracelets, and birthdays. She thinks of fearsome battles, and of festivals. Dances. She thinks of grand adventures…and not so grand ones. She thinks of how many kind hands have held hers—to guide, to comfort, to ease her pain—she looks down to where Stark's shyly brushes the back of hers—to keep each other going.

It really would have been a waste to not live for all this.

So she smiles, something small.

But true.

"…me too."

"I see her."

Stark squints, barely making out the silver mass that is Frieren in the distance. The immense pressure of Solitar's and her combined magic is so massive, it suffocates the air and blots out the sky.

The ground isn't the only thing that trembles.

Fern squirms, scrambling impatiently off his back. He's barely lowered her off his battle axe before she's pushed off the ground, straight towards battle, staff in hand.

"Wait, Fern! W- we just fought a great demon." He shouts after her, incredulous. "You'll run out of mana." He sprints to keep up.

"But Frieren-sama needs me."

Of course, she does. Of course, but— "What happens if you fall?!"

She spins on her heel, feet already in flight. Her eyes are bright, literally blazing with mana, and her hair billows in a curtain around her—dangerous—but all he can hear is the wind howling in his ear and the racing in his chest.

"Then, catch me."

Chapter Text

Fern has always had a distinct gaze.

In their long yet short time together, Frieren has learned to decipher all sorts of meanings from one pointed look alone.

Her eyes would widen dangerously, before sharpening into a wicked point, followed by the familiar downwards turn of her lips; the beginnings of a pout. Or worse, a lecture.

Frieren quickly learns that to earn Fern's ire was to condemn oneself to eternal punishment. Terrifying.

She and Heiter often commented that Fern's round eyes were too big for such a small face. She'd recall, it was like the girl was trying to see everything there was to possibly see and to store it all in the singular pools of her eyes. She's remembering, Heiter would chuckle.

"Did you teach her that?"

"Teach her what?"

"The watching." Frieren points to herself. "She already has the basics of a mage. And even then, she's an awfully fast practical learner." She muses, more to herself than to him, "Just how hard has that girl studied at her young age?"

He'd cock his head.  "All I said was for her to continue living and to make more memories." Pride swells in his voice, "If she has grown well. Then, the rest is all her."

Frieren studies him carefully. She takes in his withered hands and bowed back, a far cry from the days of his youth. It couldn’t have been easy with the just two of them; a child and an elderly man. And yet, how many final letters had he written, miles walked, and long nights has he spent? How much of his remaining time had he poured into securing this child's future?

After all these years, he still had it in him to prove her wrong. The corrupt priest had become a father after all.

"No." She'd told him.

He affectionately accepts her head pats with all the patient amusement only a man like him would have. "You've done well too, Heiter."

It helped that Fern was a rather tenacious child.

When Frieren leaves for the woods without a word, as she often would, it was guaranteed that not a few moments later she'd be followed by the sound of uneven footsteps. As if the girl had expected as much.

Tmp. Tmp. Tmp. The tempo of little feet trying to keep up, hefting a staff twice her size.

Frieren's mouth had twitched, calling back, “You have to be quicker than that if you don’t want to get left behind.”

Regardless, her pace slows and eventually there would be a tug on her skirt. There's some heavy panting, and then, small hands that could hardly wrap around the whole of Frieren's, reach for her. If she were to peer down, she'd be assaulted by violet eyes so clear, so full of conviction—

The girl looks back up at Frieren with the same face Himmel had before they'd embarked on a decade-long journey; unwavering.

"I won't let you do that, Frieren-sama." A small Fern frowns. "You said you'd teach me. So no matter what, I will catch up to you, and I will become a powerful mage."

 Fern squeezes her hand, "Just wait for me."

A powerful mage, huh?

It's this line that should have made it obvious. For Himmel had once said the same, that Frieren should join their party because she is a 'powerful mage'. Heiter, that corrupt priest, had set her up from the start and gotten his best friend in on it to boot.

Years later she swears she can still hear them both laughing from the grave.

Too quickly, Fern gets older.

It seems that the more grown humans are, the more cryptic they become. That's why children were so innocent, always carrying their heart on their sleeve.

The older they are, the more that thoughts must be put into words to be properly conveyed. Even then, it's hard.

There was a town, like any other town. And in that town was a special street that towered over all the others, if one was willing to trek it. The locals had boasted with no little ardor, "Right there is the greatest view you'll find in all of the North. A world wonder, I'd say!"

So the next morning, earlier than should ever be necessary, they go. And there is a sunrise. A sunrise just like any other sunrise before it.

Frieren can't help but get a sense of déjà vu.

Still, it's something Fern would like. So Frieren finds that she likes it too.

Only Fern isn't there. Frieren paws at empty air, the hand that was there having gone missing, even though the young mage had been dragging the sleep-riddled elf along just moments prior.

"Come on, Frieren-sama! Hurry up!" Fern waves from further up the sloped street.

But before she even replies, the girl has already turned away, furrowed brow finding Stark again. As it often does these days.

She watches them bicker; watches Fern plant a fist against Stark's arm because of something he's said, and he makes a bitter face, so sour it could curdle milk. She can practically make out his whines.

But as they crest the hill, stepping beyond the shadowed buildings; the light plays off their features, dances across their clothes, and warms their breath. A beat passes. And all animosity melts away into muffled laughter. They're a heap of brushing shoulders, and scant glances, and quirked lips that are quickly smothered away into feigned normalcy.

She could use her words. She could call out and she knows Fern would turn to her expectantly, all big violet eyes, and it would be just how it used to. Like when Fern would hold her hand and say, Just wait for me. I'll catch up!

But they crest the hill and Frieren realizes all at once, that Fern is not so small anymore.

Before she knew it, 'I'll catch up to you' had turned into 'I'm going on ahead, Frieren-sama.'

It's then, she is reminded ironically of Heiter. Though she had not withered hands nor a bowed back…before she knew it, many years had passed. And Frieren had changed.

She can’t help but wonder, had it always been so short a time between girl and woman?

It helps that Fern has always been a tenacious child.

And that she sees everything.

Without a word-- Click. Click. Click. She's skidding back down the cobblestone street, warrior and all in tow.

Hands, so much bigger than Frieren remembers, reach for her. A mage on one side, warrior on the other, they draw her forwards to the top of the hill.

"You need to be quicker than that, Frieren-sama." Fern's mouth twitches, playful, "The view is much more beautiful up there."

And not for the first time, Frieren is grateful she has them to forgive her shortcomings.

"Let's go together."