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“…In the end, we didn’t locate any survivors, but the demon, Revolte, has been slain.”
The apprehension Serie felt whenever sending out a first class mage on their first mission was something she’d never quite gotten used to. The average time lived by a first class mage after receiving their privilege was about 10 years‒a pittance, really. That number, though, was rather heavily skewed; in the event that you survived your first three missions, you’d live about as long as anyone else.
That ‘if’ was doing a lot of heavy lifting.
Fortunately, it seemed Serie needn’t have worried. Even with a harvest as bountiful as the one she’d just had, first class mages were quite hard to replace, so Methode’s mostly unharmed return was indeed welcome.
That and in contrast to her eccentricities, her debrief was short, to the point, and well-organized. Combined with her work on healing Genau’s injuries more than justified Series appointment of their partnership.
“Good job. Your shares of the reward will be delivered in a few days. You’ll hear if there’s any more work for you. Get that report in writing, Methode.”
“Of course.”
With that, Genau exited the room, leaving Serie to her devices. Methode, for her part, quietly took her leave, making her way into one of the side rooms of the hall, creaking the door open with her hand as‒
“You’re not going to ask to pat my head?”
“Could I?”
She honestly shouldn’t have been surprised with the speed, nor intensity with which Methode replied, but even after thousands of years, the girl in front of her never ceased to be one of the most peculiar things she’d encountered.
“I thought it was strange.”
“I suppose it just slipped my mind. I’ve already had my fair share of that sort of thing today‒ah, but a little more never hurts. Now, may I?”
Serie was sure she’d just asked Methode to finish that report, but she supposed someone who could say everything she said with as straight a face as Methode wore wouldn’t be the most reasonable.
“Sure, sure. You get ten minutes.”
By passing this abnormality, Serie supposed she’d signed up for this. Still, while first class mages were always somewhat eccentric, Methode was a different breed.
Oh well. Better than Ubel, she supposed.
Methode was annoyingly proficient, periodically switching from stroking to light scratching, though the minimal pleasure Serie extracted from the ordeal was dampened by Methode’s constant cooing and fawning over her. Phrases like ‘so small’ and ‘so cute’ were uttered so often that Serie could probably make a spell to make an exact replica of Methode’s voice saying it.
Anyhow, the ten minutes were dwindling and soon, a glowing barrier of Serie’s creation seperated the two of them.
“Could I get a hug, Lady Serie?”
“Finish your report.”
Serie knew that one person couldn’t represent a whole species, but the sheer gall of this human made it difficult not to fall back on generalizations about human pigheadedness‒
“…even though Miss Frieren let me do it.”
“Methode.”
Serie had almost missed it, and she wasn’t sure if her ears were deceiving her, but…
“Yes?”
“Repeat what you just said.”
“Lady Serie‒”
“Methode.”
There was a bit of unease in her expression, but she quickly returned to her usual stoic demeanour the first class mages always exhibited around Serie, Saying in plain terms:
“I encountered Miss Frieren on our mission to slay Revolte and she allowed me to pat her head and hug her however much I wanted.”
“That idiot…”
Well, it wasn’t as if Serie expected any more out of that one. Methode had probably given her some useless spell like ‘a spell that polishes bootstraps’ or something.
“I’ll be back to work then.”
“Right.”
And even as Serie turned her gaze elsewhere, she couldn’t help but notice the slightest bounce in Methode’s steps as she left the room.
“Sure. You get one minute.”
After almost half a year of repeated requests, Methode had just been about ready to give up, but it seemed as though something had gotten through to Serie as she was finally leaned forward off her chair, arms in a gesture that somewhat resembled inviting a hug Her voice was completely devoid of enthusiasm and her expression implied she’d rather be doing anything else right now…
But Methode certainly wouldn’t pass up this opportunity.
Their scents blended together, the simple cleaning spell Serie taught the first class mages being one that she herself used and thoughts like that flooded Methode’s mind as she caressed Serie’s body, rubbing her hand up and down Serie’s back, pressing their bodies together‒
“Oi. Too tight.”
“Sorry.”
It would take some getting used to but Methode didn’t mind. In fact, that was part of the fun‒just like with head patting, Methode would have to take her time here, finding the spots and types of movements Serie like, which ones had her either squirming away or relaxing a little. She was never too easy to read, but that made things all the better as Methode started piecing the puzzle of her body together and when she finally did find a spot that made Serie make a sort of low grumbling sound, she just about fainted from the excitement.
She’d never tell, of course. She’d made that mistake the first time which had led to Serie purposely going stone-cold whenever Methode touched that spot on the tips of her ears, but now, stroking from right below her ears to the nape of her neck, Methode was rather pleased by the soft purr Serie let out.
“Mmm. Your minute’s up. Now, go and finish that subjugation quest.”
Serie was always eager to get rid of her whenever she made one of her requests, but Methode didn’t mind all that much.
After all, waiting for her once she returned would not just be headpats from Serie, but hugs as well.
“I’d like to get to know you better.”
Every first class mage up until now had treated her with a sort of reverence akin to seeing a goddess. Even Ubel became more respectful over the course of their few meetings. Humans, despite their inconsistencies, were relatively predictable when it came to how they treated cooperative individuals more powerful than them.
