I have lived long enough to forget most things.
Not intentionally. Memory simply erodes when there is too much of it. Centuries pile atop one another until individual moments lose their edges, blending into something indistinct. Faces fade. Voices disappear. Even entire lifetimes can compress into something no heavier than a passing season.
But I remember the day Himmel found me.
Not because it mattered then.
But because it mattered later.
Because it was the first time someone saw me—
and chose to stay.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
"I've heard a seasoned mage lives somewhere in these woods," a voice called. "Is that mage you?"
I didn't answer at first.
I was sorting herbs in my lap, separating brittle stems from usable leaves. The forest was quiet except for the unhidden approach of human footsteps.
They never tried to hide.
Humans believe strength should be visible.
Eventually, I looked up.
Three figures stood at the edge of the clearing. A human priest. A dwarven warrior. And a human swordsman.
"Seasoned in the sense I've been around, perhaps," I said. "But I've done precious little with my years. I'm in no way exceptional."
The dwarf glanced toward the priest.
"What do you think, Heiter?"
Heiter stepped forward. I felt his mana brush against mine, careful and measuring. I let him see exactly what I wanted him to see.
"Hm... I would say she has approximately one fifth of the mana that I do. Fairly middle of the road."
Accurate.
"Way to make a first impression," I said flatly. "Now move along. You don't have business with a mediocre mage, do you?"
This was the point where most humans left.
They wanted legends. Power made visible. Superiority they could quantify.
Not ambiguity.
Not someone who appeared ordinary.
But the blue-haired swordsman stepped forward instead.
"No," he said. "But you are easily the strongest mage I've ever laid eyes on."
Heiter frowned. The dwarf shifted.
I felt nothing change in my suppression.
"And why would you say that?"
He met my eyes without wavering.
"Call it a hunch."
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Our journey began because of that hunch.
At the time, I did not consider it significant.
Humans rely on instinct because they do not have time for certainty. Their lives are short. Decisions must be made quickly, before opportunity disappears.
To me, ten years was insignificant.
To Himmel, ten years was a lifetime.
I did not understand that then.
I thought we were traveling together.
I did not realize he was spending his years.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Humans place value on things that do not last.
Gold eventually tarnishes. Paper rots. Even magical artifacts, given enough time, degrade into nothing. Their lives are so brief that their measurements of worth are compressed into small spans of years, decades at most. What they consider meaningful rarely survives the centuries.
I assumed Himmel would be the same.
I was wrong. Thinking back, he did that a lot — proving me wrong.
After we cleared monsters from roads or villages, people gathered around Himmel. Rarely me. Humans are uneasy around elves. My lifespan unsettles them.
But Himmel was different. They always approached Himmel.
Perhaps it was his face. Humans are drawn to familiarity, and Himmel embodied it. His smile was gentle. Reassuring.
Even I thought he was handsome.
I simply never considered why that mattered.
One village, in particular, had nothing.
Their homes were fragile. Their land had failed them. The monsters living near their water source had ensured their eventual extinction.
Removing those monsters required little effort from us.
To them, it meant survival.
Their chief approached Himmel slowly, holding something in both hands. He was nervous. I could hear his heartbeat from where I stood.
"We have no gold," he said.
Humans often apologize when they have nothing to give.
He held out a ring. It was poorly crafted. The metal was uneven, the band slightly warped from imperfect shaping. It held no magical properties. It would not even last a full century before corroding beyond recognition.
It was worthless.
Himmel accepted it without hesitation, smiling as though he'd received something rare.
Later, I asked him why.
"It has no value."
"It does," he replied.
I knew he was wrong. Value, as humans defined it, was measurable. Monetary. Practical. This ring possessed none of those qualities.
"They couldn't afford to give you anything meaningful."
"But they did give me something meaningful."
I did not understand.
Himmel was quiet for a moment, then glanced back in the direction of the village, even though it had already disappeared beyond the horizon.
"If people feel like they owe you something," he said, "they carry it with them."
"It becomes a weight," he continued. "They start to believe they're beneath you. That they can never repay what was done for them."
"I don't want that," he said.
His fingers closed around the ring.
Even then.
He was always thinking about what came after.
I did not realize how unusual that was.
I never thought about how I would be remembered.
I never needed to.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
He commissioned statues constantly.
Vanity, I thought.
The sculptor asked him to hold still. Himmel changed poses five times before settling on one that emphasized his jaw.
"Five retakes, huh?" I said.
Himmel laughed softly.
"We finished sooner than usual this time."
This was not the first statue he had commissioned.
Nor would it be the last.
"You're always getting statues made, Himmel," I said.
He turned his head slightly toward me.
"Because I want everyone to remember us."
He turned his gaze to the distance. He had that look on his face—the one that meant he was about to say something he considered profound.
"Unlike you," he continued, "we don't live that long."
Obviously.
"I need future generations to remember how handsome I was," he added.
