The fire hummed and crackled under the late night sky.
Percia sighed as she leaned back against the trunk of a tree. She had come across one problem during her trek to the Bier Region.
She didn't know idea where she was.
She had never traveled the Northern Plateau much; she didn't like the cold. Serie had said head east — simple enough — but she had covered considerable ground today and the forest showed no sign of thinning.
Honestly, this was one of Serie's bad habits. Unclear instructions. Cryptic advices. Serie could have easily teleported her directly to the destination — she kept careful tabs on every settlement in her domain. She always had.
This was probably some twisted form of revenge for blasting her into the floor.
The fire crackled once more.
"My. It's quite rare to see a traveler out here."
Percia glanced toward the voice. A hooded figure stood at the edge of the treeline.
She hadn't sensed her approach at all.
"And who might you be?"
"No one important." The figure walked forward without invitation and settled close to the fire.
Percia didn't like that.
"I watched you today." The figure tilted her head. "That sounds wrong. Scratch that."
"You seem to be headed to the Bier Region. Tell me, are you fond of liquor?"
Percia looked at her strange. "Liquor? You approach me to ask about liquor?"
"It's one of the few things I find mildly interesting."
Percia studied the figure. Her mana was minute — not small in volume, but quiet. Distant. Untethered.
"Do you find me that interesting?" The figure laughed softly. "I'm not much of a fighter. My mana is nothing special."
"The one thing I pursued my whole life turned out to be worthless." The figure continued with a shrug. "I seldom practice anymore."
The mana was too quiet for someone who had recently given up magic. That kind of quiet took centuries to develop. It narrowed things considerably — this being was either a demon or an elf.
There was a simple way to determine which.
Percia reached over and set her hand on the figure's hooded head without preamble.
"No horns." No illusory magic either.
The figure snorted. "No."
"You are an elf then."
The figure didn't confirm it. Instead she pulled a flask from her cloak. She took a swig and held it out.
"Drink with me."
Percia accepted it and took a cautious sip. The burn hit immediately — raw, uncut, no softening to it at all. She coughed hoarsely. "This is straight alcohol."
"I know, isn't it horrible?" The figure leaned back on her hands. "It used to be my favorite. The sweet note turned sour somewhere around the third century. A pity."
"And you let it stay like this?"
"I don't see the point in preserving it properly."
"I suppose I don't particularly like liquor that much," the figure added, after a moment. Almost to herself.
"...You don't particularly like many things, do you."
"I suppose not."
Percia looked back at the fire. She had seen this before, more times than she could count.
"You won't live much longer like that."
"I don't care about living."
Percia smiled, wry. "Does it look like any of us do?" She glanced at the figure sideways. "You're quite bleak for someone so young."
The figure paused mid-sip. "...I am hardly young."
"The last elf older than me faded some time ago." Percia tossed a few twigs into the fire. "You are young compared to me."
The fire shifted as it burned larger. Green eyes caught the light from beneath the hood, still and reflective.
Percia reached over and took the flask back. "So. What's the real reason you came over?"
The figure was quiet for a moment. "I was curious. I wanted to know why you continue."
"Why? You don't care whether you live or die. Explaining it to you would be a waste."
Percia looked at the her. The way she sat. The way she stared. "Admit it. You came to me because you don't want to end."
The figure didn't respond.
"...Let's say I admit it. Then tell me how you continue."
"Impatient."
Percia brought her knees to her chest and drew a thread of the liquor up from the flask with her mana, letting it drift in the firelight. She watched it move.
"I anchor myself to the world — trying to keep things as they are. Another of us anchors herself to humanity, passing on her knowledge despite claiming that humans don't matter. Another anchors himself to the Goddess, living for the eventual end."
"What about Frieren?" The figure's voice was careful. "What does she anchor herself to?"
Percia went still. "You know Frieren."
The figure hummed — neither confirming nor denying.
Of course she did. Percia smiled faintly, more to herself than anything. "Frieren is still young. Life itself is enough of an anchor for her. The world still has things to show her."
She let the thread of liquor settle back into the flask. "You must remember how it was. When you were at that stage."
The figure didn't respond.
After a bit, she stood slowly. "I've learned something from this. Thank you." She nodded at the flask. "Keep it, if you want."
"No need." Percia's mana settled around the flask. She held it back out. "Give it another try."
The figure took a tentative sip.
"...It's sweeter."
"The magic to turn sourness into sweetness. Simple folk magic. It won't taste the way it did originally, but take it as a small thing from me."
The figure stood with the flask in hand for a moment, looking at it.
"There's a town about twenty clicks from here. A granary settlement. You may find what you're looking for there."
She turned back into the trees without another word. Percia listened to her footsteps fade into nothing.
She would probably never see that elf again.
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Stark adjusted his grip on Frieren, who had gone still and distant on his back sometime around midmorning and hadn't really returned since.
"I still can't believe she was awake before either of us." He glanced at Fern. "Do you think she slept at all?"
Fern looked back at Frieren, then away. "No," she said quietly. "I don't think so."
Stark said nothing for a few steps. The wheat on either side of the road rustled in a slow, dry wind, and the sound of it filled the space between them.
He wanted to say that she'll be fine. He had said it yesterday. He had believed it when he said it—or at least believed it enough to say it out loud.
He wasn't sure he believed it the same way now.
Frieren wasn't supposed to be like this.
She was the immovable part of them—the constant, the calm, the one who looked at catastrophe with mild interest and walked through it unchanged. She wasn't supposed to go quiet out of necessity. She wasn't supposed to be carried like this.
He tightened his grip, and she didn't react to it.
He just wished someone could help them. He just wished that someone would tell them what to do.