A Place to Stay

The five of them bid farewell to the merchant and began their journey towards the academy.

The road wasn't too difficult, and the weather was fine. It was just evening, and we were still some distance from the next town.

Looks like we'll have to camp out or find somewhere to stay for the night.

Lowell glanced at the sky.

Fortunately, not far ahead, at the foot of the mountain, lay a small village. Wisps of smoke rose from its chimneys, quietly blending into the deepening twilight.

They walked over.

At the village entrance, I encountered an old woman tidying up a rack for drying grain. Her hair was gray, and her face was etched with deep wrinkles, but she was still quite nimble.

Upon hearing their purpose, the old woman put down her work, wiped her hands on her apron, and looked them over with her cloudy eyes: the composed Fern, the pointed-eared Frieren, Lupa carrying a long spear, Linié dressed in Lolita fashion, and Lowell, who was probably not a human trafficker.

"Would you like to stay here?... Sure, no need, no need. We don't need money in these deep mountains. There's an old house at the west end of the village, which my family used when we went hunting. It's empty now. Although we don't use it much, it's still good for sheltering from the wind and rain. If we tidy it up, people can live there. If you don't mind, you can stay there."

As she spoke, she pulled a slightly old-fashioned brass key from her pocket and handed it over.

"Thank you very much." Fern accepted the gift with both hands and bowed slightly.

"Come with me."

The old woman walked ahead, her steps slow but steady. She crossed the quiet village path and arrived at the edge of the village, near the mountains and forests.

A lone wooden hut stood there. The walls were made of sturdy logs, with the gaps filled with mud and hay. The roof was covered with a thick layer of thatch. It looked quite old, but the structure was still relatively intact. In front of the hut was a small open space, where the weeds seemed to have just been cleared.

"This is it." The old woman pushed open the wooden door, which creaked open. "It's usually used to store some miscellaneous items; it's a bit dusty, but it's tidy enough to live in."

"Thank you for your help," Fern said.

"No trouble at all." The old woman waved her hand, glanced at the five people again, said nothing more, and slowly turned to walk back.

Lupa and Linié went inside first to take a look.

The interior was more spacious than I had imagined. There was a main room with a stone fireplace against the wall, next to which was a pile of dry firewood. In the corner were a few old wooden crates, a rough long wooden table, and a few chairs. There was a faint smell in the air, a mixture of dust and hay.

"Hehe, not bad." Lupa pushed open a small window for fresh air, then turned to Lowell and Frieren with a smile. "Then Linié and I will go to the village first. We took on a job in town earlier to deal with a monster causing a disturbance. It should be nearby. Anyway, we're not sleepy yet, so we'll go gather some information and take care of it while we're at it."

"Okay," Lowell replied.

Lupa took Linié's hand, and the two quickly left.

Fern walked to the fireplace, knelt down, and skillfully lit the firewood in the hearth with a tiny glow from his fingertips. The orange flames leaped up, quickly dispelling the chill in the room.

Then, she began to look around.

"It's not very dirty," she said softly, taking a clean cloth from her luggage. "But since we're just staying here temporarily, I'm tidying it up a bit; it's a small token of my appreciation."

She rolled up her sleeves and began wiping the tables, chairs, and windowsills.

Lowell sat down in a freshly wiped chair, looked at the flickering fire, and stretched.

"Great, with Lupa here, we don't need to lift a finger to deal with the monsters..."

Frieren blinked her emerald green eyes.

"Hey, isn't it usually Fern's the one cleaning up the monsters?"

Fern stopped wiping, turned his head, and glanced at him calmly with his pale purple eyes. There was no emotion in his eyes, yet it seemed to say everything.

Lowell touched his nose and chuckled dryly.

"Haha... As for Fern, although she's strong... she's still not mature enough. Everyone makes mistakes. When Fern was fighting monsters, don't be fooled by my seemingly relaxed demeanor; I was actually on edge the whole time, just like when I was fighting the Demon King with Himmel and the others."

