Stark peaks from the corner of his eye to see Fern giving Frieren the okay to start her day. Face washed, teeth brushed, hair combed. Everything taken care of. Frieren thanks her apprentice quietly, tells her sheâll spend the rest of the day in a shady old manâs shop, and exits promptly.
There is silence. A comfortable kind, that they both sit in.
He sees her take the brush and start to thread it through her own hair. Slow strokes, untangling the tiny knots and smoothing the rest.
âDoes anyone brush your hair?â When he receives no response, he turns. âFern?â
A small sound leaves her, and he checks over his shoulder. Sheâs staring at her own reflection, brush in her lap.
âSorry,â he murmurs, feeling immediately like heâs done something. What, heâs not sure, but itâs not good.
âMy mother.â
He exhales slow, staring in front of him. The weight of what heâs instigated sits heavy. âOh.â
âI think she did,â she continues, and her voice is absent of irritants. âI donât know for sure. Maybe I wish she did.â
He smiles a little. He can understand that. What he envisions his parents did for him before they were no longerâŚthere.
Fern has similar visions.
âCan I?â Heâs gotten to his feet and stepped behind her chair by the time he says it. Looks at the mirror to see her reaction and feels calmed by her small smile. He leans down to take the brush from her hands, which is held limp within them. She lets him, thatâs clear. It almost feels calculated, because this is Fern, after all. But it doesnât matter. He wants to touch her, somehow, someway.
Slow strokes slide down the back of her head. He keeps a hand at the base, holding the locks gingerly, like heâs seen her do for Frieren. Heâs not experienced with this, but he knows when she winces, he needs to stop.
âItâs alright,â she whispers when he hesitates. âItâs just a tangle.â
He grips at her roots, hoping that it wonât cause her pain when he pulls the comb through then. When she hums contently, he pulls it. Silence, and he breathes a relieved sigh.
âThatâs good,â she sighs, and his heart thumps.
Thatâs good.
Those words will inspire him for years to come.
Heâs still careful. Takes another lock in his fingers, combs through. Lays it to rest and admires it.
She has such pretty hair.
Pretty eyes, pretty skin.
Pretty pout.
His stomach clenches, and he takes another portion of hair into his fingers. Slides the comb through, his fingers, lets it fall. Sighs, deeply.
âThank you,â she whispers, and his guts flip. âI donât knowâŚ.I donât know the last time someone did that for me.â
Heâs ready to get to his knees and beg her to let him do it for the rest of his days.
He drops his hands, one with the comb, and smiles down at her when she turns. All sweet softness.
âWilling and ready,â he stutters out, wondering if it came out too corny.
Her covered mouth and smile are all he needs.
The comb is shoved in his pocket, a precious treasure.
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One can only pray. Hey, at least he doesnât have much amnesia besides emotional amnesia. Thatâs an advantage.
Oh, that reminds us! What did you mean by âthe aroace onesâ a while ago? When you said that âI find it funny that weâre having the aroace ones do sex edâ or whatever. Genuine question. Youâre all good on the confusion front though.
wait didnt you say collectively aroace at some point?? also i said "ones" cause i forgot the term "folkel" existed and obviously i. dont know all your headmates.