Yet as the years came and went, there was one individual who’d somehow gotten even more flippant over time.
“Is that the reason you invited me to eat desserts with you?”
Case in point.
“You’re taking on about twice as many quests as some first class mages decades older than you on top of administrative duties. It made sense to give you a break.”
“Sense?”
“Order your food already.”
When asked, Genau had told Serie that Methode was a more serious person, always focused on the task at hand when he was around. Most of the other first class mages generally agreed with that assessment, almost half of them admitting that Methode would probably best them in a battle. By this point, only Sense did a greater amount of paperwork than her.
Of course, that illusion had been shattered almost as soon as it came into being, but Serie was eager to begin deciphering this anomaly’s mind. Or maybe eager wasn’t the right word, but rather, with how little time they’d have together, Serie couldn’t exactly afford to wait.
She’d grown all too used to losing apprentices she knew nothing about.
“Your food.”
Methode gave the server a quick thank you while Serie merely nodded in their direction, the two of them quickly turning their attention to what was in front of them.
“Do you enjoy it, Serie?”
“This?”
Looking down at the cherry danish she’d ordered, Serie shrugged.
“It changed less this time around.”
“Less?”
“I visit every few decades or so. Sometimes, the tastes change a lot, other times less so. This time, it was the latter.”
“Would you say it was better or worse?”
“I don’t believe it matters.”
“Why do you keep visiting, then?”
Curiosity. Nostalgia. The place had stood for centuries on end and while Auberst was still young, that didn’t change the fact that this dessert place had been open almost since its inception. Maybe it was a little interesting to see how flavours evolved over time.
“…An apprentice drags me here every so often.”
“I see.”
“And you?”
Methode had chosen quite the selection of pastries, each one in the shape of a different small animal.
“I’m quite happy with my selection, Serie."
It was interesting how Methode changed the way she referred to Serie over time. Starting with ‘Lady’ or ‘Master’ before somewhere along the line, she’d started addressing her as ‘Miss’. The pipeline to getting rid of honorifics altogether was more straightforward, though‒being referred to in the same way as Frieren wasn’t something she enjoyed.
“That’s good, at least.”
“Would you like to have some?”
Serie considered the thought before giving a nod. Reaching out for Methode’s outstretched hand, however, she raised an eyebrow when Methode pulled back, holding it out of Serie’s reach.
Giving her a questioning glance, Methode simply responded:
“Could you open your mouth, Serie?”
“Why would I do that?”
“So that I could feed it to you.”
With a flick of her wrist, a tendril of mana plucks the pastry right from Methode’s hand into Serie’s as she makes a mental note not to take Methode out for snacks again.
“How did it taste?”
Serie was less focused on the taste of the biscuits, her concentration more so occupied with the incredulity of the fact that Methode had somehow, over the course of less than three years, wormed her hands into Serie’s mouth.
It had started with her bringing Serie meals which she hadn’t minded donating an extra minute or two of headpats for, then asking for small rewards for completing particularly hard missions such as a minute of hand-holding or an extra 30 seconds of hugging, until eventually…
“It’s alright.”
“Is it better than last time you had it?”
“Did you change the recipe?”
“I’m feeding it to you.”
Why exactly she put up with this stupidity, she wasn’t exactly sure. Perhaps out of awe that any human had the gall to treat the person widely recognized as the most powerful mage in the world like this.
“I’m not sure if your hands would change the taste for the better.”
“I wasn’t sticking my fingers in your mouth, was I?”
She was, albeit a little bit, and Serie was fairly certain that was on purpose. She supposed that the cookies tasted alright, but there was no discernible improvement in terms of flavour over the past half year of Methode’s baking escapades.
At first Serie had wondered if it was all some sort of act, a way to get Serie to lower her guard for one reason or another which had only served to heighten Serie’s resistance, but ironically enough, as it became clearer that Methode was simply an eccentric, Serie did, in fact, do just that: lower her guard.
She supposed it had been that way for a while. At any moment, during any one of the times they’d embraced, Methode could have pulled out a concealed dagger, a needle with some sort of poison, and the Great Mage Serie would have been no more, but that didn’t happen.
“Though your lips are quite cute, so I wouldn’t doubt that one might have slipped in.”
Instead, she just had another idiot who said things like that to deal with.
“…If I recall, you have a report to finish, don’t you? On that subjugation mission?”
“May I kiss your forehead afterwards?”
The nonsensical requests she made only became more and more ridiculous the more Serie humoured her. It was as if reason and decorum were concepts foreign to her. Most mages half her age would know better than to ask for something outlandish.
“…Sure.”
This time, refusal doesn’t even cross Serie’s mind.
The kiss itself only lasts for a moment but for Methode, that moment is far longer than it has any right to be.
Either it’s elven biology or some spell she doesn’t know, but Serie’s skin is impossibly smooth, Methode’s slightly chapped lips not even up for comparison to any part of Serie.
The faint scent once against makes itself known in Methode’s mind and she can’t stop herself from running her fingers through the hair she’d just brushed aside, taking long strokes from Serie’s scalp to the tips of her hair before eventually, she’s sent away again.
Only this time, as Methode releases her from her arms, she swears she sees the slightest bit of disappointment in Serie’s expression.
It’s probably just her imagination, though.