Heiter laughed loudly at that. Eisen remained silent, though I noticed the faintest shift in his expression.
Narcissist.
"I'm heading back to the inn."
This process did not require my presence.
Stone could preserve shapes, but nothing more. It cannot hold voice or warmth or thought. It could not capture the things that made a person themselves.
It is a poor substitute for existence.
But Himmel spoke again before I could leave.
"But... I guess the biggest reason is so you won't be alone in the future."
"What does that mean?" I asked.
His expression softened.
"We're not fairy tales," he said quietly. "We really existed."
Of course they were real.
Were we not standing in the same room?
I did not understand why that needed to be said.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
He thought he was subtle.
Adjusting his pace. Glancing back at me. Placing a hand near the edge of a table when I bent down.
The first time I mentioned it, he turned red and stammered.
I hadn't meant to make him feel uncomfortable.
So, I never pointed it out again.
Eventually, I stopped noticing the blanket draped over my shoulders. The flowers he left, always fresh. The quiet way he moved my bangs aside. It had become ordinary—so ordinary that I forgot what it could mean.
I grew accustomed to it.
So accustomed that I mistook constancy for inevitability.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Himmel believed in kindness.
Not the naïve kind.
The stubborn kind.
The demon child tested that belief.
Demons are predators.
They evolved to mimic human speech, human behavior, and human emotion. Not because they feel those things, but because doing so allows them to hunt more effectively. Their words are tools. Their expressions are tools. Everything about them exists for survival.
This was something Himmel struggled to accept.
The village had already lost one child.
Himmel stopped me from killing the demon.
"Then we'd be no different from them."
That statement was incorrect. The difference between humans and demons was absolute.
Demons kill because it is their nature.
Humans kill because they choose to.
"It's not like they have to eat humans to survive, right?" Himmel said.
He was searching for an exception.
He wanted the world to be kinder than it is.
The village chief's house burned.
Not quickly, but steadily, as if the flames understood exactly what they were consuming.
The fire had already eaten through most of the roof. Wooden beams cracked and splintered as the structure sagged inward, each collapse sending a spray of sparks upward into the darkening sky. The air was thick with heat and ash, dry and suffocating, carrying with it the sharp, bitter scent of charred wood and something heavier beneath it—the smell of a human dwelling reduced to fuel.
The demon child stood in front of it. In its arms, it held the village chief's daughter.
Carefully.
Not with affection.
With intention.
"There it is again," the demon child said softly.
Its voice was calm, almost thoughtful, as if it were reflecting on something it had only recently begun to understand.
"Every day, I felt your desire to kill me."
Its eyes drifted past us, settling briefly on the grieving mother in the crowd.
"I just want to live in peace."
It adjusted its hold on the girl, almost gently.
"So I brought you a replacement for the child I ate."
Equivalent exchange.
From its perspective, this was mercy.
It did not understand that humans do not love roles.
They love individuals.
"It seems I've made a mistake somehow."
"You won't stop me this time, will you?" I asked.
For a moment, Himmel said nothing.
Firelight reflected in his eyes.
Not anger.
Understanding.
"No," he said.
The demon whispered, "Mom."
Imitation.
Not cruelty.
Not malice.
Just function.
In that sense, demons and humans are similar.
But humans grieve.
Demons do not.
That is why they are different.
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
That night, we camped far from the village.
No one spoke of what happened.
Heiter drank quietly. Eisen kept watch without comment. Himmel sat closest to the fire, his sword laid across his knees, staring into the flames as if waiting for them to rearrange the day into something kinder.
They did not.
From a distance, he looked the same as always.
But I had traveled with him long enough to notice the difference.
He was smiling less.
Humans recover slowly from disappointment. Their emotions linger longer than the events that caused them.
I approached.
He did not look at me when I sat beside him.
The fire crackled between us. The flames reflected in his eyes, but they didn't reach very far.
I reached into my pack and pulled out a grimoire.
It was one I had acquired years ago and never opened. The binding was worn, the pages slightly yellowed. A minor spell.
I held it out to him.
He blinked. "What's this?"
"A spell," I said. "I haven't read it yet."
He looked more confused. "Why are you giving it to me?"
I considered the question carefully.
When I am unsettled, I read. When something feels wrong, I search for new magic.
Spells are reliable. They follow rules. They make sense.
I placed the grimoire in his hands.
"It might help," I said.
"With what?"
"I don't know."
That was the most honest answer I had.
He stared at the book for a moment, then let out a small laugh.
"You're terrible at comforting people, Frieren."
"Am I?"
"Yeah."
He looked down at the cover again, his expression softening.
"But thanks."
He didn't open it.
He just held it.
We sat there until the fire sank into embers.
After a while, his shoulders relaxed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
At the time, I believed I had simply offered him something useful.
I did not realize I had been trying to protect something fragile.
And I did not yet understand that humans cannot always be repaired with magic.