Fern washed the rag in the basin of water and wrung it out.

"Is that so?"

"Of course," Lowell said more seriously. "Although I often talk about 'trust,' I'm inherently a cautious person. Even if I feel you're almost certain to win, I won't completely let my guard down."

Fern continued wiping the other corner of the table.

"Hmm... it doesn't sound like there's anything wrong with it," she looked up at Lowell, "But I feel like there's a reason behind your personality."

Lowell didn't respond immediately.

"Well, after all, Freya, Lowell's apprentice, died fighting the Great Demons alone back then," Frieren said casually.

She looked at Lowell.

"He used to hate fighting, but he never hesitated to take action. But things are different now."

Her gaze shifted to Fern.

"Fern is my apprentice, but really, he's no different from any of his own apprentices. He's afraid."

Lowell glanced at her and rolled her eyes.

"Is it really necessary to be so blunt?"

But he did not refute it. He simply looked at the fire in the stove, the flames dancing in his dark eyes, reflecting some deep, indistinct colors.

Fern stopped what she was doing. She looked at Lowell, then at Frieren, and then nodded slightly, a smile curving her lips.

"Lord Lowell need not worry," she continued wiping, her voice steady. "My strength is also considerable. After all, I am Frieren's disciple."

She paused, then added, her tone carrying a barely perceptible gentleness.

"Of course, I'm very pleased with Lord Lowell's kind intentions."

The room fell silent, save for the crackling of Burning firewood and the soft rustling of cloth wiping the wood.

Fern tidied up meticulously. After wiping the tables and chairs, he began organizing the old wooden crates in the corner. The crates were unlocked, and inside were only some older, obviously long-unused hunting tools, rusty arrowheads, and a few pieces of dried animal hides.

At the very bottom of a box, she bumped into something.

It felt warm and smooth to the touch; it was wood. She took it out and examined it by the light of the stove fire.

It is a comb.

The wood is a common local hardwood, polished very smooth with rounded edges, showing signs of years of use. The comb teeth are evenly spaced, with some wear at the tips, but it is well-preserved overall. It has no decorations, a simple, even somewhat clumsy, style, yet it exudes a sense of comfort and appreciation that has been cherished for a long time.

Just then, footsteps sounded outside the door.

The old woman returned, carrying several clean, coarse cloth quilts in her arms. Her granddaughter, a little girl of about seven or eight with pigtails, followed behind her, curiously peering into the doorway.

"The bedding is here, clean." The old woman came in and placed the bedding on the long table that had just been wiped clean. Her gaze fell on the wooden comb in Fern's hand, and she paused slightly.

"Actually, it's not necessary..." Fern wanted to say that Lowell's alternate dimension had clean bedding, but seeing the faded coarse cloth in the old man's arms and the little girl's curious gaze, she changed her mind. "... Hmm, thank you very much. We need these."

"Oh, that..."

She stepped forward, took the comb from Fern's hand, and gently ran her fingertips along the smooth wooden teeth, her gaze distant, as if she were looking through it at a time long ago.

"My old man made it for me a long time ago." She spoke slowly, her voice even slower than before, as if telling someone else's story. "When I was young, I was wild, like a boy. I loved to go into the woods to hunt and set traps. I was too lazy to comb my hair properly; it was always a mess, and when the mountain wind blew, it would get caught on branches and vines, pulling painfully."

She smiled, and the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepened.

"He made this comb for me. He chose a good piece of wood and secretly polished it for a long time. He said, 'Seeing you pull your hair hurts me too.' He even threatened me, saying that if I didn't comb my hair properly, all his efforts would be wasted."

"That old geezer, he's talking nonsense."

Her fingers gently stroked the back of the comb.

"Later, he would get up early every day, hold me down, comb my hair, and braid it... I was always impatient back then, couldn't sit still, and thought it was too much trouble. I complained that he was clumsy and that his braids looked bad, like a bird's nest."

She paused, gazing at the fire in the stove; the flames danced silently in her eyes.

"But... 63 years. A full 63 years, as long as he was home, he would comb his hair every single day. Without fail."

"He left a few days ago." Her words were calm, as if she were saying, "The weather is getting colder."

The old woman let out a soft sigh and carefully and neatly placed the comb back into the box that Fern had just taken out, as if she were putting away some fragile treasure.

"This room, this comb... seeing them always reminds me of these things. As people get older, they become more talkative, rambling on and on."

She turned and smiled at Fern, a smile that held a gentle warmth etched over the years and a touch of melancholy.

"Thank you, young lady. You don't need to clean the house so thoroughly. I'm just an old woman with nothing much to do; I usually just tidy it up a bit."

She didn't say anything more, and took her granddaughter's hand.

"You should get some rest. It's cool in the mountains at night, so don't put out the fire too early."

"Okay, thank you." Fern bowed again.

The old woman waved her hand, then, with her granddaughter in tow, slowly walked into the deep twilight outside. The wooden door closed gently, cutting off the last glimmer of daylight.

Frieren had somehow ended up sitting at the table, holding a cup of freshly poured hot water in her hands and sipping it slowly. Her emerald eyes stared at the closed door for a while.

"Humans are so fragile," she said softly, her tone as calm as ever, as if stating an observed fact.

Lowell also looked away, glanced at her, and smiled.

"No." He shook his head, his voice low but clear, "Humans are not fragile."

Frieren turned to look at him.

Lowell's gaze also fell on the old box, as if he could see through the wooden planks to the quiet old wooden comb inside.

"Humans age quickly, most are weak and easily injured, die, and have short lifespans. From this perspective, life is indeed fragile."

He paused.

"But their love endured for sixty-three years, every single day, without fail, until the very end of their lives."

He turned back and looked into Frieren's eyes.

"To be able to love like this, to be loved like this, and to make that love a daily habit, persisting for sixty-three years... this in itself proves that humanity is not fragile. On the contrary, their hearts are incredibly resilient."

Frieren listened quietly, her emerald eyes reflecting the flickering firelight. She thought for a moment, then nodded slightly.

"Sixty-three years..." she murmured, seemingly trying to understand the significance of this time for humanity, "It certainly seems to be a very, very long time for humankind."

"Yes, it's very long, almost a lifetime," Lowell said. He looked at Frieren's profile, softened by the firelight, and her long, flowing, silvery hair that cascaded over her shoulders. Suddenly, he leaned forward, a slightly exaggerated, affectedly affectionate expression on his face, and drew out his words.

"Frieren-- "

"Um?"

"Let me comb your hair for the rest of my life... every day, until the end of time, until the seas dry up and the rocks crumble... I love you..."

Frieren turned her head, staring blankly at his approaching face for two seconds. Then, very decisively, even with a hint of "you're here again" resignation, she moved aside, creating some distance.

"Don't want."

"Huh?" Lowell's expression froze.

"Fern's combing is better." Frieren picked up her cup, took another sip of hot water, and said matter-of-factly, even with a hint of pride, "Much better than yours."

Lowell: "..."

He opened his mouth, looked at Frieren's calm "what's there to discuss?" expression, then glanced at Fern, who was silently making the bed beside him but whose shoulders seemed to tremble slightly. Finally, he slumped his shoulders, raised his hand to his forehead, and let out a frustrated sigh.

"Tsk... I knew it."

Fern spread out a quilt, straightened up, and gently clapped his hands.

She turned her head, her pale purple eyes looking this way. The smile she had been trying so hard to suppress finally crept across her lips. But she quickly pursed her lips, regaining her usual composure, though the hint of a smile in her eyes was clearly visible in the firelight.

She didn't say anything, and turned to continue making the second quilt.

Outside the window, the mountain wind swept through the treetops, carrying a faint, lingering sob.